Monday morning, I went to the gym and then I drove my sweaty self up to the Saab dealership, a place that, since inheriting Papa Sven, has become my home away from home.
“Hi, Bob,” I announced as I dropped my key on the desk and tried to look serious, a questionable feat seeing I was beyond dewy and wearing a pink plaid athletic skort. Even I know pink isn’t a color people take seriously.
“Weren’t you just here Tuesday?”
“Yup.”
“Uh oh.”
“Yup.”
Last Tuesday I dropped Papa Sven off to have the stalling issue fixed and the loud creaky moan, the one that echoes whenever I turn the car on, resolved. After work, I went back to pick him up. I paid the $600 repair fee, got in the car and turned the key. Sure enough, he moaned. Then, the next day, when I went to get lunch, he stalled. And while all of this was problematic, I figured I’d wait to spit bullets. I mean, I was scheduled to go back in early September when the dealership gets that sunroof part I need, you know, the one that’ll allow me to close my sunroof all the way. But then, Saturday night at around midnight, as I steered Papa Sven down North Broad Street, my engine light went on. I don’t recall the rest of the drive because I was consumed by panicked sweats and cursing fits.
“Nice 300. Who pimped your ride?” my coworker asked Monday morning when she saw the loaner in my parking space.
“Big Daddy. Do you like the chrome wheels? How about the strawberry air freshener dangling off the mirror? I had to drive with all of the windows down to avoid barfing.”
“What is that thing?”
“A loaner, though I’m not sure who I’m specifically borrowing it from. Every preset station is rap.”
After lunch, I heard from the dealer. They finally diagnosed the creaky moan, thanks to the engine light being tripped. It had something to do with emissions and a pump. I asked if that part being broken would result in Papa Sven blowing up. Because I knew what was coming. Total repair cost: $700. Did I mention this doesn’t factor in the fee to repair the sunroof ($300), the trunk ($600) that neither opens nor closes on the first go and the as yet undiagnosed stalling glitch that left my mother stopped mid-left-turn across two lanes of head-on traffic? This on top of the $1,800 that’s been spent since March. That’s when I went into my dad’s office and relayed the news.
“I’ve been beyond reasonable with Papa Sven. And at this point, it doesn’t even make sense to fix him,” I reasoned.
“I agree. I’m pissed but I totally agree. So what do you want to do?”
“Well, I leave Thursday for Guatemala and I’ll be gone until Labor Day. Then you guys’ll be gone so I can take one of your cars. That’ll get me to mid-September.”
“What do you think you want?” my dad nervously asked.
I curled my lips in over my teeth and bit down to stop myself from blurting out my wish list.
“You know, don’t get mad at me but you’re kinda acting like your mother.”
“You mean your wife. But that taunting won’t hurt this time. Cause that woman’s on her fourth Benz and, to be honest, I admire her refusal to let you push her into another piece of shit Cutlass Sierra.”
“Have you thought about the Chevy Malibu or the new Hyundai Genesis?”
“No, but I have thought about putting you in the trunk of Papa Sven and pushing both of you off a high cliff.”
The thing is, I like certain cars. I might even go so far as to say I could marry one or two. This is the result of being Jewish, my mother’s daughter and an avid reader of Road & Track and Motor Trend and Car & Driver. That last part, by the way, is totally my dad’s fault so he really has only himself to blame. Anyway, read enough about the 911 Turbo Carbiolet, the way it grips the road and rips through turns, and you too will dream of owning one. If only a two-seater, rear-wheel drive racer that costs more than the purchase price of my condo made sense.
In the end, I struck a reasonable deal with my dad. Tomorrow morning, I will catch a plane for Guatemala and Belize and when I get back, tanned and relaxed from sunning on a sailboat for seven days straight, I’ll start tackling the decision I so desperately wanted to avoid. People, the reason I agreed to inherit Papa Sven was because I rank car shopping right up there with pap smears and root canals. Heck, I’d rather have both procedures done at the same time than have to hear a smarmy fuckwit quote me a lease number that translates into me funding his child’s college tuition.
So while I am away on vacation, snorkeling the Belize Barrier Reef and dropping baited hooks off the stern, you’ll be car shopping for me. Yup. Bring it, bitches. Because I know you all have your opinions.
Wednesday, August 20, 2008
Monday, August 18, 2008
Told In Seven Parts
Part I
When I cross my leg, my ankle collides with your calf. I lean forward, placing my elbows on the table and clasping my hands together. I lower my chin ever so slightly, letting it rest on my knotted fingers. The chime of silverware against plates echoes through the restaurant. The corner of my mouth curls to a half smile. My eyes cast down before lifting up and meeting your gaze. And that’s when I settle my foot against your leg and leave it there, as if that’s where it is supposed to be.
Part II
As you jiggle the key and release the lock, I lean into you. My chest curves against your back. I rise onto the balls of my feet, press my lips to the nape of your neck and linger there as I breathe you in, a salty sweetness laced with the evening air. I wrap one arm around your waist and curl two fingers under your belt. You release my grip, raise my hand to your mouth and kiss the inside of my wrist.
