Wired Writer: September 2005

Thursday, September 29

The Dogs of New York

Tuesday, September 27

I Haven't Unpacked 'Cause I Wanna Go Back. Oy!

During my lunch hour on Monday, I rushed home and ran up the stairs to my computer to play my nearly daily blogging game of beat the clock. I sat down in my chair and pushed the power button like I always do. And nothing happens. No click, no reassuring rush and whir of the fan, nothing.

A wise guy, eh? Maybe a little pressure will remind you who's boss, eh? I push it again and hold it. Totally nothing. After tracing cables, plugging and unplugging, blowing dust out of the tower and subsequently ramming the frontal lobe of my brain up against my eyeballs from the sneezing, I declared the computer D.O.A.

I have now taken over my husband's computer in the meantime. Which is not so bad considering it is in the family room with all the comfortable furniture, easy access to bathroom and kitchen facilities, and sports the latest in computer and television technology. Oh, the sacrifices we writers must suffer for the continuance of our art.

Now, onto the the show...

Can I just say that I loved New York?

Loved, loved, loved New York. I'm talking punch drunk dumb, mad with glee, shout and hoot to the rooftops kind of love. You know, Tom-Kat 'jump on the couch while talking with Oprah on national television' kind of love.

Now, granted, I hit almost all the top-shelf items one could while on vacation: lovely weather, a stay in a suite room in four star hotel located in Manhattan (right around the corner from the Waldorf-Astoria), and sharing the trip with two people whom you like enough to spend five days together non-stop.

That aside, I was taken aback and totally charmed by what I ate saw, ate, and experienced:

--Excluding one particularly overripe cabbie, New Yorkers know how to smell good. Walking in and out of wafting fragrances punctuated the days with a sophisticated and pleasant mood.

--Cheesecake transforms from a dessert into a carnal sin in New York. After two bites, I felt the urge to recite Hail Marys. Then I got over it and ate the rest, completely empathizing with Eve and the Adam/apple fiasco.

--Subway entertainment is just as good as any music show I've seen here in Ohio. Just a little bit hotter. (Whew, can you say stuffy?)

--Three Midwestern girls walking the down the sidewalks of Manhattan look like plodding, fattened cattle compared to the typical New Yorker. Nobody is overweight here. Everybody walks fast and with FOCUS. Sheesh, we even saw a 5k run just for senior citizens. And let me tell ya, Grandma is sporting six-pack abs and Grandpa is a study in fluid motion as he runs, not even breaking a sweat as he crosses the finish line.

--Kosher hotdogs from the corner vendor are really, really good for breakfast. I highly recommend the guy right outside St. Patrick's Cathedral. Hey, the 10:15 mass was really long. I was freakin' hungry.

Oh, so much more to tell, so many pictures to view! I will do another round of show and tell tomorrow. And share some publishing news as well -- believe it or not, I'm still writing, and apparently, appealing to an editor or two.

Tuesday, September 20

Give Broadway My Regards...

Vacationing In NYC Until September 26, 2005!

Note to self: remove Irish DNA from family gene pool

Apparently, I have my priorities mixed up.

Nielsen Before Pulitzer
“Always bury the lead. Always have an agenda. And, for Christ’s sake, remember that a real journalist considers Nielsen before Pulitzer.”
--Anonymous

I guess it helps that I'm not a real journalist. Just a snuffling, truffle-rooting hog for words.

The above quote--Nielsen, not truffle hog-- was stripped without proper manners from the BelleInTheBigApple blog. And that's where I'm going to for the next five days -- New York City.

Let's all give a cheer, shall we? "F - R - E (pause) - A - K - E (pause) D - FREAKED! Yay!"

Shake those pompoms, people, because I am about to go on vacation with Captain Neurosis as my co-pilot.

It's a first time, all-girl vacation: my sisters, M. and M. (yep, they both have names that start with M), and myself. We're of Irish descent, from a particular lineage that not only makes us distant cousins to 1980's pop singer Boy George but also prone to large attacks of procrastination, waffling, and general inability to commit to a plan without changing course several times before the end.

