And I am going to completely disregard them and thank you all for voting Swayze.
Get ready for Sunday. It's going to be a good one.
Wednesday, July 8, 2009
The Horrors of Sleep-Away Camp
I'd almost completely blocked out my painful memory of my only sleep-away camp experience until I read this article today. Now I know why I’m most definitely not normal. I did not like camp. In fact, I hated camp so much I made my parents bring me home.
Here’s what I remember from sleep-away camp. My 2nd grade best friend Amber had talked about it the whole school year—how much fun it was, all of her “camp” friends, how I HAD to come with her that summer, blah blah blah. I remember thinking it was going to be the coolest thing ever. Camp sounded AWESOME.
Then I got to camp. From the moment I put my bag on that bottom bunk I wanted to go home.
Amber had failed to mention that camp would involve countless group activities where a terrifying woman with permed black hair—my 7-year-old self was convinced she was the Wicked Witch of the West—would force me to pray in front of kids I’d only known for one day, and yell at me for playing basketball with the boys. (What the hell kind of scary Christian camp was this? Why did my parents allow this to happen? These are my questions now.)
By day three (or was it two?) I’d worked myself into a stomachache so fierce that the Tums the Wicked Witch was trying to force down my throat just wouldn’t cut it: I had to call my mom. I don’t remember this phone call actually happening, but I do remember the Wicked Witch telling me I was homesick and I’d be fine the next day.
The next day? I couldn’t stay in that terrifying place one more minute. I clutched my stomach and cried until she caved. Amber, who was having too much fun with her camp buddies to understand my misery, was unfazed by my announcement that I was leaving.
My final, glorious memory of camp: my parents getting out of the car when they arrived to pick me up.
I ran away from the clutches of the Wicked West and back to safety. I had made it two and a half days. I was a survivor. Amber and I never spoke about camp again.
Now I understand why my friendship with Amber didn’t make it past 6th grade. We were in two different groups: me, who hated camp so much that I made my parents send me home; Amber, who really, really enjoyed camp.
But as it turns out, we’re both fucked:
Here’s what I remember from sleep-away camp. My 2nd grade best friend Amber had talked about it the whole school year—how much fun it was, all of her “camp” friends, how I HAD to come with her that summer, blah blah blah. I remember thinking it was going to be the coolest thing ever. Camp sounded AWESOME.
Then I got to camp. From the moment I put my bag on that bottom bunk I wanted to go home.
Amber had failed to mention that camp would involve countless group activities where a terrifying woman with permed black hair—my 7-year-old self was convinced she was the Wicked Witch of the West—would force me to pray in front of kids I’d only known for one day, and yell at me for playing basketball with the boys. (What the hell kind of scary Christian camp was this? Why did my parents allow this to happen? These are my questions now.)
By day three (or was it two?) I’d worked myself into a stomachache so fierce that the Tums the Wicked Witch was trying to force down my throat just wouldn’t cut it: I had to call my mom. I don’t remember this phone call actually happening, but I do remember the Wicked Witch telling me I was homesick and I’d be fine the next day.
The next day? I couldn’t stay in that terrifying place one more minute. I clutched my stomach and cried until she caved. Amber, who was having too much fun with her camp buddies to understand my misery, was unfazed by my announcement that I was leaving.
My final, glorious memory of camp: my parents getting out of the car when they arrived to pick me up.
I ran away from the clutches of the Wicked West and back to safety. I had made it two and a half days. I was a survivor. Amber and I never spoke about camp again.
Now I understand why my friendship with Amber didn’t make it past 6th grade. We were in two different groups: me, who hated camp so much that I made my parents send me home; Amber, who really, really enjoyed camp.
But as it turns out, we’re both fucked:
“People (like myself) who didn't enjoy camp tend to have a problem engaging in organized activities of all kinds. Later in life we often become criminals or sociopaths. The more respectable among us often become journalists. If we're extremely bright or creative (or aspire to be), we may become writers or scholars or artists. The common thread is an outsider mentality. A self-flattering analysis, I know, but such is my privilege as author of this article.If only I could have made it those three more days. Then I could put myself in the more respectable category as journalist and writer. If only. I could have been an outlaw. Now I’m just neurotic and needy. Dammit.
