You Blinded Me With Pastry

Today's word: tokamak.  Definition: A doughnut-shaped chamber used in fusion research in which a plasma is heated and confined by magnetic fields.

Okay, you had me briefly at "doughnut," and then you lost me.

I'm the first to admit that science is not my strong suit.  My strengths lie in the verbal region, not so much in the quantum physics area ... or maybe even basic chemistry.  Wouldn't know, never took it.  Avoided physics like the plague.  I can't read a periodic table for shit, but I can knock you out a quality limerick in about five minutes:

There once was a girl with a blog

Who kept her kind readers agog

With quick random thoughts

Some not quite for tots

Her daily life became a log

There you go.  Is this a useful talent?  Probably not.  I'm not going to discover a cure for cancer via wordsmithing, and I haven't yet been able to turn these skills into anything remotely marketable or profitable. 

Maybe I should have concentrated on the sciences in school.  I did enjoy biology, but that was largely because my high school teacher showed us controversial videos and conducted a class urine lab, before which my friend Josh's sample leaked in his shirt pocket. And also because my friend Rachel danced her fetal pig across the table for me just before we dissected it.  Good times.

In college, I took the bare minimum science requirement, putting it off until spring semester of my senior year.  In fact, I ended up taking it with my sister, who's two years younger.  Just before our final exam, she tried to persuade me to put in a long study session with her.  I chalked this up to sophomore zeal and, suffering from a terrible case of senioritis, did the one rebellious thing of my liberal arts career and blew off preparing for it. 

The next day, as I paged through nine terrifying pages of test, realizing that I knew almost none of the answers, I glanced over to find a tiny smile on my sibling's face as she breezed through it. She aced it -- I passed.

Despite those two hours of panic, I don't necessarily regret that decision.  Honestly, if I had college to do over again, I would have blown off more study sessions and had a bit more fun.  As it was, I worked my ass off for four years, and none of it was easy.  Well, except for "Shakespeare: The Movie," which was perhaps the greatest class ever invented.

But you have to go with your strengths, right?  I mean, I'm reasonably intelligent and have a pretty decent memory, so I'm fairly confident that I could have prepared for a completely different career path and been at least competent in my field. Case in point:  I'm not good at math, but I pulled straight A's in high school simply because I went in 45 minutes early every morning and got help from Mr. Smart ... who was, indeed, very smart, although Mr. Patient might have described him better.

Would every day be torture if you weren't doing what came naturally to you?  Maybe.  But it might be the kind of torture that comes with a much higher salary, and that would make up for some of the pain.  Don't get me wrong -- nobody is more surprised than me that I can actually make a living with an English degree.  Excerpt from every career conversation I had during college:

Small-minded person:  "What are you majoring in?"

Me:  "English.  With minors in history and religion."

Small-minded person:  "What are you going to do with that?"

Me:  "Correct your grammar, remind you that all this stuff has happened before, and debate whether there's anyone up there who actually cares."

(Sidenote:  I never correct people's grammar.  I find it insulting and pretentious.  Just so you know.)

So I guess we take the talents we're given, even if they seem as minuscule as fixing misplaced modifiers and run-on sentences, and we run with them, and hopefully spin them into something we can stand to do for 8 hours a day and sometimes beyond. We all have our little niche. Some of us are ridiculously amused by misspelled words, and others geek out over doughnut-shaped tokamaks.  But we shouldn't try to pretend we're something that we're not.

Mmmmm ..... doughnuts.

Deep Woods On

Today's word: mosquito.  Definition: If you don't know what a mosquito is, please visit Minnesota in July for a complete and painful education.

I have to go on record here by saying that, luckily, I am one of those people who don't attract these little buggers in droves (much like single straight men as well, evidently). In fact, I just read an article that was devoted entirely to the study of why mosquitoes are attracted to some people and not others.  It might be chemicals, or hormones, or pheromones, but some of us can gallop through a field at dusk and come away with just a few nibbles, while others can wave an arm out the car window and pull it back covered in red welts.  My dad is the latter.

If my dad even thinks of venturing outside in prime mosquito season, I'm convinced that's the signal for the half-dozen rogue insect agents who have been hiding inside the house to attack him.  Nothing works to keep them at bay, but he has found a product that eases the irritation following the assault.  It's a skinny white tube called Skeeter Stick.

I don't know what's in this magical medical wand, but whatever it is, it's strong enough to nearly knock out a full-grown poodle when sniffed.  How do I know this?  I plead the fifth.  And before you cry animal cruelty, you should know that that dog suffered no long-term ill effects and lived to be 17.

So my father spends the better part of the summer girding his loins and every other part of his body against creatures whose only purpose in life is to feed on human blood.  You know what else does that?  Vampires.  

And yet, somehow we don't romanticize mosquitoes in the quite the same way.  I have yet to pick up a series of teen novels that feature handsome, brooding, misunderstood mosquitoes who are hopelessly attracted to the lonely, edgy girl in school and can't help embroiling her in the mayhem of evil ticks and fleas.

I really don't get this vampire obsession that has sprung up in the last year or so.  Sure, it's sexy to fall under the spell of someone irresistible who wants nothing more than to devour your neck . . . as long as they don't also intend to drain you of life-sustaining fluids and transform you into the undead.  Leave a hickey if you must -- I can fix that with a turtleneck.  But nothing they sell at Old Navy will cover up an eternity of insatiable thirst for human blood. 

Maybe I'm simply too old to swoon over the delicious danger of cavorting with parasites, even if they do look like Robert Pattinson.  But I guess if Hollywood can romanticize vampires, it could probably work similar magic with West Nile.

Eight is Enough

Apologies. The last two weeks have had me working overtime at the job that actually pays my bills, and I haven't had enough mental energy left at the end of the day to post.  What's that?  Yes, I think I would like some cheese with my whine.  Here we go.

Today's word: octosyllable.  Definition: A word of eight syllables.

First thought: Isn't it odd that the word octosyllable only has five syllables? 

Second thought: How many words out there really do have eight syllables?

Like any person today with a healthy amount of curiosity, I naturally pulled up my search engine and typed in "eight syllable words."  Here are some that I found:  unconstitutionality, electronegativity, (you can keep on counting them on your fingers, I know you're doing it) unidirectionality, autosuggestibility.  I'm not sure whether these are actual words, although they seem legitimate enough.  I would have opened yet another tab to check, but I was stopped by the following suggestion to the eight-syllable question on Yahoo Answers.  

Yes, Yahoo Answers, that bastion of intellectualism (in-tel-lect...damn, only seven) that beckons to the desperate and downtrodden.  This was an "answer" (we didn't say they would all be right, now did we) posted by someone:  antidisestablishmentarianism.

Now, I don't know if I should be comforted by the fact that this "answer" (I have to keep using quotes, because the term is so loose) received zero votes on the site, presumably of confidence in the future of mankind, or if I should be even more disturbed by the fact that someone out there either doesn't know what a syllable is or mysteriously has twelve fingers on which to count them.

But really, shouldn't we expect to receive some ludicrous responses when we essentially ask thousands of complete strangers to weigh in on our issues? You'd have to imagine you'd get a cross-section of the population, which includes morons, dimwits, and your general idiots.

We don't do this in real life.  When I have a question or a problem, I don't think to myself, "Who's the dumbest person I know?  Let's get that perspective.  Yeah."  No, I go to someone with either expertise in the subject or life experience, someone whose opinions I respect or whose views are valuable. This is not to say you might not find a similar guru on Yahoo Answers ... but the law of averages says that most of the really quality minds are busy elsewhere.

