My Windswept Romantic Life

My friends seem to be under the impression that I no longer have a social life because my blog updates have taken a nosedive. Apparently it never occurs to them that perhaps I am so caught up in my social vortex that I don't have time to blog anymore.

Just this evening I went out with a whole group of people. There was beer, there was pizza, there was academic conversation...probably because my professor was there. And also my seminar classmates. Because it was, in fact, my seminar class. With beer and pizza.
 
So maybe that's not a great example.

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Yesterday, though, I met a very nice, professional looking man at a coffeeshop.

Should I say "met"? "Met" might be a stretch. He helped me find an outlet for my computer cord. That is, he moved his bag so I could use the outlet. But we conversed. I said excuse me could he move his bag so I could use the outlet and he said sure...and moved his bag.

Yeah, I think I can say "met."

I found out that he was studying to be an otolaryngologist.

Full disclosure: I don't know this because our outlet encounter sparked the outpouring of our mutual hopes and dreams. But he did sit in such a way as to give me a full view of his laptop screen. And it is really hard not to notice a word like that in inch high letters when it is in your direct line of vision. So I'm going to take that as deliberate.

With the aid of Google search I discovered that this long word is a fancy way of saying an Ear, Neck, and Throat doctor, and by the tall black coffee and look of resigned despair that I recognize from the mirror, I identified him as a graduate student.

However, after several abortive attempts to pronounce otolaryngologist under my breath, I determined that we could never be together. The dinner conversation would be such a strain. Not to mention introducing him to anyone. I have enough trouble keeping my own name straight in social situations.

Unfortunately, the relating of this encounter as evidence of my social interaction didn't do much to disprove the naysayers.

"What a windswept romantic life you lead." (I tend to think this was sarcastic, but sometimes it's hard to tell with text messages).

I protest. Not all of my male interactions are imaginary. I see lots of men every day in my tutoring job. And some of them are my age. Some of them are my age and good looking. Just the other day...

"I'm going to ask you to read your paper aloud."

"My English is not so wonderful. I wish you to correct when I say something...how you say? Mispronounced?"

"Not a problem..." 

Except when your paper is about sexual psychology. Oh boy.

Somewhere out there is a very handsome foreign man who is still mispronouncing some key words in his chosen profession.

____


I mean, is dating in grad school really a real world expectation anyway? We had a very enlightening conversation about it a few weeks ago in class.

SCENE: MALE COLLEAGUE SEEKS ADVICE

"I'm just wondering if it's prudent to be contemplating getting married when I am so engaged with my work."

I'm just wondering if this is really an appropriate topic for a dissertation panel discussion.

"I would really like to propose to my girlfriend, but I'm just not sure I can make time for marriage on top of my school commitments."
 
I'm just not sure this conversation should be had in this venue. Maybe you should talk to a priest. Or, here's a thought. Your girlfriend.

"Generally, I study all day. I don't socialize."

Shocker. You are clearly so aware of social cues. Come to think of it, do you actually have a girlfriend, or is this a hypothetical situation?
 
"I even begrudge the time it takes me to make lunch."

"Well, at least if you get married, maybe your wife will make you a sandwich every once in awhile."

The penetrating stares of my cohort indicated to me that somehow my interior monologue was no longer interior.

Apparently a good old-fashioned "woman making a sandwich" joke is not appreciated any more.

My professor's voice broke through the antagonistic silence: "I guess Emily is not going in for gender studies."

The most intense of the evil eyes belonged to one of my coworkers. A few days later she asked me to cover a work shift for her, promising baked goods in return. I reassured her that I would not ask for such a drastic compromise of her moral integrity.

Except this time I managed to keep this to myself.


When I told the story to A&S, they laughed. "You of all people...you who could mess up a peanut butter and jelly sandwich."

For the record, getting the proportions correct in a peanut butter and jelly sandwich is an art. My niece and I had a long talk about it after she politely declined to eat my attempt.

I can't make lunch for a seven year old without the risk of rejection. Clearly, social interaction is the least of my concerns.



*On an somewhat related note. You had a good run PB&J, but I think its time to give the newcomers some place in the spotlight. I mean, that routine is looking a little tired. Pass the baton to Trader Joe's Fig Jam with Almond Butter on Ezekiel Bread. Trust me, all of the kindergarten hipsters are eating it.

Halloween: Or How I Lost My Self-Respect

Halloween. The miles traversed. The frozen appendages (no Mom, I am not going to wear a hoodie under my costume, because I'm not the Staypuff Marshmellow Man, darn it), the inevitable disproportion of sour, fruity candy to chocolate (if I eat three Krackels for every Starburst, I can balance it), that one neighbor that always gave Mary Janes (but you kept going every year, because there was no way they could still be selling those in normal supermarkets - until you realized that they most have bought the last store out back in 1960 to prepare for just such an emergency), and that other neighbor that always gave a little paper bag full of unidentifiable generic candy (and you always went to that house because it was the only time they came to their door all year, and you wanted to see if they actually had little children trapped in their basement and ate toads).

