February Harvest

Here’s what not to do when one of your major uncles dies and you are minutes from going to the visitation at the funeral home: do not try out new waterproof mascara with microfiber. In fact, make it a policy to never even use waterproof mascara, particularly when it has ingredients commonly found in raincoats.

I can’t decide if I look more like a four year old who got into her mother’s make-up stash or if I look like a mime. Either way, it is not good, though possibly the freaky quality of my eyelashes might distract the bereaved throngs from their grief for fifteen seconds while they speculate about what manner of insect has crawled onto both of my eyes.

This major uncle was a farmer with a love of history, conspiracy theories, and the farm where he grew up and then grew his own family. He was moody and given to loud outbursts of displeasure when something was not to his liking, but he was also personable and funny and handsome. He had things he believed in: rules, lines you didn’t cross, respect you paid. He was the last of the older generation of males in my life to call me by the childhood version of my name, and I liked that. There might not have always been displays of affection or even acknowledged appreciation between us, but hearing him say that softer version of my name somehow always made me feel connected.

Of course he also called me Nose Picker with some regularity, but we won’t speak of that.

In that way that when I hear the word “house” I picture something white with a picket fence, when I hear “farmer” I picture him: shock of hair sticking out of the back of a seed cap, overalls, ruddy weather-creased face, thick, strong hands.

His farm was the backdrop for some of my happier days. Though the outdoors makes me sneeze, it is where I romped in hay mows, rubbed my face on the fur of livestock and barn cats alike, and where I learned that hamburgers and Green Giant corn do not miraculously appear in my grocer’s freezer but actually come from a farm somewhere. One July I was with him and his oldest son in their pick-up, surveying corn not quite ripe for picking, and he said with great pride to my cousin, “Look at that. That’s ours,” and it clicked for me, those hours they spent on the tractor, in the farm lot, testing corn at the kitchen table, plowing, planting, harvesting, hauling--all of it adding up to a job you could be proud of, that you could own because it meant something. It was tangible. You could taste it.

And so now my spider eyes and I are off to say goodbye to him and to try to offer comfort to my aunt and cousins, though there is no comfort for this unexpected loss. Instead, like with any death, there are now just memories and photos and the stories that will be told to remember what the dash between 1947 and 2007 stood for. There is also the very real possibility that for my aunt, my cousins, his grandchildren, and those of us who grew used to August sacks full of his season’s yield, that corn will never again taste so sweet.

The Shining

The Scottie and I are housebound after the big snowstorm that blanketed most of the Midwest yesterday, so it’s a quiet kind of Valentine’s Day. Earlier today, the two of us went out and trudged a heart-shape into the snow, took a picture, and sent it to Z. Technically, the Scottie watched from a place where the snow was not higher than he is, but he did bark encouragement.

There’s something wrong, possibly, with a 40-year-old woman who still watches school closings on the news with the same hopefulness of a second grader. I have colleagues who are annoyed by snow days because they interrupt the learning process and mess up the schedule and are not productive. But I am of the belief that they are good for the soul. There is something delicious about wandering around, well past the hour of decency, in your pajamas because you know no one, not even the mail carrier, is going to stop by.

That said, after two days of being housebound, either me or the dog is likely to turn into Jack Nicholson in The Shining. My money is on the dog. He wants his walk despite his wooded lot with pond and seemed unnecessarily disappointed in me yesterday when I wouldn’t turn the snow off.

Z and I were sickening this weekend. It was a perfect weekend, the details of which I will keep between me, Z, and the Scottie dog, though there was a moment in McDonald’s when we kissed while waiting to place our orders, and some young guy looked like he had lost his appetite. I may feel like a sixteen year old, but I forget that what the rest of the world is seeing is someone middle aged (and in this instance, decked out in the wintery-est weather gear) who should not be allowed legally to kiss her boyfriend in public. Particularly after a four-day lovefest, which has left both participants looking hollow-eyed and shrunken, like the Mer-people under Ursula the Sea Witch’s evil spell in The Little Mermaid. In fact, I’m amazed legislation hasn’t been passed to public displays of affection in anyone over 35. If I weren’t me, I’d be thinking, “Yeah, yeah—move it on home to your Craft-matic adjustable bed, you old fogeys.” But we were on the way to the airport, and so I felt entitled, bewitched Mer person or not.

