...Miss Head, if You're Nasty

Friday, September 28, 2007

Effulgent

I went to a hockey game last night. Pro hockey. I'd never been to a full-fledged, big league hockey game before. The game is great. But, man, those breaks are endless. I can only see so many kids skate up and down the floor, trying to get dressed and make a shot for a jersey before I start to get the jitters.

My friend, the deputy, and I went together. We tend to go to these types of events together, places where he can drive long distances. I always, without fail, fall asleep on the ride home. I make him tell me about his kids and his wife's weird friends and his in-laws to keep him entertained when I am awake. He tells me I snore.

We sat next to a family of four. The mother was probably a couple years older than me. Their daughter was turning 12. This was her birthday celebration. She had on a team jersey and had her hand wrapped for some kind of wrist injury. Instead of crawling over them, we walked around the entire row and I sat next to the little girl.

"We get here early," she piped up when I sat down, "so we can catch these." She showed me a handful of pucks.

"That's great," I said, putting down my beer.

"It's her birthday," her mother said, leaning over me. They looked exactly alike. Curly hair, crinkly blue eyes, freckles. The perfect mother and daughter.

We went on to talk about what they did for her birthday, how old she was, where they went to dinner. I gave her the prize from the Cracker Jack we bought. When I got up to go to the bathroom, the mom told the deputy what a nice wife he had. He did nothing to dissuade her, knowing that the actual explanation--that his wife was at home with his three kids while he was at a hockey game two hours away with his unmarried lady friend--probably wouldn't fly with that crowd, despite the fact that his wife knows he's with me and appreciates the fact that I get him out from under her feet on occasion.

Whenever there was a stop in play, the cameras would pan the crowd, looking for people to show on the big screen hanging over center ice. Little kids would get up and dance, waive their foam fingers around and generally act like little kids, all in the hopes of appearing on tv. I started thinking about the lengths to which people would go just to get on tv. Then I told myself to shut up.

The girl next to me? Danced unabashedly and unashamed. She had no rhythm. Her wrist was wrapped and her hand completely immobile. She looked like my drunk friends in college when they pogo'd. But she was having the time of her life.

I remember, vaguely, turning 12. Just on the cusp of really caring what everyone thinks of you when they look at you. She isn't there yet and, when she gets there, it is going to be painful. Knowing people judge you for your haircut. Or your shoes. Or the fact that you dance like Elaine Benis.

I hope she stays this way as long as she can, that she can dance without caring for as long as possible. That she can look for success for all the right reasons, recognition for accomplishment rather than for farce. That she can stay young for as long as possible.

When they left, she turned and waved goodbye.

"Happy Birthday," I called, as they walked up the steps.

Thursday, September 27, 2007

Sing it, Miss Jackson

I'm waiting for a phone call. I can't make the call myself. I can't wheedle, cry or manipulate the call into happening. All I can do is wait. Wait. Tom Petty was right. It is the hardest part.

I have a very hard time with myself when people don't do the things I want when I want them to be done. Fortunately, most of the time, I don't care. Most things aren't that important to me. I don't care how much broth goes into the chicken chili. Well, not until you try to tell me how much, at which point I may attempt to stab you with a large knife. I don't care where I go out to dinner. I don't care what kind of beer arrives at my house when people bring it with them. I don't care what football game is on. Or what movie I go to. Or when the back bedroom gets painted.

But when it is something I want. Something I really, really want? I cannot stand being able not to control it. Like with this phone call. I want the phone call bad. Bad. Really, really bad. But I can't do anything about it. Because, in trying to manipulate the call into happening, I could ruin it. So I have to step away and let it happen on its own. If it'll happen at all. If it does, I'm ready for the next step. If it doesn't, I've already screwed the pooch.

So, instead of trying to control the minds of others, I come here and vent about my frustration. Venting is to keep me from making the call myself. And that could be disasterous.

Remember that, self. Don't second guess. Don't obsess. Don't call.

Wednesday, September 26, 2007

Closet Case

Okay, Linens 'N Things, with your cutesy little apostrophe-filled name and low, low prices. Is it too much to ask that, when you have "ClosetMaid" painted DIRECTLY ABOVE the sliding glass doors to your consumer emporium, that you actually CARRY PRODUCTS made by said company?

