Letters that Need Writing

Dear Summer Cold,

You stink. At least I think you do. I can't really smell at the moment. But if I could, I'm quite certain you would stink.

Signed,
Miserable


Dear Garden (specifically the tomatoes),

Please grow. I'm begging you here. What's it going to take? Need I open a vein a la Little Shop of Horrors?

Respectfully,
A First Timer


Dear Cardigan Sweaters,

Without your loveliness I'm quite certain I'd go naked--or at least have more morning "I've nothing to wear!" tantrums.

Love,
Your Biggest Fan


Dear Pinterest,

You're sucking more of my time away than necessary. I can't say I mind all that much.

Love,
The one who can't help but smile and celebrate


Dear Best Friend,

Happy 29th Birthday this week! I'm happy you were born. I might be a hot mess without you in my world.

Love,
"Little Pinch"

P.S. I dare say it is time for a new blog post in your neck of the woods. Just a (kind of pushy) thought.


Dear Snow in the Mountains,

You're cramping my hiking style. And I hear you're going to wreak some serious flooding havoc down in the valleys.

Signed,
Not a skier, not a fan


Dear New Second Job,

You're really not all that shabby as long as I don't think about missing out on my lovely summer. Nonetheless, thank you for helping me pay off debt. Thank you for making my travel dreams seem like a possibility. Thank you for not being in retail. I'll hope my appreciation lasts even as school starts up again (eeks!).

Love,
The New Girl at Work


Dear AP Kiddos of 2010-2011,

I kind of miss you. But in order for me to bid a gleeful farewell to my obnoxious 9th graders, you and I had to part ways as well. Bummer. Please don't forget me.

Signed,
Your favorite English teacher of the moment


Dear Body,

Take this plateau and shove it. No, really. It is rather frustrating.

Love,
Me


Dear Target,

It is a love/hate thing with you and me, isn't it? Why must everything about you be so tempting?

Love,

Weak to your wily ways


Dear Writing,

It has been far too long. I miss you. Let's change that, shall we?

Love,
Me


Dear Chris O'Dowd,

You're giving Javier a run for his money. Good boy.

Love,
A Bit Smitten

Dear Powers That Be:

1. Pray tell. Is there any possibility that the world's worst tasting substance (cough syrup) could be made more pallatable? I know I'm stuffed up as I swallow such wretchedness. I know this is supposed to soften the blow. But, you see, nothing gives me the dry heaves and the shivers quite like the stuff. And, for the record, the dry heaves in combination with a cough happens to be an ugly, ugly situation.

2. "Guy timing." Really? Can't we just call it what it is? (That being cowardice and distraction via electronics, naturally.)

3. Tagging. Graffiti. Label it as you choose (no pun intended). Let's discuss this little phenomenon. As an educator I really, really, really, really loathe/despise/hate this particular "art" form. Could some kind of vicious karma quickly mark the perpetrators? I'm not necessarily asking for maiming. Just some kind of semi-permanent, obnoxious or possibly humiliating marking on their persons made worse each time they mark something that isn't theirs. A minor stigmata of sorts. Acne doesn't count.

4. May I request Diet Coke in heaven? Or will I have to break that habit sooner than later?

5. Thank you for good girlfriends, old and new. I spent last night laughing with a couple of new ones over minestrone soup. I think good people make the world go round. I really do. I like talking to women. We're kind of awesome. Keep it coming.

6. I tried making chocolate chip cookies again on Monday. I even used Martha Stewart's fail-safe recipe. And again, my cookies bled into one another, spread out like pancake batter so thinly I could barely scrape them off the cookie sheet. I now have a tupperware dish filled with cookie bits that are soft and delicious, but look nothing like actual cookies. What can be done about this? Why must I always fail at cookies?

7. #2, the apartment next door, is being renovated at the moment. Because I have to listen to hours of pounding and banging and wall-rattling in my time off, may I somehow be reimbursed for the nuisance? Perhaps my future husband can move in next door. Yes, I think that would eliminate the bitter memory of the renovation annoyance quite sweetly.

8. Could the parents of my 10th grade honor boys form an alliance against their sons? You may have noticed, powers that be, that these young fellas are all growing braided Padowan-style side tails behind their ears. Perhaps this parent alliance could set a date and cut off aforementioned braided tails while their little lads sleep.

9. Nail polish chipping: I'm rather weary of this. Let's arrange something, shall we? I need at least a good week out of one paint job. Do you have any idea how long it takes for that stuff to dry and harden? It isn't right that somewhere between 24 and 48 hours later the things start looking like they've faced a jack hammer.

