Dear 1998...

So here's the weird thing about bringing home boxes of Random Crap you had stored for the past ten years in your parents' spare closet: you start going through it. And because the last addition of said Crap was, oh, ten years ago, you are slung Lisa Frank first into your former adolescent self. No college scrapbook to help ease you in. No pictures from your junior-year Glee Club reflecting back your image, midway through the geek-to-chic makover. Nope, it's just you. The "Before" picture.

Why in the world did I think that biker jean shorts would perfectly balance out an XL sweatshirt? And, even if that hoodie had been appropriately sized, why did I choose one in hunter green with a white stick figure rollerblading across my chest? (Note: no hills to skate up or down. Just flat as I-75 towards Toledo.)

Oh Jesus, here's one where I'm wearing a GAP baseball hat, the perfectly straight bill resting on the corners of my blue-rimmed glasses. Not even a slight bend?? WHY DIDN'T SOMEONE TACKLE ME AND ROUND THAT BRIM OUT?!

I know what you're thinking: hey, why doesn't Suano post those pictures? I bet they're a riot! You're right. They are. But you've sadly underestimated my level of vanity. Those pictures enjoyed living in that Keds shoe box for the past ten years. They can spend another decade under the cover of darkness.

So here's another peculiar nostalgic quanddry: I moved a few times growing up. In order to stay in touch with friends living time zones away, I wrote letters. Tons of letters. And remember, this was the mid-nineties. Which means actual pieces of mail. Obviously I don't have any of the letters I wrote, but I did save all of the letters I received. So, in my Crap Excavation, I come across a bunch of envelopes bundled together in a Lisa Frank tin. (Remember those drawings, the ones with so many blazing jewel tones that even after looking away you could still see the outline of the penguins hugging it out?)

Looking through the letters, all crinkly and stamped and weathered, I feel a twinge of excitement. Those pictures of that young girl, all angles and squint? That girl wasn't me. THESE letters are Me! The writings of my friends will paint a much more accurate portrait, seen through their high-schooled eyes. It's like when you write a letter to your future self, without all of that pressure of high expectations. (Dream job, dream date, dream life.) I pick up the first envelope, unsheath the piece of notebook paper -- wide ruled? really? -- and sit down to meet the real Suano, circa 1998.

...

Wait, first I have to tell you how my friend addresed the envelope:

To: The Girl with the Great Profile (So apparently I was making self deprecating jokes about my schnoz even back then.)

From: Scary Spice (So apparently we used to like the Spice Girls...this does not bode well for the rest of the letter.)

Okay, here's the letter, verbatim:

......

Yo Suz!

It was totally fantastic to get a letter from you. For awhile there I thought you weren't getting my letters or something. Lesson #1: I'm a terribly unreliable penpal. 1st of all, I totally agree with you on the Berg situation. His new look is hot, but the show kinda sucks now. Lesson #2: I had -- okay, have -- an unhealthy obsession with Ryan Reynolds, so much so that I was willing to watch that terrible sitcom Two Guys, A Girl, and A Pizza Place just to get a piece of that Canadian eye candy. So you think your first concert sucked? Wait, my first rock concert was in 1998? I was chillaxing at concerts as a freshman? Rock on. Our choir concert was bad too. Crap. We had about two weeks to learn the music cuz we had just given an extra concert for Katie, that girl who died two years ago. No idea who this is. I have no soul. Then, because of the flooding, the auditorium was wet and skwishy. The principals said their was a foot of water and a fish in there. It also smelled like toilet water. Well, it WAS in Houston. Sounds about right.

Keeping with the topic of choir -- Region is tomorrow. The songs SUCK! Leonard Bernstein thought he was the almighty powerful composer which gave him the right to write in time signatures such as: 9/2, 10/4, 12/2, 7/4, 5/4, 3/2, 3/4, 5/8, 6/4, 3/8. Just because the song is in 3 movements, in Hebrew, and 41 pages long does not give him the right to use 12 different time signatures.

