Twig and Berries

As is the tradition in my family, the member who just recently moved into a new place is required to host the next family holiday gathering. I actually like the pressure: it's just the motivation I need to actually get pictures hung, walls painted, and baseboards swept. (Really, if the dust wants to settle there, I see no reason to disturb it.) Plus, it's nice to have extended family over. Once a year. (I'm way too lazy for more than an annual event. Cleaning involves way too much cardio.)

Since I moved into Chateau Suano in mid-July, the first holiday to roll around is Thanksgiving. That is perfectly fine with me: fall is my favorite season and Thanksgiving is actually my favorite holiday. No pressure to come up with Christmas presents for relatives with undecipherable tastes, no church service to wedge in that morning or the night before. Just a good old-fashioned American holiday with distant, glossed-over connections to crimes against an entire race of indigenous people. But, despite those contradictions of ideals, I love Thanksgiving. Well, the cartoon version. I fall for the kitsch of the holiday every year.

Exhibit A:

I make my mom spend two hours Wednesday night cutting out a flock of hand turkeys, decorating each one for a specific family member and nestling something the person was grateful for under its wing. Which leads to a very insightful conversation between us about whether my sister's item of thanks (she's expecting her first kid in spring) should be drawn as an egg (me) or a miniature turkey (mom). My mom wins, despite my multiple attempts to point out that an egg HAS a miniature turkey inside it. I'm still not sure if my mom knows where baby turkeys come from.

Get the flock out of here!

Exhibit B:

Dad, upon returning from a bag-of-ice run: "Hey, I was walking into UDF and I saw a guy in a hat loading-"

Me, completely serious: "A pilgrim hat?! Like with a buckle?"

Dad, staring at me with a mixture of bewilderment and pity: "Um, no. Just a regular baseball hat."


The one downside to Thanksgiving: while other holidays can have a bounty of different food options, Thanksgiving has just one item on the menu: turkey. An entire bird: bones, gizzards and all.

Tom: you can try but you can't hide. We have a date at eight.

We always call ours Tom the Turkey. Since I only recently developed the ability to touch raw chicken without shivering, the prospect of attacking an entire fowl is terrifying. Especially a bird with a name. Adding to the pressure is the fact that I will be hosting a dinner of thirteen, which includes one current and one former lineman. If the bird preparation run afoul  (I'm not above using that joke), I don't think a back-up plan of Skillet Sensations and Pop-Tarts will work. And if you think I'm exaggerating (I'm not above that either), here's photographic evidence of who I'm going to have to feed:

That's not some Peter Jacksonian magic. He literally has to look DOWN to see the top of my fridge.

So, very graciously, my parents volunteer to come down the night before and help me with Operation Feast 2011.

Thanksgiving Day. 0800 hours. It is just Tom versus my mom and me. Tom, defrosted and sitting in the sink, has assumed the position. I have my Turkey socks up and my game face on.



Suited Up. Turkeybowl 2011 has begun.

I have steeled myself to remove the giblets myself. We never use them in the stuffing or gravy anyway. All I have to do is reach in and pull out the bag of innards and immediately throw them into the trash. I even see the corner of the organ sack-o-gold peeking out. I pinch the tiny tab of plastic between my fingers, put the trash can at the ready, and fling poor Tom's guts into the garbage.

Boom! Tom, you just got served! Let's drop this motherfowler into a pan, sling it into the oven, and kick back for the next 2 1/2 to 3 hours.

Little do I know, the giblets are just the start of the crimes against aviary I am about to witness. Seriously, someone should have told me how far we would have to violate this bird. Now I understand why so many mothers spend the holidays crying into their wine glasses.



I'm sure there are other, more culinary ways to describe what we do to Tom, but here's my crude attempt:

• Remove innards.
• Also remove neck, which is conveniently packed inside his body cavity. (I immediately think of how I flip socks together when folding them. I'll never look at laundry day the same way again.)
• Hang him upside-down and rightside-up, making sure the water running through his dead carcass is clear.
• Pluck any last remaining feather quills off of him. (Very poor shaving job, he should invest in one of those Venus Divine razors, they have three blades for a silky smooth finish. Well, should have. Too late now.)
• Castrate him. It might have been something else but, given its location, I can only assume what we are cutting off is at least partially twig-and-berries. I immediately text my cousin, who is also preparing her first full turkey feast. Her response: "No directions say to do that! Why would they leave that part out??"
• Break his shoulders so his wings prop up behind his would-be head. It gives him the appearance of working it for a Sports Illustrated Swimsuit catalog.
• Shove a celery stick up his ass. On second thought, add an onion as well for good measure.
• Rub oil on his chest, which is also disturbingly connected to a bikini photo shoot.

