A Chick Called Mick

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about how I met my friends.  My best friend will tell you that I stopped by her dorm room looking for her roommate, whom I sort of knew and was hoping to befriend.  But Anna wasn’t there, so I introduced myself to Christi.  Only, it turns out, we’d met before.  Oops!  When I was working a summer camp, a guy introduced himself to the group with this ice breaker: “My name is Christopher, and I had my first taste of synthetic maple syrup last night.”  I immediately thought: “I want to meet that guy.”  He turned out to be totally awesome.  Autumn used to be my boss.  When I first met her, she was wearing some wild blue eye shadow, and I thought, “I don’t know about this chick.”  But now, I adore her and her dramatic eye makeup.

I’m new-ish to the central Arkansas area, and I don’t feel like it’s home yet.  So, I’ve been trying to meet people.  There are problems right off the bat, and they’re mostly my fault.  First, most of the things I like to do are fairly solitary activities: movies, TV, reading, going to plays.  Second, I tend to be cautious when I meet new people.  While I have quirky stories about making friends because of syrup, there are others that end with me saying things like: “He said he was leaving town, and if he doesn’t do it—and I mean today—I’ll kill him!”  So, I tend to be a bit reserved in the early stages.

I’ve been trying to be more social in the last few weeks.  For reasons that escape me now, I tried speed dating.  To be perfectly fair, most of the guys were really nice but not my type.  I was relieved to get to my last six-minute “date.”  I introduced myself and gave some of the patter I’d worked out over the evening.  I mentioned that I used to teach English but decided to take a break from the classroom.  When I finished, the guy started off by saying, “Now, don’t get me wrong, but…” I smirked a little as he pointed out that teachers get summers off, and even when you taught, you still got days off during the school year.  I opened my mouth to speak, but he barreled on.  “Now, don’t get me wrong, I have the utmost respect for teachers.  I think they don’t get paid enough, BUT…”  He probably could have saved his disclaimers.  I’m pretty sure I got him just right.

One of the odd things about teaching is that when I told people that was how I made a living, they took it as an invitation to tell me how much they hated school or about some terrible teacher that they once had who crushed their dreams or ruined their GPA.  Once, as I was writing a fairly large check for a gym membership, the salesman asked what I did for a living and then proceeded to tell me how much he hated English in school.  My pen froze in the middle of a zero, and I gave him a dirty look.  Like, I’m cutting a check here, dude.  Can we save the part where you talk about how you hate my profession?  I mean, don’t get me wrong, but...I haven’t paid you yet.

At the end of six minutes, my date and I were done, which I think suited everyone just fine.  My next brilliant plan for meeting people was to go to a public showing of Dr. Strangelove.  I like the movie, and I figured if other people who liked it showed up, I already have something in common with them.  If it’s a bust, then I see a good movie, return some books, and go home.  I thought I had nothing to lose, but I was still disappointed when the only other person there was a very sweet Southern lady old enough to be my grandmother.  We said hello, and after some small talk, I picked up a book I’d recently started.

“What are you reading?” she asked.

“It’s about a guy who’s a loser, and he decides he wants to not be a loser anymore.”

“Ah.  Is it funny?”

 “Yeah, it’s kind of funny.” 

“I think that’s good.  It’s easier to stick with a book when it’s funny,” she said.  I asked what she was reading, and it turned out she was working on a book about the Middle East.

“Is it funny?” I asked.  She stared at me blankly until I started to worry that not only was my little joke not amusing, but I had maybe offended her. 

When the movie started, it was still just the two of us (although there would be a grand total of 4 by the end).  Realizing it was shot in black and white, she said, “Oh, this is an old movie!”  So much for having something in common.

Finding my niche in a new town takes time, and sometimes I get impatient.  Still, I’ll keep trying because it has been pointed out to me that people aren’t going to pop by my apartment to introduce themselves and watch Project Runway with me.  And if someone did, well, that would be creepy and weird.  If you were thinking about doing that, please don’t.  I’m sure you’re very nice, but I will totally call the cops.

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To the person who has my old Florida cell phone number, I'd like to say: I'm sorry about the calls you've been getting.

First, my friend Jay called you and may or may not have yelled at you for not being me.  Also, if he had any surreal adventures on public transportation before he figured out I changed my number, well, you probably got a text message or two.

And now, my friend Mike has called pretending to represent the political campaign of a fictional television character, which I thought was hilarious, but you...apparently did not.

Look, I sent an email and when I got my new number, and I'm not sure what happened.  All I can offer you by way of consolation is this: when my friends John and Randy heard about all the random questions I have to answer as part of my job, and they decided to call and pretend to want medical advice about what to do if "it burns when I pee," they called me at work.  So, you were spared that one, whereas I laughed about the whole thing for two days.  I'm a little gross like that.