Halloween. The struggles. The triumphs.

The public humiliation.

I would like to say that one year I was something typical. Like a gypsy (if anyone is willing to corroborate this story, please contact me).

If there was ever a case for introducing a child to popular culture...

This summer I was approached at a wedding by a former neighbor: "Emily Ann! Why I remember when you were just a little tomboy building things in the dirt. And that time you scraped up your face on the bottom of the pool...oh, that looked so awful. And your Halloween costumes! They were always so...imaginative. (That line that they feed you as a child...In a year, no one will even remember that this happened!...Lies).

Imaginative. Yes. 

I was the Lady of Shalott as a ten year old. Try explaining that one to the Grim Reaper and Malibu Barbie.


Medusa. That was a good one...No need to explain away my nerdiness. I had snakes in my hair. It was enough.

The 2 inch, black plastic nails on the other hand, might have been ill-advised. I'm pretty sure my pinky nail has only recently recovered from the effects of the super glue.

(On a side note, ladies, save your bridesmaid dresses because they may be useful for future gargoyle costumes. Mom, do not take this as a negative commentary on your style. I'm sure that shade of green was really stylish in 1978).

A newspaper reporter.

On second thought, that was not Halloween.

Moving on...

Edible things constituted a large part of my costume repertoire.

One year I was a Peanut Butter and Jelly sandwich. I would like to say that the purple sweatsuit necessary to the business part of the sandwich was purchased for the sake of the costume...

You know, I'm just going go ahead and say that the purple sweatsuit was purchased for the sake of the costume.

Jelly Beans (Clear, plastic trashbag filled with balloons. Very clever. Not recommended fall evening wear).

Grocery bag (technically, a leaf bag filled with empty cereal boxes and egg cartons). In a sad premonition of my future life, the bag ripped from the weight of the groceries. If only I had a little more consideration for the environment I might have been a canvas shopping bag, and I would have avoided this tragedy. But this was pre-Al Gore era, so I was still unconscious of my carbon footprint. As it was I to hold myself together while my best friend carried my candy pillowcase. (I don't want to use this blog as a medium for personal vendettas, but I'm preetttttyyy sure she took advantage of this situation).

A roll of Candy Buttons. The little boy I was with kept trying to eat them. Although the styrofoam probably wouldn't have tasted much different than the candy. Those things tasted like paper. Probably because they actually were about 50% paper that stuck to them when you pulled them off.

Arguably the worst excuse for candy. But at least it was marketed as candy.

Not like those people that gave out pretzels. I always felt a sense of betrayal proportionate to the length of the sidewalk and the time it took for them to come to the door. The worst.

Except for the dentist who lived down the street. He gave out toothbrushes. That was just downright insensitive.

The Golden Fleece of trick-or-treating? Mallo Cups. In the stupor of sugar inebriation, I may have traded three king size candy bars for one of these...and I have no regrets. It was a mythical being that only appeared on October 31st. You didn't see Galahad giving up the Holy Grail for a Snickers Bar.


College brought Halloween to another level.
(Note the use of "another." The jury is still out on whether this level was higher or lower.)

I wasn't going to make the same mistakes I made as a child - no more Tennyson heroines, no obscure female writers, no mythology - I was going to be culturally relevant.

A poor time to reverse the trend. At my tiny, conservative college, where you were just as likely to see the Androgynous Man as you were to see the Invisible Man, I decided I was going to be Juno.

Not the goddess. The pregnant teenager.

"I've never waltzed with a pregnant girl before. It's a little weird. I guess it probably just feels natural to you though."

Should have stuck with mythology.

One year I painstakingly taped cotton balls all over my jeans and carried a spray bottle full of water. When someone would ask what I was, I sprayed them in the face and said "Cloudy with a Chance of Showers." It was surprisingly unpopular.

The time we were Madagascar was the most successful to date. Unfortunately, I had a fever of 102 degrees. So I don't remember much. Except that I was a pretty fly Marty, and A. will never live down being the hippo.

The last story is brought to you by the realization that my dreams of becoming a public official will never transpire. Also, a complete lack of self-respect.

I decided to be the sun.

A costume that involved hair glue, temporary dye, and my favorite colors? What could possibly go wrong?

I'll tell you.

"Hair glue" might sound very permanent and concrete. But what happens when an immoveable object meets an irresistible force (in this case, my hair, which has a exasperating regard for the laws of gravity)? Watch how quickly that immoveable object wilts.

"Don't worry," my bestie reassured me as we tried to prop up my crunchy stalks of hair with rubber bands and prayer. "Once we spray the dye it'll look fine."

Except when that yellow dye encounters my brown hair.

"It looks yellow...really! It's just the weird light in the bathroom!"

I walked out into the common area.

"Em, what's with the green hair?!" Bestie quietly retreated.

For a half hour or so I persisted in pushing the idea that I was the sun, but eventually caved under the strain.