Now that I have that off my chest! On to happy things -- on Monday I get my license! Ohh, ahh! I can drive MY car with MY friends where I choose to go. Wait, what about that rule where new drivers can't have any other teenagers in the car? Oh wait, that happened later. Six years later. However,  I have to get a job. Er! (I'm doing the evil eye too.) I'll probably work at a movie place. I hope I'll work at a movie place. What other professions were you considering Rachel? Street walker?

****
A day has passed and now I'm at Region at Westfield. Oooo, can you feel the excitement? The cuts are good. God I remember hating those. So far I've had 3 1/2 bottels of water and peed/(peed)sp? 3 times. Um, Rachel, "peed" is correct, but you should also be concerned about the whole "bottels" spelling choice. It's becoming excessive.

Oh, about the Celebrity Death Match about the feet, I think I did see it. Wait, WHAT? I do actually remember feeling quite disturbed by one episode of that claymation UFC show where Jerry Springer (maybe) sawed off the feet of his competitor (Oprah?) and herlittle shin bones were left sticking out. But why in the world did I include it in a LETTER to someone? It seems everyone has taken up the idea of feet. Did people not believe it before? Were feet the climate change of the 1990's? One day Sara and Nick were comparing feet and I had to leave because I started laughing. Then Nick kept saying, "What? What does shoe size mean?" He asked Tina and she was like, "It doesn't matter, it's nothing." I almost died. Good to  know that we all finally discovered that sophomoric urban legend before we were sophomores. We always were ahead of our time...

Marques says, hi, and how are the polka-dot dresses. Ten bucks says Marques is now designing said dresses. And they are FABULOUS! Brandy says hi too and Angela asked you to call her last year after District. You didn't. Shame shame! So at least I've been consistent in that arena of my life over the years. David has the BIGGEST feet in his family!! Okay, seriously, what is up with all the Feet Talk?

Also, for my B-Day, I got -- count 'em -- 2 soundtracks. Look what you've started! That's true, I have always been a proponent of buying soundtracks and scores. Look no further than my CD tower, which boasts not only Romeo + Juliet Volume 2, but ER: The Television Score. I got the second volume of the Wedding Singer soundtrack. ...sniff sniff ... so proud... Also, I got the Grease soundtrack. It was long overdue. Damn straight. I've had "It's Raining on Prom Night" stuck in my head for about a week now. The talking part of that song is VERY CHEESY! "Oh God, make him feel the way I feel." It's almost as bad as "Sandy, you hurt me real bad." Talk about bad grammer. Um, seriously. Handwriting a letter is no excuse for a lack of spell check. Oh, wait, we probably didn't use spell check back then. My bad. It's time to SAVE THE ADVERB! Please help save the adverb by adding it to one out of every 5 words you write or say.

Well, to bring back, some-ly memories, today I was watching Rosie (Ah, remember that time when Rosie O'Donnell was a lovably bland talk show host with a crush on Tom Cruise? ) and these girls were reciting how much they love the Backstreet Boys. Uhk. Anyway, she said, "I bet you even know their shoe sizes." The first thing that came to mind was, "You people are sick." No, wait! That's me.

N-E-Who this letter has gotten totally out of control. So -- it's time to go!

Everyone misses you!

Rachel

P.S. Push out the love! Bring in the jive!

...

So apparently in high school I was an slightly unreachable choir nerd who got freaked out by violent animation, loved soundtracks, and planned to marry Ryan Reynolds.

I am exactly the same as my 1998 self.

Eh, evolution is highly overrated.

Reunited And It Feels So Good

Mmmm, the first day of fall classes at The University. Campus is once agan alive with students, as if a summer-long concert just ended and the crowd of 50,000 streams across High Street en masse. Crosswalks have gone back to being merely suggestions, parking spaces are an endangered species, and pajama pants abound. (Oddly, no spotting of any pajama jeans. Yet.)

With the students comes the residence hall move-in.
With the residence hall move-in comes the re-opening of cafeteria lines and campus eateries.
Which means only one thing to this Student Affairs Professional:

Southie is back, baby!

Hey good lookin', can I offer you a light?

Now, friends, if you have spent any length of time with me on campus, you know of my love affair with the Southwest Chicken Sandwich.