Some people hated camp so much that they made their parents bring them home. These people should not be confused with the outlaws described above. There is nothing outré about not being able to endure summer camp. The come-and-get-me set grow up to be neurotic and needy. These are people who can often be heard on C-SPAN's early-morning call-in program Washington Journal, filibustering from a time zone still blanketed in predawn darkness, until the host says, ‘Please state your question.’
…
Some people really, really enjoy camp. I wish I could tell you that these people grow up to be really, really normal, but they don't. You know who I'm talking about. These are the ones who wept uncontrollably when the papiermâché numbers spelling out 1967 were set ablaze on a little raft that a camp counselor, under cover of darkness, towed stealthily to the middle of Lake Weecheewachee on the evening of the last group sing. These are the people for whom childhood represented the zenith of human existence and everything that followed an anticlimax. The women—they're mostly women—usually end up in abusive relationships with pathologically angry men who eventually abandon them and pay child support erratically, if at all. If the person who really, really enjoyed camp is a man, then he is unlikely ever to develop an intimate relationship and on occasion may be spotted in the back of a police cruiser speeding away from a grade-school playground.”
Thursday, July 2, 2009
The 4th of July Syndrome
Right around the 4th of July every year, it hits: I miss my mom more than ever. It sneaks up on me, too, even though by this point—my seventh year without her—you’d think I’d start mentally preparing myself. But every year it’s still a sudden feeling, knocking the wind out of me when I least expect it. It’s a combination of things, I suppose. Mom’s birthday was July 8, and I have a lot of strong memories of 4th of July celebrations from childhood. I always felt like Mom was at her best in the summertime. As a teacher, it was her cherished time off from work, when she had plenty of time to relax on our screened-in back porch, reading books and drinking iced tea. She was always calmer, happier, and her laughter came easier. Her laughter used to embarrass me sometimes—loud and kind of shrieking, even louder when she was with her sisters—but really, what a great laugh.
The last summer I had with Mom before she died was one of the best—and worst—times we had together. The best, because it was the last one I had with her and we were at our closest then; the worst, because it marks the time when I realized that she might die.
That summer (2002) was an incredibly humid one, even by Indiana standards. The heat made it even harder for her to breathe, and even with me carrying her oxygen tank for her, just a trip to the grocery store could wear her out. She didn’t complain—she would just sink into one of our kitchen chairs as soon as we’d get in the house, turn up the oxygen a notch, adjust, readjust that damn oxygen cord, and lean into the kitchen table. I’d get her a glass of ice water and learned quickly not to stare at her while she caught her breath. It upset her—not only because it must have hurt, not being able to breathe, but Mom hated being out of control. She always seemed annoyed (angry on a bad day) that her body wasn’t cooperating with her. Plus, it can’t be too fun having your teenage daughter stare at you with worry while you’re trying to catch your breath.
That’s not what I try to think about, though. Instead, I think about eating popsicles with her on the back porch. I think about driving us to Indy for our trips to Fazoli’s, Target, and the mall. I think about talking about how we’d go shopping in Chicago—minus the oxygen tank!—after she got her lung transplant.
I think about sitting on the back porch with her as she helped me pick my first semester of classes at IU—she was the one that picked out African American lit, the best class I had all through college. That first semester, I called Mom from the college bookstore and rattled off all the books on the syllabus. I remember that conversation so clearly. “You don’t need to buy all those,” she said. “Just take my copies from home when you’re back next.” And, like always, she knew exactly where they were on the shelf by memory. “Black Boy is upstairs, middle of the third shelf on the right. I’ll have your dad bring it down.”
We were just starting Black Boy when she died. Every time I’d look at my copy—her copy—and see “HAMM” scrawled in black marker on the side, I had to swallow the tears. I loved that book, though. For me, every book I read that semester was like having a conversation with my mom. It was comfort when I couldn’t be comforted. I’d devour the books, even more so the ones she’d given me, knowing she had read those same words. I tried to find her again in the pages.