10. Please inform the individuals in the cars in front of me that when the sign that says "End School Zone" appears, that means it is time for you to resume the regular speed limit.

11. Quiet classrooms are beautiful things to behold. But then, so are noisy classrooms in which the noise all relates to social learning. Might you magnificent powers that be arrange to have the appropriate noise levels correlate with the appropriate moments in the arc of a lesson? I don't think I'm asking much here.

12. When I grow up, can I be as cool as some of my students? Seriously, I have never met such amazing 17 year olds as some of my AP kids. I was certainly not that brilliant or self-composed. I didn't have the keen taste in music and style sense that these individuals possess. I was awkward and insecure. I made up for it by behaving like a bit of a drama queen. All I ask is that, one day, I match them in their grace, goodness and nonchalant hip-ness.

13. Way to keep the inversion at bay. That sucker is depressing. I like to see the sky outside my window. I like the way the clouds shift and churn like a kaleidoscope. I like that the horizon is something tangible once again.

14. You know how I've been randomly waking up at two or three a.m.? You know how I look at my clock in panic only to realize I've a few more hours in bed? Let's just say I prefer these moments with the quick slide back into sleep. I prefer these half-awake peeks at the clock far more than those days I wake up seven minutes before the alarm goes off. Like today.

15. Can I have Javier Bardem for my 30th birthday? Pretty, pretty, pretty please. With a cherry on top.

Don't Fall Off Your Chair, But...

It is days like today that I understand why I'm single.

I have a date tomorrow night.

And, as you may have noticed, I very rarely date.

It is, at the technical level, a blind date. We've talked on the phone, he seems, well--normal.

At least so far.

But here is the thing about first dates--they are, as you probably well know, outright awful. One of my favorite things to do when going out on weekend nights with my favorite girls is to observe the first date awkwardness that others at the restaurant are enduring. I thank the powers that be that it ain't me. Because, while those poor kids are nervous and trying to impress or not send the wrong signals or not say something stupid or to ask plenty of questions and not hog the conversation, I am having a perfectly delightful, relaxed time.

Behold, Awkwardness Exhibit A:


Awkwardness Exhibit B:


But tomorrow night, it will be me in the awkward seat. Me sitting beside a stranger, watching a high school football game. Me thinking, "Did I really just say that?" Me trying to pretend like I know anything about football.

It is moments like this that I remember the exact reason I'm single.

The truth is, I really hate to date.

This must be why I'm holding out for Javier.

Totally Geek to Totally Chic: Celebrating Brainiacs

I think we've all established that I have a thing for Javier Bardem.

And who wouldn't, really?

Have you seen Eat, Pray, Love?

This is how I like to think it ends, just in case you haven't gone to the theatre yet:

You can thank me later for summing it all up so nicely for you--

thus saving you the $8.50 you would have spent at the multiplex.

Dear Javier, you can be my champion any time.

But enough about Javier and me.

Did I ever tell you about my affinity for geekish-ness?

About how I think the sexiest part on a man is his brain?

How intelligence gets me a bit hot and bothered?

Because it does.

Very much so.

Take, for instance, this guy:

Host of NPR's (and now Showtime's) This American Life.

Radio personality, master story teller.

Dear Mr. Glass, I have a crush on you and always will.

I'm hoping to run into you (or your brain-alike) at the bookstore.

And I can't deny it...

Dr. Drew Pinsky is a stone cold silver fox.

No one can change my opinion on this.

See:

AND he offers psychological savvy and know-how to boot.

And what about the witty banter of the one and only Mo Rocca?

I just think he'd be a most excellent dinner date.

(And he wears dark rimmed glasses.

Some folks are odd about the fellas in spectacles--

not me.)

As long as I get to keep my beverages

from exploding through my nostrils

whilst laughing uncontrollably--

which sometimes happens when Mo's on TV.

If Mo's busy, I could always settle for him:

That pensive/furrowed brow thing lets me know dear Jon is thinking. A lot.

And if we haven't already established this

Intelligence = Attraction

Lest you think Jewish men are the only ones who stand a chance--

and because we really shouldn't forget the brilliance of some of my favorite writers.

I have to give a few nods to some of my favorite minds.

You see, sometimes I exit the world of a novel or a poem I'm reading

and the whole thing is just dripping from me.

I can't help it,

I've fallen in love with whomever it is that wrote the thing.

Left smitten with their words, their ideas,

the images they've introduced to my mind,

the fluid music of their prose.

Seamus Heaney: I bow in obeisance to you.

You brilliant, brilliant man.

(By the way, if you still looked like this photo

and used that strong Irish accent of yours

it would all be over for me.)