Part III
I kick off my heels and my bare feet carry me to the kitchen. While pouring a glass of wine, you come up behind me. You reach one hand around, press your fingers to the base of my neck and then slide down beneath the folds of my dress, under the lace shielding my breasts. I lean my head into your chest. I arch my back and open my mouth and I draw in a long breath. Between two extended fingers you pinch my nipple hard. And with my eyes closed and panties damp, you bring me back by tracing my lips with a wine soaked fingertip.
Part IV
You can look but you can’t touch. Seated in the leather club chair, the scent of musk and want colliding in the air, I release the buckle of your belt. I lock my knees, bend at the waist and lean forward as I unbutton your shirt. My lips pout and part as I drag my hand across your stomach. I flip my hair and expose the length of my neck. I pull my lower lip over my teeth and lick it wet. As I lean closer, you reach between my legs. A warmth greets your hand. That is, until I halt your movement and whisper in your ear. “Not yet.”
Part V
I’m between your legs eyeing you eyeing me. I’m straddling your thigh and grinding against you as I take you deeper down my throat. I’m crawling up on top of you, lowering myself down as I push you into me. I’m sliding my hips in a paced motion before collapsing sweaty on your chest. You pull my lips to yours, pressing your tongue into my mouth. I grind harder, I slide faster and I moan louder.
Part VI
Light from the streetlamp stripes the ceiling. I roll onto my side and watch you sleep. Your chest rises and falls, rises and falls. I remain at a distance, an outsider in my own world. Then, as the wind rustles the leaves and a car sputters up the road, I extend my foot and rest it against your leg. And when my lids are finally too heavy to hold open, I fall off to sleep.
Part VII
It’s the bed slowly moving or the sheet suddenly shifting that wakes me. Or maybe it’s feeling you behind me, your body mimicking my curves and your flesh melting into mine. “Good morning,” you mumble as you pull me into you. I moan a groggy response before tugging your arm tighter around my waist and settling your flat palm between my breasts. I roll my head back, squint against the morning glare and I smile. You place a sweet kiss on my lips. And there we lay, together, tangled up as one.
When I cross my leg, my ankle collides with your calf. I lean forward, placing my elbows on the table and clasping my hands together. I lower my chin ever so slightly, letting it rest on my knotted fingers. The chime of silverware against plates echoes through the restaurant. The corner of my mouth curls to a half smile. My eyes cast down before lifting up and meeting your gaze. And that’s when I settle my foot against your leg and leave it there, as if that’s where it is supposed to be.
Part II
As you jiggle the key and release the lock, I lean into you. My chest curves against your back. I rise onto the balls of my feet, press my lips to the nape of your neck and linger there as I breathe you in, a salty sweetness laced with the evening air. I wrap one arm around your waist and curl two fingers under your belt. You release my grip, raise my hand to your mouth and kiss the inside of my wrist.
Part III
I kick off my heels and my bare feet carry me to the kitchen. While pouring a glass of wine, you come up behind me. You reach one hand around, press your fingers to the base of my neck and then slide down beneath the folds of my dress, under the lace shielding my breasts. I lean my head into your chest. I arch my back and open my mouth and I draw in a long breath. Between two extended fingers you pinch my nipple hard. And with my eyes closed and panties damp, you bring me back by tracing my lips with a wine soaked fingertip.
Part IV
You can look but you can’t touch. Seated in the leather club chair, the scent of musk and want colliding in the air, I release the buckle of your belt. I lock my knees, bend at the waist and lean forward as I unbutton your shirt. My lips pout and part as I drag my hand across your stomach. I flip my hair and expose the length of my neck. I pull my lower lip over my teeth and lick it wet. As I lean closer, you reach between my legs. A warmth greets your hand. That is, until I halt your movement and whisper in your ear. “Not yet.”
Part V
I’m between your legs eyeing you eyeing me. I’m straddling your thigh and grinding against you as I take you deeper down my throat. I’m crawling up on top of you, lowering myself down as I push you into me. I’m sliding my hips in a paced motion before collapsing sweaty on your chest. You pull my lips to yours, pressing your tongue into my mouth. I grind harder, I slide faster and I moan louder.
Part VI
Light from the streetlamp stripes the ceiling. I roll onto my side and watch you sleep. Your chest rises and falls, rises and falls. I remain at a distance, an outsider in my own world. Then, as the wind rustles the leaves and a car sputters up the road, I extend my foot and rest it against your leg. And when my lids are finally too heavy to hold open, I fall off to sleep.
Part VII
It’s the bed slowly moving or the sheet suddenly shifting that wakes me. Or maybe it’s feeling you behind me, your body mimicking my curves and your flesh melting into mine. “Good morning,” you mumble as you pull me into you. I moan a groggy response before tugging your arm tighter around my waist and settling your flat palm between my breasts. I roll my head back, squint against the morning glare and I smile. You place a sweet kiss on my lips. And there we lay, together, tangled up as one.
