Prozac, anyone?

When I was a child, I was a worrier. Freakishly worried. About everything.

One day, when I was four or five, a tornado watch ran across the bottom of our TV screen. (My mom was watching General Hospital, a habit she's long since given up). The shrill beeping noise and the words scared me, and when my mom explained what it all meant, I went into full freakout mode. Crying, worried, and unconsolable. It was dark, and thunder-y, and my mom took me into her bedroom and we laid down on the bed while she tried to talk and reason with me.

That didn't really work. For the next six years I worried about tornadoes. Thunderstorms scared me. I would watch the sky every day for dark clouds, I would refuse to ride the bus home on dark afternoons (Because the engine might flood in a rainstorm. It happened once, and I was seriously distraught.) My daily happiness was dictated by what was happening weather-wise (and Florida in the summer has thunderstorms almost every day, from May through September or October).

I thought about this just now, because I can hear thunder. I'm all alone in my house, and I'm hoping for a giant crashing storm. And my mom should probably be happy about that--I think she must've worried about how her anxiety-ridden child would turn out. And although I've still got my issues, I think I can handle some good old-fashioned violent weather.

Two (unrelated) Items

1) I was at a meeting tonight and looked down at the pen (from my house) that I was holding. It said "Select Sire Power." Now this raises some questions. How did I get a pen advertising cow artificial insemination? Where did it come from? Just one of the perks of living in Central PA, I guess.

2) When I was a kid (before I could drive), I would have dreams in which I was in the driver's seat of a car, unable to stop it as it drove down the road. It wasn't out of control, it was just taking me somewhere and I couldn't stop it.

Once I learned to drive, I didn't have that dream anymore, but lately I've started dreaming that I'm driving and I can't open my eyes. It's a terrifying feeling, and it seems very real. Like my other driving dream, it always takes place on roads I know well. But my eyes are shut tight, I can't open them, and I know that a giant crash is imminent--but it doesn't happen. I drive in terror, with my eyes closed, until I wake up.

I know this must have a gazillion meanings. I'm just too tired to figure them out.

Sacajawea!

Do you think you could navigate the interstate system in this country if there were no signs?

I find interstate travel extremely boring, but I do like some of the signs that point you in a general direction. Most times the signs are specific: names of cities attached to a particular exit. But sometimes the road planning people really want to give you the big picture—like the sign toward Pittsburgh on the PA turnpike that says “Ohio and West.” West. Just stay on this road and you will be West, whatever or wherever that is.

There’s another one near Buffalo that points to Canada. Just Canada. A whole country opened up before you, once you cross this bridge.

Today I drove to the L.L. Bean store in Columbia, MD and home again. Coming home you see the signs for I-95—Towson and New York. When you hop on I-70 for a very short stretch, there’s a sign telling you how far it is to St. Louis, Denver, and Cove Fort (which I had to look up. It’s in Utah, and that’s where I-70 ends).

And that’s what you’ve got to love about the interstate thing—getting on a road and knowing that, if you just pointed your car in particular direction, you could go anywhere.

Turn my headphones up

Most days, from 8-5, the conversation around me is a continual stream of quotes from television and moving pictures. I work with a bunch of boys in their early 20s, and there's something about particular boys at that particular age that seems to promote super-retention of lines from movies and TV--it's like their superpower.

A somewhat imaginary conversation might go something like this:

Girl: So, how's your article going?

20s Boy Coworker: "Ain't going platinum, it's going double uranium, son."*

Girl: That's pretty cool.

20s Boy Coworker: "I don't know how to put this, but I'm kind of a big deal."

Girl: You're so awesome.

20sBC: "Simma down now."

Girl: I'm cool.

20sBC: "Say WORD!"

Girl: Word.

20sBC: Mmmm, that sounds good. I'll have that.

Girl: Yeah, that's cool.

20sBC: "Why don't you take off that green jumpsuit and show me that fat ass."