And while I don't usually go for the wild-haired,

"Barbaric Yawp"

Walt Whitman look,

Cold Mountain and The English Patient

have me considering these two authors:

Charles Frazier

and Michael Ondaatje

Because the boys have talent and soul and

let their perfect words fall on the page like a lovely summer rain.

And because good haircuts are easy to come by.

Intelligence, on the other hand, is rare.

And oh-so-much more satisfying.

My She-lationship

Men think they invented everything. Take the Bromance, for instance. Apparently, close or best friendship needed a term coined only when men caught on to the benefits of such a relationship but didn't want their heterosexual status questioned. The film I Love You, Man demonstrates the difficulties and challenges associated with male bonding (even if it portrayed female friendships as shallow and less meaningful). For most women, close friendship comes a bit easier. There are countless possibilities as to why this is. My own personal theories on the matter relate to the ratio between word count and monosyllabic guttural noise.* And GNOs.

When I was 13 and had discovered the joys of a daily personal hygiene routine for myself but not anything more comfortable than a ratty sports bra for my newly developed breasts that just kept growing, I met this girl at church. Originally, there was a posse of we silly and over-dramatic adolescent girls. The gaggle of us dwindled as some moved away and eventually others married. By the time I was halfway through college, it was down to us.

Alice and Rookie.

And then there were two.

For eight years now we've been besties. Through lame bridesmaid dresses, lamer boyfriends, grad school, differing hobbies, those six months she crashed on an air mattress on the floor of my bedroom, a crush triangle (I wouldn't dare call it "love"), new career paths, unemployment, life catastrophes, celebrations, three apartments, failures, fights, and successes we've been there for each other. Thick and thin and all that bid-ness.

Needless to say, she's the person I know very best. If I didn't trust her so much, all the dirt she has on me would keep a girl up at night. We hang out most days of the week and still I never tire of her--even if we're roommates.

We're rare. I know this.

Some folks aren't sure which is which (I've been called Alice, she's been called Rookie). But before you start to think this is an eerie demonstration of enmeshed dysfunction, it should be noted that we actually celebrate our individuality. Allyson hates Pride & Prejudice but loves Billy Madison, for one. She is wise, filled with common sense and a knack for winnowing things down to what is most important. My head is in the clouds. She celebrates my rather geeky affinity for the written word. I revel in her deep and nuanced observations on humanity. She loves the thrill of the trauma bays in the ER and the Newborn ICU (she's a hospital social worker), I faint if someone says the word "vein". She's a Vince Vaughn/Jack Johnson kind of girl, my heart belongs to Javier Bardem/Dave Grohl.

I mention all of this because this summer marks 16 years of friendship. Sometime after seventh grade, Alice and I started this road to best friend-dom, wo-mance, whatever you want to call it. I am blessed to have a partner in crime, a sure and steady chick flick date (excepting period piece dramas), and someone to share the rent and inside jokes.

I love you, woman!
Here's to 16 years of memories!
May we have 61 more!

*(Oh, now don't be so offended, boys. I kid, I kid.)

Another Episode in Which I Realize I've Gotten Older

When I was in junior high school one of my favorite (and therefore short-lived) television dramas introduced me to what I later came to find out was a phenomenon known as "The Pretty Boy." Jared Leto's Jordan Catalano on My So-Called Life was swoon-worthy (think slightly-bad-shy-boy meets flawless olive skin). He was pretty before Robert Pattinson played Cedric Diggory, let alone that glittery Edward Cullen. He was pretty before Zac Efron got his head in the game. He was pretty at that perfect moment in life when hormones rage and there is no such thing as too much designer imposter perfume. Yes, Jared Leto stole my heart when I was 13 and at that young age I decided that there was little else better than the pretty boy. Except maybe Bonne Bell Lip Smackers. And Exclamation! perfume. And my Caboodle.

Scroll forward on my life's timeline and things have changed dramatically. I prefer chapstick to Lip Smackers. I find a subtle spritz of something scented in the morning hours to be sufficient for the day. And as I sat on my couch at 11 PM thinking how I ought to remove my derrier from its current location, I flipped from Jay Leno over to David Letterman. On one channel sat Matthew Fox, on the other, Eric Bana. Lovely gentlemen, both. And though I didn't really care what either had to say, necessarily, I couldn't help but think, "When was it, exactly, that I evolved from my preference for the pretty boy to my desire for the manly man?" Now, both of these men are pretty, I'll give them that. But my 13-year-old self would have shivered had you called them attractive, just as 13-year-old-me did when my mom informed me that Kevin Costner was, "one hot number" (by the way Mom, I agree full-heartedly). You see, these were men, not pretty boy-men, but Men-men. Men with greying temples and rough, rogue-ish facial hair and...metrosexual designer suits?  (Okay, omit that last one from your memories.)  