Unless, of course, your question is potentially embarrassing, in which case, the Internet would seem to be the greatest invention ever.  One of my friends recently told me that there's nothing sadder than going into Google, typing in "can you" and seeing what autopopulates to finish the question.  Go ahead, do it.  It's an interesting window into what's foremost on the minds of America's youth. 

If you're not up to it, let me summarize by saying that there are countless young girls out there who are unnecessarily confused by all the ways in which a person can and cannot become pregnant.  I couldn't help but be reminded of a conversation I overheard on the bus about six months ago between two girls.  I'd estimate their ages at about 16.  It was slightly dramatic and vulgar, and the end went like this:

Girl #1:  "I ain't worried bout gettin' pregnant, cause I'm on the pill."

Girl #2:  "Girl, the pill don't keep you from gettin' pregnant.  It just kill yo baby."

I don't know what was said after that, because my ears were bleeding from the sheer ignorance.  I was engaged in an internal debate about whether to turn and correct them when I almost missed my stop.  At the time, I wasn't sure it was my place to intervene.  But in light of the internet question forum phenomenon, which dictates rightness by popular opinion, maybe I should have.  Perhaps we've been leaving them to Yahoo Answers for too long.

Spellcheck, Shmellcheck

Today's word: unprofessional.  Disclosure:  I didn't actually look up a word today, since I had something else to post, but that word most accurately describes what I'm about to tell you.

About a month ago, I sent an email to a personal banker at a large financial institution.  I'm going to stay away from actual names in this post, but let's just say that if we stopped shipping souls into the underworld, it could be called Hell's Embargo.  Wink.

The email went like this:

Hi there.  I talked briefly with a teller last week when depositing a check into my business account, and she mentioned that I could upgrade to an account that would not charge a monthly service fee. Is there a minimum balance I would need to maintain?  Please let me know.  Thanks!

The response I received went like this (I'm not making it up, this is word for word):

Hi I just get your email let me know when u wan come and set down whit me  so we can see what options we have for u 

  

Now, I will say that this person's name did appear slightly foreign, so English may not be her first language, and I'm willing to dismiss misspellings and iffy grammar.  Since I'm an editor by trade, I assume I'm overly sensitive to these kinds of things.  But it was the abbreviation of "you" that absolutely blew my mind.  Although I realize we live in a world that operates on text messages, I was pretty sure she was on a Blackberry somewhere, forgot she was answering a work email, and instead thought she was tweeting.  

However, I gave her the benefit of the doubt, as I really wanted my question answered, and I replied thusly:  I don't have a lot of time during work hours, but I could do 15-20 minutes on Friday if you're available. 

This is the response I received: 

What time so I can ready for u 

Yes.  Really.  This person was hired, presumably, to interact with customers and convince them to put even more of their hard-earned money into the bank's hands.  I honestly thought I might be getting punked, but by then, my curiosity was really piqued.  I decided I had to meet this person in the flesh.  So I wrote:  How about 11:00? 

The reply:  Hi can u meet me at 12:00pm I have 

And that was it. At this point, I closed my laptop, because I wasn't sure whether to laugh or scream.  Strike three!  I'd given her several chances that I probably shouldn't have, and I finally decided I would just have to live with the mystery of what her problem was.

About four days later, I got another email from her, to the effect of what happened to me, she was waiting.  I was still debating whether to call her supervisor and let them know exactly the kind of business communication that was leaving her desk, but since I had an opportunity to tell her directly, I did.

I told her that her last email was incomplete, and that I had solved my issue online (sidenote: it took two emails and was even intelligible!) I also said that, in the future, she might want to be a bit more professional in her email messages, since using abbreviations and not completing sentences didn't present her skills in the best way possible.

I tried not to be a bitch about it, because I really hoped she would take it as constructive criticism. I didn't have the heart to tell her that she came across as challenged in some capacity, or that I am now reluctant, if not adamantly opposed, to meeting with any representatives from this institution.  Oh, who am I kidding?  They have all my money.  And it's being held hostage by people who can't put sentences together.

  

Witchy Woman

Today's word: water witch.  Definition: One who claims to be able to find water by means of a divining rod; a dowser.

I thought this word was super appropriate this afternoon, since it was raining when I got off the bus.  I felt my mood go from "You know, work was pretty good today . . ." to "Motherf*#king rain!"  This reaction wasn't because it feels like all it's done this fall is piss down water, and it's not because I feel like we got cheated out of autumn leaves, when it's my favorite season.  It's because, for lack of a better term, I think I could rightly be called a water witch.  

Meaning, in an altered definition, that as soon as I get rained on, I become ill-tempered and slightly hostile.  There are very few things I hate more than being wet and clothed.  Aside from just feeling generally icky, my wavy hair responds schitzophrenically to moisture and it's difficult to navigate through raindrop-splattered glasses.  One of the most miserable two hours of my life was the morning I got caught in the rain at the Twin Cities Marathon, waiting for my sister's shitty boyfriend to run by and cursing, cursing, cursing myself for being too much of an idiot to bring an umbrella. Completely my fault, of course, I'm not saying otherwise.  I only wish she'd broken up with him before the race and not four months after.

I'm typically a good sport about most things.  I go places and do things I'm not super jazzed about, I eat places that are "meh," I rally from being dog tired, all because the people I'm with want to do stuff.  I hope my friends would say that I'm not a complainer.  But the only times you'll probably encounter a rather grumpy version of me is when I'm wet.

Or cold.  For as much as I'm cat-like in a downpour, I'm almost reptilian in my inability to regulate my body temperature.  One of my friends once told me, "We could wrap you in a buffalo-skin robe and set it on fire and you'd still be cold."  It's true.  I'm a shiver bunny.  My family claims that I was never this much of a wuss until I spent a very long winter in a bone-chilling 34-degree house in Japan. All I know is, if it's below freezing and you've planned an outdoor activity, count me out.  I went to the winter carnival about six years ago.  It was 15 degrees outside. As I watched the deliriously happy ice skaters, I could barely restrain myself from yelling, "What's wrong with you people!?"

It's not that I don't admire the hardy Minnesotans that surround me on all sides.  I do.  And it's not that I don't like snow.  I do.  But I like snow when it's outside and I'm inside, warm and toasty with my free heat, drinking a hot chocolate, curled up in a blanket with a book.

When people ask me which I would rather be, too hot or too cold, I always choose hot.  Because although I sometimes feel angry and a bit crazy when it's sweltering, when I'm cold, I lose all hope that I will ever, ever be warm again. (By the way, have you ever noticed how much people swear when it's freezing? You rarely yell "Dammit, it's hot!" But walk outside in the middle of  February and I dare you not to shout "F*#k it's cold!")

So evidently we've established that I have about a 10-degeee window of physical comfort. Maybe that makes me a snow witch in addition to a water witch.  Or maybe an ice queen.  If you want to bestow frigid royalty on me, I'll take it.  Just don't make me live at the ice palace.

Personal Problems

Today's word: personally.  Definition: 4) In a personal manner, took it personally.

I'm inclined to think people take themselves a little too seriously these days.  Maybe it's because the world is becoming increasingly bent around our individual convenience, and technology is designed to "belong" to us in increasingly smaller and more responsive forms.  Maybe it's because everything sleek and cool now starts with "i."  Or maybe it's because everyone has more of a voice online and can create exactly the life they want to present virtually -- Facebook profiles that are all about "me," Twitter updates every four seconds detailing the most inane snippets of daily life, blogs where anybody can write whatever's knocking around in their head and send it out for public consumption.