And I do mean love affair. It's not that I simply love Southie. I am IN love with Southie. Love at first bite.

I know, I know! It sounds cuh-RAZY! I mean, how can a person know something like that in an instant? Oprah explained to me years ago that love is an emotion that builds over time through shared experiences and a deep appreciation for each other's uniqueness. Isn't what others refer to as instantaneous love simply a socially acceptable mechanism to justify superficial, carnal lust?

Soul mates, pshaw. As if those even exist. And then, one day, my stomach grumbled...

It was a normal afternoon on campus. I had wisely packed a lunch the night before and stored it in the fridge, where it remained as I drove off to work in the morning. Since I found myself sans brown bag, I decided to wander down to the local campus cafe. Standing in line, in an attempt to avoid advisees with course enrollment slips in their hot little hands --Kid, I don't have a computer in my purse, I can't add a class-- I perused the menu.

 (PSA: "Peruse" doesn't mean what you probably think it means.  Look it up. And, in the future, when someone throws it into conversation incorrectly, take note. Feel that satisfying sense of superiority? You're welcome.) ****** The More You Knooooow*******

I settled on the only sandwich that didn't involve mustard, mushrooms, or something uncomfortably unknown called a "Pretzel Roll." I slung my order across the counter, shouting "the southwestern something-or-other!" and made my way down the off-ramp to the waiting corral. As the minutes passed, I looked around at my foreseeable future: cooling my high heels in a crowd of sneakering teenagers. Properly attired and yet overly proper amidst the herd of hoodies and frayed-hemmed jeans that pawed the ground like denim Clydesdales. Me, a deviant in dress slacks.

The University works its marketing team overtime to drill into every student's head that they are Not Just A Number, and yet I had never been happier to have my number called. I waded through the bookbagged masses, plucked the white paper bag from the clerk and headed back to my office. I planned to scarf down the sandwich at my desk as I intermittently answered panicky parental emails. I unwrapped the sandwich with one hand as I clicked my way though my inbox, distractedly taking a first bite.



Me and Southie, chillaxing with our buddy DC.


And then it happened.

It's like ... I wasn't alone anymore. It's really an indescribable moment, you know? Where you meet for the first time, everything goes in slow motion and you just ... click. You realize that any sense of happiness you felt before this was just an empty shadow. THIS is happiness. When we're together, I feel safe. I feel loved. I feel like I'm riding a sparkly unicorn across a star-filled sky. Even better than that. It's like...Southie just GETS me.

And I appreciate everything about Southie. The toasted bread, the peppered chicken, the way Southie's cheese melts into the chipotle sauce, filling every lettuce nook and tomato cranny. And even after all these years, Southie still manages to surprise me! Pops a roasted red pepper flake my way. It's like Southie wants to keep things spicy, not let us lose that spark. It's just like Southie to think of that, you know? So attentive!

I mean, sure, there are downsides. For example, every three months or so Southie has to be out of town for a few weeks and never seems to be able to explain why. Then there are the long summer breaks where Southie leave for weeks on end. Even with the heat, I feel so cold. But hey, you know what they say: if you love something, you let it go. And Southie has always come back to me. I, in return, ask no questions. Relationships require trust. Sometimes, when you love a sandwich, you have to learn to look the other way. (I don't see my friend Ronald asking any questions of the McRib.)

The other downside: Southie is a bit moody. Sometimes saucy, other times dry and zestless. Also, Southie smokes. It bothered me a bit at first, but Southie always tells me it's the way to stay so young and spicy. Trust me, I never thought I'd be with a smoker! But, as Sammi and Ronnie from Jersey Shore have taught me, relationships are all about compromise. Nobody's perfect.  And Southie needs me, just like I need Southie. I mean, we're not co-dependent or anything. I don't care what my coworkers say. Sure, we could live without each other. But why would we do that when our sense of worth is so much easier to get from one another? WHY, I ASK YOU?!

It's been four years and we're still going strong. By far the most successful relationship I've ever had. The most fulfilling, the most satisfying, the most validating. Pretzel rolls may come, barbecue chips may go. But Southie and I will be there. So Southie, here's to us. Until menu change do us part.