This realization first started happening while watching (and wasting $8.00 on) 17 Again the other weekend. Zac Efron had a certain appeal in the (lame-ish) movie--I will admit this.  But I felt wrong and dirty-old-womanish in thinking so. Legal or not, the boy is a wee BOY for crying out loud!  

Yes, it is true.  I've gotten older, more mature.  Healthy and normal, I know, this attraction to people within my designated legal age group.  I just don't really remember when, exactly, this all happened.

Somewhere along the way I've grown from liking this boyishness:

to feeling a bit hot and bothered whenever this man graces my screen:

*Oh, Javier, please grace my screen again. Penelope who?

I think I now know how I got myself into debt...

This week after grabbing dinner, Alice and I decided to visit our favorite overpriced store to see what we could see on the clearance racks. It was during this venture that I figured out the root of my issue with spending money I don't necessarily have on things I don't necessarily need.

I can now say that I blame it on my imagination and overly strong sense of empathy. I've been trained (by myself? by the media?) to see the potential of every diamond in the rough. And during clothing shopping this tendency manifests itself like a bad rash.

"Oooh," I think, "that knitted poncho could toast me right up during the cold winter months in my classroom!" I think. "I'd be like the school's eccentric/sophisticated/slightly hippy-ish English teacher wearing that." I think. These mistakes have found their way into my goodwill bag time and time again.

And so, my insanely active imagination expressed itself full force once again during our most clearance rack browsing trip. 

It all started when I saw IT: a vanilla colored, asymmetrical/chunky knitted collar, synched slightly at the waist, hits just below the hip, dressy-casual masterpiece at 75% off. At that price, this coat was a steal!

In this coat I could make men swoon. In this coat women would drool with envy and attack me with sharp claws when they found out the clearance special I nailed. In this coat, I would fall in love with the man of my dreams in a chick-flick-esque love montage: building a snowman together with my coat and maybe a bright knitted hat and matching mittens, kissing in the snow with that coat, walking through a brisk autumn in central park together, my coat standing out against the leaves. This coat, my coat, would star in this whirlwind romance. Imagine with me:

plus

plus

*kind of what it looked like but not really even close at all because my coat was even more splendid and I am certain I looked better than some skinny, faceless catalogue model

equals

*only the jump for joy would include my coat

I saw every last reel stream through my head and I hadn't even pulled it off the rack. When I put it on it got worse, trust me. This coat was dreamy and beautiful and looked even better on than hanging there, lifeless. And did I mention it was on SALE?




But I didn't buy it.

Oh, I took it into the dressing room with me and a smoking hot red dress (that was too tight in all the wrong places and quite itchy, really). I paraded the coat for Alice to see. I stared in the mirror at me in my coat. But amongst the reels of my future's movie footage, a few key facts kept bludgeoning in on my shopping nirvana:

1. I already own several casual coats and two dressy-er clearance coats. One red, one black. They haven't fulfilled their imaginative promises yet.

2. I spill or accidentally rub everything on me from dry erase marker dust to salsa. And here I was foaming at the mouth for a CREAM coat.

3. 75% off at my favorite overpriced store isn't really that much of a steal, especially when it's in the coat department. And I didn't have the available cash so it would without doubt be going on my credit card.

4. There isn't really a four, but one through three sort of kept reoccurring again and again and again, interrupting my imagination incessantly.

The final slap in the face came when Alice, who supported my purchase because she knows better than to stop me when I get "that glazed over, far off stare" in my eyes (her exact words describing me while facing any and all clearance racks), said, "that's kind of like Cameron Diaz's coat in The Holiday."

That is when I knew I couldn't get it. I was duped by my own imagination and too many chick flicks over the years. The purchase would be impractical and stupid. It wouldn't bring world peace or the man of my dreams.  It promised nothing, not even to keep me all that warm.  And I'd probably get a bloody nose or worse the first time I took it out on the town.  And, after all, I'd just have to pay it off when the bill came.

And so, I've learned what my problem is when it comes to the ever-stuffed-can't-find-ANYTHING-in-here closet. We can blame my imagination.  Yes, all the lies my imagination tells me as it runs away from me all the way to the counter where it pulls out my card and buys unfulfilled promises.

P.S. A little piece of me still wishes I had that coat.  

P.P.S.  Does anybody else do this too?  Tell me I don't need help!

Addendum to my previous post

Also, if I had my way, this guy's LDS, well educated equivalent would show up on my doorstep and sweep me off my feet.


Just sayin'.