(I should clarify: that last line is not directed at anyone--it's just thrown out there. Today the guy who said it quickly looked around for the high school girl who was visiting our office this afternoon. "The shadow's not still here, is she?" Fortunately, she wasn't).

And so it goes. Every day. Scraps and bits of dialogue, random lines. I can quote things that I have no idea where they come from. Eventually I think I'll be talking entirely in movie and TV quotes. If I can retain them all. I don't have that as a superpower.

*Super Bonus if you can tell me where all these lines are from.

The Sound of Thunder

Today I came home from work and my little bedroom thermometer/clock said 35 degrees—CELSIUS. That’s hot. I think like 95 Fahrenheit. Or more!

But last night I wrestled my window air conditioner into its proper summer location (in the window). This marks the official start of summer, and it will remain there until September, when I wrestle it out again. I always get a few scrapes and bruises wielding that thing, and of course it’s always ridiculously hot when I do the wrestling, because why else would I put it in?

Last night I got away with only a mild scrape and a lot of sweat.

Today when I got home I turned on the AC, the computer, and the TV in that order (yay, electricity!), lay down on my bed, and then promptly fell asleep with my hand on the mouse pad.

Heat is exhausting. So is wrestling window air conditioners. But, the good news is: I waited until mid-June to turn this thing on. It’s a new record.

In Honor of Father's Day . . .

Good things I have gotten from my father:

--driving lessons

--spelling ability

--the joy of bike riding, rollercoasters, being thrown into the air—anytime I have swallowed my nervousness and cliff-jumped or whitewater-rafted or gone down a giant waterslide, and loved it--that's all Dad.

--anything I know about basketball, football, or hockey, and most of what I know of baseball

--the lyrics to obscure songs from the 40s and 50s (and the joy of changing those song lyrics)

--freedom to speak my opinions about God, politics, etc.—and to argue about those things.

--my last name, the heritage I identify with, and my paternal family members. These things would've been enough--and I still got so much more.

What's that again?

Everybody's got their misheard song lyrics. All the cliches, about "bathrooms on the right," and "'scuse me while I kiss this guy," but I never had trouble with those. Still, there are songs it took me years to get the right words to.

Elton John is a continual problem--accurin tablets instead of "vodka and tonics" in Goodbye Yellow Brick Road. Who knows what an accurin tablet is; I made it up in my brain. Granted EJ pronounces it "vodker," so it really is hard to understand.

Also, it took me years to figure out that EJ was laying the Tiny Dancer down on "sheets of linen."

Lately there've been a few others. I've been enjoying the Christina Aguilera song Ain't No Other Man since November, and I always thought the line was "tie me down to every bed" which is a little kinky, but whatever you're into, right? Curious one day, though, I googled the lyrics and discovered it's "talk me down from every ledge," which lends a whole other drama/suicide vibe to the song. I prefer the kink.

And most recently, Rihanna's latest song. I heard her singing it on TV and I kept thinking she was talking about an operetta. Which is really kind of intellectual, and I was impressed. Who sings about operettas these days? Way to educate today's youth, Rihanna.

But somewhere along the line I realized she was singing "under my umbrella." I like the way she says "um-ba-rella. " But I can't be blamed for thinking operetta. Seriously.

Reading Rainbow

Tonight my mom and I were in Barnes & Noble, and she was trying to find a book to read. Several of the ones she picked up, I had—and I told her so. So she didn’t buy a book, and I came home and loaded up a bunch of paperbacks (and one hardback) and took them over to her.

I buy books when I am traveling, so a lot of the books I took to her were books I’d bought in an airport, on my way to Boston or on my way home, on my way to Florida or on my way home. I usually buy a book for the return trip, though, because I’m cheap enough to pack a book from home for the going part. I wish I could remember which book goes with which trip—which flight segment, and which part of the country I was flying over (or sitting in) when I read it.