No?

9:27 p.m.

Should I call? Or should I wait for him to call?

He called last night at 9:17. He's ten minutes late. Should I call?

He keeps calling. I haven't called him before. He always calls. I can call. It is okay if I call him. It certainly isn't too...pushy. I can call. I can call. I can do this.

I'll wait. Just another minute.

Maybe he doesn't want to call anymore. Maybe he's not calling again. Maybe last time he called was the last time. I mean, it was this morning and he said he'd call back, but maybe he won't. Sometimes? Sometimes they don't. I should call. Who am I kidding. I can't call.

*Minutes pass*

I wonder if he's okay. Maybe something happened. Maybe he was in a car wreck. Maybe he's in the hospital. Maybe he's in a ditch somewhere. Oh my God, I should call. I should totally call. I should totally, totally call. I'm not going to call.

I could call...and leave a message. Totally. He won't answer. They never do. I'll just leave a message and be cute and casual and funny and he won't be able to resist and he'll have to call me back.

I'd better get a piece of paper to write something funny.

Okay. I'm ready. I can do this. I can totally do this. It is just one button. It isn't like I have to dial the whole number. Just push the button.

It is ringing. RINGING. Still ringing. Still ringing. Still...oh. Oh shit.

I think I just hung up on him. Was that him? Or was that his voice mail? Oh God. OhGodOhGodOhGod. I'm such an idiot. So dumb. So, so, so painfully dumb. And he'll know it was me. That's his cell and he'll know it was me. I'm soooooo dumb.

*Minutes pass*

He hasn't called back. Well, I didn't leave a message. If he answered the phone and I hung up, he thinks I'm an idiot and he'll never, ever call me again. If it was his voice mail, he'll at least see I called and didn't leave a message. Then he might still call. Maybe he'll call. But I can't. No more calling. I'm never calling again.

Maybe I should send a text?

Tuesday, September 25, 2007

Cemetary Ridge

I went to a football game this past weekend. Down at my alma mater. They aren't known for their football teams, I think it is safe to say. They also did not used to be known for their tailgates. I believe this has changed.

My college roommate and I drove down from the town in which she now lives, about an hour from the stadium. We dragged along another guy that she knew from her time as a grad student, which whom she now works. He cheerfully endured the backseat of a Mini Cooper, sitting next to a cooler filled with orange juice and cheap champagne that, for the most part, ended up coming back with us, unopened.

We drove into town with the usual collection of miscreants in traffic. No one was throwing up out of car windows, like I'd seen at the Indy 500 one year, but this was a noon game and it was only 10:30. There was still some time yet to get the drink on.

We parked. The best thing about a Mini? You can park anywhere. And pay nothing. Unless you live in the town where I live, whereupon the parking meter guys target you daily for tickets the minute the meter expires.

Mike wandered off to his tailgate, meeting friends of his from college. We promised to come find him. A promise we may not have meant at the time. However, when we found his keys in my car under the cooler, we pretty much had to go in search of.

Our first tailgate was fairly tame. Nice older married folks who all live in town. They know all of the coaches of our team for the past 30 years. They go to church with the soccer coach. They work at the university. They made breakfast casseroles and cookies and brought a grill. This is the tailgate I would plan and throw, if I was throwing one. Staid, quiet, relaxed. With garbage bags and a minimum of mess.

After a few beers, we went to find Mike. He was with his friends from school in the next lot over. They were located right on the corner, right next to the Port-O-Lets and across a small road separating their location from "the student area."

I don't recall a student area for tailgating, myself. I prided myself on getting drunk enough before the game that I didn't need to go before halftime. We'd just hang out in apartments and drink and use the bathrooms there. Why sit in a field with no toilet facilities when you can throw up off someone's deck and into a pool below?

Sitting at Mike's tailgate and looking over the student area, I was rather overwhelmed. Clouds of dust rose up from the dirt and floated above the crowds. Flags flew. People were running, sprinting, from aisle to aisle of cars. Beer cases littered the grounds. An intrepid group played a take-off of Bob Barker's Plinko, creatively called "Drinko." One guy, at about 11:45, threw up. Right on the street. His friends (I'm getting a bit choked up here) yelled my favorite slogan: "Boot and Rally!"