I would have taken a picture, but I figured the images might come back to haunt me if I ever decide to run for political office or Petland sales rep. Although, to be honest, most of the pictures wouldn't be incriminating. They would just show me jumping from foot to foot, hands wringing from the ickiness while my mom patiently works on the bird, all the while smiling in amusement at my lack of kitchen street smarts.

Tom, catching a few rays before his close-up.

The rest of the feast preparation goes off without a hitch. The stuffing bubbles happily in the crock pot. The mashed potatoes fluff up into creamy peaks. Even Tom is ready to go ahead of schedule, so there is plenty of time to cut up the meat. I again opt to act as photographer instead of carver, although I do help to clean some scraps off the bones. I sneak a taste, prying a morsel of meat right off of Tom's sternum. It tastes good. While I'm chewing I think, hmmm. I bet this is what it feels like to be Republican. Like the way sipping Snowville Creamery organic nonhomogenized whole milk makes me feel Democratic. (Equal Time Rule satisfied.)

Geneva Conventions Be Damned

Three hours later, everyone has pigged out on three courses: appetizers, the feast, and dessert. Everyone  has ate, drank, and been sarcastically merry. And, as is our own family tradition, pillows come out, floor areas are claimed, and the siestas begin.

How the mighty have fallen.

 

By seven, leftovers are stowed away, hugs are given, and centerpieces (ironically, vases filled with twigs and berries) are tossed. A quiet sense of peace drifts back into my home. Another day of lovely memories to razz each other about at the next holiday: the chocolate pie none of us could take down, the copious amounts of cheese left over, the barbs exchanged between cousin and uncle. All wonderful things to  remember and bring up later. Come to think of it, there was one thing my mom told me to not forget or I would regret it. Hmm. What was it? Something about the oven? The crockpot?

Wait, what's that smell ... the turkey bones! Put them in the garbage can outside!

And, in one last act of insult, I unceremoniously dump Tom's remains into the trash, wishbone and all. No wish would be worth facing that assault on the senses.

Happy Thanksgiving To All, And To All A Good Night!

Turkey Day 2011

By Their Powers Combined...

In this time of Thanksgiving, it seems like the perfect opportunity to give thanks to an amazing superhero in my life. A superhero that has rescued me in my time of need and transformed me from Scared Home Owner to Empowered Home Dominator: Captain Plan-It.

The Planiteers? My mom and dad.

Sure, they may seem like mere mortals. But ... when their powers combine ...  They! Are! Captain Plan-It! A whirlwind of weekend warrior productivity!

And, as a newbie homeowner, I am in desperate need of a saving grace. I was the dream apartment dweller. I was quiet. I didn't take up extra parking spaces. I left cookies and chilled water out for the maintenance man. But as a homeowner? I'm a disaster. I have no instincts for it. Take mowing the lawn. I must have left my spatial capacities back in my apartment because I wind up mowing parts of the yard twice while leaving little grass mohawks spiking up in my wake. The metallic grinding sound rattling out of the lawn mower? I deduce that the sound means the mower is thirsty for more oil, not gas. (Wrong.)

But my parents? They are seasoned professionals. And together they make an unstoppable team.

Any weekend my mom comes down, I know I'm going to have to either carbo-load or Red Bull to keep up with her. She is a homemaking machine with a solution for any domestic problem. For example: almost any home issue / medical ailment can be cured with either Carmex or a Magic Eraser. Chapped lips? Of course. But did you know that Carmex also cures gummy wall reside and zits? And Magic Erasers can be used both as a cleaner for your shower and a pumice for your feet?

In one 36-hour marathon session, we accomplished the following:

• bedroom painted (2 coats)
• groceries stocked
• front window sheers made
• blinds installed
• lawn mowed
• hedges whacked
• German chocolate torte cake baked
• floors swept and mopped
• six paintings hung
• mass attended
• 8 hours slept

That list would have taken a month to do in Suano Time.

