Archive for the 'hmm' category

January 12th, 2012

» hope

For her wedding, my mom got a cedar hope chest. It’s lived at the base of her bed for as long as I can remember, and recently she replaced the threadbare upholstered top with new fabric. Last night, after admiring that facelift, we cracked open the chest and dug through it. It’s filled with random mementos: newspapers from the days my sister and I were born, my mom’s wedding veil, a cookbook I made for her in first grade, a handful of pocket watches, a few old yearbooks, her mother’s jewelry box, stacks of cards. The thing that caught me most was the card my grandmother gave my mom on her wedding day. The cover is a pair of hands holding a bouquet of red roses; soft-focus, late-70′s. Inside, my grandma’s slanting writing more upright than I knew it, clearer: “May life be wonderful to you.”

What a lovely wish, that. May life be wonderful to you.

July 8th, 2011

»

I wake a minute before my alarm. Some dream shreds away, replaced by an incoming rush of memory: life, now, lately. It is a huge feeling, a lightness tucked under my ribs. I lie there in the warm July dark, pushing my hair up off my damp neck, and I think I am happy.

May 9th, 2011

» ways not to get my number

Gentlemen,

There are many, many ways to not get my phone number. Here are a few of them:

  • Stand very, very close and breathe boozily in my face.
  • Step in front of the guy I’m chatting with. Assure me you have no idea who that dude is.
  • Explain, apologetically and very seriously, that your friend is very drunk and you’re just out to make sure he gets in a cab okay. For the third time.
  • Introduce yourself by putting your hand on my ass.
  • Tell me about the two minor league baseball teams you own, and how much better they are than the one I like. Also, explain how you’re touchy about the subject of Hooters, and how it is really just a chicken wing joint.
  • “I have an MBA. And a PhD. And a nice penis.”
  • Sidle up behind me and start sneakily dancing with me. Do not smile or speak; do grab at me.

By now you might be thinking It’s tough to be a dude out there — what can we do?! I can’t speak for all the ladies, but I advise politeness, confidence, and sincerity. It’s all in the delivery — which is why “You have awesome boobs” doesn’t appear in the list above. Still won’t get you my number, but everyone appreciates a little nicely-delivered flattery. I also appreciate it when guys buy me drinks (who doesn’t like that?), but it doesn’t obligate me to anything, and not doing it doesn’t lose you any points.

When in doubt, choose politeness. If you have a sister or close female friend, maybe try thinking how you’d like to see guys treat her, and do that. And save practicing your more advanced techniques for later in the evening.

May 6th, 2011

» toilet seats

You guys. Either you’re in for the most amazing revelation of your week, or you’ve been holding out on me and we need to have some words.

Apparently, there are two kinds of toilets in Japan: squat (holes/drains in the ground basically), and completely amazing. Imagine a regular western-style toilet. Now, on it, imagine a seat with a sensor; when you approach, the lid opens. When you sit, there’s a little deodorizing spritz in the bowl, and the seat warmer switches on. And the music or sound effects — you get to pick, because there is an SD slot in this toilet seat. When you’re done, you consult the remote control on the wall to activate the bidet. There’s regular spray, and gentle wash, and one “for the ladies” — all with adjustable pressures. And then there’s the dryer. And when you stand, the lid closes itself. Apparently for the gentlemen there are aiming lights.

I never would have guessed such a toilet seat existed. What other frivolous wonders of the world am I totally unaware of?

August 8th, 2006

» s’more please

There are days when I am in the supplyroom/kitchenette just after the poptarts have popped. I am sure if I had one now I would find them a grave disappointment, grainy and at once bland and oversweet, unpalatable, chemical-tasting, but the smell is pure indulgence, decadent childhood mornings. I am thrown back to crisp edges just browning, my tongue burnt on oozy s’more filling, trying to taste the stripes separately, discern some difference in the chocolate and marshmallow flavors. The taste worth the occasional icky dry heavy stomach-feeling afterwards. Even through my present aversion I kind of want them. Imagine filching one. Dream a perfect sweet sugarstorm.