Anyway, it gave me tons of satisfaction to pack up my paperbacks and give them to someone else, someone who will like at least some of them, who wants to read them. It’s part of the reason I like to collect books—I reread them all, of course, but I also like to hand them off to other people—to say, “here, this is good. You will like it.” There’s nothing better than giving someone a book you love, knowing that they’ll love it, too, and then you can talk about how much you both love it.

And here’s the list of books I took to my mom--with where they came from. I didn’t LOVE all of these, but I enjoyed most of them, and I intend to get them back. So if you want one, let me know.

All He Ever Wanted—Anita Shreve (some flight home from somewhere)
The Amateur Marriage—Ann Tyler (I had this book with me in Boston in May 2005, but I can't remember if that's the first time I read it).
The Kite Runner—Khaled Hosseini (read on my most recent trip to NYC)
The Memory Keeper’s Daughter—Kim Edwards (read on my way home from NYC)
Middlesex—Jeffrey Eugenides (read in Alberta, Canada in July 2004)
The Namesake—Jhumpa Lahiri (some flight home from somewhere)
A Prayer for Owen Meany—John Irving (read this winter; birthday present)
Three Junes—Julia Glass (some flight home from somewhere)
The Time-Traveler’s Wife—Audrey Niffenegger (some flight home from somewhere)
The Year of Magical Thinking—Joan Didion
(this is an involved story--a Christmas giftcard to B&N, a date, a mix-up . . . and all I got out of it was this book).

Here comes the (drunk) bride.

(Have I mentioned that I'm up to 300 posts? Awesome.)

This was bachelorette party weekend! The Power Plant in Baltimore is apparently where everyone goes to have a bachelorette party. There were so many brides-to-be at that place, and I think I'm getting old, because every one of them looked way too young to be getting married. That girl? That little one swigging Smirnoff? She's the one getting married? Who's marrying that kid? And these little girlfriends are her support system? Good lord, what do any of them know about marriage?

See? I'm like a mom now.

It could just be that they're throwing fake bachelorette parties for the free drinks. A "Bride to Be" t-shirt and a tiara will get you free shots, no cover charges, and plenty of attention. Get a group of girls together, take turns being the bride, and you're in business.

All in all, though, last night's party was great fun. Drinking and dancing and dueling pianos make for a good time. And if there's anything better than hot cheesy pizza at 3 AM, I'm not sure what it is.

Frosty Chocolate Milkshakes

Today I squished myself into the backseat of a car that is worth about as much as my house, rode in it through Etown, got a milkshake, and then rode back. Oh, and it was a convertible and the top was down--it was very windy.

I took a personality test that made me sound anal-retentive and rigid. I Am. A Robot. Must. Follow. Routines. All my personality tests come out like that. But I'm NOT as anal as they make me sound. I tell people that before they read the results--it's my disclaimer. My two co-writers took the same test--turns out they're the same and I'm the complete opposite. Which I think we all could've predicted.

I'm giving up my jobs. Not my main job, but my volunteer job, and my little part-time job. Both of them. Which leaves me bereft of jobs, but hopeful. Maybe I can find something to do for pleasure (or at least for decent money), instead of out of guilt and obligation. Hooray!

You heard it here

Last night I read the poster for "Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows" (in bookstores July 21) for the first time closely, and I noticed this question at the bottom:

Severus Snape: Friend or Foe?

Now, didn' t I just speculate that SS might not be as evil as he appears? The evidence against him, in book 6, appears to be undeniable . . . so why would they even RAISE this question if SS weren't really a good guy?

I'm sure this topic has already been bandied about on the internets, but since I don't read any HP-themed websites, I don't know about those discussions. I just want to say here and now that if SS turns out to be a good guy, I (and Dumbledore) called it.

OMG!! Evil and death!!

I have to use exclamation points in my writing quite often so I probably shouldn't snark, but the use of that particular punctuation mark in this answer to the "Where would go if you could go anywhere" question in our work newsletter just seemed wrong.

"I have always wanted to visit the Concentration Camp in Auschwitz!! Of course, I would take [my husband] with me! He is very interested in history and would love to learn right along with me!"