"So...what are you?"

*mental surrender*

"I'm a carrot."

I'm going on a quest for Mallo Cups. I'll be back never.

Recommended Reading (But Literally)

Tim turned toward his bookcase and started pulling volumes out with enthusiasm. Read this. And this. And this. Etc. and so forth.

I just wanted to borrow one. A book called Augustus that he had recommended years before and that I had never read.

As he walked me out I mentioned that as I was borrowing a book from him, it was only fair that he get one from me. By this time we were at my car. Tim looked in the door, saw a stack of books on the passenger seat and grabbed the one on top.

“I’ve always wanted to read this,” he said, picking up The Sun Also Rises. “Is it good?”

What should I say? I kind of liked this guy, I wanted him to think I was intelligent...I mean, I am intelligent...but would telling him I had never read the book ruin the moment? I didn’t have time to think, I couldn’t risk it…

“It’s Hemingway...writing about bullfights.” This, in fact, was true. It was also all I knew about the book. But I said it in such a way that I might as well have said, “Well, duh, of course it’s good. It’s Hemingway writing about bullfights.” Intent to deceive? Perhaps. But with the best intentions.

Then it struck me. I had just given away my only copy of a book that I had never read but sure as heck better have read by the end of the week.

As Tim walked away from the car I pulled out my phone. No time for GPS: I opened my Audible app and downloaded The Sun Also Rises.

Driving home I frantically calculated the time I would have before our next meeting, divided it by the number of pages in Augustus and the number of hours of the book on tape.

Math is not my strong suit. I canned the calculations and hoped for the best.

Then I turned on the book.

A few days later I got an angry Facebook message from Tim’s roommate. “Just finished The Sun Also Rises, and I'm beyond furious with you. I tell both you and Tim that after a very long hiatus, I want to get back into reading...and then the first book I'm given is wonderful up until a last page, heart-crushing ending. At this pace, I'm going to need therapy after the next book.” He attached a very telling video clip that accurately summed up his reaction.

So apparently TSAR had a heart-crushing ending. Great. Hadn’t gotten to that part yet. But I couldn't profess innocence without revealing my deception. I pressed on.

I continued to speed listen - running, driving in the car -  meanwhile inhaling Augustus at every free moment. At times I desperately considered listening to TSAR while reading Augustus. But that would have been a little extreme.

So my deceit was never discovered:

I came on Friday bearing Augustus, and with TSAR Audible credits still rolling on my phone. Tim was in disbelief.

“Gosh, did you really finish that? I haven’t even read the book you lent me yet.”

Well that’s pathetic. Because I did.

To be fair, it nearly killed me. But I had learned a valuable lesson.

--

Until there was Paul. This time I made sure to recommend a book that I had actually read. The only problem was that it was 800 pages long. When he started asking my opinion about certain key parts in the book, I realized that I remembered next to none of it.

So there went my entire spring. Good thing I love Dostoevsky.

https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_BzqWKPYMG-LuxhIeG75wUOctwIGjRuPL9YfCRiDPn-uxlvhqByVCa-fAP2oSzpGdq_9aAc-Fh92TUcrWJnA8MwlKmGvmql71a8EdAmp0gpW2hAfsxoSWHX4ovSz_-2Z6Mnup1CeKmLw/s520/peter-steiner-i-m-sorry-sir-but-dostoyevsky-is-not-considered-summer-reading-i-ll-h-new-yorker-cartoon.jpg

--

My recommendations became much more general after that. I figured, if I just drop an author's name, then I'm not responsible for whichever work they choose to read.

I need to be more judicious with the names I drop. Unfortunately, coupling the words "hilarious" and "Faulkner", or "comedy" and "O'Connor", seems to be taken as misleading by the majority of readers.

Christian, with the best intentions, picked up "A Rose for Emily" because it "made him think of me."

Oh dear. This was not going to end well.

I only hope that after he finished the story about the old woman who sleeps with the corpse of her would-be lover for 40 years it no longer made him think of me.

Needless to say, there were no roses for this Emily after that.

I Don't Want to Talk Small Talk: Continuing Adventures of the Single Life

The blood had hardly returned to my hand after the pressure of his gripping handshake before I knew about his job, his last two relationships, his opinion on child daycare, and his sensitivity to lactose. All of my conversation starters in one fell swoop. Even the last ditch lactose question. But I shouldn't have been worried. He was a walking small-talk generator: he provided and answered all conversation starters. I have never been such a brilliant conversationalist.

He had a wave and a witty comment for every entering guest.

"Do you know that per- "

"I'm here to socialize: it's only a matter of time. Bathroom?" he called out to a lost looking patron without skipping a beat. "Back on the left."

"Have you been - "

"Nope, never been here but any person with a good sense of direction and familiarity with logical bar setup would be able to figure it out."

"How did you know that he -"

"Any guy carrying around an empty beer with a casual look of desperation on his face is clearly looking for the bathroom."