Author's note:  Yes, I realize I just lambasted the medium I'm currently typing in.  I can't deny it, and I can't even say that this blog is an exception, because that would be taking myself a bit seriously, wouldn't it?

But I think it's this warped sense of self-importance or entitlement that causes people to take ridiculous things too personally.  In the interest of full disclosure, here are two ridiculous things I take personally.

1.  Traffic.  Well, not traffic in general.  I don't assume that the universe is out to make me late to an appointment or that the road construction is some kind of punishment from God (although it feels like it sometimes).  It's not these larger concepts I'm concerned with; what I take personally is mano y mano ... when someone cuts me off or honks at me.  Irrationally, I assume that this person has somehow singled me out to pick on me, and that from that moment, we'll be engaged in a not-so-friendly give and take of vehicular tag.  

Of course, I don't act on this thought, partly because I think road rage is unbecoming, but mostly because I have no desire to get shot.  I remember that, in reality, that person has already moved on (literally and figuratively), and beyond being momentarily annoyed with something that may not have even been my fault, they will not be stewing over the incident ten seconds from now.  This doesn't apply to the time someone roared past me and gave me the finger out their window the ENTIRE length of the Mendota bridge, but I had just moved to the city from a town with three stoplights, so they probably had a valid point.

2.  Movies.  If anyone knows me even remotely, they probably know that I love movies.  I don't mean in a common, casual, "Oh, yeah, I think I saw that one" way, because if you can't remember it, there is either something wrong with you, or you weren't in the theater.  I'm not saying my attention to storyline and detail makes me a better person, I'm just saying that for me, movies do exactly what they're suposed to do: transport you to a world of their creation.  

So in my mind, movie viewing is serious.  It takes some effort (and silence) to stay engaged.  Therefore, it absolutely blows my mind when people talk during a film.  I don't care if you're in a theater or sitting at home with the latest from your Netflix queue ... if you have a comment or thought, keep it to yourself.  We're all still going to be here when the credits roll and discussion time begins. IMDB will be available to answer your burning questions about the last place you saw that actress. If you think the movie's too long or too boring or too stupid, maybe just leave.  But don't sit there and complain, ruining it for the rest of us. To me, that is the height of rudeness, and few things you do will tick me off more.

Naturally, those rules don't apply if we're watching something silly that we've mutually agreed to trash all the way through.  Oh, you didn't know the rules?  That's because they're crazy, just like all the things we get worked up over when we're taking things too personally.  I'm as guilty of it as anyone.

The problem with taking things too seriously is that by doing so, we're assuming the universe gives a flying rip about our personal issues, which seem enormous to us but are rather infinitesimal on a cosmic scale.  None of the things that happen to us are truly earth-shattering -- very few are even ironic, despite what Alanis Morissette would have you think.  (Rain on your wedding day?  Coincidence.  Rain on your wedding day when you're marrying a meterologist who predicted 75 and sunny?  Ironic.)

So next time I'm getting a horn blast on the interstate or resisting the urge to shhhhsh someone at AMC 14, I'm going to give that person, and the cosmos, the benefit of the doubt.  Most likely, neither of them intend anything malicious.  I guarantee they're not giving me even a fraction of the attention I'm giving myself.

Beelzebud

Today's word: devil's advocate.  Definition: One who argues against a cause or position simply for the sake of argument or to determine the validity of the cause or position.

Is there anything more annoying than people who find it necessary to constantly play devil's advocate?  I'm not talking about those who interject in a helpful, well-meaning, "Hey, but think about this ..." kind of way.  I'm referring to the people who are compelled to just be contrary, no matter what the subject is -- the people who might secretly agree wholeheartedly with whatever is being said, but who would never in a million years admit it.  

Why not?  Who knows.  Maybe they don't like the person who came up with the idea.  Maybe they need to appear smarter or more worldly than everyone else.  Maybe they automatically resist anything mainstream. Or maybe their underwear's too tight.  I'm not a mind reader; all I know is it drives me crazy.

And yet, I have to admit, there have been one or two people in my life who have unintentionally brought out this quality in me.  For whatever reason, I felt compelled to disagree with almost everything they said.  I knew I was doing it, but I couldn't help myself.  Call it passive-agressive if you must.  I grew up South Dakota Lutheran, we practically took lessons in it.

However, I'm generally a very agreeable person.  I'm even-keeled, I'm pleasant, I'm empathetic, and there are shockingly few things that I have strong enough opinions about to dive into arguments that would lose me friends.  Sometimes I think I'm even too "live and let live, to each his own."  My dad once said to me, in all seriousness, "I hate to break this to you, but you're what many would consider a liberal."  If by that I'm labeled as someone who recognizes that everybody's just trying to get through this world the best they know how, then I suppose that's true.

Almost more than any other quality, moodiness really bothers me.  I don't like not knowing what I'm going to get every time I see someone.  Because then I have to adjust my life to accommodate their mood, and I don't think it's fair to make everyone around you suffer because you're angry or tired or insecure or whatever. I'm not saying people have to be all sunshine and puppies all the time, but I could do my best to help you out if you'd just give me a heads up about what's really going on.

What bothers me is that, when I played devil's advocate with people in the past, I was becoming the thing that I hate ... and I hate that. Don't they say that the qualities that trouble us in others are really our worst qualities, the ones we aren't willing to admit we possess?  Is that what makes it so easy for us to recognize them in others?

I guess, in the grand scheme of things, being slightly grumpy and disagreeable isn't the worst thing I could have done.  I mean, I wasn't really advocating for the devil.  Come to think about it, that's probably one of the few issues that I would feel strongly enough about to make or break a friendship.  

Because if someone actually came up to me and said, "Have you heard all the wonderful things about Satan?" ... well, I would still be an agreeable person.  But I would be an agreeable person running like hell in the opposite direction.

Bamboozled

Today's word: offset.  Definition: There are more than you'd think, but I'm going with 5) Botany  A shoot that develops laterally at the base of a plant, often rooting to form a new plant.

The first thing this definition brought to mind was my ailing curly bamboo plant, which I've had for the last six years and, after thriving unbelievably for all that time, has now begun to wither.  The leaf tips are steadily browning, and it hasn't grown any new shoots, and I have no idea what to do about that.

I've grown quite attached to this plant, not just because it looks super cool, and not just because I bought it right before I moved to the Twin Cities on my own, but because it's the only plant I've ever been able to keep alive. I think the reason for this success is the fact that bamboo requires two main things:  keep it out of direct sunlight, and don't over-water it.  Oh, and you only need to water it about once a month.  That's a very big plus in my book, since I tend to forget to water greenery and only notice it when the leaves start dropping off.

(Case in point:  one of my coworkers went on furlough for a month and left me a note asking me to water his plants.  I put this note directly above my computer screen so I would see it every single day.  I finally gave those plants a drink eight days before he returned. They are still alive, but they all have PTSD.)

This inattentivness used to bother me a bit.  After all, it doesn't reflect well on my abilities as a caregiver for my as-yet-imaginary future children. I mean, I had an obligation toward another living organism that involved grabbing a glass, going to the tap, walking ten steps to the table, and pouring liquid on it, and I failed to do these four very simple steps on a consistent enough basis to meet that organism's basic needs.  But to those who would declare "Irresponsible!"  I say this:  Plants don't cry.