This is going to be fun.

This is how I imagine the itinerary will turn out:

Wednesday, Sept. 21
Morning: M1 and myself fly out of Ohio, reach NYC. Become panicked at how to get from airport to hotel. Hail cab for first time, count the number of consonants in the cabbie's name and stop at 16. Fervently hope we aren't permanently stuck to the seats by what appears to be old gum and dried body fluids.

Arrive at hotel, check in.

Early Afternoon: Walk to Grand Central Station. Try not to look like tourists by NOT LOOKING UP. New Yorkers are used to big tall buildings and look down or straight ahead. Strain eyes looking over crowd to find sister M2 at pre-ordained spot where her train comes in. Find M2, rejoice, then panic at the passage of time. Walk quickly back to hotel. Call cousin G.

Late Afternoon: Meet cool Cousin G. who hooks us up with passes to see dress rehearsal of a opera production (don't remember which one), maybe get a backstage tour, have dinner with cool Cousin G. and get some travel tips.

Thursday, Sept. 22
Morning: Wake up with small pangs of jealousy for lifestyle of cool cousin G. Eat packed granola bars for breakfast to save on food costs.

Have 'spirited discussion' with M1 and M2 about rest of itinerary. Agree to procrastinate on itinerary until afternoon.

Mid Morning: eat entire remaining stash of the granola bars because hunger has reached point of where newspapers are starting to look like good sources of fiber and nutrition. Did not realize granola bars increase hunger. Wonder if you can suppress appetite by drinking 10 diet Cokes a day and not eating until Sunday.

Early Afternoon: start checking prices on hot dog stands. Agree to procrastinate itinerary until after dinner.

Evening: Cave in to hunger, spent half of travel budget on dinner at the Tavern on the Green. Watch for movie stars. Complain about Irish lineage and wasting vacation. Agree to waffle extensively on day and time to go to Musem of Art. M1 states she is experiencing shopping withdrawal. Agree to add shopping to itinerary, day and time to be procrastinated until later.

Friday, Sept. 23
Morning: drink diet Coke. Wonder if appetite suppressants are sold on street corners. Hate self for not getting up early enough to see Bon Jovi at the Today Show. Mentally brace self for heckling from co-workers whom I told to watch for me in the crowd.

Afternoon: Double check for tickets on broadway show. Drink another diet Coke.

Evening: Attend Monty Python's SPAMALOT. Sigh and marvel at cuteness of David Hyde Pierce's square jaw line and sheer talent of Tim Curry. Eat tickets at intermission for snack. Washed down with free drink at water foutain.

Saturday, Sept. 24
Morning: panic at apparent lack of cohesive vacation; swear to never be victimized by Irish lineage again. Do morning blitzkrieg of Bloomingdale's and cabbing to St. Patrick's Cathedral and Times Square. Drink 3 diet Cokes. Stare hungrily at half-eaten pizza slice in public trash can.

Afternoon: Tired but determined. More shopping, Rockefeller Center, and Carnegie Hall. Curse that God gave us feet instead of wheels. See sale on shoes. Praise God that he gave us feet instead of wheels.

Evening: Exhausted, even after 2 more diet Cokes. Too tired to eat. Suck quietly on wrapping paper that came from new pair of shoes bought at Bloomingdales.

Sunday, Sept. 25
Morning: check out of hotel, hail cab to airport. Only 11 consonants in this driver's name. No stains on back seat, just overwhelming odor of onions and stale farts.

Afternoon: on plane back to Ohio. M1, M2, and I reaffirm sisterhood with tired smiles and vigorous vows to do all-girl vacation again. Just with more granola bars and suitcase room for shoes.

Evening: greeted by family at airport. Settle in for hour drive back home with diet Coke in hand. Hubby complements my new shoes and then asks, "Why are you staring at the Sunday newspaper like that? You look like you're going to eat it."

I agree, then waffle, only to procrastinate on eating it until later. My husband looks at me, confused.