Before I had finished my beer, he had mentioned at least six times to the myriad of his new best friends that he didn't come to events like this for the talks, he was just interested in socializing.

"It must be an off night for you." I finally managed to get in a complete sentence.

My sarcasm fell like a lead balloon. "Yeah, I didn't get a lot of sleep last night so I'm flagging a bit," he sighed.

It was either the best deadpan I've seen or the grossest misuse of the word "flagging."

Then we were onto personalities. "You're an introvert," he declared rather than stated. "I see that you like to sit back and observe."

I took a stand for myself. "Well I would talk if I could get a word in edgewise."


In retrospect, I came out better when I let him small talk to himself.

After alienating the guy who was friends with everybody, or would be by the end of the night, I beat a hasty retreat to the bar. Even granting DC's seeming disregard of how money works in the real world, $7 was a heinous chunk of cash for a Budweiser, but it was a cheap price to pay for escape (although as a starving grad student who counts in Ramen, the loss of 70 packets was still a crushing blow).

I had more success with Mark. We proceeded along typical small talk lines:

"Where are you from?"

"Washington State."

"Where are you from?"

"West Philadelphia, born and raised (always a crowd pleaser)."

 I knew this script like the back of my hand, and with the confidence of a studied actress I started to adlib.

That was my mistake. Stage fright set in, I froze up. Then, in an actor's worst nightmare, I defaulted to script we had already spoken.

"Where are you from?" Abort! Abort! You just asked him that 5 minutes ago! He's from Washington, remember? Washington State - on the West Coast...ask him about the West Coast...

It was like catching a carton of eggs mid-fall from the refrigerator (which my sister did last Sunday, incidentally. I've been trying to work that analogy in ever since, so I can brag on her).

"Where you are from on the West Coast...(good save, talk slowly)...did you learn about the Civil War? (What?!)

And there go the eggs. And the conversation.


So maybe I'm not the smoothest operator when it comes to my own interests...but as a wingman, I put Goose to shame.

At this point, a clean cut guy in an Army sweatshirt walked past my friend and me. She turned to me and lifted her eyebrows, "I have a soft spot for army guys."

Redemption time!

"My friend likes your sweatshirt," I tossed out over my Budweiser.

He turned around and smiled, "Lo siento, no hablo Inglés."

Of course you don't. That's just about what I expected out of the night at this point. 

But I reckoned without the Latin love of American girls. A small matter of a language barrier was not going to stop the Chilean army (or it seemed by the time Carlos had called his compatriots over) from having a conversation with us (and pushing aside all the tables in the bar so we could salsa to the indie folk guitarist's songs).

If I thought small talk in English was a struggle, trying to make myself understood to our South American admirers in a conglomeration of classical Latin and my few Spanish phrases was like getting Apollo 13 back to earth.

I dug back into my college memories for more vestiges of Spanish...empañada, chorizo, nachos con queso, jalapeño (apparently all I did in California was eat)...

Mi casa, su casa? Definitely not appropriate bar chat.

Then I caught sight of my companion's bottle. "Ah, Corona! Quiero cerveza...y tequila! (see, I didn't just eat in college)

"Quieres cerveza y tequila?" Whistles from the army. Then a sly look from Matias, "Me quieres?"

Uhoh. I don't think that means what I think it means. Vincente took my phone and pulled up Google translate:




Umm...no. No, uh...gusta! Me gusta la cerveza y tequila. I don't want beer and tequila, I like beer and tequila. And I definitely don't want you, Matias. 

Of course, traditional small talk couldn't be completely avoided, but it was far from typical.

"Dónde vives?"

"Pennsylvania." They looked quizzical. "Philadelphia." 

"Ahhh! Philadelphia, si, si...Rocky! Rocky!"

Suddenly I was surrounded by Chileans singing Eye of the Tiger.

One of them pulled up a picture of Rocky on his phone. "You know he? He live from you?"

I could hardly order a meal in Spanish: I wasn't going to attempt to explain that Rocky was not an actual person. I just smiled and nodded, and I will have to answer for the fact that there are now soldiers telling their mothers in Chile that they met Rocky's neighbor.

Then Tomas made his move:





I explained that I was muy ocupado. And that I didn't go out with boys who didn't speak my language.

Felipe was the most well intentioned - he would not be deterred by my "muy ocupado" (very likely he couldn't understand it)...accounting for typos, it seemed like he was planning on coming back for me:





 ...Now if only I could find a way to implement Google translate in my conversations with American boys...

Welcome to the Jungle

"Do you know why grad students have two hands?"

I humored my professor. It's in my interest.

"No. Why?"

"One to hold a book, and one to do everything else. Hope you can cook with one hand, Emily."

And this is the real reason I am a starving grad student. I can't even feed myself with two hands.

Turns out, it also takes me a really long time to type with one hand.

But after six weeks, plus 10 minutes spent trapped in a public restroom (note to self: always bring phone everywhere. You are never safe, even in the bathroom. Especially when you double as a test case for Murphy's Law), I bring you a new post.

https://i.chzbgr.com/maxW500/3202607360/h6C999FAA/

 ~

"So, what exactly will you be able to do after this 6 years of studying?" a friend asked.