One detail I will share is that the Kama Sutra chocolates were well received, though given that neither Z nor I are particularly good at yoga or gymnastics, we opted not to try out the scenes depicted there on. There was some concern that the TSA might flag him if they saw this contraband in his suitcase however.

It’s interesting the new paths I find myself cutting these days. Historically, this has been the one day of the year when I felt entitled to be extra cynical and dismissive of sappy greeting card sentiment and Kaye Jeweler commercials, and now, here I am, out in 15 degree weather, marching around in a foot and a half of snow making heart shapes. Heart shapes.

Lowered Expectations

Last week, a precocious kindergartner at the school where my mother works began a conversation with her teacher in that way you do when you assume the person to whom you are speaking has had exactly the same experience as you. The conversation starter was this: “You know when you poop your pants on purpose and your grandma gets mad….”

This delights me (mostly because I am not the grandmother, I suspect). I love the lack of self-awareness, the belief that of course EVERYONE has done just this thing and understands the repercussions.

And so I begin this blog….

You know when you buy a pair of low-rise jeans, even though you know you shouldn’t….”

It is typical of me to finally buy into a fashion trend when it is on its way out, and while I know my body is not suited to it from various aesthetically displeasing experiences in dressing rooms across America, I found a cheap pair of jeans I liked and they just happened to be low-rise, and now I have become one of the those Midwestern-shaped women who spends her day hiking up her pants. . . . while shopping, while teaching, while talking to the Vice Chancellor of Information Technology. I don’t know what I was thinking. I am a child of the 80s and as such jeans belong somewhere right at or slightly above the navel. I am not a mother, but I am most comfortable in Mom Jeans.

And we won’t even speak of the ill-advised underwear I bought to accompany the jeans. No we won’t.

Z is in the air, winging his way toward me for a long Valentine’s weekend, though come Sunday it will seem like the shortest weekend in history. He has already been delayed by a couple of hours, and I’m annoyed that an airline snafu is cutting into my time with him. I’m half-tempted to call Northwest and say, “Work with me people!!!”

As luck would have it, I’m at the Dog House for the rest of the month, babysitting, while my Scottie’s parents are off on a cruise of South America. My fantasies of putting the house to good romantic use have already been dashed. The nice thick white carpet in front of the fireplace that would be good for a picnic--or let’s be honest, making out--has been ripped up and replaced with very trendy hardwood and no area rugs. The hot tub is broken. It’s 3 degrees out, so the sweet walks on our old, friendship-only stomping ground cannot be re-dedicated to this new incarnation of us unless we bundle ourselves up like the little brother in A Christmas Story. I’m beginning to suspect the Scottie Dog is not going to approve of the two of us in a romantic relationship, and I’ve already begun envisioning all the ways he will try to break us up, kind of like Hayley Mills and Hayley Mills did to Brian Keith and their potential new step-mother in The Parent Trap. He’s a good dog, but he is an only child.

Also, you know when you order a box of chocolates from England for your sweetheart that depict various acts from The Kama Sutra and then you start to second guess yourself and wonder if what initially seemed funny and mildly naughty is really just in poor taste, reeks of desperation and might make the object of your affection go off you completely? Yeah, well. . . .

That’s it. I am officially lowering my expectations for the weekend.

But I am NOT wearing the low-rise jeans.

Skintuition

One advantage to having a boyfriend, it turns out, is that they can see things you cannot. For instance, your back.

One night while I was in Seattle, Z was rubbing my back and discovered this thing that he thought I should have checked by a dermatologist. He didn’t technically discover it as I had already made an appointment to have it removed, and maybe I sounded a little defensive when I told him this because the next thing he discovered on my back he kept to himself for several days. One night he couldn’t stand it any longer and finally said, “What IS that?” He peeled up my shirt and discovered a price tag for $19.99 plastered between my shoulder blades. For days, he’d thought I’d had some deformity about which I might be self-conscious. Despite being mortified that the evidence pointed to bad hygiene on my part, I laughed with him about it and felt a little warm that he cared enough not to verbally note my every flaw.

