Since Halbastram and I were unfortunately a part of the crapfest that is the recession, Christmas for us was a little light. And by a little light, I mean that I had him pick out his gift at a store that my father had given me a gift card to for my birthday, which was a month earlier. And I...well, I got nothing. It's not Halbastram's fault. Up until recently, I was the only bread-winner so funds were light. Even though I encouraged him to dip a little into our meager funds and buy me a magazine if that's all we could afford, he declined, saying that perhaps we could celebrate Christmas at a later time, when things were more on the up and up, even if that ended up being in April or May.
At the present-opening festivities at my mother's place, after everyone had opened their gifts, I noticed a card with my name on it, written in the indecipherable handwriting that could only be Halbastram's. Curious, I opened it and read it (slowly, as he writes everything in that "doctor's signature" scribble). In the card, he expressed sadness over not being able to get me anything for Christmas, but felt happy that he had the greatest gift in the world: being able to wake up next to me everyday. Swoon-fest, indeed. He usually shies away from the sweet sappies (being such a dude and all), so it was nice to read that.
Fast-forward three days ago. Feeling excited that my bus training was almost over, I decided to treat myself to some clearance rack gift card shopping. In my family (as in others, I'm sure), as you get older and move further away, the relatives who don't forget about you entirely will more than likely have no clue as to what to get you for Christmas. As a result, I received a ton of gift cards. And I hate carrying around gift cards with ridiculous balances on them, like $1.62. So I decided to hit up the clearance racks to find crap that will help clear up my wallet and clutter my home.
While at a department store I'm not fully fond of, after purchasing some warm and cuddly socks that looked like they were a returned Christmas gift, I ventured to the men's department to find Halbastram some fancy underwear. It's a tradition between us: I buy him random boxers that I see in stores that I frequent, he wears them for a few months, and then they get lost in the back of the drawer behind his more comfortable discount store brands. I find a very ridiculous pair with a little man on a horse playing polo and decide that yes, this will be his official Christmas present. And then I see it, a couple of displays over: The Simpsons Scene-It Game. Seeing as how we're both HUGE Simpsons fans, I decide that it's a gift we can both enjoy and possibly get better use out of (sorry, Mr. Jockey).
So I get it home, wrap it in my Disney Princess Christmas paper (a gift from a former co-worker...) and present it to him. He opens it, I say "Merry Christmas" and he says "thank you." Then, after a pause, he goes, "you're still waiting for a gift, aren't you?" I tell him not to worry about it: that case of beer he bought me the day before works just fine. We have a good laugh and I prepare dinner. The recession may have made gift-giving light, but it hasn't trampled on our psyche. I'm just glad it's almost over.
Sunday, January 31, 2010
Sunday, January 24, 2010
My dirty little secret
As far as I can remember (which goes back to around the 4th grade) I've loved reading. From Wayside School is Falling Down to the Sweet Valley High series, I was always at my "local" library. I say "local" because the library was actually 28 city blocks away and required a 20 minute bus ride. Many of my other friends didn't share this sentiment, as they preferred to run the streets and labled me a nerd whenever they saw me with a bulging bookbag following a library excursion. Back then, I really had no desire to be a writer. I watched a lot of MTV and was convinced that I would marry a rock star and become rock royalty. I had my sights set on one of the Gallagher brothers from Oasis...and that bassist from R.E.M...and the lead singer from Marcy Playground...yum...
But I digress.
Somewhere around the 6th grade, I made a very dramatic leap from quirky Louis Sachar books to more provocative writing, completely by accident. During the summer before I was to start the 6th grade, I spent the season in Milwaukee with my aunt, my cousin, my aunt's fiance and his two kids. Jason was the same age as me and Paris was two years older, but since she was a girl, we hung out constantly. They lived in a huge two-story brick house with FABULOUS hardwood floors, a wrap-around leather couch, large rustic dining room that no one ever ate in and the kids had the entire attic to themselves. Since they were spoiled rotten, the common area in the attic was cluttered with every toy imaginable.
One day, out of boredom, we decided to sift through some of the debris and maybe clean a little. I came across a book and thought it was a classic that had just been made into a movie recently. I opened it up and discovered that is was not the book I was hoping for. What I thought was The Secret Garden turned out to be My Secret Garden, the groundbreaking book of female fantasies written by Nancy Friday in the 1970's. I may have been young, but I knew dirty words when I saw them. And the force was strong with this book. Of course, I shared my finding with Paris, who told me the book belonged to her older, adult sister, and for the rest of the summer we'd read random passages from it and giggle like school girls. At the end of the summer, she let me keep the book, so long as I promised to return it when she came to visit at Christmas. I agreed...but unfortunately, this never materialized. Stupid me, I took the book to school and had it confiscated by a teacher who also thought it was The Secret Garden. My mother was called in, there was an embarrassing conference, it was locked away and I was forced to have "the talk" when we got home. It still makes my head hurt.