"When Emily gets her degree, she'll be able to speak fluent English."

For anyone who is curious on what exactly I am doing in grad school, I am studying Celtic and Southern literature, particularly the influence of the former on the latter (let's be honest, all the best people have been under that Celtic influence at one point or another...bound or bottled. Joyce, Jameson...I find them equally compelling in my research)*

[*This beautiful Civil War era song, "Johnny Has Gone for a Soldier," illustrates another area of influence]

I explained my focus to a teaching fellow in the International school.

"Southern....hemisphere?" he asked in his thick accent.

"No, no...American South," I explained.

This didn't seem to lessen his confusion. "I don't think I am familiar with such a branch of literature?"

A Theology grad student chimed in (and this is where the trouble began):

"You know. Robert Penn Warren. He's a poet."

"I am not familiar."

I added, "He is probably better known for writing 'All the King's Men.'"

My international friend was still in the dark, but now the Theology grad stepped in it. "Yeah, it's a pretty stupid book."

"That's a very decided opinion (in my head "decided" was replaced by another, not so polite, adjective). I'm interested to hear why you think that."

"Well, I haven't read it."

??

I didn't want to disgrace myself in the first days by causing any unpleasantness, I swallowed my Irish and turned back to my foreign friend, who asked me what the novel was about. Before I could answer, Mr. Theology, the one who had just admitted to having never read the book, says,

"It's about a bunch of ignorant hicks. Like all Southern writing. They don't even have a Walmart to make things interesting."

Those ignorant southern hicks have so many choice expressions to apply to this situation, all of which boiled into my consciousness, and none of which are appropriate for print.

Let's just say I was tempted to make things so interesting for this toolshed that when I was finished with him he wouldn't even be able to get a job at Walmart - but fortunately for my future reputation we were called into the assembly room just at that minute.

Still, I think I'll stay away from the Theology cohort for awhile.

~

"You remember Emily, Matt? She's staying with us while she goes to grad school. She's majoring in depression."


So maybe I am not among the majority, but there must be other people who find the idea of a fake Bible salesman seducing an ugly girl to steal her prosthetic leg hilarious...

After reading Robert Penn Warren's "History Among the Rocks," which begins, "There are many ways to die, here among the rocks," my professor glanced around the table and asked, "So, what are the ways of dying among the rocks?"

"You mean, any way to die among the rocks, or just the ways listed in the poem?"

"Miss McBryan, do you always have to take it there? Please try to rein in your macabre. Stick to the poem."

...Ok, maybe it's a pretty slim number.

~

I needed to find a less labor intensive course to fill up my credits for the semester, so I decided to take a class on the history of the English language. Now, I don't want to brag, but I consider myself an expert in this field. I mean, I've been speaking it for 25 years (yes, I began speaking full sentences in the womb)...I'm kind of a prodigy in the field of talking.

This attitude lasted into the first five minutes of the class, when my professor handed out a paper that looked like a paleolithic word search, but without the clues.

If you've never seen Old English, let me give you an example of what it looks like. Take out your phone, open your texts, and then sit on the keyboard.

Congratulations...you probably just wrote the first line of Beowulf.


I started to tell my cousins about this class:

"One of my classmates is from Taiwan...

"Where's Taiwan?"

"It's...uh...in Asia. In the Asian ocean (Asian ocean? What?)...I think it's an island. Geography is not exactly my thing," I ended lamely.

C. (4) came up to me with a chart of the periodic table. "How many of these are there?"

"I would have to count them," I said as I tried to focus on the squares she was waving in front of me.
"Not really strong on the elements. Science isn't really my thing."

N.(8) lifted an eyebrow. "Emily, how did they let you into graduate school?"


Sometimes I wonder...

But then I look at some of the other people they let in and I don't feel so bad.

A single walk from class to the parking lot was a crash course in everything that is horrible about current fashion. And the poor decisions of seemingly educated people.

Tall, blond, salmon pants and Sperrys walks past with a tee-shirt that features the face of Martin Luther King, Jr. The words "Understand Our Struggle" span the front. Yes please, do help me understand your struggle. I'm having some difficulty.

High-waisted shorts. Should not be a thing. Ever.

A girl's graphic tee reads "Welcome to the Jungle," with two pairs of open lion jaws positioned across the chest. Going for subtlety, I see.

Dear ladies: there is no ratio that takes away the need for pants as the length of your tee shirt increases. I know when you were 4 wearing an oversized tee shirt counted as being fully dressed, but recall that a diaper was an equally acceptable outfit at that age.

(Note: Leggings are not a solution to this problem. Stop trying to make leggings be pants. They are not pants).

~

Every so often, I get homesick for teaching.

N. wheeled out a roller suitcase of Hardy Boys to show off to me last week.

"This book was copyrighted in 1934! If the boy who bought this when it was published was eight just like you, how old would he be?"