Thursday, August 14, 2008
Let It Ride
I’ve never struggled with writer’s block. If I need to sit down and churn something out, I will. And if you don’t believe me, just flip through the months and months of blog posts offered in the sidebar. You may not know this but I’ve posted twice a week since the start. It’s a rule I made for myself. I mean, if I’m here to become a better writer, I better fucking write.
Of course, some pieces are stronger than others. And for the most part, anything I wrote before June of 2006 qualifies as crap. But, in my defense, I was learning. I hadn’t written creatively for three years. It makes sense my style was choppy and my dialog sputtered. Heck, it took me almost a year to defy my formal education and comfortably use contractions in my prose. But I kept to my schedule because without it, I would never improve.
So while I’ve never struggled with writer’s block, I’ve most certainly struggled with writer’s indifference. It’s a mopey presence of the whatevers. I lack the itch to type words. There’s a void when it comes to plot and character, location and arc. It isn’t so much that I have nothing to say but that, according to me, I have nothing worthwhile to produce.
When I came back from Maine in mid-July, I was drained. I was bone dry, splat flat, brain dead drained. I had nothing left in me. It seems nine days of intensive workshopping, while quite enlightening, is the equivalent of being bled by leeches. You start optimistic and eventually fade to a catatonic fog.
“Send me something you’ve written!” Eliza, a classmate, pleaded over the phone.
“Um, I haven’t written anything,” I confessed. “But I’ve been reading!” I noted, as if that would justify my failure to pen a single sentence in the four weeks since returning home.
In the meantime, Eliza was feeding me brilliant flash fiction on a regular basis. Actually, brilliant might be an understatement. Where I falter, Eliza thrives. She doesn’t describe the bustling avenues of Manhattan, she puts you on them. You can smell the bus fumes wafting up Broadway. You can hear the taxis wailing their horns as they slalom through traffic. When a character pops her gum, the reader can taste the sugar and feel the snap. Eliza has a magical way with description. And the more I read her pieces, the more indifferent I became about writing my own.
You see, I write when I feel the need. If I’m lying in bed at two in the morning and I have an idea, I get up, turn on my laptop and peck at the keys. Or if I’m on a train and a character twist comes to me, I repeat it in my head like a crazy person until I can write it out. Because when I feel inspired, I know I have something. Even if it’s nothing more than a two-line stretch of dialog, if it makes my spine tingle or my mouth curl to a smile, I’m confident I’m going somewhere good. Conversely, when that doesn’t happen, when I observe a couple fighting and feel nothing or when I finish a chat with Leslie and don’t recall anything specific, I know there’s no reason to write from it. Sure, I can create something. It’s the difference between scratchy shetland and supple cashmere, cheap naugahyde and buttery soft leather. There’s a need for all of it but I don’t want to be a producer of the former. Ever.
On August 25th, my assigned mentor is supposed to have my first packet of twenty-five typed pages in his hands. He lives in New York and requests that students forward printed copies via snail mail. Backing into the deadline, I need to send my packet by next Wednesday. And as of yesterday morning I had nothing to submit. Well, I had a three-page critical analysis of an assigned book but the remaining twenty-two pages of creative prose were empty.
Then, out of nowhere, it came to me. A line floated across my mind as I rinsed shampoo from my hair. With suds rolling down my skin and my eyes clenched closed, I heard a sentence in a slow syrupy southern drawl:
Mamma’s what I call a keeper and maybe that’s why she’s been keeping Daddy around these last few years.
I’m not Southern. I don’t call my mother Mamma and I surely don’t call my father Daddy. But there it was, a beginning that made my heart flutter.
Bedecked in a towel turban and intimates, I typed one paragraph at home. I just needed to get it started. Then I went to work where, for the first hour, I ignored everything and wrote more. That’s when I knew I had to cancel my dinner plans with Bess. Because when I’m in it, when the sentences stream faster than I can type, I need to go with it. When the characters are alive, when the conversation is crisp, walking away from the keyboard is the worst thing I can do.
As the clock ticked toward eight, the office quiet and the sun dipping below the horizon, I was done. I wasn’t finished but I was done. Meaning there’s plenty of room to improve and rework. But when I clicked save, I knew I had something.
That’s how I know I don’t need to worry about my writer’s indifference. Those lulls never make me sweat. I don’t nervously check my watch or nibble my nails. I just embrace the quiet and I wait. I linger on my sofa with a pile of books and New Yorkers or I relax on my balcony with scissoring knitting needles, a ball of yarn and a glass of wine or I finger the Goretex at REI and smell cartons of raspberries at Wholefoods. I fill the time. Because eventually, just like it always does, it’ll happen.
Of course, some pieces are stronger than others. And for the most part, anything I wrote before June of 2006 qualifies as crap. But, in my defense, I was learning. I hadn’t written creatively for three years. It makes sense my style was choppy and my dialog sputtered. Heck, it took me almost a year to defy my formal education and comfortably use contractions in my prose. But I kept to my schedule because without it, I would never improve.