My dermatologist, on the other hand, has no problem pointing out the flaws. She’s a bit flakey on a good day, but when I had the non-price tag removed she was in rare form. I hadn’t seen her for two years when I’d had a little thing sliced off of the side of my nose, so it struck me as odd that she shuffled in, looked at my face and said, ‘Oh, it looks good!’ Only what she was examining was not the two-year-old healed place but instead a chickenpox scar I’ve had since 1974. She complimented her own handiwork and then suggested that I let their new cosmotologist micro-dermabrase my face to smooth out the remnants of what she thought was her scar. She went on to tell me how this amazing cosmotologist would fix all manner of problems and could even wax eyebrows. When she saw I wasn’t signing up for a makeover, she went on to announce that she was trying to drum up business for the woman because nobody in my town seems interested in spending money to look better. I suspect it’s just that people here are accustomed to having their eyebrows done at a salon and not at a doctor’s office. Isn’t it a bit like going to the dentist and having her try to sell you lipstick? I suppose I’d appreciate it if my hair stylist noticed something on my head (a price tag perhaps) and suggested I go to the doctor to have it removed, but somehow when a doctor does it, it smacks of a snake oil selling. Do I NEED microdermabrasion for some medical reason? Are my eyebrows going to cause me long-term health problems if not cosmotologically altered?

And now, on to a skin of a different color.

I’m a fairly intuitive person, so why does it surprise me that when I do some dumb thing an inner voice tells me not to do, it doesn’t turn out well? More importantly, why don’t I just listen to myself? I’ve come to the conclusion that either I am slightly mentally retarded or I have a dual personality: one of a benevolent, intuitive parent and the other of a petulant, rebellious child.

I’ll spare you the details, but bottom line, despite a niggling voice telling me I was about to make a mistake, I violated the pricey iSkin—a Shrek-green condom that protects my iPod from all manner of bumps and spills—in the interest of its fitting into a stereo dock more efficiently. It didn’t work, and furthermore, within 60 seconds of making the last snip, I discovered another way to attach the iPod to the stereo that won’t affect the skin at all.

Because I do not like to cry over spilled beverages, I opted to fix the situation by gluing the silicon sheath back together with nail glue, which on any other day could be used to reattach previously conjoined twins. I frequently glue my fingers together when using it, so when the little niggling voice told me this experiment would also fail, I told it to hush because I know all about nail glue.

Maybe they taught this kind of helpful stuff in high school science classes on a day I was absent, but it turns out that quick-drying nail glue does not dry so quickly when applied to silicon. Instead, it makes a sticky mess. Despite both my intuition’s best attempt to save me from myself and despite my own resolution to be more frugal in 2007, there is now another Shrek-green iSkin on my Visa. I considered not buying a replacement, but the niggling voice said, “Your iPod needs to be protected from people like you.”

With Z and my intuition watching out for me, all I have to fear is, um, myself.

The Other Side of 40

It seemed like a good idea to just go ahead and get the cold and sore throat from Z this weekend. Our minutes together were ticking down quickly and it felt as if one of us (me, probably, since I was the one with the plane ticket and penchant for over-the-top comparisons) was on death row waiting for a pardon from the governor that wasn’t going to come, so why not? But now classes start in three hours, the cold has lost all of its romantic appeal, and I’m wondering how my students will hear my scratchy voice today.

Other things you should know: security has been breached and Z has discovered the blog. I spent a day at DEFCON 1, re-reading all previous posts to see what secrets he’d learned. My face would turn red when he would reference something, like, “Apparently my laugh should be made a ring tone.”

I’d be a bad secret agent. For instance, if I didn’t really want him to read the blog, why would I have told him I kept one? And once I told him, why would I give him breadcrumbs big enough to find his way to it? This is one of the great mysteries of being me, the shy exhibitionist.

So this is me on the other side of 40. When I started this, I never would have guessed how delicious the flavor of life is on this side of the great divide. Had I known, I would have turned 40 years ago.