But what if they did?  And what if they cried all the time, for reasons unbeknownst to us?  Would we put up with a constantly weeping begonia?  Or what if they could express other emotions, and we were forced to live with calla lilies that laughed hysterically, or hostas that shouted obscenities?

I'm not saying it's logical, people.  I'm just saying think about it.

One of my favorite "Deep Thoughts" from Saturday Night Live goes something like this:  "If trees could scream, would we be so cavalier about cutting them down?  Maybe, if they screamed all the time, and for no apparent reason."

Unfortunately (or perhaps fortunately, if you somehow ended up with a manic depressive African violet) plants do not cry, and I am reassured by this in relation to my parenting skills.  To be fair, you cannot forget to feed a kid for 20 days without hearing at least a small grumble.  I don't want to deter any intelligent single men who may just be my as-yet-imaginary future husband by revealing this personal fault.  So I will say that I'm reasonably certain I could make a pretty serious commitment to providing regular sustenance for our child. I find a good deal of comfort in that, and I hope they do, too.

Because I will probably want a partner in crime, so to speak, in order to acquire that imaginary future child.  Unlike plants, I can't just produce an offset that roots in next to me and magically springs upward out of the soil, ready to rock and roll.  But what if I could?

Think about it.

Fowl Play

Today's word (and I'm not making this up): bushtit.  Definition: Either of two small long-tailed birds of western North America having predominantly gray plumage.

So, besides the fact that this poor bird has been harnessed with a spectacularly embarrassing name, what else can I say?  Well, I guess nobody ever thought Barack Hussein Obama could be president with his moniker, either, so there's hope for the bushtit yet.

Interestingly enough, I had a chat about birds on the way home from the bus with my friend and fellow apartment building dweller Greg.  We live very close to a nursing home complex that features a pond, where you can find 20-30 ducks on any given day in the fall.  I told him that last week I walked out the front door to find about 15 enormous Canada geese blocking my path, which freaked me out.  As they stared me down, I momentarily thought there was a waterfowl rumble scheduled that I wasn't aware of.  And I knew, instinctively, that if they decided to rush me I was going down in a hail of feathers and profanity, and I was probably taking at least one of them with me.

Luckily, they waddled off peacably when I walked into their midst, and I didn't have to resort to ridiculous posturing, as I did at my last apartment, when I encountered a giant raccoon at the garbage dumpster.  It was dark, I wasn't paying attention, and I didn't see it until I was about 10 feet away.  I froze.  It froze.  We both stood there, suspended in time, as I thought through my options:

a.  Turn around slowly and climb three flights of stairs back to my apartment, with my garbage.

b.  Drop my garbage and back away.

c.  Keep moving forward and risk rabies.

In the end, I went with d. Lunge forward dramatically while roaring.  Yes, I roared.  I yelled something akin to "Raaaahhh!" and hoped it would be gangsta enough to show the little robber that I was no Jack Hannah.  It worked, if only because, well, who saw that coming?  Not me, I guarantee you.  But you do what you gotta do.

And I'm not alone.  Greg told me that one morning, while tending his garden just behind the building, he was attacked by a turkey.  Out of nowhere.  Granted, they're delicious, but prior to basting I hear they're really mean. So now I have this image of my neighbor, who is a 6'3" black man in his 50s with dreadlocks down to his knees, a very imposing fellow with a gentle smile, battling Thanksgiving dinner in the backyard.  For those of you who aren't good at reading context clues, I'll end the suspense:  he survived.

Do we react this way simply because, as city dwellers, we are caught off-guard by wildlife?  Are we animal lovers until we're ambushed?  Would I be wrong to underestimate a bushtit based solely on its name?  Because if gradeschool taught us anything, it's that kids with weird names need an extra thick skin and maybe some karate moves if they're going to survive. I'll let you know if I ever take a roundhouse kick to the face courtesy of today's word.

A New Leaf, A New World

All right. I'm consistently disgusted with myself at my inability to post on a regular basis ... not quite as disgusted as I am with the fact that I've had a novel in progress for three years and am on page 80, but still, pretty ticked off. So I've decided to make this blog more of a writing exercise, in the hopes that the two failures are somehow connected, or at least that they might feed off of one another if I get on a roll.

Here are the new rules. Every day (yes, every day, part of my brain that would prefer naps or TV!) I open the dictionary randomly and stick my index finger down. I'm using a real dictionary, not merriamwebster.com -- they still exist, although I believe this one used to belong to Macy's, much like 40 hours of my life each week and my 401k.

Whatever I land on, I have ten minutes to think about. I then have twenty minutes to write about it in a semi-intelligent way. When those twenty minutes are up, I'm done. No cheating. It's a jump-start, not a marathon. That was a mixed metaphor, but I'm moving on. See? Not deliberating endlessly and tweaking and refining as I go, but just hitting period return.

Today's word: George III. To be honest, I briefly considered discarding this one as a trial run, because it pretty much blows. But since I'll no doubt be sending even suckier ruminations out into the blogosphere, let's roll with it. Definition: King of Great Britain and Ireland (1738-1820) whose policies fed American colonial discontent, leading to revolution in 1776.

So this is the King George, the big kahuna, the one who touched off this whole crazy and beautiful thing we call America. I say beautiful because, for all its faults, it was a country founded on ideals and created in one of the ballsiest, most brazen ways possible. You have to admire the huge middle finger George III saw floating back at him across the Atlantic, along with his tea.

Which brings me to the recent "tax day tea parties" and the voicing of dissent in this day and age. I don't necessarily agree with those groups' rhetoric, but they deserve to be heard just as much as I do. That's what I love about America, and what most people take so for granted that they really should be ashamed: if you're unhappy with something, you can say so. You can shout it in the streets, and nobody's going to knock on your door in the middle of the night and drag you away to rot in a political prison. Unless you did your shouting from 2000-2008 and Dick Cheney happened to overhear you, which, given the wiretaps, he probably did.

What? A little liberal humor, you say? Get used to it. I'm a midwestern chick with a very open mind and a very low tolerance for bullshit.

Here's the problem with free speech, though. It's all or nothing. You can't put restrictions on it, even for groups like the KKK, whose sole mission is to espouse hatred (and boy, do we need more of THAT floating around these days!) Because who decides what's acceptable and what's not? I mean, besides the majority, and what if you're not in the majority?

That, I think, is what many people fail to consider. What if your party wasn't in power? What if you didn't grow up with food on the table? What if you couldn't afford an education, or health care, or housing? Forget being born a different race or gender or sexual orientation, I'm talking that fine line of chance that divides the haves and have nots. If the recent economic crisis taught anybody anything, it might have been how close the fortunate are to being "unfortunate" ... often just one paycheck, just one step off the path, and we find ourselves heading in a direction the world chose for us, sent on our way powerless and hopeless.

But that's when it's most important to have a voice. When nothing else can speak for you: not your money, not your status, not your job or your connections. The Founding Fathers gave all Americans that voice. Of course, they also gave all Americans AK47s, according to the NRA, which also get messages across pretty effectively. So really, guys, you're 1 for 2, and thanks again for being so vague.

If I can quote Jerri Blank in every episode of Strangers with Candy: "I got somethin' to say!!" And it's true. Everybody has something to say, and thanks to modern technology, they can say it ... 24/7/365 ... even if it's stupid or offensive or just the most effed-up thing you can imagine (she typed, realizing she was adding her own two unsolicited cents to the cacophony). And while this is certainly no giant middle finger protesting injustice to anyone in particular, I've said my piece.