I don't mind. I've learned my lesson: sometimes there's no denying your heritage.

Monday, September 19

Welcome to the Adams Household. A Benign Dictatorship Since 1994.

"The answer is no."

"But why can't I get a new game for the Game Cube?"

"Because I said so."

"But I have enough money from cutting the lawn."

"No."

"But why not?"

"Because you just got a new one 2 weeks ago. And because I said so."

"Arrrgh."

Sounds of slumping against the back seat.

"Hmmmph."

"But why ca....."

"BECAUSE I SAID SO."

"Mom!"

"I'm not your mother."

Silence.

"What?"

"I'm not your mother. I'm your benign dictator for the next 8 years. Please fasten your seat belt and put your tray in an upright and locked position. Keep your hands inside the ride at all times. There are no refunds. Enjoy your stay at Adams Dictatorship. We appreciate your patronage."

Silence.

"Mom, you're weird."

Silence.

"Mom?"

Curious, a little concerned.

I turn around, holding my pinky to the side of my mouth, and say, "Call me Imelda. BWAHAAHAAHAAHAA."

And I wonder why my son sometimes has trouble making friends.

Friday, September 16

I'm Sorry I Got Hit By A Bus, Mom. I Wasn't Wearing My Bra.

Much to my dismay, my daughter is showing the slightest first signs of, well, not being a little girl anymore. We've recently added to her underwear drawer those special 'trainer' garments.

Each time I wash them, I surf a wave of guilt. "It's too soon!" I lament to myself. "Damn you for not buying the organic milk and meat without the bovine growth hormone."

As I fold them and put them on her laundry pile, my mind drifts through possible scenarios of how to delay her rate of, umm, maturation. Four hours of gymnastics each day? Getting her Girl Scout badge in the Iron Man Triathalon? Installing a treadmill in front of the Game Cube? Or is it just me and my imaginary "look how much the world has changed since I was your age" memory?

WARNING: Old Codger Flash Back: Back in my day, it wasn't until the sixth or seventh grade that girls started looking more developed. Even then, those sizes were still at the beginning of the alphabet; lots of A's and maybe one or two B's, but nothing more. The more progressive letter sizes -- C's and the occasional but highly sought after D's -- seemed to happen in college.

All parenting guilt aside, my daughter is elated. "I'm finally starting to grow up!" she proudly exclaimed.

I look at her. Inside my head, I'm seeing images of a 34-D cup on a twelve year old and me in 'Da Big House' serving twenty-two consecutive life sentences for breaking the necks of boys and men who dared to look at her bovine-like cleavage while we went grocery shopping. I hear a loudspeaker voice saying "Carnage clean up in aisle 12, please. Next to the organic dairy case."

But instead I nod my head, resigned, and say, "Uh huh. Seems like it."

Yesterday, she walked to the front door and announced, "I'm going over to J.'s house to play."

I peeked around the hallway corner. "Okay, but be careful crossing the street."

She rolled her eyes at me and said, "Oh Mom, don't worry. I'm mature now, remember?" She turned and pointed to her chest. "I know how to cross the street because I've got these!"

Thursday, September 15

File It Under D for 'Duuuhhh'...

Going through some files I had shoved in the back of my closet, I came across remnants of my old corporate job as a 'Consumer Response Representative' (read: lightening rod for all who are lonely, psychotic, or anal beyond any proctologist's dream). I handled phone calls and letters on certain brands of foods like Eagle Brand Sweetened Condensed Milk, ReaLemon Lemon Juice, and Cracker Jack, as well as a few non-food items.

While I eventually moved up in the world and secured a position as 'Senior Consumer Representative' (read: lightening rod for all evil lonely, psychotic anal retentives), the original job held a few gems the new one couldn't match.

Some examples:

Me: "Ma'am, could you please read the bar code on the side of the product?"
She: "You mean that line thingy with the numbers and stuff?"
Me: "Yes, that's right. Could you read it for me please?"
She: "Sure. Okay, there's a big fat line to start with, and then it goes skinny, skinny, skinny, fat, skinny..."