I could tell my mother wasn't really upset with me for having the book; she was more disappointed that I took it to school, since the teacher was very curious as to where I got the book. I 'fessed up to where I acquired it, but my teacher was still confused about how my mother could not know I had it in my possession. (perhaps because I had a mother who didn't snoop in my room because she trusted her straight-A student daughter...perhaps)
Following the conference, I had all but forgotten about the book until I started rummaging through my mother's room for something or another and found the tattered, worn book along with a copy of Delta of Venus by Anais Nin, a book which I still have in my personal possession. This was during my sophomore year of high school, so I figured "enough time has passed...she either won't notice or won't care." So I took both of the books, amazed at the frankness of the women in the Nancy Friday book, considering the time it was published. I wanted to share my fascination with this book with my close friend, Carla. So I took the book with me as I left for school one early Autumn morning. Being a goofball, and having learned nothing since the last time I was caught with the book outside of the house, I boarded the city bus with the book in my hand and not in my bookbag, where it should have been. I laid the book between my seat and the wall of the bus, so that the adults wouldn't see what I had. Unfortunately, since it was a long ride to her house (and very early in the morning), when I went to ring the bell and exit the bus...I completely forgot the book. And I didn't realize this until I reached her door.
And the thing that upset me the most about this was that the book was an original copy and despite how worn and tattered it was, that still meant a lot to me. I hope that wherever it ended up, someone appreciated it for more than just the "dirtiness" of it.
I bought another copy of the book a couple of years ago, but it's not the same as digging it up from the rubble all those years ago. I keep it in my bedside dresser drawer along with my mother's original copy of Delta of Venus. I never leave the house with it.
But I digress.
Somewhere around the 6th grade, I made a very dramatic leap from quirky Louis Sachar books to more provocative writing, completely by accident. During the summer before I was to start the 6th grade, I spent the season in Milwaukee with my aunt, my cousin, my aunt's fiance and his two kids. Jason was the same age as me and Paris was two years older, but since she was a girl, we hung out constantly. They lived in a huge two-story brick house with FABULOUS hardwood floors, a wrap-around leather couch, large rustic dining room that no one ever ate in and the kids had the entire attic to themselves. Since they were spoiled rotten, the common area in the attic was cluttered with every toy imaginable.
One day, out of boredom, we decided to sift through some of the debris and maybe clean a little. I came across a book and thought it was a classic that had just been made into a movie recently. I opened it up and discovered that is was not the book I was hoping for. What I thought was The Secret Garden turned out to be My Secret Garden, the groundbreaking book of female fantasies written by Nancy Friday in the 1970's. I may have been young, but I knew dirty words when I saw them. And the force was strong with this book. Of course, I shared my finding with Paris, who told me the book belonged to her older, adult sister, and for the rest of the summer we'd read random passages from it and giggle like school girls. At the end of the summer, she let me keep the book, so long as I promised to return it when she came to visit at Christmas. I agreed...but unfortunately, this never materialized. Stupid me, I took the book to school and had it confiscated by a teacher who also thought it was The Secret Garden. My mother was called in, there was an embarrassing conference, it was locked away and I was forced to have "the talk" when we got home. It still makes my head hurt.
I could tell my mother wasn't really upset with me for having the book; she was more disappointed that I took it to school, since the teacher was very curious as to where I got the book. I 'fessed up to where I acquired it, but my teacher was still confused about how my mother could not know I had it in my possession. (perhaps because I had a mother who didn't snoop in my room because she trusted her straight-A student daughter...perhaps)
Following the conference, I had all but forgotten about the book until I started rummaging through my mother's room for something or another and found the tattered, worn book along with a copy of Delta of Venus by Anais Nin, a book which I still have in my personal possession. This was during my sophomore year of high school, so I figured "enough time has passed...she either won't notice or won't care." So I took both of the books, amazed at the frankness of the women in the Nancy Friday book, considering the time it was published. I wanted to share my fascination with this book with my close friend, Carla. So I took the book with me as I left for school one early Autumn morning. Being a goofball, and having learned nothing since the last time I was caught with the book outside of the house, I boarded the city bus with the book in my hand and not in my bookbag, where it should have been. I laid the book between my seat and the wall of the bus, so that the adults wouldn't see what I had. Unfortunately, since it was a long ride to her house (and very early in the morning), when I went to ring the bell and exit the bus...I completely forgot the book. And I didn't realize this until I reached her door.
And the thing that upset me the most about this was that the book was an original copy and despite how worn and tattered it was, that still meant a lot to me. I hope that wherever it ended up, someone appreciated it for more than just the "dirtiness" of it.
I bought another copy of the book a couple of years ago, but it's not the same as digging it up from the rubble all those years ago. I keep it in my bedside dresser drawer along with my mother's original copy of Delta of Venus. I never leave the house with it.
Thursday, January 21, 2010
Maury, Tyra and Me.
This job opportunity couldn't have come at a better time. Lately, I've been getting sucked into the Tyra Banks show. It's by accident, really. My daily routine involves watching the Maury Show at 2 (just like college...more on that later) and Tyra comes on right afterwards. And many factors led to my watching the Tyra Show the first few times: the remote was too far away; there was absolutely nothing on the million cable channels we have; the set is bright and colorful and holds my attention; it wasn't Oprah, so it was watchable.