Buying books every subsequent semester was the worst. I’d stare at my English courses’ syllabi with a stabbing feeling in my gut, wanting nothing more than to call Mom and hear her tell me what shelves the books I wouldn’t need to buy were on at home. Instead, I’d scoop up all the books in a hurry, telling myself maybe Mom had never read any of these.
These are the things I start thinking about when the 4th of July and her birthday start creeping near.
Suddenly I’m 18 again, driving my Neon with Mom in the passenger seat, oxygen tank at her feet. She hadn’t been feeling that well that day, but we were going to Indy anyway to go to Target. I’m spilling my guts to her about feeling betrayed by my best friend and my boyfriend, and she says, “You know what we need? We need our song.”
She grabs the pink CD and pushes it in the player, skipping to No.6. (We’d deemed it “our” song shortly after I got the Mary J. Blige CD, because we both loved it and Mom thought it had a good message for me, given what I was going through with my friends.)
We turn it up, loud, and Mom taps her fingers on her knees to the beat as we sing along. When Mary sings, “Why’d I play the fool/go through ups and downs/knowing all the time/you wouldn’t be around?” Mom looks at me and says, “Just remember that you’re not a fool just because you’ve been betrayed. Don’t ever feel bad for caring about someone. Never let someone make you feel stupid for being a good person.”
I’m 25 now, but I could still use some good mom advice like that these days. So today, as I was walking down a Chicago street, I listened to that song and pretended I was 18 again, singing along with my mom in my car, driving to Target.
The song ended, and I hit the back button on my iPod shuffle. I wanted a few more minutes with her.
The last summer I had with Mom before she died was one of the best—and worst—times we had together. The best, because it was the last one I had with her and we were at our closest then; the worst, because it marks the time when I realized that she might die.
That summer (2002) was an incredibly humid one, even by Indiana standards. The heat made it even harder for her to breathe, and even with me carrying her oxygen tank for her, just a trip to the grocery store could wear her out. She didn’t complain—she would just sink into one of our kitchen chairs as soon as we’d get in the house, turn up the oxygen a notch, adjust, readjust that damn oxygen cord, and lean into the kitchen table. I’d get her a glass of ice water and learned quickly not to stare at her while she caught her breath. It upset her—not only because it must have hurt, not being able to breathe, but Mom hated being out of control. She always seemed annoyed (angry on a bad day) that her body wasn’t cooperating with her. Plus, it can’t be too fun having your teenage daughter stare at you with worry while you’re trying to catch your breath.
That’s not what I try to think about, though. Instead, I think about eating popsicles with her on the back porch. I think about driving us to Indy for our trips to Fazoli’s, Target, and the mall. I think about talking about how we’d go shopping in Chicago—minus the oxygen tank!—after she got her lung transplant.
I think about sitting on the back porch with her as she helped me pick my first semester of classes at IU—she was the one that picked out African American lit, the best class I had all through college. That first semester, I called Mom from the college bookstore and rattled off all the books on the syllabus. I remember that conversation so clearly. “You don’t need to buy all those,” she said. “Just take my copies from home when you’re back next.” And, like always, she knew exactly where they were on the shelf by memory. “Black Boy is upstairs, middle of the third shelf on the right. I’ll have your dad bring it down.”
We were just starting Black Boy when she died. Every time I’d look at my copy—her copy—and see “HAMM” scrawled in black marker on the side, I had to swallow the tears. I loved that book, though. For me, every book I read that semester was like having a conversation with my mom. It was comfort when I couldn’t be comforted. I’d devour the books, even more so the ones she’d given me, knowing she had read those same words. I tried to find her again in the pages.
Buying books every subsequent semester was the worst. I’d stare at my English courses’ syllabi with a stabbing feeling in my gut, wanting nothing more than to call Mom and hear her tell me what shelves the books I wouldn’t need to buy were on at home. Instead, I’d scoop up all the books in a hurry, telling myself maybe Mom had never read any of these.