"Dead."

...On second thought, I like being a student.

...Then comes the baby in the baby carriage.

June is wedding season. As evidenced from the date of this, it's taken me well into July to recover from it.

But this isn't going to be a wedding post. All of those stories I've tucked away until a later date, when everyone's memory is a little less clear. Let's be real, everyone's all about a shout out until somebody gets an ego hurt. 

Even when you choose an alias. Sorry to disappoint, DeMarcus. You secretly fantasize about being a 6'8'' black man who plays professional basketball player, don't you?

After the fun and excitement of setting up...

"I just wanted to bend it!" (broken flower in hand)

"Well, ya did. Permanently."

The camaraderie and encouraging banter...

"I can't work in this negative environment! Art can't flow right now."

"...or ever."

The beauty of the ceremony and the fun of the reception with free-flowing food and drink...all over the front of my dress...

"Don't worry, you can just walk behind me for the rest of the night. Or pretend that you're lactating. ...Or walk behind me for the rest of the night.

After all this, the reality hits. This couple has been joined in holy matrimony for the purpose of bringing children into the world. 

Now, kids do not intimidate me. When I offered to help my BFF babysit her toddler while she had her second baby, I twas pretty confident in my abilities. I used to be very competent at taking care of children. People paid me a lot of money. I was like the Dwayne Wade of nannies.

After a day with JD, I felt more like Michael Jordan after he came out of retirement. The second time.

I have a new found respect for all mothers. 

After a 5am wake up call, I closed my eyes mid-morning for two minutes on the couch. He came to me with a pack of matches in his hand. Half an hour before, I couldn't find matches when I was actively looking for them. I should have sent him out to find the ant poison too.

Then I left him to play in the toy room while I made lunch.

"JD? JD?"

A much too silent silence. 

There are different types of silences. There’s the silence of the wilderness, the silence of no electricity, the silence of morning and evening. If you were blind you could probably tell where you were just from the type of silence you experience. Well, when you are watching a child you learn to detect a new type of silence, an ominous silence, the silence of all of your makeup being pulled out of the bathroom cabinet and spread across the wall by your burgeoning Picasso.

I walked to the back bedroom to find JD with an open package of nails methodically punching them into the back of a desk chair. 

Ok, kid, come with Emmy to the kitchen while she makes lunch.

I pulled some canned goods out of the cabinet to amuse him. I remembered playing with them when I was a kid, building towers and organizing them into families (That big can of crushed tomatoes made the perfect Italian mama for a brood of tiny tomato pastes...) I guess I was just a little more imaginative than JD. Or my imagination tended more to the domestic and nurturing and less to the violent. 

His first reaction was to pick up a can and hurl it at the wall. That's when I realized that to a one year old, everything is a potential projectile missile.

So we switched to tupperware.

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When I first mentioned to my family that I was going to help Mr. & Mrs. BFF, I said that I was going to be making meals. “Are you sure?” was the skeptical response.

Well I was pretty sure. But then I tried. I think I hit a new culinary low, in fact.

Grilled cheese is hard, y'all.

How on earth do you make the pan hot enough to melt the cheese without burning the bread? 

Since then, I have been told that patience is the key, but I have trouble accepting this. Grilled cheese is the bread and butter of 6 year olds. Ain’t nobody got time to spend 45 minutes making a sandwich for a 6 year old. By that time they’re ready for another meal! 

The smoking carbon mess was unceremoniously buried at the bottom of the trash.

Did I say grilled cheese, JD? I meant peanut butter. We shall never speak of this again.

Or so I thought.

A few nights later, washing the dishes with Mr. BFF: “So I was taking out the trash yesterday and there was the weirdest thing…”

I braced myself. There was definitely a layer of burned popcorn on the top of that trash but really, nothing to write home about. We’ve all burned popcorn before.

He continued, “There was a hole in the bottom of the bag.”

Rats? Mice? Palmetto bugs? (Palmetto bugs, to digress, are basically roaches with a Southern pedigree). 

“Then I noticed a piece of burnt toast sticking to the bottom of the can. Then I noticed it was stuck because there was a layer of cheese on it.”

Busted. Next time, wait until the failure cools before disposal. 

And fantasize about the things I could do without a carbon thumb...namely, this list of mouth watering grilled cheeses...

Not Just Another Father's Day Post (Mostly Because It's No Longer Father's Day)

This generation is obsessed with lists. Everyday there is a new buzz feed list/article trending on Facebook, like, "20 things you'll recognize if you grew up in the 90s."

And I scroll through the list and I click through each picture and I think,

Yup, recognize that. Oh yeah, recognize that too.

And at the end of it all I feel an overwhelming and completely unjustified sense of accomplishment.

Did I really need affirmation that I grew up in the 90s? It's like taking a test to see if you actually like your favorite kind of food.

But regardless of how silly they may be, lists are trending, and I'm hip, so...