So while I’ve never struggled with writer’s block, I’ve most certainly struggled with writer’s indifference. It’s a mopey presence of the whatevers. I lack the itch to type words. There’s a void when it comes to plot and character, location and arc. It isn’t so much that I have nothing to say but that, according to me, I have nothing worthwhile to produce.
When I came back from Maine in mid-July, I was drained. I was bone dry, splat flat, brain dead drained. I had nothing left in me. It seems nine days of intensive workshopping, while quite enlightening, is the equivalent of being bled by leeches. You start optimistic and eventually fade to a catatonic fog.
“Send me something you’ve written!” Eliza, a classmate, pleaded over the phone.
“Um, I haven’t written anything,” I confessed. “But I’ve been reading!” I noted, as if that would justify my failure to pen a single sentence in the four weeks since returning home.
In the meantime, Eliza was feeding me brilliant flash fiction on a regular basis. Actually, brilliant might be an understatement. Where I falter, Eliza thrives. She doesn’t describe the bustling avenues of Manhattan, she puts you on them. You can smell the bus fumes wafting up Broadway. You can hear the taxis wailing their horns as they slalom through traffic. When a character pops her gum, the reader can taste the sugar and feel the snap. Eliza has a magical way with description. And the more I read her pieces, the more indifferent I became about writing my own.
You see, I write when I feel the need. If I’m lying in bed at two in the morning and I have an idea, I get up, turn on my laptop and peck at the keys. Or if I’m on a train and a character twist comes to me, I repeat it in my head like a crazy person until I can write it out. Because when I feel inspired, I know I have something. Even if it’s nothing more than a two-line stretch of dialog, if it makes my spine tingle or my mouth curl to a smile, I’m confident I’m going somewhere good. Conversely, when that doesn’t happen, when I observe a couple fighting and feel nothing or when I finish a chat with Leslie and don’t recall anything specific, I know there’s no reason to write from it. Sure, I can create something. It’s the difference between scratchy shetland and supple cashmere, cheap naugahyde and buttery soft leather. There’s a need for all of it but I don’t want to be a producer of the former. Ever.
On August 25th, my assigned mentor is supposed to have my first packet of twenty-five typed pages in his hands. He lives in New York and requests that students forward printed copies via snail mail. Backing into the deadline, I need to send my packet by next Wednesday. And as of yesterday morning I had nothing to submit. Well, I had a three-page critical analysis of an assigned book but the remaining twenty-two pages of creative prose were empty.
Then, out of nowhere, it came to me. A line floated across my mind as I rinsed shampoo from my hair. With suds rolling down my skin and my eyes clenched closed, I heard a sentence in a slow syrupy southern drawl:
Mamma’s what I call a keeper and maybe that’s why she’s been keeping Daddy around these last few years.
I’m not Southern. I don’t call my mother Mamma and I surely don’t call my father Daddy. But there it was, a beginning that made my heart flutter.
Bedecked in a towel turban and intimates, I typed one paragraph at home. I just needed to get it started. Then I went to work where, for the first hour, I ignored everything and wrote more. That’s when I knew I had to cancel my dinner plans with Bess. Because when I’m in it, when the sentences stream faster than I can type, I need to go with it. When the characters are alive, when the conversation is crisp, walking away from the keyboard is the worst thing I can do.
As the clock ticked toward eight, the office quiet and the sun dipping below the horizon, I was done. I wasn’t finished but I was done. Meaning there’s plenty of room to improve and rework. But when I clicked save, I knew I had something.
That’s how I know I don’t need to worry about my writer’s indifference. Those lulls never make me sweat. I don’t nervously check my watch or nibble my nails. I just embrace the quiet and I wait. I linger on my sofa with a pile of books and New Yorkers or I relax on my balcony with scissoring knitting needles, a ball of yarn and a glass of wine or I finger the Goretex at REI and smell cartons of raspberries at Wholefoods. I fill the time. Because eventually, just like it always does, it’ll happen.
Tuesday, August 12, 2008
Love It Or Leave It
I’ve been brewing a blog topic for a few months now. I’ve bounced ideas around in my head. I’ve jotted notes in the journal Ryane gifted me. I’ve even gone so far as to make a list of pros and cons. But today, today I’m going to finally tackle this sucker once and for all.
Links. Ah, links. And no, I’m not talking about fairways and sand traps. I’m talking about the way bloggers direct readers elsewhere. Being an erroneously confident gal when it comes to HTML, I link whenever and wherever I desire. Although I rarely do much to update or maintain it all. People, I’ve got more important things to do. You know, like watch Slade in a crocheted, side slanted beret trying to coach his former fiancé and current crush as she aspires to fall in love with a new douche.
Anyway, when I started this blog, I researched how to grow my readership. In real estate, it’s location, location, location. In the blogosphere, it’s links, links, links. The number of incoming links defines your Technorati rating and BlogShares value. It also increases traffic. Argue what you want but every blogger knows that incoming links are free advertising. The more people see your name floating around, the more likely they’ll stop by for a glance. And the more people glance, the better.
