The Stain

I was not what one would call a fashionista in High School.  In fact, my extra large sized sweat-pant driven attire would better be classified under the, "dear god, please let me just blend in," category.   Due in equal parts to insecurity and a comfortable position in a low-key group of friends, I never took the way I looked seriously.  While this was perfect for my younger years, I didn't necessarily want complete spazziness of appearance to be my legacy.  Thus, with my 10 year reunion approaching,  I vowed to aspire to a level of presence slightly above that of a giant Boston College sweatshirt and my tennis team warm-up sweatpants. 

Last night, my stomach was in nervous knots in consideration of the overwhelming atmosphere of long-forgotten alliances, nicknames and shared awkward phases.  Still the lesser fashion forward woman in my family, I relied on my little sister to tell me what to wear- including a very cute and comfortable shirt that didn't make me look pregnant, despite its pregnancy inducing style.    A bit sauced following a preunion pre-gaming event at a friend's parent's home, I was ready for the daunting entrance and subsequent semi-awkward conversations that were to follow.  

The event quickly evolved into what all functions among my high school classmates tend to become: a giant dance party.  Cameras clicked, capturing moments shared by long lost friends, and my inelegant dance moves were brought back to the floor.  As is appropriate for any dance where space for the holy spirit is not required, the lights were dim in the facility where we high school classmates, with 10 years of respective baggage, boogied down.  

An unfortunate result of the necessary lower lighting scheme, it wasn't until today, when friends started posting photos from the extravaganza that I noticed: The Stain.  Oblivious to me and my friends who have subsequently vowed they would have notified me had they noticed,  a giant stain in the shape of the continent of Asia marked the lower portion of my sister's generously bestowed shirt.  The Stain, appalling in many ways,  would indicate to the untrained eye that I had, in fact, laid down on the floor in the middle of the reunion (belly down) and peed my pants. 

Today has been spent playing damage control and alerting various other Facebook junkies to do the same.  My best theory of how the stain actually came to be is a heedless lean against the bar that was messy with the spilled beer of anxious reuniters.  Yet, to those who may not see anything of me again for another five years, save the posted pictures, I'm That Girl with The Stain.  Awesome. 

Putting the FUN in

Limited discretionary funds resulted in a subscription to Basic Cable; a choice that left me with no option but to invest 2 hours of my life in a Mandy Moore movie last night. My life is also a bit emptier due to a dearth of MSNBC. While I do not miss the utterly irritating mid-day broadcasters, I miss my Morning Joe. Without the witty, thoughtful political banter between Joe, Mika and their frequent guests, I’ve been forced to watch the Today Show. The bite sized captions of news are not enough to satiate my daily desire to delve into the Washingtonian circus and proceedings of the incumbent administration. Often interesting segments are cut short to make way for ‘regular people’ interests such as the Jonas Brothers and on-line shopping. Each of these fascinating topics has its place in life, but not directly after the pronouncement of a death toll in Iraq or the new Secretary of Treasury who is charged with pulling the nation out of its financial crisis.

This morning there was a story regarding a child who was in the unfortunate circumstance of having a key lodged in his brain. Too grossed out to hear anymore than that headline and subsequent x-ray photo of said child with said key clearly outlined in his dome, I changed the channel and happened upon a news story that got me thinking.

The news story was a rather banal account of a family that experiences the stressors common to intensive family time had around the holidays. All well-known neuroses seem to surface and become widely discussed among family alliances prior to, after and sometimes during well-attended holiday functions. As the story noted, all families are dysfunctional. DUH. But the story seemed to emulate the gossiping and inside jokes that increase family drama exponentially. Throughout the turmoil that my parents divorce threw upon my family for the past few years, the consistent positive has been the dismissal of such insider/outsider tendencies that allow family drama to thrive.

There has been much reported on about the evolving relationships between parents and their Echo-Boom children. We tend to be more communicative and less deferential to our parents. While this changed approach to the most essential of relationships comes with its own faults, and I certainly could have done with LESS communication about my parents divorce as it was concurrently affecting me as a kid or that relationship, there is a really great offspring (pun intended) that’s come in the generational culture shift- at least in my family. I look forward to the holidays; our bizarre eccentricities are all out on the table and addressed so we have more time for board games and dance parties. It took a lot of time, a lot of seemingly reiterative conversations and a lot of tears to get there- and we will doubtless need to have many others as we grow together. Maybe I should write to Matt and Meredith and ask them to do more segments on effective communication and less stereotyped families; we with dysfunctional families tend to defy stereotypes anyway. At least they can come up with something more useful than a key lodged in the brain.