Now I'm laughing, because I just imagined George III logging onto the internet (in a very humorous, anachronistic way), and reading thousands of angry comments left by the colonists at his website: www.norepresentation.gov.

ps. Editor's note: I just spent an hour on this, so we're going to have to revisit that 20-minute rule.

You Had Me at Space Vampires

It's been awhile since I've posted, so let's start this one out with some real honesty. I have a confession to make. I'm not sure when it started or how it evolved, but I've developed a real addiction ... to really bad movies. No, not XXX movies. I'm not even talking Sci-Fi Channel "original" bad, because they're in a class of their own. I'm referring to action-packed, formulaic, laughable one-liner, villian-with-an-iffy-foreign-accent flicks. More than that, I seem to be fascinated with what I call "afternoon wasters," the ones on TNT or TBS that catch your eye on Sunday at 1:00 ... and suddenly your day is gone along with a bag of Cool Ranch Doritos.

I don't consider myself to have bad taste in movies, but my DVD collection does resemble that of a teenage boy. I'm not against chick flicks, per se. I think most women watch them for the same kind of escapism guys get from seeing things blow up. They both know it probably isn't going to happen, but isn't it damn fun to imagine?

As I've examined my preferences lately, I've come to identify a sort of rating system for the awesomeness of terrible action movies. And by "terrible" I mean not even close to high art, but a hell of a ride. Here are a few just to get you started:

If the movie is set in some sort of future dystopia, perhaps after a cataclysmic event, 1 point.
If it involves assembling a team of people, each with special skills, to fix something/rescue someone, 1 point.
If someone on the team is a computer whiz who can hack the Pentagon while eating various forms of junk food and saving everyone's ass, 1 point.
If one person on that team is secretly working for the government/enemy/is a robot, 2 points.

If the team has to go someplace dangerous to accomplish the task (space/deep sea/a cave), 1 point.
If they have to go someplace ridiculous (an ancient pyramid, into the earth's core), 2 points.
If they go to the Arctic/Alaska, that's a whole new category.

If the team encounters monsters or aliens, 2 points.
If, at any time, the audience gets to view things through the eyes of a creature, as in "snake vision" or "Predator vision," 3 points.
If the team must fight nature itself, 1 point.
If what they encounter is supernatural or paranormal, 2 points.
If they find out it's the result of genetic experiments, 3 points.
If whatever it is USED to be human and/or the team starts turning into them, 4 points.

If the movie stars Coolio, 5 points, because that's a guarantee you're going to witness something truly awful.

This is just a rough framework, but I think it generally holds true. However, I'm open to suggestions from other bad movie lovers out there.

Hilarity Ensues

So it's 12:30 am, and I can't get to sleep. Why? The woman who lives in the apartment above me has been laughing loudly and hysterically for the past 15 minutes. I can't tell if she's on the phone or if someone is tickling her funny bone in person (or tickling anything else, frankly) but something has gotten her going.

Not that I'm complaining. It's preferable to the evening when, off and on for the better part of an hour, I heard what resembled the sweet sounds of romance, accompanied by the frenzied repetition of "John! John! John!" Usually I'm a supporter, albeit reluctantly, of those who are fortunate enough to be bumpin' uglies, since at least someone in my building is getting some. But that night I found myself very close to pounding on the ceiling and yelling, "John, whatever you're doing to her, STOP IT!"

Tonight, however, I've been trying to remember when exactly I laughed that hard. I generally find many things amusing, but rarely do I engage in the kind of hearty, uncontrollable guffaws now drifting down from above. The last time I remember really losing it was a couple months ago, when I was driving home from a friend's house at about 11:00 on a Friday night. I stopped at a light and happened to glance to my right, where someone in an eagle costume was waiting on the curb.

I did a triple-take, because although I hadn't been drinking, I suspected that perhaps I was hallucinating in some fashion. No, it was a person in a full-out, mascot-like bald eagle getup, complete with a huge head, which apparently was difficult to see out of, since he had to keep stopping and looking down to check where his large, taloned feet were landing in the crosswalk.

I looked beyond him, expected a group of kids to be following in his wake, maybe a team of sorts or a theater group, out for some fun after a game or a show. Nope. All alone.

He passed in front of my car and reached the other side of the street, where he simply stood, flapping his gigantic wings and swiveling his head frantically, as if he had migrated this far and now wasn't sure which way to go. Then, from the opposite direction came a tiny, beat-up car that screeched up next to him. He leaned in toward the window and there was a slight commotion ... then he disappeared into the back seat and the car sped away, complete with its endangered cargo.

All this happened in the span of a red light. I blinked several times, still unsure of what I had witnessed. By the time I got my turn arrow, I was laughing. I laughed so hard all the way to my apartment building that I nearly threw up in the parking lot. Because not only were those 30 seconds one of the most bizarre, delightful gifts I've ever received from the universe, but I knew how completely crazy I would sound when I re-told the story. Who would believe me?

I still don't know what happened on the corner of Silver Lake and 37th that night. Was it a prank? Was it a drunken dare? Did some kid piss off his friends, who then left him at Walgreens to fend for his feathery self? Or was it simply a very patriotic prostitute? Take your pick. I'll take the memory -- if all goes well, it might just replace my recollection of "John! John! John!"

If an Idiot Slips in the Parking Lot ...

and no one is there to see her fall, is it still hilarious? Answer: Yes. Yes, it is. I've managed to make a fool of myself a couple times recently, and here's what's surprising. I'm actually super disappointed that nobody was there to witness it.

The first time was just before Christmas, when I cut through the parking lot of the nursing home across the street on my way to the bus. I usually step over a large snowbank and into the lot, then stomp the snow off my boots and continue on. Now, I don't know if I was in too much of a hurry, or if I failed to anticipate the steadily increasing size of the snowbank, or if the bag of coats I was donating threw me off. But somewhere between the stepping and the stomping I lost my balance. And I fell. But it wasn't a clean fall.

I took several stumbling jumps, staggering around as if I could somehow conquer gravity and regain control, fully realizing that it was already too late to recover. I finally resigned myself to the fact that I was 175 lbs. of disaster in an inevitable downward spiral, wheeled around and crashed to the pavement, skidding a fair distance before grinding to a cold, hard halt. And the worst thing was that afterward, all I really wanted to do was lie there and groan, but I had to get up and catch my bus.

I bruised my hip and cut my finger, but in the end nothing was really injured but my pride. Oddly, one of my first thoughts upon landing wasn't "I hope nobody saw that." Instead, it was "Did anybody SEE that?!" Because it was spectacular. I immediately got the giggles as I limped away, thinking of how awesome it would be to have video of it. I take comfort in the fact that several elderly people in wheelchairs may have been peering out their windows, witnessing evidence that they are not the only ones who periodically take a spill.

The second foolish thing happened just last week, when I was shopping. I was on a quest to find some new lotion and, as we all do, popped open the cap on one of the bottles to smell it. Because let's face it, if it smells like medicine or decaying roses, you're never going to slather it on. I couldn't quite get a whiff, so I decided to give the bottle a little squeeze.

SPLAT! It exploded right in my face. I had lotion everywhere. I mean on my coat, in my hair, dripping off my nose. Of course I looked around to see who had the privilege of viewing this grand spectacle, since I was standing near the pharmacy and was sure I would draw some stares . . . no one. So I was left to fish a kleenex out of my pocket and swab myself down, goofy and all alone.