Taking off my blog writer hat and putting on my blog reader hat, links have been equally valuable. Without question, various blogrolls have led me to some amazing corners of the interweb. From Metrodad to It’s Like I’m Magic, My Fairbanks Life to Freckled K, I found these spots through other bloggers. I’ve also come across sites because they kindly linked to me. Like This Northern Life and Citizen of the Month, Alaska Anonymous and Restaurant Refugee. Without their incoming links, I would have probably never stumbled across them. Though, to be honest, that has more to do with me being lazy and preoccupied with other things. See above reference to Date My Ex.
Three years ago, when this blog was a mere tot, I updated my sidebar every time someone linked to me. It was my way of saying thanks. But when I got too overwhelmed by this task, when it started to become more time consuming than penning an essay, I gave up. I was here to write, not manage the page design. And so my blogroll went back to what it had been originally: a randomly updated collection of sites I like.
But even with a return to my original definition of a blogroll, I still vowed to make a concerted effort to connect with referring bloggers. I stop by his or her site, read some posts, leave a comment and then I add the blog to my Bloglines roster. Because while I can’t link to everyone who thinks I’m swell, I can at least read most of them. So far it’s worked, or has it?
Wednesday afternoon, I received a personal email from a blogger I sometimes read but have never personally met. On a handful of occasions, she has emailed me in response to a post. But for the most part, all communication has been through comments. Anyway, the purpose of her email was to ask why I had deleted her site from my blogroll. Which is true. Sometime in the last six months, while managing my list, I took the link out. And the why part? Well, I try to keep my blogroll to a certain length and over time had found myself drawn to other sites. But as logical as my reasoning may sound, I was admittedly annoyed someone was questioning my actions.
The thing is, this particular blogger specifically notes the absence of a blogroll on her site. And that’s her prerogative. But doesn’t that deny her the right to expect links from anyone? If she isn’t going to play the game, why does she think she gets to challenge the calls? I spent the next two or three days trying to formulate a response until, tired from all of the thinking, I decided to just write this essay.
In the weeks leading up to this specific email, I was pondering a post dedicated to people who’ve linked to me even though I have never reciprocated the gesture. I was pondering this because I appreciate those links the same way I appreciate finding a pair of Prada boots at 75% off or hearing a man tell me I’m beautiful. Yes, it’s that emotional of an experience. Like being invited to the prom by a crush, an incoming link is validation that I am doing something correct. However, if someone doesn’t link to me, I can’t take that as a snub. It doesn’t mean I’m a failure. A blogroll isn’t a beauty contest or job interview. In fact, it’s nothing more than a list of links. To read anymore into it is a waste of time and energy.
That’s how I finally landed here: the issue isn’t whether I deleted a link or added a link but that this is my site. If I want to write a post about having my heart broken, I can. If I want to capture a conversation I had with my mother, I can. Plain and simple, I get to do what I want when I want and I don’t have to provide answers to anyone. Ever. Dictatorships fucking rock when you’re the ruler.
So that’s my answer. I link the way I do because it’s my choice and it’s my site. And, as the poster that hung above my childhood bed, the poster displaying an exceptionally messy bedroom, proudly exclaimed:
My room, love it or leave it.
Links. Ah, links. And no, I’m not talking about fairways and sand traps. I’m talking about the way bloggers direct readers elsewhere. Being an erroneously confident gal when it comes to HTML, I link whenever and wherever I desire. Although I rarely do much to update or maintain it all. People, I’ve got more important things to do. You know, like watch Slade in a crocheted, side slanted beret trying to coach his former fiancé and current crush as she aspires to fall in love with a new douche.
Anyway, when I started this blog, I researched how to grow my readership. In real estate, it’s location, location, location. In the blogosphere, it’s links, links, links. The number of incoming links defines your Technorati rating and BlogShares value. It also increases traffic. Argue what you want but every blogger knows that incoming links are free advertising. The more people see your name floating around, the more likely they’ll stop by for a glance. And the more people glance, the better.
Taking off my blog writer hat and putting on my blog reader hat, links have been equally valuable. Without question, various blogrolls have led me to some amazing corners of the interweb. From Metrodad to It’s Like I’m Magic, My Fairbanks Life to Freckled K, I found these spots through other bloggers. I’ve also come across sites because they kindly linked to me. Like This Northern Life and Citizen of the Month, Alaska Anonymous and Restaurant Refugee. Without their incoming links, I would have probably never stumbled across them. Though, to be honest, that has more to do with me being lazy and preoccupied with other things. See above reference to Date My Ex.
Three years ago, when this blog was a mere tot, I updated my sidebar every time someone linked to me. It was my way of saying thanks. But when I got too overwhelmed by this task, when it started to become more time consuming than penning an essay, I gave up. I was here to write, not manage the page design. And so my blogroll went back to what it had been originally: a randomly updated collection of sites I like.
But even with a return to my original definition of a blogroll, I still vowed to make a concerted effort to connect with referring bloggers. I stop by his or her site, read some posts, leave a comment and then I add the blog to my Bloglines roster. Because while I can’t link to everyone who thinks I’m swell, I can at least read most of them. So far it’s worked, or has it?