---"I thought the SuperGlue bottle was my eyedrops."

---"How much milk is in this 5 ounce can?"

---"I was shocked, shocked beyond words, I tell ya, when I found corkscrew pasta among my spaghetti noodles."

---"What do you mean, they're not real tattoos? What a rip off!" (Parent's complaint about prize in Cracker Jack)

---"Your chips made me sick. I ate four bags of them and now I don't feel good."

And my all time favorite, referring to ReaLemon Juice:

--"How big are your lemons?"

Wednesday, September 14

It's The Fire That Makes Me Afraid.

Dinner at the Adams house is always delayed whenever the menu calls for something to be grilled. And as much as I don't like/am not good at cooking, I don't mind grilling. I like the taste of things that have spent time over some sort of flame. Hotdogs that are ever-so-slightly burnt -- don't get me started, because I'll take 15 of those, please. Hamburgers, bratwursts, veggie kabobs, even bacon since I hate the smell of it in the house, I will happily cook those on the grill. And my family will eat it. That's good. Grill is good.

But don't ask me to light it. Our grill is an aging model, complete with all the characteristics that typically come with getting older: creaking joints, mildly mottled and sun-worn skin, difficulty in getting up and going, and the occasional gassy outburst.

It's because of those outbursts I no longer light the grill. I have tried to conquer my fear and get over it, but I just can't. When you light our grill, you never know if it's going to be a gentle "phhhhht - pockushhhhhh" sound as the gas flow up and outward and lights in a nice, gentle way or if it's going to be a "phhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhtttt - kakakaPOW!" that creates a small mushroom cloud that can be seen from backyards two streets away.

I have used long fireplace matches held at arm's length, have done the run-toss-and-dash method using small matches, even approached the grill on my knees and head bent down in hopes of avoiding the singeing of what little hair I have, which of course is tacked in place with flammable hairspray. My neighbors never know whether I'm having a barbeque or bowing in reverence for a pagan sacrificial ritual to the Grill God.

In the end, my heartrate is through the roof, my bowels are going to have a Depends moment, and I can no longer chop the cucumber and tomato for the salad because my hands are shaking so badly from the anticipation of not knowing whether dinner will be ready or Rob will find me flame-kissed, smoking, and bald that evening. So lighting the grill has now become a husband chore.

And as you can see, his luck isn't that much better than mine.

Tuesday, September 13

Dooce on Blogging. Read it 'cause she rocks.

Read the interview here. Find Dooce's blog here.

Reason #1 why I want to be like Dooce: she writes well, and with soul.
Reason #2 why I want to be like Dooce: Intellectual, insightful, biting wit.

Reason #1 why I do not want to be like Dooce: I do not have problems with constipation.

Although I find the subject of poop very funny, I do not want to have to fight daily skirmishes with my body's elimination ability. Even (and this is a big EVEN) if it meant foregoing a welling up of intellectual, insightful biting wit which would attract masses of unknown but loyal blog readers who are mesmerized by my masterly, soulful writing.

I am regular, I embrace it, and therefore am most likely doomed to severely limited readership.

P.S. Thank you to the Brian Alvey Weblog for the Red Cross banner code.

Monday, September 12

Actually, I really wanted a Hello Kitty calendar.

But I thought the Happy Meal came with a toy....

(Thanks to Heather Champ at Flickr.com for sharing this photo.)

I'll pass on the Crank, thank you. I've got Fruit Roll Ups.

I totally L A U G H E D when I read Dooce's account of her daughter chugging orange juice and then reacting to the subsequent sugar high. I've had a similiar reaction out of my two kids when I first let them try Fruit Roll-Ups.

After each child gobbled down this yard-long soft mass of red dye and corn syrup, they suddenly jerked forward out of their chair and started running, and continued running until they stopped and dropped with exhaustion four hours later. (They would've rolled, too, but they just didn't have it in them.)