I turned to the group, assembled and looking down on this scene.

"I believe we've wandered upon a Civil War reinactment here, folks," I said. "Welcome to Pickett's Charge."

Monday, September 24, 2007

The Village People

I went to a Wal-Mart in rural Central Indiana the other night. At 9:30 pm. Ostensibly, this is a college town. Don't let that fool you.

Two men were there. I spent the entire 36 minutes I was there debating whether or not they were gay. I still don't know. They both wore jeans. Painted-on is not a euphamism. Cowboy boots in pig-raising country. One wore a hat that would be appropriate if you were in Big and Rich's backup band. The other had a handlebar moustache.

I called my mother later.

"They were dressed like the Village People, Mom. With no sense of irony."

The Law of Averages

You go to a bar. Or a party. A barbeque. A Final Four television-watching gathering. With chips and dips and beer and lawn chairs and hot chocolate.

You walk in with a friend. Or a group of friends. Or you're meeting a friend there. But, really, you don't know anyone else in the joint. They're all new. And different. Younger. Or older. Or your age. They went to a different college. They went to your college at a different time. They work in your office building but on a different floor. They live in your apartment complex but in a different building. They live in your town but on the other side.

So you walk in. And you, being you, look at the people. There are the married people. There are the married parents of the married people. There are the babies. There are the people with boyfriends and girlfriends and those with no obvious attachments. There are those who are secure and those who are insecure. The wallflowers. The center of the party. The hecklers. The joiners-in. The fun ones. The non-fun ones.

Frequently, there's that guy. He catches your eye immediately. He's cute. Great smile, great laugh, great body, great hair. Sometimes he has no personality. Sometimes he has a great personality. Sometimes he's the personality. You know, the guy who is the center of attention. Intent on making those around him happy, sometimes at his own expense. He starts the football game in the back yard. He brings the dice for the drinking games. He buys the pitcher of beer. When the sun sets, he streaks the party, wearing nothing but cowboy boots. The party or barbeque or whatever it is would never be the same if he wasn't there. The sense of life and fun and whatever karma makes a really great day would be diminished.

You walk in and you notice him right away. Because you, being you, find him instantly attractive. Because he's THAT guy. The guy you always end up liking (damn your father for being the life of the party). Of course, you, also being you, end up being friends with him. Just friends. Because that's the girl you are.

Sometimes he's single. Often he's dating someone. Or married. His wife smiles at him indulgently when he plays football with an empty beer case container on his head. You get to be friends, exchanging numbers, meeting up for Monday night football and the Super Bowl and the Stanley Cup finals and the Indy 500. His girlfriend tolerates you because she knows you're no threat and you and she have absolutely nothing in common other than you're mutual adoration for this guy.

If he's single, he invariably hooks up with your roommate. Or your best friend. Or your sister. You might be his confidant but he doesn't really see you "that way." He breaks up with his girlfriend and you go out to drink and he takes the waitress home with him. Sometimes this even happens when he's engaged. Or married. And you're torn between being thankful that you aren't in her position and wishing that you were.

Because when he smiles at you? You're the only person in the room. It is like a lighthouse beam concentrated on you. And when you sit together in a corner of that party? The one that he's the life of? And you've got him all to yourself? It is like you've got the best secret in the world.

But sometimes...

Sometimes you walk into that barbeque, that football party, that bar. And you see that guy, because you always do. And you can see this potential history lying out before you. Because it has happened that way so many times before.

But this time? He sees you. Really notices you. The way you've noticed him. And, after walking past your table a couple of times and catching your eye? Or going out for a long pass in the back yard and running past you? He comes up to where you're talking to his best friend. And he sticks out his hand and introduces himself, elbowing his buddy as if to say, "quit hogging her and introduce me, you idiot." And he smiles that smile. Right at you. The first time.

And then he calls you the very next day.

Friday, September 07, 2007

And Not a Drop to Drink

I was up at a friend's lake cottage this weekend. A beautiful place. A place where you imagine weddings taking place, anniversary parties being thrown, drinking cocktails while watching the sunset. You can watch the sun come up over the hills to the east and set over the lake in the west.

