Embarrassing admission #246: places i’ve squatted.

I've done it only twice in the past, probably, 10 years. Both dire emergencies. Both on the historic homesteads of famous authors. Some years ago, Carl Sandburg, Hendersonville, NC. Some months ago, Robert Frost, East Middlebury, VT. (Please don’t ask for the photographic evidence.)

UPDATE: Again recently, I found myself in this precarious position while taking the kids on a search for a haunted graveyard. I guess the spirit of the dead just has this adverse effect on me!

My Fashion Faux Pause

In high school I found two outlets for my self-expression. First, I wrote painful poetry with titles such as “Bereft” and “Desolate.” Inspiration would strike me suddenly, and I would fall to the floor amid the current of students and scrawl stanzas that captured my deepest teenage emotions. I spent most of two years in geometry and algebra II facing backwards in the classroom (or out in the hallway) filling the pages of my notebooks—no wonder I didn’t become a mathematician or chemist; thanks Mr. Gilbert and Mrs. Poor! The second manifestation of my budding independent spirit and requisite rebellion against my parents, the hallmark of my teenage persona, was my choice in attire. Many who know me today would be surprised to know that, once upon a time, I put a great deal of thought into my personal fashion (and it didn’t involve even one collared polo). It may be interesting to further note, if you’ll allow me to digress, that prior to high school I had embraced two other distinctive (read: no one else did this) trends. In fourth grade, I wore full camouflage on nearly a daily basis. In seventh grade I got a very frizzy home perm and wore an ensemble of matching stretch pants; puffy-paint, mirror-sequined tops; and white turtlenecks. I also encouraged my little brother around this time to get a rat tail and lines shaved into the sides of his hair. Hott!

As 1994 rolled around, I immersed myself in the new fashion wave sweeping across the country: grunge. I became known for wearing flannel over-shirts and, in particular, a dingy yellow corduroy jacket a la Kurt Cobain. I also experimented with wild hair colors, overalls, combat boots, 70s sweaters lifted from my deceased grandfather’s closet, and bright laces in my doodle-ridden Chuck Taylors. I carried a messenger-style knapsack from the army surplus store on which I had drawn an image of the earth and the words “World Peace.” My clothes were a clear warning: “High-voltage angst. Keep back.” Surprisingly, there were very few of us who committed fully to this style, so it definitely garnered the attention I suppose we were all secretly hoping it would. There was a bit of competition and in-fighting among the “grungy” of Emerald High who were vying for the top spot in ultimate eccentricity. I once got into an argument with an upper-classman over which one of us had switched to neon laces first. It was the same, I guess, as other girls’ anxiety over procuring an exclusive, one-of-a-kind purse or prom dress, except…not. This fashion statement served me well for the few years I needed it, but thank jeeves I did get out before it mutated into full-blown Goth.

I think now, a decade later, I may be suffering from some form of fashion ptsd. Aside from the true aversion I have to “dressing up,” which has persisted since I was a small child, I become intensely nervous whenever anyone comments on my clothing. I shrug and throw up the international “I don’t know” hand signal when someone says they like my shirt/pants/shoes. “Oh, cute hair cut” throws me into a tail spin, gives me hives. I mutter incoherently. I guess I’m just bashful that way. My signature style these days is the casual comfort of jeans and polos in the summer, jeans and sweaters in the winter. Crocs, Crocs, and more Crocs, although I did recently make the leap to Dansko clogs for work. I have two pairs of dress slacks that I probably wear twice a year with a button-up shirt (un-tucked). There are no aberrant colors, patterns, logos, or rips hanging in my closet any longer. I draw as little attention in this regard as possible, sort of like overcorrective steering that has landed me in a muddy, fashionless ditch on the opposite side of the road.

Officemates have offered lucrative bribes to see me in a dress or in heels, or even just a little lipstick. I, of course, jovially demur whenever they mention it. I like to keep it simple and non-descript these days, as vanilla as possible (vanilla may be too kind a word), and let my innate eccentricities manifest in areas apart from my apparel. Except, now that I think about it, I really wouldn’t mind having that puke-yellow corduroy jacket back. It was my constant companion in a former life, a security blanket of sorts that I eventually had to remit to the universe in exchange for adulthood. If I had it today, though, I’d sneak off somewhere, slide my arms through the silky lining of the sleeves, pull my hair out over the collar, run my hands over the soft cords to smooth it out in front. I would wrap up in it just for a moment, at ease in familiar skin.

