Silver and Gold, etc.

For some reason, I've always really hated that Girl Scouts song that goes, "make new friends but keep the old--one is silver and the other is gold." I don't know why it rankles me. Actually, yes, I do know: it's a really dweeby song, and people are all the time using it against you when you're just trying to mind your business and be mad at somebody.

For instance, Jane and I have fought a bit in the 20 years we've known each other. Now, ya'll know Jane's my soul sister and everything. I seriously couldn't love that lady more if I had given birth to her myself, and she's both the second person I would call if I got put in jail (Bryan being first, obvs) and the only person whose puke I might consider cleaning up besides Odessa's. HOWEVER, Jane can be unbelievably provoking. (Jane, honey: I know you're reading this, but let's face it--your silent treatment is brutal.) On a couple of occasions (ahem. March-April, 1996; July, 2001; a good chunk of 2003-2004), I was pretty sure we'd never love again. And during those tempestuous times, my mom would be like, "How's Jane?" and I would be like, "Oh, I don't know--probably out somewhere disemboweling a pygmy hippo or yanking the eyeballs out of baby hedgehogs for her witch's potion or something." And my mom would kind of frown and then sing that damn song and I would be like JESUS HELL SHUT UP MOM.

But now that I'm old-ish, I kind of see that when Odessa gets to be 15 and hates her best friend for a while because of something trifling, I'll probably trudge sheepishly in my own mother's footsteps and sing her that stupid song, or at the very least give her some suspiciously adjacent advice. Because here's the thing: old friends are dead useful. For one thing, even though Jane and I have been terrible to one another from time to time, we've also made each other better people. Cheesy but true. Also, old friends usually know your family, or at least the backstory to most stuff, so you don't have to explain everything all the time. And that's nice.

Plus! Old friends remember different stuff than you. Case in point: my dear friend Missy Sue was visiting this weekend. Missy is one of my top 5 favorite people of all time and I've known her since my freshman year of college when she persuaded me to cook gnocchi in the electric tea kettle in my dorm room, which ruined the kettle, but whatever. What I love about Missy is that she's wise, hilarious and when she's allergic to something her lips puff up really big like croissants. Another thing I love about Missy is that our memories hitch onto completely different things. For instance, she remembers coming to my family's house for Thanksgiving one year in which all of the following things happened:

• A pie caught fire and had to be stamped out on the kitchen floor.
  
• We ate quail eggs.
• In attendance was a large, redheaded English farmer who demanded that someone prepare Watergate Salad.
• My mom whipped up a Watergate Salad, which is basically just green jello set in bundt pan with canned pineapple and marshmallows trapped in it. (Mom grew up in the 50's with a mother who regularly served Baked Alaska, so of course she knows about Jello molds).
  
• We played touch football.
• Ma's then-partner Mercedes wore a different fuzzy pastel angora sweater every day Missy was there.
• There was a pot-bellied pig roaming around the house.

I remember none of this, although I can't say I'm surprised by any of it. But see? Now I can suspect I remember it!

So, I'm just saying the song is probably right, even though someone should write another song. I think the Girl Scouts of America would benefit.

Note: the photograph above is not of Jane or Missy Sue, but of me and Jennifer, who was my freshman roommate in college, and whom I still love to this day. It appears to have been taken in November of 1996. I appear to be icing a cookie. I have no memories of this event. Next time I see Jennifer, I'm going to ask her what the hell was going on in this picture.

My So-Called Life

Please don't make fun of me.

So, I have a thing for My So-Called Life, which only aired for one season in 1994. I was 16 at the time, and every single episode (with the exception of the stupid Christmas special and the one about the substitute teacher with the Bronx accent at the beginning of the episode and the English accent by the end) gave me heart palpitations. For 5 months I couldn't complete homework or get to sleep at a reasonable hour on Thursday nights because I was so worked up over Angela Chase's love life. Her love life was that good.

But seriously, MSCL holds up. And I marvel at the fact that a 40-year-old woman (Winnie Holzman) could make up a show about being a teenager, and totally nail it: the sublime highs, the wretched lows. When I was 16, I loved that show with my entire being. Actually, I still do, and I'm a grown ass woman.

So, I yesterday I found this, and it made me feel sad. Because is there no aspect of pop culture that is safe from mean, ironic white guys from Canada?

But you know what? Screw those Canadians. Because you can watch the entire series on Hulu for free for three more days, and I'm on vacation until next Tuesday. So Angela Chase's love life and I will be seeing you later.

Happy New Year!

Narcissistic Narwhal

My friend Katherine of Doodoo-vania fame has a blog called I'm Super, Thanks for Asking. It's really funny and you should read it.

Anyway, Katherine's a community college teacher, and the above picture is a little something she drew while she was grading exams, so OF COURSE she scanned it and put it on her blog.

And then after that she ended up finding a bag of hooker wigs outside her house (she didn't actually see the hooker[s] in question unloading the wigs, but has cause to believe they exist in a boarded-up trailer at the end of her street). She posted a photo of the wig bag on Facebook with a note "Come and get you one!" Which gave me the giggles.

Anyway, here's a photo of the hooker wigs because I figured you'd be curious:


You're welcome.

Women Who Are Good at Stuff

Someone I can really get behind is Edna St. Vincent Milay. She wrote simple poems about simple things from the perspective of the self I wish I could be all the time. Are you imperfect but also hate to be mad at yourself? Well, Edna's got a poem for you!

The Penitent

I had a little Sorrow,
Born of a little Sin,
I found a room all damp with gloom
And shut us all within;
And, "Little Sorrow, weep," said I,
"And, Little Sin, pray God to die,
And I upon the floor will lie
And think how bad I've been!"