These are the things I start thinking about when the 4th of July and her birthday start creeping near.
***
Today really got me though. I was walking to lunch, listening to music, when Mary J. Blige’s “No More Drama” came on.Suddenly I’m 18 again, driving my Neon with Mom in the passenger seat, oxygen tank at her feet. She hadn’t been feeling that well that day, but we were going to Indy anyway to go to Target. I’m spilling my guts to her about feeling betrayed by my best friend and my boyfriend, and she says, “You know what we need? We need our song.”
She grabs the pink CD and pushes it in the player, skipping to No.6. (We’d deemed it “our” song shortly after I got the Mary J. Blige CD, because we both loved it and Mom thought it had a good message for me, given what I was going through with my friends.)
We turn it up, loud, and Mom taps her fingers on her knees to the beat as we sing along. When Mary sings, “Why’d I play the fool/go through ups and downs/knowing all the time/you wouldn’t be around?” Mom looks at me and says, “Just remember that you’re not a fool just because you’ve been betrayed. Don’t ever feel bad for caring about someone. Never let someone make you feel stupid for being a good person.”
I’m 25 now, but I could still use some good mom advice like that these days. So today, as I was walking down a Chicago street, I listened to that song and pretended I was 18 again, singing along with my mom in my car, driving to Target.
The song ended, and I hit the back button on my iPod shuffle. I wanted a few more minutes with her.
The early bird gets the worm
I oversleep pretty much every day. It's a disease. Luckily The New Yorker has a solution for this.
Here's the excerpt that had me giggling uncontrollably at my desk. This one isn't quite as good as bees on blow, but it'll do. Side note: I probably should quit reading the "Shouts & Murmurs" section while at work. The new intern who sits next to me clearly thinks I'm nuts. I mean, I am nuts, but she doesn't need to know that.
If only I had an elliptical:
"Whoever said that the early bird gets the worm could have been talking about me, only I’m a person, not a bird, and I’m not interested in getting worms, more like getting things done. But I do get up early. In fact, the secret to my success could be boiled down to three little words: my quiet time. It begins at 1 A.M., when I get out of bed, check my e-mail, brush my teeth, scan some documents, and floss. Then I’ll surf the Web, maybe order a sectional couch or trade zloty futures. Last week, I bought a Swiss chalet and sold it at a twenty-per-cent profit while I was still in my pajamas. I wanted to high-five someone, but no one else was awake. Sometimes I can’t remember if I’ve flossed already, so I’ll do it again, just to be sure, while checking my e-mail and maybe sending a fax. Did I mention that the early bird gets the worm? That in many ways applies to me.
By 1:03, I’ve had two cups of coffee, I’m down in my basement on the elliptical, and my heart is pounding like a cheetah’s. I know that cheetahs have a fast heart rate because I often watch Animal Planet while I’m on the elliptical, although sometimes I’ll do the picture-in-picture thing so I can watch CNBC Asia while I’m watching the thing about the cheetahs. It isn’t always about cheetahs; it’s about other animals, too, like meerkats. I just said cheetahs as a for instance. I do the elliptical naked. One time when I was on the elliptical, I patched myself into a conference call in Jakarta and accidentally hit the camera thing on my phone, so everyone wound up seeing me in the buff, all flopping around and everything. Another time when I was on the elliptical, I saw an amazing documentary about cheetahs.
While I’m on the elliptical and maybe ordering a hovercraft online, I’ll drain a six-pack of Red Bull. Red Bull Red Bull Red Bullybullybull. Then I’ll call London. I don’t have any business in London, but I have a London phone directory and I like to call people at random. It helps me clear my head. You’d be surprised, though, how some people in London will get totally honked off if you call them out of the blue just to say “What’s up?” It’s not an anti-American thing; sometimes I’ll call them with a fake British accent and say “Tallyho!” and they’ll still get pissed. They’ll act like it’s the middle of the night, even though with the time change and everything it’s already 6 A.M. But even if they tell me to go fuck myself it recharges my batteries."