I kid you not, they ran up and down and around the house with their eyelids peeled back in exquisite madness. Garagantuan smiles reached unnatural places on their faces as they laughed continually with this forced "HEE HEE HEE HEE HEE HEE" cackle that still lingers as the 'background scary noise' soundtrack in my nightmares.

I looked on at them in awe as they sped through their sugar buzz. What have I done, I thought? When will it stop? And why the hell did I not at least try drugs in college if it's anything like this?

Friday, September 9

Hooters

Discussed in the Honda CR-V the other day...

I was taking my son across town to Wal-Mart (the old crumbling one, not the new one under construction. The new UberCenter won't be ready until shopping season arrives [November 25 - December 24]).

We pulled up behind a black Ford pickup truck and on the rear sliding window it had a sticker that read: "My Other Toy Has Hooters". Ryan, being 10 and carefully shielded by his overprotective mother and slightly exasperated, eyeball-rolling father, asked the question.

"What are hooters, Mom?"

I stared at the truck in front of me, silently wishing we had stopped behind a Ford that was content enough to only sport the cartoon character Calvin peeing on the Chevy symbol. There's no underlying 'The dick makes me superior' agenda in that one, just a sincere dislike of the competition.

"They're boobs, hon."

Ryan was quiet for a second. "You mean like Hooters restaurant?"

"Uh-huh. That's what they specialize in. Wings, beer, and waitresses with very little clothing and big boobs."

"Oh."

I could see his mind reconstructing the definition of 'boobs': 1) Soft lumps of varying sizes located on the chest of females. 2) Something Mom gripes about getting in the way of her golf swing.
3) Apparently ranked the same as X-Box and Pickup Trucks as Valuable Toys for Men.

"It's not a nice thing to say about your wife or girlfriend, hon," I said.

"I see those a lot around town."

"Yep. But it's a free country."

Ryan looked at me. "Well, I don't much about hooters, but I do know I'll never put that on my truck."

God, I love my son!

Wednesday, September 7

Please Stand By. We Are Experiencing Technical Difficulties...

Sorry, folks. I kinda wiped out my other template. I'll try and bring it up to date in the next few days.

"...But There Has Always Been Good, And There Is Good Now."

New Orleans evacuee, Ronnie Hebert, smiles after receiving a flower at her arrival Wednesday, to a refugee center at the old Navel Reserve center in Columbia, S.C.

AP Photo/Mary Ann Chastain

'Tis a thing of beauty to see her smile, is it not?

So many people blaming each other...the media has had quite a smorgasbord to pick and choose their tasty story morsels from. Do we blame the mayor of New Orleans? The FEMA director? The President? It seems that there was a whole chain made of weak links, not just one or two.

I listened to National Public Radio tonight while driving home from work. They were talking with the Chief of Police of New Orleans.

He was asked about the lawlessness. The chief, in a tired, tattered, yet strangely fierce voice said,

"I am pissed off from all the negative talk about who didn't do what and how everything went wrong. No one has said anything, anything at all about my 1200 men who stayed on the force after the hurricane hit. Who kept working day after day without radio communication, food, water, ammo, and sleep. Wondering where their own family and friends were and if they were safe.

You hear about the rapes, the looting, the beatings, but what you don't hear about is how many of those we prevented, how many thugs we rounded up and put away, how many lives of the weak and the young we kept from getting further victimized.

You interview anyone who saw what went on in New Orleans and they will say 'Yes, we certainly saw the human being at his worst. But we also saw the human being at his finest.' That was my men of the force, doing what they could with literally nothing but their courage, their wits, and their hearts."

A lot of things went wrong. Unbelievably, catastrophically wrong. But a lot of people also went above and beyond to help out in an unprecendented way for an unprecendented event in time.

As Dr. Maya Angelou said: "...There has always been evil, and there will always be evil, but there has always been good, and there is good now."

There are two ways to spread the light: either be the candle or be the mirror.

Trying very hard to at least be a mirror,

A.M.Adams

Wired Writer