What I'm lamenting is this: If I'm going to do something super embarrassing, it seems a shame to waste it on myself. There should be at least one other person there who can relate the tale to their family over dinner or tuck that memory away for a rainy, unamusing day. Otherwise, it's just me, taking a quick, silent bow in celebration of my own stupidity. Which is okay, too, I guess.

No Shame

Well, here it is a new year, and I reapply myself with more determination to actually keeping this blog updated regularly. First topic of 2009? The fact that there are very few situations in this world in which a person should have no shame. By that I mean they shouldn't care what other people think about them. I will name two.

First: How you look when it's 25 below outside. I was online earlier this weekend ordering some new (warmer) boots and gloves, and I found myself trying to mentally coordinate them with my other articles of winter clothing. After several unsuccessful minutes, I finally realized that nothing I have matches. It was all purchased out of necessity, at different times in different years, and together amounts to a mishmash of down, knit, fleece, and Goretex that can be combined in an infinite number of ways for maximum comfort but minimum fashion.

Why is it that the warmest coats are never quite the most stylish? Do I need to look like a walrus just to keep my core temp above 90? And why do the best scarves and earmuffs and facemasks make us all look like frosty criminals? I will guarantee you that I run across at least one person each day who's bundled up like the unibomber . . . but who cares!! When you're standing outside stamping your feet, bouncing up and down, occasionally dancing and swearing up a storm just to avoid losing any toes, you don't care about others judging you. You just want to survive. You should have no shame.

[As a sidenote, in the interest of full disclosure, I also have no shame in moving very quickly from building to building if I must venture outside in cold weather. I go nowhere slowly when it drops below freezing. I'm not kidding, I would leave my grandmother in the dust if it meant getting inside a few seconds faster.]

Second: Last week, I was about 30 feet from my bus stop when the bus, earlier than usual, blew right by me. Without thinking, I took off sprinting after it for another full block (to no avail) and yelling "Hey! Hey! Hey!" I do this inadvertently, the yelling. I know the driver can't hear me, but I want the universe to know that I filed a protest. Here's the thing, though -- when I run for the bus, I RUN FOR THE BUS. I mean full-out, crazy-person, arm-flailing, track and field running. And from experience, I know that watching someone do this from inside the bus is one of the funniest things in the world.

But what's even funnier is watching someone who needs to run but doesn't want anyone to know they're in a hurry. They sort of hop-shuffle along, like, "What? Late? Not me! No, this is my normal, everyday, extremely frenzied walk, and I'll thank you to look away now while I dive toward a moving vehicle." When they do finally step on, sweating and wheezing slightly, they try to pretend it was all part of the plan. Wake up, shower, dress, jog in dress shoes, go to work.

I once watched a woman sprint four blocks to catch our bus at the next stop, and when she got on I noticed she was wearing heels. I almost started clapping. Seriously, I think we should, as a society, start applauding people who accomplish stuff like this. And not a sarcastic Brubaker effort, but sincere, appreciative applause. Because not only did they work their ass off to get their day back on track, but they didn't care that you shook with silent laughter as they did it. And that's nothing to be ashamed of.

Inappropriate

Wow, work has really gotten the best of me these last couple weeks! However, just because I haven't posted doesn't mean I haven't witnessed several highly entertaining incidents in the meantime. What I'd really like to talk about is one word:

in·ap·pro·pri·ate

Pronunciation: \ˌi-nə-ˈprō-prē-ət\
Function: adjective
: not appropriate for a particular occasion or situation
graceless, improper, inapt, incongruous, incorrect, indecorous, inept, infelicitous, unbecoming, unfit, unhappy, unseemly, unsuitable, wrong

Example #1. Last Friday I did what any red-blooded American woman would do with a free afternoon ... I caught the new James Bond movie downtown. Despite the fact that it was 2:30, there were still about 50 people in the theater, including a large group of rather loud teenagers. About half an hour into the film, one of the girls stood up and started yelling "Fuck you!" at the top of her lungs. Obviously she was unhappy with someone in her crowd and didn't care if we all knew it. She yelled it several times, arms outstretched (and rather drunk I believe, judging from the slurring and total indifference to the rest of us) She then settled down, but after about 20 minutes was at it again. I was just ready to go ask someone to remove her when she not-so-politely removed herself ... and as a parting shot, she left us with her favorite two words. Needless to say, her outbursts were distracting, and consequently, I have no idea what Daniel Craig did with the unconscious woman he saved from the boat accident and missed a too brief shirtless scene. I paid $6.00 to see some high-octane British ass-kicking, not some adolescent drama playing out five rows ahead.

Example #2. On my way home from work earlier this week, a car cut off my bus in traffic. Granted, it was annoying, but not completely unheard of. In response, the bus driver sped up and drove angrily next to the car, then stopped right on its bumper and proceed to flash his headlights off and on for the entire length of the red light we were waiting at. In other words, he pretty much had a complete mental break because we lost a Saturn's-length of time on the road. While I usually appreciate an aggressive driver, I was not only scared but embarrassed for him.

Example #3. The other morning I sat right behind a chubby, middle-aged couple on the bus who periodically gave each other cute little kisses. At least, they were cute at first. But they had to kiss each other every time the bus stopped. The kissed when she pulled the cord. They kissed when they stood up to exit. It was as if they needed constant affirmation that they were in love, or constant convincing that it was real. In the span of 30 minutes, I went from "Awwwww..." to "Get a room!" And that's not just the perpetually single woman in me. It was a gut reaction to unnecessary PDA. I don't care if they were 18 or 80, there should be a three-kiss maximum in public places. One kiss says "Yeah, we're together." Two say "We want everyone to know how much we're together." Three say "We've only been together a month and this is still super awesome!" Any more than that and you're trying too hard. Or you know your ex is watching.

I'm not saying that any of these people are terrible human beings, or even that they should be punished in some way (although that girl from the theater should probably be detoxed.) They weren't hurting anybody (although the bus driver was about a blinker flash away from extreme road rage), and they weren't breaking any laws (except the laws of decency, makeout-couple!) The things they were doing weren't horrible ... just inappropriate.

Love at First Bite

Last weekend, I celebrated Halloween. No, I didn’t wander out into the night to create mischief and mayhem (although I did find myself standing in line at the grocery store buying both eggs and toilet paper, oddly enough). I didn’t wait by my front door with a bucket of candy -- the good stuff, not Tootsie Rolls and toothbrushes. I didn’t even dress up as a sexy fill-in-the-blank, since almost any revealing outfit can be justified with devil horns and a little extra eye makeup … case in point, I have a friend who attended a party as a sexy zombie. She said she wanted people’s first reactions to be “Ew, that’s hot.”

I rang in All Hallow’s Eve the old-fashioned way. I watched horror movies. On Friday night I viewed the original “Psycho” with someone my age who had never seen it before. Here’s the kicker: not only had he never seen it, but he also had no idea, not even the faintest whispered rumor, of what was going to happen. It was priceless. Of course, the rest of us watching baited him terribly (no pun intended). Whenever we heard the “mother” voice, we made comments like, “His mom’s a real bitch,” or “Isn’t she terrible to him?”