Hundred-Year Dash

This post should probably be filed under an “Embarassing Admission” header, but over the years I’ve accepted this part of my past as something not to be ashamed of. Ok, here goes: between the ages of birth and 12, I was a die-hard professional wrestling fan. I know, crickets (chirp, chirp). But I’ve come to realize that my much-anticipated trips out to the Greenwood Civic Center to see the “wrasslin” were extremely important formative experiences. Now this was mostly back in the 80s, before professional wrestling became the high-drama, steroidal super-sport it is today—it was still a simple (but violent) story of the triumph of good over evil. For instance, the crowd’s chanting “USA, USA, USA!” at the entrance of the “Russian Nightmare” Nikita Koloff became a strange first introduction to late Cold War-era American nationalism.

My first and best memory of going to wrestling is of my Ma Hughes. My great-grandmother on my father’s side is one of the most supremely loving and gentle women I have ever known. She has given me lessons both grand and small, on unconditional kindness and humility, how to smile in sunshine and rain, or what it means to love a pug dog. She has lived on Second Street with my Granny since the 70s, when my Pa Hughes died of lung cancer. Granny happily shared her modest home in a small mill village with both Ma Hughes and her adult son, Barry, who is mentally retarded.

My grandmothers are relatively young—they were 40 and 60 respectively when I was born—and though they were nothing if not protective and even doting, they would practically let me get away with murder compared to my parents. I rode my bike in the road, stayed up late watching Freddy Kreuger films on the weekends (rated R!), and ate Food Lion Neapolitan ice cream for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. I also owe to them my penchant for television game shows. Countless hours of Chuck Woolery’s Scrabble must have improved my standardized test scores somehow. Anyway, their youthfulness and leniency went a long way in creating a tight-knit relationship with me. I spent as many weekends and summer days with them as my parents would allow. So when wrestling came to town, we would all four pile into the car, probably stop for dinner at Ryan's buffet, then head out to the Civic Center.

On one of the first trips I can remember, I jokingly dared Ma Hughes, who was then in her mid- to late-sixties, to race me across the parking lot. To my surprise, without another thought she took off like someone had fired a starting pistol. Now, believe it or not, I used to be pretty quick and nimble myself, but there was no catching up to her that night. She laughed and laughed and gave me this big hug when we reached the door. I don’t know why that story sticks in my mind so, or why it always, always makes me smile, but it does. These were folks of little means, but they gave me more treasures than I will be able to count in my lifetime. We will celebrate Ma Hughes’s 90th birthday on New Year’s Day next year. In a way I know that she and I are still racing, and that she will still beat me to the finish line, but we’ll both be laughing the whole way.

More on wrestling in a future post.

A Facebook Intrusion

I've been tagged a number of times lately in friends' Facebook notes requesting 25 random things about myself. Now that I have amassed a set that's benign enough and random enough, I figured I'd post them both on Facebook and on here. So here we go.