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
More Recommended Reading
If you don't feel like committing to reading Love in the Time of Cholera, at the very least, check out this short story by Julie Schumacher from The Atlantic's fiction issue.
But you really should read Love in the Time of Cholera. I finished it yesterday, and the ending was even better than I expected. Great last line.
In conclusion, I am a huge nerd.
But you really should read Love in the Time of Cholera. I finished it yesterday, and the ending was even better than I expected. Great last line.
In conclusion, I am a huge nerd.
Pedestrian Perils
Since I spent a large chunk of the morning hiding behind my hair because I couldn’t keep my eyes open, I decided I better make a quick Starbucks run. (Now, spare me the Starbucks lecture—it’s only a block away from my office. Get off my back.)
So, granted, I’m a little sleepy, and granted, I was checking my voice mail, but I was still aware of my surroundings as I started to cross the street. I had the right-away. The little walking man was blinking at me as I stepped off the sidewalk. I’m almost halfway across the street when I am forced to jump backwards because a bus turning left was barreling around the corner, ready to run me over. (AM I INVISIBLE? I’m wearing a bright red shirt. What the eff.) Seriously, though, I had to leap out of the way. I didn’t think I was capable of leaping, but apparently when it’s a choice between death by bus and leaping, I’m a leaper.
My “ohmygodi’mgoingtodieonthestreet” thought process was abruptly terminated when I made eye contact with the bus driver as I leapt out of death’s way. She was glaring at me. Excuse me? You almost murdered me because you’re speeding around a corner, not paying attention to pedestrians crossing the street, and you’re glaring at ME?
I hate that bus driver. I have a sneaking suspicion that if she had actually run me over, she would have just kept driving.
I was so shaky, cranky, and irritated that not only did I almost die by bus on a Chicago street, I got a dirty look from my potential murderer, that when I reached Starbucks I went into panic mode and bought one of those giant chocolate cookies with my cappuccino.
I’m not hungry. I don’t want a cookie. I had French toast for breakfast. But considering I made it the whole block back to the office without being run over, and my $4 cappuccino was only half-full (seriously, Starbucks?), I deserve this cookie, dammit.
It might sound like I’m joking, or exaggerating slightly, but seriously, I almost died. My heart is still racing.
I’M AWAKE NOW! THANK YOU, BUS DRIVER!
So, granted, I’m a little sleepy, and granted, I was checking my voice mail, but I was still aware of my surroundings as I started to cross the street. I had the right-away. The little walking man was blinking at me as I stepped off the sidewalk. I’m almost halfway across the street when I am forced to jump backwards because a bus turning left was barreling around the corner, ready to run me over. (AM I INVISIBLE? I’m wearing a bright red shirt. What the eff.) Seriously, though, I had to leap out of the way. I didn’t think I was capable of leaping, but apparently when it’s a choice between death by bus and leaping, I’m a leaper.
My “ohmygodi’mgoingtodieonthestreet” thought process was abruptly terminated when I made eye contact with the bus driver as I leapt out of death’s way. She was glaring at me. Excuse me? You almost murdered me because you’re speeding around a corner, not paying attention to pedestrians crossing the street, and you’re glaring at ME?
I hate that bus driver. I have a sneaking suspicion that if she had actually run me over, she would have just kept driving.
I was so shaky, cranky, and irritated that not only did I almost die by bus on a Chicago street, I got a dirty look from my potential murderer, that when I reached Starbucks I went into panic mode and bought one of those giant chocolate cookies with my cappuccino.
I’m not hungry. I don’t want a cookie. I had French toast for breakfast. But considering I made it the whole block back to the office without being run over, and my $4 cappuccino was only half-full (seriously, Starbucks?), I deserve this cookie, dammit.
It might sound like I’m joking, or exaggerating slightly, but seriously, I almost died. My heart is still racing.
I’M AWAKE NOW! THANK YOU, BUS DRIVER!
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