So what did we do?

Drank and played dominos, of course.

Actually, we did do more than that. My first full day there, we did actually manage to leave the house, although I did not take a shower first. This was a complete break with my usual habits, which requires bathing before exiting any building where I've managed to sleep more than four hours. The fact that I left the cottage without showering is an indication of just how relaxed and calm and...I dunno. Is there a word that indicates more than relaxed? Ultra relaxed?

We went wine tasting first. Then back to the cottage for the boat. Then across the lake on a sightseeing excursion. Then to the bar in the little village. Where I proceeded to drink hard liquor.

I rarely drink booze. Every once in a while, I'll pair some kind of fruity vodka with soda or Sprite. But the occasions are so few and far between that they hardly count. The only things I have in my liquor cabinet are wines, a bottle of gin for my mother's martinis and some port for cranberry sauce at Thanksgiving. I have a bottle of vodka that's been in my fridge for about two years now. I just don't drink it.

I had three pint glasses full at the bar. Not full of vodka, but full enough.

We drove the boat home. Our friend, the chef, was to cook us a fabulous dinner and we needed to start the appetizers. In the boat, we had a cooler, some snacks and the radio. My friend, who owns the cottage, had her XM radio up north. She's got the stereo in the house and a boom box that she brings to the boat. When we hit full speed on the boat, we popped the face plate out of the radio and put it in the glove compartment. Safety first.

We get back to the house. Tie the boat to the dock. Unload everything. Time to start cooking. But we need the radio.

"I'll get it!" I shout, running outside, through the grass. The sun was still out in the late afternoon, the light sparkling off the shifting water on the lake. The colors are like those in the Carribean: tan sands under the water close to shore, fading to light blue and green, then turning a dark blue in the deepest parts of the lake.

I climbed onto the boat and dug in the glove box, past old bottle tops, a pair of socks, an empty cigarette box. The detritus that gathers in places where you only spend a season. I grabbed the face plate, closed the glove box and started to climb out of the boat.

I had the face plate in my hand. I know I did. And, in my mind's eye, I can see it falling, end over end, sunlight flashing off the clear front plate. And it goes in the water.

Shit.

I jump in. The water's only a couple of feet deep there. But I jump between the dock and the boat--the place where even non-boat people know not to go. By this time, the radio hitting bottom, bubbles racing up to the surface.

I panic. I basically submerge myself to grab the thing, although I probably could have just leaned over and grabbed it. Instead, I dunk my head in the water, reaching for it with both hands, grabbing it and jerking it out of the water.

"I'm sorry!" I start yelling, as I wade toward shore. "I'm sorry!"

"What did you do?" shouts my friend from the upstairs window.

I start gabbling. The chef wheels out the vacuum and starts sucking water out of the radio with the hose attachment. A bag of ice appears on my leg, which I apparently managed to scrape along the edge of the dock as I was leaping into the water. I sit, bleeding, mentally tabulating the number of items belonging to my friend that I have either broken or ruined. The one night when I broke three wine glasses. The time the burning log fell out of the fire place. The remote control that I pressed buttons on when I didn't know how to use it, forcing her to call the satellite TV guy to come fix it.

"I'm not touching anything of yours. Ever." I look up at her, sorrowfully.

She hands me a beer. "Don't worry about it."

That's how to roll when you're on vacation.

So the next morning, the radio worked, although I almost didn't due to an overuse of red wine. We played dominos, watched the sun move across the sky, discussed Blackwater and restaurants and families and gay men. We went to bed and the chef's restaurant burned down 150 miles away.

I noticed, driving home, that I'd managed to get water in my "water resistent" watch during the daring rescue of the radio. I went to the jeweler yesterday and asked if it could be fixed. They're taking it apart and drying it as I type.

I felt like I had to explain how it happened. Like, it wasn't from washing dishes or jumping in a pool. It wasn't so mundane. I gave the watch repairman a condensed version of the story: the radio, the lake, the rescue.

He looked at my watch. It is about five years old and cost about $100 when I bought it.

"I'd have saved the radio, too," he said.