Wednesday afternoon, I received a personal email from a blogger I sometimes read but have never personally met. On a handful of occasions, she has emailed me in response to a post. But for the most part, all communication has been through comments. Anyway, the purpose of her email was to ask why I had deleted her site from my blogroll. Which is true. Sometime in the last six months, while managing my list, I took the link out. And the why part? Well, I try to keep my blogroll to a certain length and over time had found myself drawn to other sites. But as logical as my reasoning may sound, I was admittedly annoyed someone was questioning my actions.
The thing is, this particular blogger specifically notes the absence of a blogroll on her site. And that’s her prerogative. But doesn’t that deny her the right to expect links from anyone? If she isn’t going to play the game, why does she think she gets to challenge the calls? I spent the next two or three days trying to formulate a response until, tired from all of the thinking, I decided to just write this essay.
In the weeks leading up to this specific email, I was pondering a post dedicated to people who’ve linked to me even though I have never reciprocated the gesture. I was pondering this because I appreciate those links the same way I appreciate finding a pair of Prada boots at 75% off or hearing a man tell me I’m beautiful. Yes, it’s that emotional of an experience. Like being invited to the prom by a crush, an incoming link is validation that I am doing something correct. However, if someone doesn’t link to me, I can’t take that as a snub. It doesn’t mean I’m a failure. A blogroll isn’t a beauty contest or job interview. In fact, it’s nothing more than a list of links. To read anymore into it is a waste of time and energy.
That’s how I finally landed here: the issue isn’t whether I deleted a link or added a link but that this is my site. If I want to write a post about having my heart broken, I can. If I want to capture a conversation I had with my mother, I can. Plain and simple, I get to do what I want when I want and I don’t have to provide answers to anyone. Ever. Dictatorships fucking rock when you’re the ruler.
So that’s my answer. I link the way I do because it’s my choice and it’s my site. And, as the poster that hung above my childhood bed, the poster displaying an exceptionally messy bedroom, proudly exclaimed:
My room, love it or leave it.
Thursday, August 07, 2008
Is This Thing On?
I’ve been using a PDA since before they were hip. Think Casio. Think Casio with a flip top and a screen the size of postage stamp. That dinosaur predated rechargeable batteries. Which means I had a panic attack every time I had to swap out the AAA’s. Because, my friends, my Casio PDA also predated backing up and syncing. Then the world was introduced to the lovely invention of Palm Pilots.
Over the course of time, I had three different Palms. Okay, technically four. I drove over my third one which cracked the screen. I had to replace it. Or, I didn’t have to replace it because it did still work but it worked in a limited capacity. A slice of the screen was perpetually black. So while I was able to confirm I had an appointment at two in the afternoon on Wednesday, I couldn’t see who I was meeting with. Or while I could see the name and number of my call list, the middle three digits was a void. And so I bit the bullet and bought my fourth Palm, a used, Verizon compatible, Treo 650.
That Treo did me good. For the first time ever, I was down to one electronic contraption. No longer did I have to pass on my chic clutches because there was never enough space for both my PDA and my phone. Nope, now that I had condensed my life, I could use cuter purses. And, I could text message without having to visit the Greek alphabet. Life was good. Life was very good. Then my Treo started to freeze up.
“Listen,” I announced as I plopped down in the chair by my dad’s desk. “Our contract is finally up with Verizon and since, for some unknown reason, I’m the primary on the account, I need to go renew it.”
“Okay.”
“And we all get new phones,” I said with a sigh.
“What do you think about the iPhone?”
“I think you wouldn’t know what it was if it hit you in the head.”
My dad offered a guilty giggle.
“Right,” I responded. “I’m going to run up to take care of things and once I do that, you and mom can get new phones. Actually, I’ll call her now and give her a heads up.”
I moseyed back to my desk and rang my mom. I gave her the spiel about have to wait until I did everything and then I broke the exciting news that she could finally replace the junk she’s been complaining about.
“What do you think about the iPhone?” my mom asked.
“You don’t even know how to text message.”
“But I’d like to,” she countered.
“Right, master that first and then we can talk about the iPhone. Plus, we have Verizon. It’s only legit with AT&T. And the only carrier that gets solid service on Longboat is Verizon. So there.”
“You’re no fun.”
An hour or so later, I grabbed my wallet, keys and Treo and headed up to the Verizon store. There I perused the PDA options and after much consideration, and by consideration I mean button pushing, I resolved to get the Blackberry Curve. It has everything I need plus a bevy of things I’ll never use. As a Jew, this is a good thing. It means I got a great deal.
When I returned to the office, I tossed my Blackberry on my desk and got back to work. Then, as the clock ticked near six and the cubicles emptied out, I started playing with it. I tried to set the ringtones, although after twenty minutes of scrolling and internet searching and handbook consulting, I gave up. Then I attempted to adjust the view. And upload my work email. And since I failed with those efforts I tried one last time to set the ringtones. I stalled out at vibrate.