The day itself was perfect (and I’m not just saying this because the Object of My Affection will probably read this). In the history of birthdays, this one couldn’t be improved upon. It started with an apartment festively decorated by Z, a phone call from my mother, and excellent presents opened in bed. From there, we moved the party to downtown Seattle where we ate at the Cheesecake Factory, and via the Monorail, we visited the Experience Music Project. The building itself is more fascinating than the exhibits inside, though we did produce sound effects to accompany a Disney cartoon and learn to play “Louie, Louie” on the guitar. We had artfully decorated hot chocolate at a café across from Pike Place Market, and then went to see “Borat.” Z treated me to a delicious steak at Ruth’s Chris’s. Eventually, we ended up at Kell’s, an Irish pub in Post Alley where all of Seattle was celebrating the Seahawk’s victory and (short-lived) promise of glory in the play-offs, though I pretended all were celebrating my birthday. Though the majority of people at the bar were in their 20s, it did not make me feel old, just lucky to be with Z and listening to music I love. When we got back to the flat, we shot off confetti bottle poppers and decadently drank champagne in bed. I’ll stop with the narration there in the interest of modesty. To recap, it is the first birthday ever (including all childhood birthdays—I was a weird kid), where I did not lament the passage of time. Though I am unwilling to share Z with friends and others turning 40 this year, my advice to them for a similarly happy birthday is to be with a person who makes their teeth itch with desire and do exactly what they want to do, all day long, even if the neighbors complain.

The days following my birthday are a blur of happiness and general contentment. We saw some movies, ate some meals, took some walks, and did some shopping. I can’t help but think the residents of Seattle are glad I’ve left. Z and I behaved in ways that would have made me throw up just three months ago. We held hands walking down the street and made other people walk around us. We kissed at stoplights and grinned at each other stupidly for no reason other than we were happy to be in the same zip code for a few days. After one kiss while waiting for a light to change, Z said, “I hate people like us.” I felt only marginally apologetic for our public displays of affection, though it did cross my mind that perhaps I should have been handing out the suppositories I’d been given for nausea at the beginning of the trip to all who were forced to look at us.

I’m paying the price now. I cough. I blow my nose. I try to remember that less than 48 hours ago I was delighting in the simple things in life like a $5 dollar bottle of champagne or Z’s new-used and slightly hideous sofa from Craig’s List or the way my Thermolite mitten fits perfectly in the palm of his Darth Vader-style glove. Instead of beautiful cups of cocoa, I must content myself with mugs of gritty Swiss Miss, warm memories of a decade started right, and potent cough syrup.

Bridget Jones Goes Bad

Z and I just got back from seeing Notes on a Scandal. We knew nothing of it and picked it only because of torrential rains and winds, and because Judi Dench is a favorite of Z’s. It was good. Tight writing. Strong characters. Stellar acting. Interesting throughout. Somewhere around the midpoint, however, I started to get a bit uncomfortable because I realized that despite the beautiful Cait Blanchett’s character’s ill-advised affair with her fifteen year old student, the aged spinster would be the “baddie.” Not the woman with loving husband and fairly decent home-life who decides to stray with her art student for no real reason other than minor dissatisfaction. No, Cait remains sympathetic throughout. It is the spinters we must beware. Judi Dench’s character keeps a meticulous journal (complete with gold stars and other bits of ephemera—the sort of journal that normally makes me feel warm inside), while judging others harshly, and having only one meaningful relationship: with her ailing cat, Portia. This let’s us know right away that this is a person to be judged and found lacking. Pitied, possibly, but mostly reviled.

Probably because Z was sitting next to me, with promises to take me home and love me, it took longer than normal for my spinster sensitivities to ratchet up to 10. I’ve never been able to truly enjoy Fatal Attraction and it hurt a bit to see what the world thinks Bridget Jones’s future might hold if Mark Darcy gives her the brush-off. On the other hand, as a writer, I know that sometimes there are bad __________ (fill in stereotype here) and they must be written about. The key is writing about them in such a way that you believe the character and forget the stereotype. This writing was good, but ultimately, it still seemed like a cautionary tale for any 40 year old woman who thinks maybe it will be okay to live out the remainder of her days in a single kind of way.