Halfway through the show, my friend turned to me and said, in all earnestness, “Do you ever get to see the old woman’s face?” And I was like, “Um …. yes …. as a matter of fact, you do!” When the final reveal in the fruit cellar occurred, he simply said, “Whoah!” I asked him if he truly didn’t see any of that coming, and he replied, “Not in a movie this old.” And it’s true. Back then we didn’t have a nightly celebration, courtesy of 15 versions of Law and Order and CSI, of seriously damaged people who commit gruesome crimes and end up being fascinating as well as freakish.

Ah, that Alfred Hitchcock. He knew how to thrill. The two movies I watched on Saturday, however, weren’t as good. Well, they were good in their own special way, much like a car wreck. They were terrible, but you couldn’t look away. One was an unbelievably bizarre 1970 flick starring Sandra Dee and Dean Stockwell that had something to do with a warlock, some weird chants, a Rosemary’s Baby-ish theme, and a crazy monster with tentacles that you were never actually allowed to see.

The other was a 1958 movie called “The Horror of Dracula” starring Christopher Lee. It basically featured Dracula lurking around the neighborhood preying on hapless women who left their windows open at night, while good ol’ Van Helsing tried to catch him sleeping in his coffin during the day. Part of the story line involved a woman who was bitten and converted to vampirism but was later cured and returned to the husband who’d never given up hope that she would recover. He’d even given her a blood transfusion after Drac just about sucked the life out of her neck.

What struck me most about the story wasn’t the idea of true love overcoming all odds. It was the idea that, because of his devotion, that guy had earned himself the ultimate argument-ender. For the rest of their married lives, he had something to hold over her head that was just awesomely unbeatable.

It wasn’t “Remember the time you gained 20 pounds and I stuck around?” or “Remember when your grandmother died and I took three days off work to drive you to the funeral?” or “Hey, remember when I agreed to quit school and move across the country just to be with you?” It wasn’t even “Don’t forget, I gave you a kidney.”

It was “Remember the time you were undead? Yeah. That was me by your side.” I imagine the conversations would go something like this:

“Honey, did you take the trash out?”

“No, but you were a vampire.”

“Well, do you think you could turn off the football game?”

“Do you think you could not have been a vampire?”

“Are you listening to me?”

“VAMPIRE!”

Not even Hitchcock could come up with a scheme that diabolical.

Would You Like Prejudice With That?

Last weekend, I went out to Benihana to celebrate a friend’s birthday. I was having a great time watching Kenny, our samurai-esque chef for the evening, create a smoking volcano out of onion rings, when another friend leaned over and whispered, “I think the table over there has a problem with us.”

Sure enough, I glanced across the griddle to find five or six middle-aged people glaring not very subtly in our direction. This came as a surprise, since we were neither drunk nor loud nor shouting obscenities. We were eight women with chopsticks sharing some stories and laughs. Oh, and seven of the eight were gay.

I say that as an aside, because it wasn’t the most defining characteristic of the group. Nobody was French kissing, there was no heavily-tattooed, spikey-haired uber lesbian grabbing our waitress’ ass and tearing up an 8x10 of the American family. We were nicely-dressed women in all shapes and sizes. We didn’t even all have short hair. We were all wearing lip gloss for Christ’s sake!

But someone at the other table must have seen the couples sitting a little too close. A look here, a touch there, and suddenly it didn’t matter that we weren’t shouting obscenities. We were the obscenity. And I say “we” because, even though I was the only straight girl at the table, in their eyes I was just as offensive. So they stared, hating me for something I couldn’t control, something they misunderstood. They hated me, essentially, for daring to eat chicken and sing “Happy Birthday” in public.

I’ve often told people that until you have gay friends or family members, you don’t truly understand how crazy it seems that some people can look at them and say, “Because of who they love, they are not as good as you.” As if, in some inexplicable way, who they share their life with negates the fact that they are great people.

But homosexuality didn’t prevent the birthday girl from showing up on my doorstep with her partner three years ago, hours after I was violently mugged, with $150 in cash to tide me over and a bottle of hydrogen peroxide to get the blood out of my clothes. It didn’t stop another friend from vowing to keep a change of clothes next to his bed after he felt he responded too slowly to a 3 am assault outside his window. And it doesn’t stop another friend in his 20's from being the sole caretaker for his ailing grandmother and her sister.

Knowing that strangers were viewing me with disgust when I hadn’t done anything to them was a terrible feeling. I can’t even imagine what it must be like to know that, whenever you go out, there looms the distinct possibility that someone will give you the evil eye just for being yourself. I have to admire the quiet, everyday courage it takes to be different, to live your life without apologizing for your happiness regardless of what the "moral" majority says.

Despite the lack of love from our restaurant neighbors, I did have a great time. My food was great, Kenny made a beating heart out of the fried rice, and our waitress took an awesome Polaroid of our whole group. As I watched it slowly materialize, I thought about how lucky I've been to meet so many intelligent, interesting, resourceful, funny friends since I moved to the Twin Cities.

Afterward, the rest of the girls decided to go out dancing at a gay bar. I declined, mostly because that's not really my scene, but partly because it would have been an ego blow not to get hit on at least once. Being friends with lesbians is a double-edged sword, man. Or, in this case, a double-edged samurai sword.

Exit Strategy

Let me start by saying that I'm all for saving the planet. I may not be out there embracing the nearest knotty pine, but I do my part. I recycle, use eBay and Craigslist like they're going outta style, and take the bus. I like to say I do the latter because I'm environmentally conscious, but really it's because I can't afford to pay for both parking and gas. I also greatly enjoy having the freedom to nod off for an extra half hour on the way to work without causing a 14-car pileup. And now, with the new hybrid buses cruising the metro, I can feel even better about my commute. Nevermind that they're freshly upholstered, smell like new cars, and don't guzzle gas. I love them for their entertainment value.

It's the back doors. If you haven't noticed, the back doors on the hybrid buses require you to push lightly in the middle instead of on the handles. If this tiny detail has escaped you, don't worry. You are not alone.

I have this mental image of the folks at Metro Transit, sitting around a table, trying to figure out the best way to communicate the exit procedure to riders:

"So we'll put two strips of bright yellow tape that run the entire length of the doors, right where you need to push on them."
"We should write some instructions on them."
"How about PUSH HERE TO OPEN?"
"Okay. That should be good. No one could possibly screw that up."
"Well ... maybe we should put little drawings of hands on there, too, so riders know exactly which appendage to use and where to place it."
"Perfect."
"Foolproof."

Wrong.

I watched three people in a row try to exit the back doors yesterday, and each of them did the same thing: wait for the green light, grab both handles, push two times, look back at the green light, rattle the handles, look angrily at the driver, yell "Back door!" and finally give an exasperated but proper shove that sent them spilling out into the street. The week before, I watched a girl struggle, give up, and then run to exit through the front.

It doesn't seem that complicated, really. I mean, it's not rocket science, people. It's not even "Speed." It's just reading.

Now, I have been known to push on a pull door or pull on a push door, but I try not to do it when there's a fluorescent sign two feet from my face with very clear instructions to the contrary. And I'm not picking on any ESL learners. But even when I lived in Japan, I watched how people got off a train or onto a streetcar or bought a movie ticket or accomplished other necessary daily activities. There weren't diagrams ... there weren't even letters! I couldn't read a lick, but I paid attention.

Maybe that's why I can't help noticing all the botched attempts to flee our lovely mass transit vehicles. Old habits of observation die hard. And so, apparently, do exit strategies.