“How do you like your Blackberry?” my dad asked the next morning as he nodded at the brick in my hand.
“I feel like mom – is this thing on?” I said in a mimicking voice as I held the Blackberry to my ear, the contraption upside down and the battery plate pressed to my head. “If I can’t master it by the end of the week, it’s going back.”
That night, I met up with my twenty-something cousin Erika to volunteer. Seated in neighboring arm chairs that creaked with the slightest breath, I saw her fuddle with her phone, her Blackberry Curve phone to be exact. My face lit up. My eyes widened with excitement.
“Here!” I exclaimed as I dropped mine in her lap. “I’m desperate.”
And in between checking in families and answering the phones, buzzing in guests and putting away files, Erika adjusted my settings. Every last one. Well, save for the work email configuration. Somehow I had managed to do that the day before. Just don’t ask me how.
It’s been only twelve hours since Erika worked her magic. Yes, magic. If that girl ever needs a kidney, I’m her go to gal. Anyway, it’s official; I’m in love.
Over the course of time, I had three different Palms. Okay, technically four. I drove over my third one which cracked the screen. I had to replace it. Or, I didn’t have to replace it because it did still work but it worked in a limited capacity. A slice of the screen was perpetually black. So while I was able to confirm I had an appointment at two in the afternoon on Wednesday, I couldn’t see who I was meeting with. Or while I could see the name and number of my call list, the middle three digits was a void. And so I bit the bullet and bought my fourth Palm, a used, Verizon compatible, Treo 650.
That Treo did me good. For the first time ever, I was down to one electronic contraption. No longer did I have to pass on my chic clutches because there was never enough space for both my PDA and my phone. Nope, now that I had condensed my life, I could use cuter purses. And, I could text message without having to visit the Greek alphabet. Life was good. Life was very good. Then my Treo started to freeze up.
“Listen,” I announced as I plopped down in the chair by my dad’s desk. “Our contract is finally up with Verizon and since, for some unknown reason, I’m the primary on the account, I need to go renew it.”
“Okay.”
“And we all get new phones,” I said with a sigh.
“What do you think about the iPhone?”
“I think you wouldn’t know what it was if it hit you in the head.”
My dad offered a guilty giggle.
“Right,” I responded. “I’m going to run up to take care of things and once I do that, you and mom can get new phones. Actually, I’ll call her now and give her a heads up.”
I moseyed back to my desk and rang my mom. I gave her the spiel about have to wait until I did everything and then I broke the exciting news that she could finally replace the junk she’s been complaining about.
“What do you think about the iPhone?” my mom asked.
“You don’t even know how to text message.”
“But I’d like to,” she countered.
“Right, master that first and then we can talk about the iPhone. Plus, we have Verizon. It’s only legit with AT&T. And the only carrier that gets solid service on Longboat is Verizon. So there.”
“You’re no fun.”
An hour or so later, I grabbed my wallet, keys and Treo and headed up to the Verizon store. There I perused the PDA options and after much consideration, and by consideration I mean button pushing, I resolved to get the Blackberry Curve. It has everything I need plus a bevy of things I’ll never use. As a Jew, this is a good thing. It means I got a great deal.
When I returned to the office, I tossed my Blackberry on my desk and got back to work. Then, as the clock ticked near six and the cubicles emptied out, I started playing with it. I tried to set the ringtones, although after twenty minutes of scrolling and internet searching and handbook consulting, I gave up. Then I attempted to adjust the view. And upload my work email. And since I failed with those efforts I tried one last time to set the ringtones. I stalled out at vibrate.
“How do you like your Blackberry?” my dad asked the next morning as he nodded at the brick in my hand.
“I feel like mom – is this thing on?” I said in a mimicking voice as I held the Blackberry to my ear, the contraption upside down and the battery plate pressed to my head. “If I can’t master it by the end of the week, it’s going back.”
That night, I met up with my twenty-something cousin Erika to volunteer. Seated in neighboring arm chairs that creaked with the slightest breath, I saw her fuddle with her phone, her Blackberry Curve phone to be exact. My face lit up. My eyes widened with excitement.
“Here!” I exclaimed as I dropped mine in her lap. “I’m desperate.”
And in between checking in families and answering the phones, buzzing in guests and putting away files, Erika adjusted my settings. Every last one. Well, save for the work email configuration. Somehow I had managed to do that the day before. Just don’t ask me how.
It’s been only twelve hours since Erika worked her magic. Yes, magic. If that girl ever needs a kidney, I’m her go to gal. Anyway, it’s official; I’m in love.
Tuesday, August 05, 2008
Being There
For two summers, I lived with Leslie in Atlanta. Toward the end of my junior year at Smith, she suggested I consider finding a summer job in the south. That I should bag my regular gig as a summer bank teller and do something down there. I could live with her for free, explore an otherwise foreign city and be 800 miles away from my parents. It was a brilliant suggestion. So, in May I secured a position at Emory and in June I drove south to Atlanta.
“I hope you don’t mind but I ate the pasta in the fridge,” I confessed when she came through the door at half past five.