Home!

It's cold in Boston.  I'm not talking, "Brr.  It's chilly outside."  I'm referring to the type of cold that leave skin completely moisture-free and fingers numb well beyond one's initial entry into an overly heated building.  I braved the weather, however, to venture to the local Hay Market and partake in the completely overwhelming engagement of all senses therein.  

Saturday Hay Market is about as vintage Boston as one can get:  packs of people puffing out their breath in between gloved fingers as they ask edgy vendors for 5 of their best apples.  Fifty cents and a bit of shared human spirit later, the fruit buyer moves on to the next stand- eager to get the best deal possible while avoiding the near constant chiding of vendors that have little tolerance for indecision and/or hesitation.  

My neighborhood is quite close to the Hay Market- a brief walk filled with Italian bakeries, cafes and old men enjoying a bit of sidewalk conversation.  Many of my dear readers have asked for a description of my new apartment, and the Hay Market seemed like the natural lead to the myriad reasons why I am in love with a simple studio apartment in the lovely, Italian neighborhood in which I now reside.

A few days ago, I was stopped by a Ben Franklin impersonator who delights tourists in the city's old marketplace that happens to be a part of my commute to and from work.  (No, I'm not making this up).  It was quite cold that evening, and I was better equipped for the inclement weather than Ben (short pants and tights are not adequate for this bone-chilling weather).  He noted that I was walking quite quickly and that he would be much warmer if he were able to put on such speed (again, those pilgrim shoes aren't great for a rapid stride).  While concurrently laughing and thinking how odd it was that I was speaking to a colonist, it hit me:  I am so glad to be in the bizarre, esoteric Commonwealth of Massachusetts.

My apartment, itself, is also a relic of the historic and proud city in which it dwells.  Two walls of exposed brick and wood beaming frame the small space that I call home.  I've only 10 television channels, but about 35 delicious Italian restaurants nearby.  I live a block and a half from Boston Harbor and can solicit at least 3 different wine stores within a 2 block radius.

I may need the warmth the wine provides my insides, because MAN it's cold here.

Rapper's Delight

I just got off the phone with my Wonderful Welsh friend.  In the midst of catching each other up on our recent important life events, which centered upon our respective budget cutting jobs and related circumstances, she spoke of a night out with her boss- a man who happens to be the mayor of a large American city (not to be confused with a mayor of a irrelevant, turkey assassinating city).  She mentioned that after a few rounds of bowling and more than a few rounds of drinks, her boss began his oft-revealed love of public displays of rapping.  Her gut reaction was, "Oh my God, this is so American."  I laughed as she relayed the story to me, but then I got to thinking: I like that kind of America.  

I like the America that takes responsibility for balancing budgets, rather than borrowing beyond our means.  

I like the America that values a good night out, as well as, a good performance.

I like the America that takes an active role in the lives of her constituents, rather than passively letting day after day of lame duck status create a pathetic, Washingtonian 'leadership vacuum'.

I like the America when it is a land of possibility, a land of hope and a land that instills the value of syllable-by-syllable knowledge of the Rappers Delight.

Ball and Chain

A phenomenon has taken over my office, and countless others nationwide. Pulled by the human need for companionship people are coupling off into platonic relationships that are deep, meaningful and highly emotionally-laden. These pairs can send messages to each other across conference tables and know when the other just. needs. space. The have fights and inside jokes that are exclusive to their intimate relationship; they know how the other takes his/her coffee. They are Work Spouses.

The Work Spouse does not follow traditional lines of relationships; there are no age limits, similar levels of physical attractiveness or gender specifications in these pairs. There is only a shared sense of professional lifestyle and, often, shared dedication to one's job.

My office mate is in such a relationship. She and her Work Spouse would certainly not gravitate to each other in a bar; they probably wouldn't even go to the same bars. But when it comes to work, they have several daily check-ins. They ensure that the other is on board with a message before it gets delivered to anyone outside of the relationship. More often than not, they see the other first thing in the morning and pop-in to wish each other "Good Night" before they leave at night.