25 Random Things About Me

1. Matea and I moved to Vermont in ’03 (it’ll be 6 years in May!). We had our civil union at long last in March of ’04. Now it’s time to expand our family.
2. I’ve never been more disappointed than when I saw both friends and strangers vehemently (or, worse, casually) supporting Prop 8. I’m certain that one day you’ll come to be just as disappointed in yourselves and your judgment.
3. I’m a pretty slow reader, which didn’t help when I was reading hundreds of texts for my MA in English. My obsessive underlining and marginalia didn’t speed things up, either.
4. My Myers-Briggs score: ENTJ (I was borderline E, and if I were more honest, I might be a solid I.)
5. I read thousands of useless facts. I also love Deep Thoughts by Jack Handy. I also research everything. I wouldn’t buy an electric pencil sharpener without reading a couple hundred reviews of it first.
6. I take a spreadsheet on every vacation. It includes an itinerary with the name of venue, contact info, description, and address. GPS systems have increased my enjoyment of road trip vacations ten-fold. I like to know what I’m doing and how to get there (plus, when you’re with Matea, you don’t mess around when looking for the outlet center)! Spontaneity happens along the way.
7. I have been vegetarian for about 5 years now. The choice was based on ethical, environmental, and health-related reasons. I found that attempting veganism was too socially isolating, so I relented (happily) and decided to stick with small amounts of cheese and eggs.
8. I have a love/hate relationship with writing. I feel compelled to do it, but writing a story takes me to a strange place mentally, so that I’m almost completely disengaged with everyone else in my life. Lately, the choice has been to disengage with the writing.
9. My favorite thing to do is watch movies. I think my record is somewhere around 8 movies in one day. When the production studio’s intro plays, I am completely engulfed. I really love a good documentary, too. As far as television goes, I’m quite amused by The Office, 30 Rock, The Daily Show, and Boston Legal.
10. In high school, I had a rainbow of hair colors, wore grungy clothes, and ran around the halls pretending that bees were attacking me. Today, I’m unbelievably normal. I still miss my puke-yellow jacket, though.
11. In elementary school, my friend Leslie and I used to make audio tapes of ourselves doing radio shows, commercials (don’t squeeze the Charmin), etc. I remember once I was Rue McClanahan and she was Betty White, for some reason. …Another of my childhood friends wrote about a rock fight in her 25 Things. I had one once, too, and threw a sizeable rock directly into the mouth of my neighbor Jason. It knocked out a couple of his teeth, and his mother was NOT happy. Similarly, I accidentally broke another friend’s foot in third grade. Sorry again, Shawna.
12. I have never had a broken bone, despite the fact that I played every sport I could from third to tenth grade. I used to have a true passion for softball. In high school, I also played basketball and volleyball.
13. In our dorm at Clemson, when we still ate meat, Matea and I used to cook frozen chicken fingers in our (illegal) toaster. We took the smoke detector down so it wouldn’t go off. We’re lucky we’re alive.
14. I am confidently agnostic, proudly Unitarian Universalist.
15. Why did we have to wear that weird beanie in Girl Scouts?
16. I sucked my thumb until I was 9, with no ill effects on my teeth. I do have a tiny dimple on my thumb now, though. Also when I was 9, I was in the play “The Best Christmas Pageant Ever” at the community theater in Greenwood. Also, my teacher Ms. Daniels made us give her back massages during class. She was a somewhat robust woman, and we called the flanks of her back her “waterbeds.” I shudder to think about it now. I also remember her constantly yelling at us to “ferme les bouches” and “stop bitching!”
17. My second year of grad school was one of the best times of my life.
18. I have been passing back and forth a half-eaten piece of pizza crust (now shellacked) via different creative vessels (inter-office envelope, the toilet of a pop-up book, a voodoo doll’s bag, a pure-sugar Easter egg, etc) with my friend and co-worker Mary for about 2-3 years now. The crust in still, unbelievably, in pristine condition.
19. I am definitely no video game freak, but I do have a great affinity for the game “Rock Band.” I fancy myself a pretty awesome drummer. Haha.
20. I often find myself in stressful situations in my dreams, and many of them are action dreams, like I’m literally a ninja fighting against someone, or I’m being chased by someone trying to kill me. Some mornings I feel exhausted by the traumatic experience I’ve had.
21. I absolutely love my two pugs. Laney is 9 now, and Milo is 14; they have trained me well.
22. I really do try to live according to my principles, and I think I do a pretty good job at it.
23. I might get a history major one day. How will this help me? It won’t, but I can get it for free while I work at UVM. …Nevermind. That would be a huge waste of time.
24. When Matea turned 20, I got Papa John’s to make her a pizza with pepperonis arranged into a 2 and a 0. They mostly just looked randomly-placed, and I had to point the pattern out to her before we ate it. That same year, my Mom turned 40, and I did my best to make her a birthday cake (where were you, Matea?). It tasted like corn bread covered in icing. Thanks for eating it anyway, Mom. I’ve stopped attempting food-based birthday surprises.
25. I have a blog called “Places I’ve Gone Barefoot.” I haven’t been posting that often, but I hope to be more diligent about that. http://www.placesivegonebarefoot.blogspot.com/

The Title of This Entry Could Be Any Pam Tillis Greatest Hit: “Shake the Sugar Tree,” “Let That Pony Run,” or, Perhaps, “Queen of Denial”

In this New Year, like many others, I have made a long mental list of the big R-words. That’s right, Regrets...from ’08 and beyond. Like most people, I haven’t eaten right or exercised enough, haven’t saved as much money as I could have, haven’t found enough time to be still, haven’t found satisfaction in my career, haven’t nixed my negativity, haven’t generally lived up to my true potential (boy, that’s harsh). But after a week of wallowing in these failures and mulling over the reasons for them in my head, I’ve finally settled on my official New Year’s resolution: I am going to grant myself a pardon, let myself off the hook...sort of.