It occured to me that I could call you--I still remember the number--but I dismissed the idea because, really, aren't you sick of me by now?

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A few weeks ago, a guy at the pool asked what I was reading.  “Oh” I glanced at the cover a little sheepishly, “It’s called Homicide: A Year on the Killing Streets.”  I think it was the phrase “killing streets” that convinced him to peddle his small talk elsewhere, and if you ever find yourself hoping to kill a conversation, I’d try working it into a sentence.

I’ve been reading and catching up with TV on DVD lately because, as you’ve probably noticed, it’s too hot to do much else.  The nice thing about working in a library is that as I walk to my office or look something up for a patron, I usually find a thing or four for me.  Periodically throughout the summer, I scanned the shelves for a little light reading, which brings me to a shameful confession.  Every once in a while, I indulge in a bad—but not too terrible—mystery with a candy-colored cover.  I’m not proud of myself because taking a lot of English and writing classes tends to make one a bit of a book snob, but that’s why they call them guilty pleasures, I suppose.  This summer, though, I couldn’t settle on anything that was mindless and fluffy.

While I read Homicide by the pool, in my car I was listening to Freedomland, a novel about a woman who claims she was carjacked with her son still asleep on the backseat of her missing car, but…something about her story doesn’t add up.  It was darker than my usual poolside fare to be sure, but I really noticed something was up when I tried to watch some more old movies as part of the on-going Celluloid Project for Kim.  I was trying to watch the old Robin Hood with Errol Flynn, and I couldn’t focus.  I switched to Laura and found that I sank into the world of film noir just fine.  I followed up with The Wire and Wire in the Blood, and a few grisly British mysteries.  Deciding to take a break from such gritty material, I headed downstairs to the children’s books one afternoon and picked up a few things that I could read quickly without too much thought or effort.  I came back up with one of the Series of Unfortunate Events books (because what’s more cheerful than books about orphans who can’t catch a break) and a book about kids trying to prevent an evil scheme to brainwash and enslave the world.  Oh, well done, Mick!  Mission accomplished.

I started to worry about myself just a little bit.  I usually defer to my moods when I can, so what I wear or eat or watch or read is often influenced by what I feel like at the time.  So what did all this stuff tell me about my current mood?  I ran through a quick depression check.  Was I sleeping more than usual?  Was I spending too much time alone?  Withdrawing from those around me?  Was I putting off a run because I simply didn’t feel like it?  No.  Ironically, when I’m in a funk I usually console myself with cheesy mysteries and crappy TV.  We’re talking Lifetime movies of the week and romantic comedies on both the Family and the Hallmark channels.  But I wasn’t doing any of that, so I’ve decided to feed my urges.  I saw The Dark Knight.  I’m re-reading Jarhead.  I just finished a memoir about a homeless teen who may or may not be dying and proceeded to start a memoir that in the first 30 pages has touched on the death of a loved one, and the guy’s dog isn’t looking too healthy, either.  In fact, The Soloist, a book about a writer who befriends a homeless schizophrenic musician is one of the more feel good books I read all summer, and it was not without its share of heartbreak and trouble, although I enjoyed it.  Quite a lot, actually.

Ultimately, I think what these books and movies tell me is that I’m in the mood for stuff that is a little more complicated.  And the stuff I’ve been checking out is worth it because it’s really, really good.  Much of it is also darkly funny, which appeals to me, and while these things are hardly as cheerful as bowl full of puppies or whatever, I don’t find them depressing so much as interesting.  And since nothing good has ever come from me being bored (in fact, staving off boredom has led to some of my more terrible ideas), I'll take interesting.

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My coworker Jill is apartment hunting, and she asked how I liked my complex.  It’s fine, I told her, plus there weren’t any other serious contenders.  The first place I checked out seemed nice enough until I asked about internet service, and the girl giving me the tour hesitated a moment before telling me: “Yeah, you can only get dialup here.”  I stared at her as if she had suggested I keep in touch with friends and family via smoke signals and then, gave my mother a look that said, “I think we’re done here.”  Driving out to another complex, we passed the following: liquor store, liquor store, trailer park, cemetery, liquor store.  This time my mother was the one giving the look, but I didn’t disagree.  I picked the place I’m at now because I could get high speed internet, a decent gym and reasonable rent.  Done.  Sold.  And yet, the ladies in the office tried to seal the deal by promoting the fact that they have tanning beds and lots of single men. 