An Open Letter

If you have never stumbled upon (or StumbledUpon.com'ed) the site McSweeney's, (www.mcsweeneys.net/tendency) you really need to . Seriously. It's loads better than the crap you're going to get on this site. One of the best sections is entitled, "Open Letters To People Or Entities Who Are Unlikely To Respond." Examples include:

- An Open Letter to Walgreens
- An Open Letter to Emails Requesting Volunteers for Office Events
 - An Open Letter to a Friend Who Prolifically Sends Me No Fewer Than Four StumbleUpon Links a Day

(Okay, that last one hurt. I know who you are, and I sincerely thought that you'd enjoy that interactive guide to the evolution of a hipster. From now on, when you want to figure out if plaid is geek or geek chic, you are on your own.)

It's actually a pretty great creative idea, with the added bonus that it allows you to let off a little steam. In fact, this afternoon, I thought of an open letter I'd like to send out to a special someone ...


An Open Call To My Personal Greeting On My Office Phone Voicemail

Dear Voicemail,

Hi it's ... oh ... yeah, I don't want to leave a ... um ... if I could just talk to you for a sec--

BEEP!

Hi. It's me again. Sorry that I keep missing you, I must be calling at bad times. Anyway, I just have one question I'd like to ask you:

Who the hell do you think you are?

That's right, voice on my voicemail. I have a beef to pick with you. I trusted you, VM. I really did. I gave you a simple message, and all you had to do was pass it along to people when I couldn't pick up the phone. And what did you do? You took my breathtakingly competent, respect-inspiring voice and snarled it through that twisty cord of yours until it plopped onto my phone ruined. Some lispy, high-pitched, shaky shadow of its former glory. I know everyone's voice never sounds exactly right when played back. But come on. Now when people call in, they are going to think that this office is inhabited by Papa Smurf after he just got kicked in the Smurfberries.

Listen, VM. We're a team here, representing this office. I did my part. I spoke slowly. I pronounced T's I normally zip right by.  I gave you no less than four takes for each of the following: primary personal greeting, conditional personal greeting, call forwarding personal greeting, no answer personal greeting, busy line personal greeting. And I sounded AMAZING every time. Operatic almost, with a full tenor foundation and just a hint of inflection for emotion. Professional yet warm. Conversational yet concise.

And what did you do? You undermined me at every turn. You ratcheted up my salutation of "Hi!" from a chipper to hysterical. You sprinkled awkward pauses between every clause, when I SPECIFICALLY remember making smooth transitions. Seriously, you are like fluorescent lighting in a Kohl's fitting. Room: every flaw that I thought I covered, your tinny system decided to highlight and throw right back in my ear.

You've given me no choice. I'm going to hang up, call back, go into User Options, and record you again. But this is the last time. If you still show up Smurf-like, I'm going to have to resort to my last option: unplugging my phone until I get selected as a caller for NPR's "Wait Wait Don't Tell Me." First prize is an answering machine message read by baritone Carl Kasell. And he's going to kick your ass so hard, you'll wish you could go back to the good ol' days of party lines and rotary dialing.

Sincerely,

Me

To Boot or Not To Boot

It's that time of year again, when the air crisps, tongues sharpen, and the annual national debate begins again....

Has boot season commenced?

Pro Arguments                                                    

Temperatures are dipping into the mid-fifties in the evenings.

Labor Day was nearly two weeks ago.

Despite being sold-out weeks in advance, an upcoming indoor concert has not been moved to the outdoor venue for fear of inclement weather. Thus, freezing temperature are nearly upon us.

Boots shield 40% of the leg. With skirts shielding 25% to 40% of the leg as well, this leaves 35% max leg exposure, which cuts personal grooming time to barely three minutes (1:30 per limb). Think of the amount of good work I could accomplish for world peace in the extra 7 minute I'd save every morning.

September is primed with great concerts. When attending concerts, slouch boots serve as the perfect substitute for purses. Drop your keys in the left, your wallet and phone in the right, and your hands are free to cheer, chug, and fist pump. (Or "fist-punch," as apparently it's called in Ireland.)