Here is my list, my father's list really, in honor of him on father's day (or in my punctual spirit, three days afterward). It's pretty much the ultimate life hack list, but back before we felt the need to hack life and were content to just live it.

1. Learn to drive stick. Besides the fact that you will be really cool, you should always have a way to leave a situation. Jason Bourne also learned this from my father.

"Sure you can get a Wrangler. If you learn to drive stick. No daughter of mine is going to drive an automatic Jeep."

My experience with Wranglers at the time of this conversation was limited to the pink Barbie PowerWheels, but even at 6 I knew I wanted one (as long as they came in other colors). It was news to me that you needed any knowledge beyond pushing an on/off switch, but whatever the mysterious terms "manual transmission" signified, I was going to learn how to use it.

Fast forward to sophomore year in college. Taking a left across 3 lanes of traffic in my first lesson was not the way I anticipated learning. I turned on my right blinker.

"What are you doing? We're going left."

I calmly explained, "I don't feel comfortable taking a left. I'm afraid of stalling and getting hit. We can try in the next lesson."

My friend leaned over and switched the blinker. "If we take a right, I will be late for class. And if we get hit, it will be on the driver's side." Well I'm glad you have your priorities straight.

I stalled.

But I survived to tell the tale. And when every once in awhile I rest my hand on the gear shift and pretend I'm cool enough to drive a manual, I remember. "Oh wait. I AM that cool."

2. Read. You will always have something interesting to say. Reading broadens your perspectives, improves your attention span and makes you an interesting conversationalist.

Reading also improves your vocabulary. Make sure, however, that you double check how to pronounce these new words before you try to use them. Take the advice of someone who never paid attention in Phonics and then thought it was a good idea to use words she had read but never heard spoken. A Philly accent can only cover so many of those mistakes.

Only last week my statement about surviving summer camp with "aplomb" (which I pronounced "a-plume") met first a blank reaction, and then...

"Oh, I'm sorry. I was confused. Are we talking about feathers?"

3. Learn how to tell a good story.

My father is a master story teller. Every inflection is perfectly rehearsed, every punch line delivered with excellent timing. Every part can be timed to the second, even the point when he turns to you and says, "Stop me if I've told this one."

But of course you never would, because they are that good.

4. When you can, drive there.

And if there are any presidential birthplaces on the way, stop (Eastern seaboard? Seen 'em all).

5. Always fill your tank up all the way and change your oil (regularly).

You will save a lot of time and money. If you want to go places in life, take care of your vehicle. Don't play that game where you put in 10 gallons here, 5 gallons there. Ain't nobody got time for that (Also, if you're waiting to get to that station priced at $3.50 a gallon instead of $3.59, recall that you are saving $.09 a gallon, factor out the gas you spend to get to the cheaper station, slap yourself in the face, and fill up your tank).

6. Country music is cool.

I may not have realized it at the time, but in retrospect I appreciated the character building of having my father blast Hal Ketchum with the windows down in Center City Philadelphia.

I apologize for hiding in the seat well, Dad. I was so young and ignorant.

7. If you spend money on a night out, you can afford to tip well.

Also, don't order salad and fill up on bread while you drink water and stare hungrily at your date. Trust me, she'd rather go to Taco Bell than watch your cheeks slowly hollow as she drinks and dines on your dime.

8. Get dessert.

Enough said.

9. Remember birthdays and anniversaries.

With the advent of social media, it's become pretty easy to remember important dates in people's lives, but a Happy Birthday doesn't have the same effect when it has been reduced to a red notification flag on a Facebook wall. And if your post wasn't the most recent, it doesn't even say your name. Just something like, "Suzy Soandso and 3 other people posted on your wall."

Is that really where you want to be lumped? In those 3 other people, with Suzy getting all the credit?

In the barren years before iCalendar and Facebook, my father used to give each of us a wall calendar for Christmas. And in Bro's Sports Illustrated calendar, B's Impressionists, M's Norman Rockwell, and my Defining Events of US Military History, he would write all of our relatives' birthdays and anniversaries. And a few others that were practically family. Like Ronald Reagan and Babe Ruth.

10. Call your mother.

She put up with you for a long time. And she loves you (Even if it's because she has to. My mother's exact words, if I recall rightly, were, "I love you right now because I have to. But I don't like you very much.")

Plus a girl can tell how a man will treat her down the line from the way he treats his mother. So gentlemen, it wouldn't hurt to have a pretty girl or two overhear that weekly conversation.


The 10 items comprise some of the best advice I've gotten from my father, and yet he never came out and told me I had to follow any of it. The best advice you can get from someone is the advice that they follow themselves. My dad's got it pretty locked up, if you ask me.

Happy Campers

Well it's been two years, but I finally moved past the bros, hipsters, good ole boys, and hip hop stars to experience the real south, the south everyone warned me about, the south that Jeff Foxworthy prepared me for. This past week I hung with the toothless crowd.

And those 22, 3-5 somethings were the toughest southerners this Yankee has encountered yet.