Alas for pious planning - -
It mattered not a whit!
As far as gloom went in that room,
The lamp might have been lit!
My little Sorrow would not weep,
My little Sin would go to sleep --
To save my soul I could not keep
My graceless mind on it!

So I got up in anger,
And took a book I had,
And put a ribbon on my my hair
To please a passing lad,
And, "One thing there's no getting by --
I've been a wicked girl," said I:
"But if I can't be sorry, why,
I might as well be glad!"

Oh, Edna! So Bohemian and yet so sensible!

Also, this is one of my very favorite poems:

Recuerdo

We were very tired, we were very merry–
We had gone back and forth all night on the ferry.
It was bare and bright, and smelled like a stable–
But we looked into a fire, we leaned across a table,
We lay on a hill-top underneath the moon;
And the whistles kept blowing, and the dawn came soon.

We were very tired, we were very merry–
We had gone back and forth all night on the ferry;
And you ate an apple, and I ate a pear,
From a dozen of each we had bought somewhere;
And the sky went wan, and the wind came cold,
And the sun rose dripping, a bucketful of gold.

We were very tired, we were very merry,
We had gone back and forth all night on the ferry.
We hailed, “Good morrow, mother!” to a shawl-covered head,
And bought a morning paper, which neither of us read;
And she wept, “God bless you!” for the apples and pears,
And we gave her all our money but our subway fares.

So, now you know about that dead woman who was good at stuff.
Now, here's an alive woman who is good at stuff:

For about three weeks now, I have ONLY been listening to Sharon Van Etten, which is some kind of record for me. I just don't get tired of her. She's preternaturally good at writing songs that sound simple and clean, but then you're like, how the hell did she do that? Anyway, I think she might be a witch.

She was on NPR's Tiny Desk Concert this week, and I was so pumped about it until I discovered that she brought [REDACTED*] with her to the studio who did nothing but [REDACTED] behind her for 15 minutes. Yeah, that was way harsh, Jesslyn. But you know what? YOU watch it and tell me I don't have a point:




Anyway, I hereby proclaim this Women Who Are/Were Good At Stuff, Even if They're Dead Day!

Do you have anyone you'd like to nominate?

*Redacted by the Mean Police, ie. my husband

Grit Manifesto

I have a kind of slavish loyalty to this restaurant in Athens called The Grit. It's a vegetarian restaurant that fries most things they don't drown in butter and/or cheese. Their cakes are sublime and if I weren't already married, I would consider starting a life with one of them. The wait staff is, by in large, both magnificent looking and theatrically unpredictable. An intoxicating combination.

My friend Lane loves to argue with people--it's just his idea of having a meaningful conversation--and sometimes he'll saunter over to me at a party and say, "So, The Grit. Mediocre food, the waiters are pricks, it's loud in there. Also, they don't serve meat."

As a general rule, I don't engage in conversations about about politics or The Grit, just in case it turns ugly. But I'll tell you guys why I love The Grit and I'll refer Lane to this post whenever he brings it up, just like my Granny refers people to her memoirs every time they ask for specifics about things that happened in 1923.

Well, first of all, LANE, the food is actually like the Milk of Paradise that has been drizzled on some ambrosia. And then rolled in nutritional yeast, fried in butter and sprinkled with cheese. Either that's your thing or it's not. It just happens to be my thing.

Secondly, when I was in high school I was one of those vegetarians who didn't eat any vegetables. My diet consisted mainly of Wendy's hamburgers without any meat inside them, frozen waffles and scrambled eggs. It's a wonder I survived. But The Grit was like Xanadu. I could eat anything and I liked everything, and if there was anything too botanical hidden within, I didn't notice. I am thankful for that.

Third: Lane actually has a point about the staff. Once I had an experience at The Grit wherein my table mistakenly neglected to tip the waiter, and he dealt with the situation by busting out the back door of the restaurant as we walked away, hollering profanities. He apologized after we gave him some money, and the only explanation I can give for his behavior is that he was profoundly drunk. I still see that guy every week, and he's never done anything like that since. In fact, he seems kind of shy.

But there's something about people who work there that I really like. No, they're not super nice all the time, but there's something respectable about them. Like even though they are bringing you a bowl of fried tofu in a minute, they're not going to get all waiter-y on you.

Also, I think they purposely hire strange and extravagant looking people. Years ago, Amber Valentine, the guitarist in Jucifer (which is the loudest band you've ever heard in person), worked there. Every day she wore fake eyelashes, 6 inch platform boots, a skintight tube dress and this Dolly Parton wig. At least I think it was a wig. She must have spent over an hour every morning applying her make up with a spackling knife, but she had a dedication to her craft that I admire.

The Fourth and Final: I get take out from The Grit pretty much every Friday evening. I call in my order beforehand, and the guy knows my voice over the phone. I walk in and the sunlight comes in the front window a certain way that lights up the pies so they wear little halos. It smells good in there, but it's not a food smell, really. If Odessa's with me, some waiters flirt with her and we walk around and look at the paintings they have up that week. Claudia's the weekend manager there, so she comes and sits with me while I wait for my food, and there's always the swinging sound of the door to the kitchen opening and closing, and voices echoing off the tall plaster walls. There's a waiter on a ladder adding something to the specials board with a wet piece of chalk. Led Zeppelin or The Shins or Rufus Wainwright is playing kind of soft in the background. Somebody I know walks up and says hello. And it's that's how I know it's Friday.

And I love Friday.