The only jeans I have clean are of the skinny persuasion. Okay, they're actually boot-cut, but for us ladies (and hipster gents) with excessively voluptuous calves, boot-cut are de facto skinny. Skinny jeans require more volume at the ankle to provide a balanced silhouette, which is best provided by a what? That's right, boys and girls. A boot.

Con Arguments                                                    

While temperatures may sink in the evenings, I'm not wearing these boots to bed. So, when they are actually on my feet, it's daylight and possibly around eighty degrees Fahrenheit (26.67 degrees Celsius). And leather normally doesn't allow one's ankles to "breathe."

I remember hearing something somewhere that rain and suede don't get along very well.

Students on campus are still kicking around in flip-flops.

.. .. ..

The voices in my head have spoken. Boots win!

Who knew being politically engaged could be so fun and fashionable?

Tearing Toast: A Definition

A note about names:

So I have always assumed that the phrase "tearing toast" was commonly used in many circles. Apparently it's just like the Hog Trough Dance and dunking eggs: only used in my family circle. (In my defense, when your family is as large as mine is -- 42 cousins and counting -- it seems like a huge percentage of the population is using it.)

Okay, so tearing toast...

tear toast
verb + object
1. to separate a slice of bread into pieces by using forces pulled in opposite directions: Along with the fish, Jesus tears toast to share the pieces with the crowd gathered on the summit.
2. to meet a friend / family member / acquaintance at a breakfast food establishment to eat, drink, and share personal stories, with most stories incorporating a hilariously humiliating element: while tearing toast, Carries share an anecdote about her sister's "incident" in the Macy's store bathroom, causing Marilyn to snort coffee up her nose.

Feel free to start spreading the word. Toast should be torn with everyone!

Hello, My Name Is...

That's right, I'm blogging. I tried to resist. I staved off Facebook until I was two years out of graduate school. I still have yet to tweet. But the opportunity to type my ramblings on a rarely visited site in any font of my choosing? For FREE? This is what it feels like to be an American.

I sense that the first entry for any blog is supposed to have some kind of mission statement for the whole endeavor, a founding charter or something. Well, here's the long and short of it: I've hit the character limit on Facebook one too many times. Some things require elaboration, Zuckerberg, and your fascist rationing of 400 characters per status update is just not cutting it anymore. Plus, I need to tone up those creative muscles. So, unfortunately for you, you may find that reading entries will be akin to sitting on a bench, slurping an iced coffee, peering through the wall-sized windows at seemingly insane creatures in the the gym across the street. Granted, workout voyeurism can definitely be entertaining. But, as the creators of LOST taught us, for every shirtless Sawyer, a Hurley must fall. Fair warning: there will be some days where this online workout facility will feature the equivalent of some Pillsburied soul sweating and straining to hold the plank position. Forearms shaking, knees buckling, neck rolls straining to beat each other to the chin finish line. That human can of popped biscuits is me. And I see you with that iced mocha, all toned eloquence and a six-pack of witticisms you maintain with a short jog every two weeks...

See? That last metaphor? Now you understand what I'm up against.

So welcome to this little blog! If you have enjoyed the emails and letters I've sent over the years, documenting my (mostly) embarrassing moments and (biannually) insights, this will be familiar territory. For those of you who have not enjoyed said emails, I understand if this first visit will be your last. Just make sure to follow me on your way out. :-)

By the way, for those of you who have ever started your own blog, riddle me this: did you feel a huge sense of pressure about the particulars of your personal Internet home? Or is that just me? Because I literally spent hours trying to find the perfect color palate to complement a picture of toast. I even drafted seven versions of just that small caption below the blog title. Seven. For example, here was my first draft:

Seriously. That was Draft One. Seven versions later, I decided to go with the one currently displayed at the top of the page. Yes, that is a quote from Nacho Libre, the titular character of the 2006 Jack Black joint. And yes, by that point I was willing to accept any port in the storm. Even a port dressed up as a masked Mexican professional wrestler.