I am not in such a relationship, the closest I've been was during my first year of teaching. My Work Spouse was your classic crazy English teacher who wanted nothing but commiseration and a place to deposit misbehaving children. I was a novice in a Strange, Strange land with a need for any kind of solace. Thus, our relationship was dysfunctional, greatly based upon opportunism. After two long years, I left my 6th grade World Cultures post; our Work Spouse break-up followed. We left on good terms, however, and I was free to pursue a better connection. Since then, however, I've bumped from place to place so often that I've not the chance to develop such a relationship. In the event that you, dear reader, and I ever work together and are up for the job- I take my coffee iced, no sugar with soy milk.

It's all About Me.

Those of you unfamiliar with the world wide phenomenon that is Facebook, allow me to enlighten you of a certain component of the crack-addictive social net work and its recent implications on my life.

Among the many critical preferences that Facebook allows one to display to the world regarding television, books, politics and religious denomination there is one ‘open ended answer’ offered; this section is referred to as the “About Me.” The about me is an individuals chance to express his or her true uniqueness. Many people choose to reiterate tenets already established in other categories (His dominance in Guitar Hero, Her belief that the Dave Matthews Band really speaks to her heart etc.), others provide information regarding future plans, hopes and dreams. The most hesitant among we Facebook fiends choose to leave the space blank for fear that completing the open ended section will reveal just too much to his/her friends who know everything else about him/her- that one last detail may just be the tipping point between holding some semblance of privacy and total self-imposed disregard of the 9th amendment.

I, on the other hand, have a very specific approach to my “About Me” section; it is a chance to share a bit of information with my good (and not so good) friends that is a critical factor of my daily existence that they otherwise would not have known. My current About Me has not been changed for months now. It reads, “I get the hiccups when I’m hungry.” I figured it was fascinating - yet not widely known- and would perhaps allow me to send non-verbal cues to friends when I am in their presence and in need of a snack. Yet, dear readers, I feel it is time for me to move on and provide my die-hard fans with a new snippet of information from my utterly compelling daily life. The unfortunate result of this commitment to Fair and Accurate reporting About Me is that I now find myself thinking in 200 character phrases. Ideas that have crossed my mind in the past few days include, but are not limited to:

- I am afraid to light a match. I used tongs and a Bunsen burner for matches required in 10th grade chemistry class. (This one would make my chemistry partner from said class smile)
- I’m that sweaty girl at the gym.
- I am afraid of getting stuck in elevators; not because of the small space aspect, but because, ‘What if I have to go to the bathroom?’
- Matt Damon, Zach Braff, Taye Diggs and Jim from the Office are on my Five List. The spot formally held by Tom Brady is open for negotiation.
- I drink more water than you. (I do believe this is a universal truth)

While there are several others in contention, and I am open to suggestion, I think I may just settle upon:

I have the unsettling habit of thinking in phrases of 200 characters or less.

Also: A bit of viewing pleasure from my alma mater: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6FahBBnfHAQ

Them Apples.

I've let many a tear trickle down my cheek in the past twenty-four hours. I'm not the only one. That I know. I've seen them crying, all over the Television. Internet videos show horns beeping, chants erupting and overall shared happiness among fellow Americans. Poignant moments that have swept me away in a tide of shared pride, emotion and hope include, but are not limited to:

- A win in VA. Not only is Nixon's bigoted Southern Strategy officially put to rest, Ulysses S. Grant gets one more chance to do a drunken jig all over Robert E. Lee.

- The calling of the race by the cautious networks. My friend and I sat frozen, simply saying: "oh my god" ad nauseum, as as the tears streamed.

- Obama's Speech. Nailed it.

- An anecdote from a friend that a woman in her office told said friend that she (colleague), "felt like she belonged in America for the first time."

- An elderly gentleman still wearing his Obama pin on his trench coat lapel

As much as I overdose on Nerd when it comes to politics, I rarely allow myself to get swept away from the emotion that politics, at its best, can bring. This week has been an exception, and I am grateful to this election for being so tremendously powerful that it provided a bit of respite to my cynical nature.

Obama will frustrate me, and I feel that his fiscal approach will frustrate those more fiscally liberal than I even more. I will become scared that his message of hope was somewhat naive, that the 'system' will corrupt him, and thereby corrupt a small part of all of us who stood firmly behind him. I will question actions of his surrogates and worry when pundits call for a midterm backlash in the House.

But for now, I will choose to delight in the poignancy of the moment, join the masses in anticipating what kind of dog Malia and Sasha will choose for their new home and concur with our President Elect's assertion that:

In the unlikely story that is America, there has never been anything false about hope.