Take It Easy

I have to begin by apologizing, because it's been almost a month since my last post. But I have gotten to do several interesting things in the last few weeks, one of which was attending the Eagles concert at the Target Center last Tuesday. I think it says something about their lasting popularity when a 30-year-old woman goes to see them with her parents, and they all know every word to every song. It was a great show, but three things troubled me about the whole experience:

1. Our seats. I realize these guys don't tour much anymore, but I think it's a little ridiculous that the best seats I could get for $57 apiece (roughly $6500 after Ticketmaster fees) were at the VERY top of the upper section. I mean the last row. Seriously, they should have put a disclaimer on the ticket warning us to bring oxygen. And I was a bit annoyed that the sherpa cost us an extra $10, although he was a pretty nice guy.

2. Idiotic videographers. (Say that shit five times fast!) The man sitting next to my dad arrived half an hour late and then proceeded to videotape the entire concert. Didn't care that it wasn't allowed, just sat there pointing his camera right out in the open. What I really didn't understand, though, was why he felt the need to sing along, extremely off-key, during every song. Which means that the microphone probably only picked up his pathetic yowling, drowning out the iconic professionals upon replay. I don't know whether this was a twisted version of karaoke, unchecked musical zeal, or simply stupidity, but if I were a bettin' woman, my money would be on stupidity.

3. My oldness. The group took the stage at 7:45 and played until 8:40, then took a break, came back at 9:00, and played until 10:45. Three hours. If you aren't familiar with the Eagles' work, the basic song structure goes like this: catchy opening, first verse, chorus, guitar solo, guitar solo, guitar solo, second verse, etc. I definitely feel I got my money's worth, and granted, Hotel California is totally kickass live. But around 10:00 I found myself wanting to yell, "We get it! You're good at playing guitar!" and then around 10:30, "Wrap it up! Some of us have to work in the morning!" My parents, on the other hand, were still rockin' out, and Don Henley was belting out tunes while playing a mean drum set.

Of course, none of this compared to the priceless moment when, just before the start of Kathy Griffin's show, two men embraced each other and kissed right in front of my dad. He simply turned and said under his breath, "That's the first time I've ever seen that in person." Talk about taking it easy.

The Only Thing We Have to Fear is Phoning Home

This last weekend, I turned 30. It was neither as traumatic nor as monumental as one would expect, but I figured this milestone was the perfect opportunity to finally grow up and face my fears. So I took advantage of the 80s-themed bash my friends threw me and wore something I have previously never dared ... a leather mini-skirt? No. A scandalously low-cut top? No. (What would be the point?) Nothing but legwarmers and a smile? Wrong again. I donned a t-shirt with a picture of E.T. on the front.

Yes, E.T., the lovable extraterrestrial of Steven Spielberg fame and the creature who has haunted me since my cousin David took me to see the movie when I was 3. You would think that, 27 years later, my biggest horror would be the fact that I'm single and childless, but no. I'm most afraid of a small, sweet, enormously popular, Christ-like space traveler who does not even exist.

After that first viewing, E.T. 's image stuck with me. And on me, as my grandma bought me an E.T. shirt that I had to pretend to like while being secretly terrified to look in a mirror. In second grade, our teacher chose it as our Christmas movie, and I had nightmares for weeks. I haven't seen the movie since. At one point a few years ago, I thought I might someday give it another chance. That was, until I was sitting in my house in Japan, ready to watch a rented movie, when a preview came on for the 20th anniversary release. Realizing what I was about to see, but unable to find the stop button on the remote in the dark, I resorted to panicking and yelling wildly while groping for the light switch, my eyes pinched shut.

"But Courtney," you say, "you're a grown-ass woman. Surely you can overcome such an irrational fear."

To which I would reply, "Duh, that's why it's called irrational."

Everyone, whether they're willing to admit it or not, is afraid of something that can't be conquered by reason. My dad, for example, is scared to death of snakes. No traumatic experience, just can't bear to see them, even on TV. My sister's biggest irrational fear is being buried alive. By contrast, her biggest rational fear is being wrongfully imprisoned -- still highly unlikely, but it has been known to happen. (As a side note, she's also afraid of squirrels and claymation, which you'd think was super weird unless you had other friends who feared being lost in space and the "foreverness" of heaven.)

And you know what's crazy? At least one other person reading this just identified with something in that last paragraph. I know for a fact that I'm not alone in my xenophobia. But the thing is, it's not even a fear of aliens. I don't really have an opinion on the existence of other intelligent life forms except to say who knows? It seems rather odd that hundreds of people would have the same hallucination of being abducted and probed, but then again the abundance of peyote in the desert may have something to do with that. All I know is, should a beam of bright light slice down from the stars, I will be doing 120mph in the opposite direction. I saw "Fire in the Sky." I'm no fool.

E.T. makes my skin crawl for many reasons. The telescoping neck is one. The crazy gravelly voice is two. The fact that he was lying in the living room all white and ashy is three through twenty-five. All the Reese's Pieces in the world can't make up for the scene where Elliot stumbles across him in the field and he screams. And don't even get me started on the glowing finger. But what really gets me is the part where the kid throws a baseball into the barn ... and something throws it back.

Deep down, it's that primeval fear of the unknown that keeps me awake at night. The idea that someone or something with malicious intent is lurking just around the corner. Or in the shadows. Or in the closet, surrounded by all my stuffed animals.

Which is why I was so proud of myself for taking a very small but important step away from eternal lameness and wearing that t-shirt to the party. Of course, it wasn't an actual photograph of E.T., just a cartoon rendering that was, I admit, almost kind of cute. Although the significance was lost on most, I'm satisfied knowing I tried. But wouldn't it be great if everyone made the same effort to face their darkest, most embarrassing fears?

I wonder if there's an iron-on transfer of the foreverness of heaven.

Dylan, What Did You Do?

Let me start by saying that I do not intend every post on this blog to contain the F-word. However, because it is one of the most prevalent epithets that I see and hear on the city bus every day, and because that is where I find much of my general amusement, I can't help but include it.

You may have noticed that I started a list of random graffiti I've seen around town. I have to include another one that made me laugh ... then pause and think. It was scrawled in black marker across the back of a bench at a bus shelter, and it read simply "Fuck you Dylan." (It also included his last name, which I won't mention here.) Which begs the question: Dylan, what did you DO?!

Because I'm doubting that a minor transgression would warrant such a bold, public denunciation along the #4 and #141 bus route. I mean, you can't miss it. And it's not even close to anonymous. It is, essentially, the opposite of a declaration of love carved into a tree or painted on a water tower. It says very clearly, not "I heart you," but "You SUCK, and I want everyone to know it!"

This also begs the question: Why the bus bench? Did she just want maximum exposure without the cost of renting a billboard? Did he once pull the stop cord, break up with her, and bail out onto Johnson Street? Or does she know that he rides this bus and deserves a daily reminder of the fact that he is a miserable human being? In that case, have I sat next to him and failed to notice his slight wince as we pass it?

I'm assuming, of course, that the author is a jilted lover and that it is, in fact, a woman. This is normally a dangerous assumption in the heart of the Twin Cities, but I'm fairly certain that a man, even a gay one, would rather settle the matter with fists or silent fuming than be caught defacing public property with a Sharpie at 3 a.m.

Although I don't condone vandalism, I would like to hear Dylan's take on the whole issue. So I ride, and watch, and wait to see either an explanation or an apology tacked on below. With any luck, that bench may just become the foulest, most original message board ever created.