While she is over the top and has a tendency to yell for no reason other than because she could, she picks up where Ricki Lake had potential, before she went trash-factory and started down the Springer Show path.
*My Maury sidenote: During my junior and senior years of college, after two unsuccessful attempts at having roommates, I was fortunate enough to be chosen to obtain a single in a suite. I shared a "unit" with four other girls, but I had my own room and door to close whenever I was so inclined. During these years, my class loads started becoming more flexible, as I was starting my internships and portfolio classes. Some of my classes started at 8am, which allowed me to be done by 9-10. Instead of doing homework, I'd sit in my room with my waffles from the cafeteria, searching for something to watch on basic college cable. One day, I happened upon the Maury Show, something I hadn't seen since I was in high school. The episode that day was paternity tests and after the first "You Are NOT The Father!!!" I was hooked. Soon, it became a near-daily ritual; many days, if I had a 10am class and I happened to catch a commercial for the episode that day, it was over: I wasn't going to class that day. Not the smartest choice, and definitely not something to brag about to my future adopted Canadien babies. I didn't realize how bad it had become until I was sitting in my 400-level poetry class and my professor asked us to say something about ourselves...and here's what I said: "I sometimes miss class to watch the Maury Show." My professor seemed amused: "well, if you're not in class, I know where to find you." Saying it out loud just sounded so silly. From that point on, I went on a Maury Show diet and reserved it for when I had absolutely nothing else to do: no homework, no suite cleaning, no article due for the paper, etc. Unfortunately, unemployment has knocked me off the wagon.*
Anywho, back to Tyra. Many women still worship the all-mighty Oprah, and I have nothing but respect for the woman; I mean, she has bascially built an empire around talking. But I think her time has come and gone. And her retirement has come at a great time. Tyra seems to speak to a young, hip crowd and she's such a breath of fresh air from the homemaking queens (Martha, Rachel Ray) and the trash-factory (Springer, The Steve Wilkos Show, and, sadly, Maury).
Now all we need is a show for the quirky crowd: the people who carry a journal around with them everywhere they go; the people who wear Chuck Taylor gym shoes for every occassion, even weddings (perhaps their own); the people who like dressing up as Neil Diamond and doing karaoke. We'd share our favorite quotes from terrible 80's movies and discuss our secret love for The Monkees.
I guess I just gave myself a task for tomorrow.
Dear CW,
I have a fabulous new idea for a show that you'll likely cancel after three episodes...
While she is over the top and has a tendency to yell for no reason other than because she could, she picks up where Ricki Lake had potential, before she went trash-factory and started down the Springer Show path.
*My Maury sidenote: During my junior and senior years of college, after two unsuccessful attempts at having roommates, I was fortunate enough to be chosen to obtain a single in a suite. I shared a "unit" with four other girls, but I had my own room and door to close whenever I was so inclined. During these years, my class loads started becoming more flexible, as I was starting my internships and portfolio classes. Some of my classes started at 8am, which allowed me to be done by 9-10. Instead of doing homework, I'd sit in my room with my waffles from the cafeteria, searching for something to watch on basic college cable. One day, I happened upon the Maury Show, something I hadn't seen since I was in high school. The episode that day was paternity tests and after the first "You Are NOT The Father!!!" I was hooked. Soon, it became a near-daily ritual; many days, if I had a 10am class and I happened to catch a commercial for the episode that day, it was over: I wasn't going to class that day. Not the smartest choice, and definitely not something to brag about to my future adopted Canadien babies. I didn't realize how bad it had become until I was sitting in my 400-level poetry class and my professor asked us to say something about ourselves...and here's what I said: "I sometimes miss class to watch the Maury Show." My professor seemed amused: "well, if you're not in class, I know where to find you." Saying it out loud just sounded so silly. From that point on, I went on a Maury Show diet and reserved it for when I had absolutely nothing else to do: no homework, no suite cleaning, no article due for the paper, etc. Unfortunately, unemployment has knocked me off the wagon.*
Anywho, back to Tyra. Many women still worship the all-mighty Oprah, and I have nothing but respect for the woman; I mean, she has bascially built an empire around talking. But I think her time has come and gone. And her retirement has come at a great time. Tyra seems to speak to a young, hip crowd and she's such a breath of fresh air from the homemaking queens (Martha, Rachel Ray) and the trash-factory (Springer, The Steve Wilkos Show, and, sadly, Maury).
Now all we need is a show for the quirky crowd: the people who carry a journal around with them everywhere they go; the people who wear Chuck Taylor gym shoes for every occassion, even weddings (perhaps their own); the people who like dressing up as Neil Diamond and doing karaoke. We'd share our favorite quotes from terrible 80's movies and discuss our secret love for The Monkees.
I guess I just gave myself a task for tomorrow.
Dear CW,
I have a fabulous new idea for a show that you'll likely cancel after three episodes...
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