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I headed to Fayetteville this weekend and stayed at my friend Autumn's house.  It’s always fun to stay with her because in addition to being fun and sassy, Autumn bakes.  A few years ago, she started making custom cakes, and there are usually some samples in the fridge.  This weekend there were orange creamsicle cupcakes, which I am happy to report were awesome!

I’m in awe of my friends who have bought houses because it seems like an incredibly grown up thing to do, and I love to grill them about how they pick paint colors.  There are so many options, how can you decide?  Autumn painted her walls with lots of bold colors, which I love, and it all goes together in this way that I like but would never have thought to try.  Coming home this afternoon, I am reminded that I have stalled in setting up my own apartment.

I started off in the right direction.  For this last move, I bought a sofa that is neither a futon nor from Goodwill.  I have furniture made of actual wood, and when my best friend, Christi, came to visit, we spent two days picking out dishes, measuring cups, and decorative things.  She even bought me a spatula as a housewarming gift.  But there are still a few boxes that are placed just out of the way enough that I haven’t felt the need to sort them, and not for lack of trying, I still have no idea what to do with my bathroom.  Christi and I went to five stores in three cities trying to find bathroom stuff, and by the time we got to Bed, Bath, and Beyond I have no idea how she resisted the urge to shake me.  Whatever the reason is, though, I’m pretty sure it’s the key to our friendship.

The problem was that when it comes to setting up house, I am both incredibly picky and at the same time totally indifferent.  My fussiness means that I can whittle the things I like down to a good half dozen options, but after that, I don’t like any of them enough to pick one over the rest.  At the end of the day, I was standing in front of a wall full of towels, struggling to decide if I liked any one shade of blue more than the others.  At least four of them were equally nice but not particularly compelling.  I turned to Christi.  “Do you want to kill me right now?” I asked. 

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I’ve got a couple of ideas about 4^th of July plans, but I know this: I will not be grilling.

In college, my friend Robyn and I took over an apartment from some friends who were moving to London.  Since they couldn’t take much with them overseas, they left a lot of stuff behind.  In fact, we had to insist that Kerry get rid of a broken floral couch that he thought we might be happy to have.  We went several rounds over it, pointing out that it was (a) ugly, (b) broken, and (c) between the two of us we already owned three couches.  He was finally convinced and hauled it away to parts unknown, but among the other things he and Ben left behind were four bottles of spray butter (?!?!) and a grill.

We’d never grilled before.  My cooking repertoire consists largely of peanut butter sandwiches, basic Mexican food, and frozen pizza.  Robyn is more of a baker.  But when I got some venison from my brother, we thought we’d try wrapping it in bacon and cooking it on the grill.  I have no idea if that is a ridiculous idea or not from a technical standpoint, but I figured the combination of meat, bacon, and barbeque sounded tasty. 

We stood on the porch with a bag of charcoal and realized we weren’t sure what to do next.  We shook out a healthy layer of briquettes and tried to light them.  Nothing.  Half a dozen wasted matches later, we figured it was time for a new approach.  We had some lighter fluid, which we applied liberally, and then, we struck a few more matches.  I’ve since heard that it’s good to give lighter fluid a minute to soak into the coals, but at the time, we figured it was like lighting any flammable substance.  Match + accelerant = instant fire.  Only that didn’t happen.  Now, I’m not a patient cook, which is why I consider peanut butter such a diet staple.  It’s delicious, it’s filling, and it’s ready in the time it takes to open a jar.  So, when the fire didn’t pick up right away, we tried more lighter fluid.  We kept dousing the coals, and, frankly, I’m surprised either one of us still had eyebrows by the time we were finished.  When the fire finally got going, it burned so hot and so high that some of the meat caught fire, which is one way make sure that it gets cooked all the way through, I guess. 

We ate what we could, but the end result was that what wasn’t charred was almost impossible to chew.  Not to mention that we used so much lighter fluid that it took the better part of an hour to get the flames out completely.  After that, we retired the grill, and when we moved out, we left it on the porch for the next renters.  My dad has since tried to show me how to grill burgers, but he mostly wanted someone to have a beer with and keep him company while he made dinner.  Now, that I could do. 

Have a safe and happy 4^th everyone!!

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Sometimes I pretend I’m a badass.  Last night, I went to a rock climbing gym believing that I was a tough chick and left barely able to pick up my keys.  Which is not to say that I had a bad time.  I’ve only been climbing a few times before, but I like the challenge of it.  Of course, I could have gone with my friend Paul a few weeks ago, but we opted for having beer and plates of fried things instead.  That was enjoyable in its own way, but kind of the opposite of the original plan.