Have you ever tried to imitate every motion that a toddler makes over the course of their day? You'd be dead by 9:30 in the morning. And yet I was the one falling asleep during nap time (on that note, can we bring back that institution?).

I decided pretty early on that the only way to keep order with my tiny summer campers was to establish a military state. I instructed them to call me "Sarge," which, in respectful southern fashion, they changed to "Miss Sarge." Except for the Korean students, who called me "Teacher Sarge." (I'm considering that title for my college professorial career).

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It was pretty difficult to keep up my stern military persona though, especially when one approached me with tears in his eyes (well, I assume, but his face was completely swallowed up by his wailing open mouth so there would be no way of knowing for certain) to tell me he had hit his elbow.

"Don't do that," I told him. "It hurts."

Apparently my Irish father's tough love methods do not work universally, because this only produced more wails.

"Are you going to be okay? Do I need to call in the Marines? What about the National Guard?"

"I j-j-just..." he paused mid-wail, sniffled, gulped, continued, "I just need a hug!"

Melt.

On Wednesday, we took a field trip to the library. The women who let us in the door glared at me like I had just run through her quiet sanctum with a ghetto blaster.

"That is a lot of children." She said it like I wasn't aware I had a small army of toddlers following me.

"I hope you weren't planning on bringing them to the show."

Now, those kids may have softened me up a bit over the week, but the Philly bristled right up at this.

"Well, actually yes. I was planning on bringing them to the free show at the free library." And what are you doing working here, lady? Did you just wake up one morning, think 'I hate kids and noise and disturbance' and then decide, 'I should be a children's librarian!'"

"Well, we have a strict policy to not accept groups of 6 or more."

I looked back at my crew and the 4 chaperones accompanying them.

"I have an adult for every four kids."

"I'm sorry, it's the policy." Don't you mess with me, lady. My people threw snowballs at Santa Claus. I will not spare a mere librarian.

"In that case, we can stagger our entrance to make sure we are letting all of the other children get a chance."

She glared and then conceded. "I will make an exception this time. But don't count on doing it in the future. And don't," she stared down my 5 year old line leader, "line up until 10:20."

I looked at the clock, noted that it was 10:17, and decided to let that battle go.

It was playground time that saved my sanity. A fenced-in area with 100% visibility, filled with play structures that will occupy a three year old attention span for at least 15 minutes? Mecca. I began to look forward to it more than the kids. They saw it as 15 minutes of play time, I saw it as my sole chance to sit down during the day.

Not that it was uninterrupted Me time. Or even uninterrupted sitting time. On that note, children should not be allowed on swings unless they are self-sustaining swingers. I mean, seriously, kid? This is my sitting time. You say you just want one under-doggy but we all know where that leads. It's the gateway to endless pushing.

"Miss Sarge, do you have a kid?"

"No." But if I did he would know how to pump by the age of two: max.

"That's too bad. If you had a kid, he would be like you but he wouldn't be in charge and he and I would be best friends." Hopefully he could teach you how to use a swing.

On the walk back from the playground, Charlie held my hand and pointed to the cars as we passed.

"That's a KIA. That's a BMW. That's a Volvo."

I pointed to a Mustang. "What's that one?"

He looked at me and I sensed a distinct loss of respect.

"That's a Horse." Duh, Miss Sarge.

By day three I was moving in a zombie state, drinking straight espresso and praying for an incident free day.

"Teacher Sarge. What are you drinking?"

"Coffee."

"Why?"

"To give me energy."

He giggled. "That no work, Teacher." Well, yes, I've been realizing that myself. Do you have a better alternative?

"Batteries make energy." Ah, of course. I just need some batteries.

An honest brochure of the camp would have included the following, "Every morning will include 15 minutes of playground time. Please provide a healthy, peanut-free snack for your child to eat during this time. The remainder of the morning will be spent using the potty and washing hands."

One child stood for a full minute with hands extended under the faucet before turning to me and explaining, "There's no water coming out, Miss Sarge."

"That's because you have to turn it on, Caleb." Apparently the hands-free activists hadn't gotten to that bathroom yet.

Add to brochure: "Campers will learn essential survival strategies such as the use of non-sensor plumbing equipment."

At the end of the week I was presented with a token of love from the smallest of my campers. He proudly handed me a red and black caterpillar, asked if he could give me an eskimo kiss, and then trotted away, only to trot back and announce solemnly, "He will poop on you."

The gift was hastily dispatched to its former habitat.

In unrelated news, I made really good food over Memorial Day weekend. So good, in fact, that pictures even made the social media rounds (so maybe there was a little strong arming involved...but what else are best friends for unless to broadcast your victories and pretend like it was voluntary?)

I almost considered writing an entire blog post just to celebrate, but then I forgot the milk in the laundry room for a day or so when I was using my blender in there, and the shame humbled me.

But eat these enchiladas. I have no idea what I did to make them turn out so I will stick to merely listing ingredients. For the rest, you're on your own.