“What pasta?” Leslie asked as she dropped her bag by the breakfast bar and disappeared in the walk-in closet.
“The noodles in the Tupperware. I was starving, sorry.”
Leslie reappeared in her workout gear, short shorts layered beneath a thong leotard. “I haven’t made pasta since April, maybe March.”
“Well, that explains the al dente texture.”
“Wanna go to the gym with me?”
“Just looking at you in that outfit makes me feel bad about my body.”
“You sure?” she asked as she bent at the waist and laced up her Reebok’s, her tush even with my gaze.
“Surer than sure,” I answered as I evaluated the strand of lycra slicing between her butt cheeks.
Leslie and I have always been different. She doesn’t get rattled by little things whereas the mere potential of a blip sends me into a tizzy. When soaking for a pedicure, she reads People. Meanwhile, my nose is buried in a New Yorker. I think green beans taste best raw but she prefers them cooked to a curious brownish tint and then topped with creamy mushroom soup and fake onion crisps. But for as different as we are, we get along flawlessly.
In late July, Leslie came north with Anders and Olivia for a week. We went to the zoo and laughed at the hippos splashing in the water and yelled at the polar bear lazily napping on a slab. We jumped cannonballs off the ledge of the pool and sunned on damp towels to dry off. We went out for lobster dinners and stayed in for greasy pizza pies. And about halfway through the visit, I surrendered to the convenience of temporarily moving into my parent’s house. You know, to be more in the loop of things. And by 'things' I mean after dinner runs to the ice cream parlor.
Just like old times, like those summers when I roomed with Leslie in her one bedroom apartment, we shared a bed in a room we both once called home. Although, last year my mom redid it, swapping out the drapes and removing the piss stained pink rug, something I’d begged her to do before I finally moved out ten years ago. Anyway, at night, when the kids were asleep and the house was quiet, we talked and giggled until one of us claimed utter fatigue.
Now that Leslie’s back in Atlanta and I’m back in my condo, I realize just how much I miss having her around. I envy siblings who can have dinner together on Sunday evening. Or get pedicures side by side on Saturday morning. Sure we talk on the phone and exchange emails but nothing quite tops being a mile down the road or at the other end of the house. Even if it’s to silently curl up on the sofa and read while she’s off in the kitchen making grilled cheese for the kids. Because once they’re fed, she’ll plop down in the armchair next to me, pick up a magazine and start reading. No words are spoken. No ideas are shared. Just two sisters passing the time. Just two good friends being there together.
“I hope you don’t mind but I ate the pasta in the fridge,” I confessed when she came through the door at half past five.
“What pasta?” Leslie asked as she dropped her bag by the breakfast bar and disappeared in the walk-in closet.
“The noodles in the Tupperware. I was starving, sorry.”
Leslie reappeared in her workout gear, short shorts layered beneath a thong leotard. “I haven’t made pasta since April, maybe March.”
“Well, that explains the al dente texture.”
“Wanna go to the gym with me?”
“Just looking at you in that outfit makes me feel bad about my body.”
“You sure?” she asked as she bent at the waist and laced up her Reebok’s, her tush even with my gaze.
“Surer than sure,” I answered as I evaluated the strand of lycra slicing between her butt cheeks.
Leslie and I have always been different. She doesn’t get rattled by little things whereas the mere potential of a blip sends me into a tizzy. When soaking for a pedicure, she reads People. Meanwhile, my nose is buried in a New Yorker. I think green beans taste best raw but she prefers them cooked to a curious brownish tint and then topped with creamy mushroom soup and fake onion crisps. But for as different as we are, we get along flawlessly.
In late July, Leslie came north with Anders and Olivia for a week. We went to the zoo and laughed at the hippos splashing in the water and yelled at the polar bear lazily napping on a slab. We jumped cannonballs off the ledge of the pool and sunned on damp towels to dry off. We went out for lobster dinners and stayed in for greasy pizza pies. And about halfway through the visit, I surrendered to the convenience of temporarily moving into my parent’s house. You know, to be more in the loop of things. And by 'things' I mean after dinner runs to the ice cream parlor.
Just like old times, like those summers when I roomed with Leslie in her one bedroom apartment, we shared a bed in a room we both once called home. Although, last year my mom redid it, swapping out the drapes and removing the piss stained pink rug, something I’d begged her to do before I finally moved out ten years ago. Anyway, at night, when the kids were asleep and the house was quiet, we talked and giggled until one of us claimed utter fatigue.
Now that Leslie’s back in Atlanta and I’m back in my condo, I realize just how much I miss having her around. I envy siblings who can have dinner together on Sunday evening. Or get pedicures side by side on Saturday morning. Sure we talk on the phone and exchange emails but nothing quite tops being a mile down the road or at the other end of the house. Even if it’s to silently curl up on the sofa and read while she’s off in the kitchen making grilled cheese for the kids. Because once they’re fed, she’ll plop down in the armchair next to me, pick up a magazine and start reading. No words are spoken. No ideas are shared. Just two sisters passing the time. Just two good friends being there together.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