I don’t like cautionary tales. But still, see the movie.

Tonight is my last night of being 39. Z is off at Bartell’s buying me last minute birthday trimmings and so I am in the flat, reflecting. Am I sorry my 30s are over? Nah. I’m sorry I didn’t live my 20s better, but my 30s have been good. I’ve been some places, met some people, written some things. I have found the love of a good dog and the affection of a good man (whose keys are jangling in the lock as I write this). I’m healthier than I was three days ago, and that’s something to be happy about too. Two days of Jell-O and broth eating was not what I envisioned for this trip to Seattle. Today's lunch at the Pink Door in Post Alley was delicious--my first real meal--though I was sorry that the tarot readers and trapeze artists weren't there. Apparently that sort of dining entertainment is only appropriate in the evening.

So, goodbye 30s. Hello 40s. Let’s see what’s on your horizon.

Rip VanWinkle and the Gastritis Queen

I made it to Seattle before the clock struck 12. Just barely. Z and my luggage were both waiting on me, so I felt welcomed. We took a taxi back to his flat, where he had New Year’s champagne waiting as well as those little confetti bottle poppers. By the time we got back there was precious little time to get anywhere fun for midnight, so we watched the Space Needle fireworks display on television. It’s weird to be one of the last places on the planet to experience the New Year. I kept waiting to see Dick Clark, but he’d been in bed for three hours—2007 was already old news by the time it hit the Pacific Northwest.

Don’t judge me harshly, but I’m a little superstitious. It’s haphazard superstition. I’d walk under a ladder, but I don’t like a candle in my house with an unburned wick. The whole black cat thing annoys me because it smacks of feline racism. One of my superstitions is that however you spend New Year’s Day will pretty much determine the shape of your year. It’s not looking good for us. Z was still horribly jetlagged, so he slept until 6 p.m. on January 1st. Once he was up, we walked to his office so he could take care of some things before classes started and then decided to eat at our (formerly) favorite Mexican place. It was not so good as we remembered, and by 3 a.m. I was up with “gastrointestinal distress.” By the time I woke up the next morning, I was achy and still making regular trips to the bathroom. Between my marathon bathroom visits, we lounged in bed watching Gerald Ford’s funeral. Not really the honeymoon-ette I was planning.

Also, my hair has gone from Meredith Grey to Slobodan Milosevic. Who knew it could get worse?

Z went to work and left me alone with my ailments. He called and suggested I go to the ER around the corner if I felt too bad. I laughed at this. It’s just the flu. We hung up. And then I started thinking about all the symptoms of toxic shock syndrome, read up on it on the internet and discovered I had every symptom except a sunburn-like rash. Hmmm. Intuition told me this was an unlikely diagnosis, but the big warning at the bottom Seek medical attention immediately scared me. I weighed the evidence. These really were the worst flu-like symptoms I’d ever felt. And would I be achy if it was Mexican food poisoning.

If you ever have to go to an ER, try to go to one in Seattle. I’m not a regular ER visitor, but based on my experience at my local one in August, I can see a vast difference. I was treated kindly, I was given warm blankets, I was clucked at and reassured. No one made me feel as if I had no business being there. The doctor looked like someone who would turn the heads of both McDreamy and McSteamy’s. She was kind. Kind and beautiful and smart. Imagine.

Z came and entertained me, though I kept dozing off from the IV they’d given me for dehydration. The bloodwork indicated that it was “just” gastritis, so they gave me some drugs, some instructions, and sent me on my way.

So it definitely isn’t the start of 2007 with Z that I was anticipating. He’s been a wonderful care-giver though. I awoke this morning to Post-it notes all over the apartment with well-wishes and numbers where he can be reached and two cans of chicken noodle soup that he had gone out last night in the rain to buy for me. I feel better. The sun is out. My fingers are crossed that he won’t get sick and that the rest of my stay will be good. And also, that my hair will start looking more like mine and less like Hollywood stars and now-dead foreign leaders.