I was in the mood to go climbing again, but Paul’s back in Boston, and I was a little nervous to go by myself.  Yeah, I’m soooo hard core!  But seriously, I used to know some guys who called the weight room “The Iron House.”  They always kind of growled the words because it’s this manly place where they go to…be manly or whatever.  They were kidding, but I’ve been to a few gyms where that was the vibe.  I’d walk through the door, and a bunch of beefy guys would turn and stare at me as I entered their sacred space.  I usually just put my headphones on and went about my business, but sometimes, when I’d lift weights over my head and come perilously close to tipping over, I became a little self-conscious about being in The Iron House.  That sense of awkwardness made me scared to try it out on my own.

I didn’t need to worry.  Everyone was really nice, and, in fact, two guys—Peter and Justin—showed me how to follow the routes taped off on the wall.  And when I proved to be incapable of doing that, they kept me from seriously injuring myself, which I really appreciate.  Thanks, guys!  Peter also offered the sage advice that if I felt like I couldn’t climb any more, I should stop doing it.  I nodded while assuring him that I was probably not going to do that.  I pretend to be hard core, but I am stubborn for real.  Even when I got a butt cramp (I’d tell you which cheek, but I don’t want to overshare), I walked it off and tried again.  I didn’t make much progress, which only fueled my determination.  I’d study the wall, grabbing at different holds to see what felt right.  Climbing reminds me a little bit of ballroom dancing because when you do it right, it feels natural, and when you do it wrong, you clothesline yourself.  After an hour and a half, though, my arms pretty much quit on me, and I decided that was a sign that I should take Peter’s advice.

I feel better today than I expected to when I tried to brush my teeth by keeping my arm still and moving my mouth around the toothbrush last night.  I had a friend in college who said that having a mild hangover made her “a worthless human being” for a day.  For 24 hours, she lazed in bed, wore her most comfortable pajama pants, and left the house exactly once to go to McDonald’s for fries.  That’s how this feels.  I’m sore, sure, but I can move.  It’s mostly that I’d rather not, and so any time I started to reach for something, I stopped and asked myself: “Do I have to?”  If the answer was no, then, I conserved my energy in case something came up that I absolutely must do.  In fact, why am I typing right now?  I’m off for a quick fast food run and a nap!

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I don’t like to throw things away.  If something can be used, I tend to hold on to it in case I might need it someday.  I get this from my grandmother.  Once, I had occasion to go through some of her books, and I came across a textbook my dad used in high school that actually had a bullet hole through the middle of it.  And maybe the book had it coming, who am I to say?  But even though I hate to throw out anything—and that is especially true of books—I was pretty sure that one could be retired.

A little over a year ago, I bought an audio book that….let’s say it didn’t turn out to be what I expected.  I thought it was going to be a thoughtful look at gender roles in hip-hop culture.  I had seen the author doing interviews about the way women volunteer to be exploited in videos and the competition for spots drives women to go further in hopes that it will get them a more prominent role.  She made some interesting points, and I was curious to hear what else she had to say about the power dynamics in hip-hop and the ways that women may or may not fit into the culture.  And that is why I bought the audio version of Confessions of a Video Vixen. 

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About twice a year, I get really busy and try to use caffeine as a substitute for sleep.  At the point when I feel like my blood has been replaced with coffee, I try to start going to bed earlier.  This was one of those weeks.  The goal:  Be in bed by 10:30 and get 7-8 hours of sleep a night.  Let’s see how that worked out.

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About this time a year ago, I was living in a small town surrounded by a lot of other small towns in southwest Arkansas.  One day I was coming back from lunch with my coworker, Tina, when out of the blue, she said,   “Girl, I thought about you this weekend.  We were all at Mike’s Country Store for the Testicle Festival, and I almost called to see if you wanted to come down and join us.”

I froze in the middle of the parking lot and stared at her.  I had never heard of such a thing.  Did you know about this?  My first thought was that this was something for men kind of like breast cancer awareness for women.  I was very, very wrong.  For several minutes I just kept asking, “What?” and then, as she explained it to me, I followed up with, “I don’t understand.  Are you kidding?”

In case you are equally unfamiliar with this charming tradition, let me try to explain.  Apparently, in the spring, farmers castrate (or according to Tina, “de-ball”) bulls.  I’m sure there’s a reason for it, but I don’t know what it is.  At the end of the day, farmers have all these leftover cow parts.  As she talked, my spidey-senses started tingling.

“Do they fry them?” I asked. 

Yep.  Apparently, they taste like gizzards.  The whole event is celebrated by drinking (quite a bit, I’m guessing) and eating an assortment of fried snacks, including Rocky Mountain Oysters. 

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