My mistake every year is to hold onto all of my inadequacies, maybe in order to teach myself a tough lesson, and attempt in vain to trudge on while still securely harnessed to them. I get a good running start, hit a steady stride in the free space between last year and the next. Then somewhere around March, ok, maybe February, I run out of slack and the straps I’m connected to yank me backwards, nearly back to where I began, like that bouncy bungee cord thing you can do at the fair. I wind up on my back, sore, hungry, and exhausted.

This year, I’m letting go of the elastic band, and making sure it lets go of me (I’m still going to the fair, though...LOVE the hypnotist..but that’s off topic a little). I am going to see what it feels like to walk about unbridled, with my shoulders high. For now, I will focus on making one good decision per day. To eat a carrot instead of a cake (hmmm...does carrot cake count?). To put that cool new gadget on my ’09 Christmas list, rather than on my ’09 credit card bill. To climb a rock rather than play Rock Band. You get the picture. I’m also going to make a list of my joys and seek them out. More photography and classic and documentary films. I’m also going to re-read my Orals materials, so I don’t lose that great wealth of knowledge! I am leaving the past in the past; today is a new day. Guilt, Regret, Anxiety, Despair--so long, old friends.

Embarrassing Admission #165

As soon as I learned to count money in school, I went into my little brother’s room and offered to trade him a larger amount of my “orange monies” for a smaller pile of his silver. Ha ha, sucker!

Aunt Helen and Uncle Scrooge

For Matea and me, December has become a season of theatrics, both personal and professional. First, the personal, when we “produce” a mountain of gifts, “direct” them (via FedEx) southward to various households, and finally commence some major “set design.” In the midst of all the buying, wrapping, and tinseling: Intermission. Early in the month, we attend Winter Tales. It seems surely more than twice that we have cozied into the Flynn Space with fellow Vermonters, tall hot-cider and homemade ginger cookie in hand, to be warmed by poems, songs and creative storytelling surrounding Vermont’s harshest time of year. We hear perennial favorites, like the tale of the appreciative loner Favor Johnson, who bakes delicious fruitcakes in tomato cans and distributes them to his entire town during the holidays. We hear songs and children’s poems that remind us of the warmth inside—inside ourselves, our families and our homes—that endures the biting cold outside. Each year, we have left with renewed appreciation for the hope and possibility that Old Man Winter’s visits convey.

This past weekend, we took in a double dose of holiday cheer, attending Vermont Symphony Orchestra’s Holiday Pops as well as the Nebraska Theater’s visually stunning A Christmas Carol. The VSO was impressive, and conductor Robert De Cormier stood on two thin spindles and brought forth the music with a gusto that transcended his feeble frame. The orchestra members were decidedly “Vermont,” in that they were dressed in a hodgepodge dressy-casual that residents of the state have perfected for formal events. I will say, and this may be a tip for all of you, that my great luck in getting front-row seats turned out to be more of a curse. We could see the string section and conductor fairly well, but French horn, oboe, bassoon and timpani alike were all well-hidden behind a black wall of music stands. Next year, we’ll spring for balcony seats!

Finally, Nebraska Theater’s adaptation of Dickens’ most cherished holiday tale. The company has been coming to the Flynn for 25 years (again, this was merely our second year), and the show is one of the more professional and eye-catching I’ve seen there. I highly recommend it to all next season. This heart-warming tale inspires me each year to buy the fattest goose in the shop for a deserving family...or, you know, something like that. Likewise, as I head into the second act of the Davenport holiday production, Christmas day here with the Morris clan then late Christmas festivities with South Carolina kin, I will remember to stuff the Bah, humbugs (perhaps with a ginger cookie!) and declare a few more God bless us, every ones. Or, you know, something like that.