My dad wields his powers in the workshop. He makes amazing furniture. Seriously. All of those childhood yawns and tantrums I used to throw in the concrete aisles of Furrows and Ace Hardware? Totally take them back. All of those road trips from the lumber store, desperately clinging to a trio of two-by-fours in the backseat of the Firebird, the boards stretching precariously out the opened trunk? Totally worth it.

My dad has literally furnished half of my new home. And the pieces are stunning! We're not talking Target-DIY-furniture-kits from the Ye Ol' Dad Workshop here. Believe me, I have some of my attempts at Some  Assembly Requireds  sprinkled throughout the house. They creak threateningly each time I walk by, daring me to rest even a coaster on their tops.

Not the ones built Dad Tough. They are solid, sturdy, and beautifully crafted. Certainly better than those macaroni-noodled Christmas ornaments I made for him in kindergarten.

Here are just a few of his pieces of handiwork...

Bookcase Masterpiece

Spice Cabinet and Granite Table

(you know, because he just had a slab laying around the house)

Bulletin Board and Writing Desk

Cabinet

As you can see, my parents are supernatural. They are clearly the Planiteers, while I am -- at best -- Suchi, that annoying side chimp sitting on their shoulder and chirping side comments while they take on the real home remedy enemies. Without them, I would be sitting in my new home. On the floor, boxes everywhere. Picking nits off myself and crying into an haggard carpet. They've helped me make my house into a home, right in time for Thanksgiving. And that is definitely worth giving thanks for.

So thank you, Mom and Dad, for being the superhero to my sidekick monkey!

Pil-Low and Behold

Since I can't sleep, I have decided to do something productive and provide the public with the valuable information of the 14 pillow combinations I have tested. For optimal sinus drainage, I recommend #11. For Eustachian tube support, #12 or #13 works best. Also keep in mind that results may be influenced by other external factors, such as thread count, moon phase, and the amount of recording space currently available on your DVR.

#1: The Continental

#2: The Lounger



#3: The Old Zinn's Wagon Shed

#4: The Half-In-Half

#5: The Catapult

#6: The Double Down

#7: The Cinnabon

#8: The Tree Mill Log Roll

#9: That's So Raven!

#10: The Inverse

#11: The Downhill Skier

#12: A La Derecha

#1: The Spork

#13: The Ostrich

#14: The Pierre

(This is used only when you have given up on the idea of ever winning the pillow war.

All restless nights lead to The Pierre.)

Phoebe Buffay Is A Lying Son-Of-A-Bitch

Remember that Friends episode, the one where Phoebe comes down with a cold? (This is Pre-Awkward-Joey-and-Rachel-Love-Digression and Pre-As-Well-As-Post-Bloated-Chandler-Bing.) Well, she gets all phlegmy and germlike right before a singing gig at Central Perk. This spells disaster, right? WRONG! In one of the show's most unexpected plot twists - seriously, it is - surprise! Her rendition of "Smelly Cat" unexpectedly takes on a smoky, alluring tone. She croons! She sidles! She knocks it out of the amateur performer park!

The illness has such a delightful effect on her voice that, after she's recovered, Phoebe goes around frenching Monica's coffee cup to lap up some of her friend's sweet, sweet streptococcus. (I love that word. Every time I hear it, I always picture all these bacterial cells wearing campaign buttons and floating into a convention center in Iowa, all the while chatting about who they think will win the straw poll.)

Well, you know that lovely Phoebe? That quirky character who mercifully stayed the hell away from any love triangle involving Ross and/or Rachel?

She was a lying son of a bitch.

For the last eight days I've had a bastard love child of a cold for, which could only have been created in a devil's three-way of Bacteria, Virus, and the jacuzzi water from the house on Jersey Shore. I've coughed. I've gagged. I've tried fourteen pillow formations to find the optimal angle for sinus drainage. I have even resorted to seeing an actual medical professional, my general physician, and tolerated his Mommy Dearest bedside manner just to get my hands on some sweet, sweet azythromacin. And the one shining beacon of light? The tattered silver lining I am desperately clingling to? That I will temporarily speak in a tone that makes men, and certain women, weak at the knees. What with all the hacking, I am sure that I'll have at least two days of sexy huskiness.

*****
Public Service Announcement: the voice is the only feature of a woman that can be described as "husky" without fear of soul-shattering retaliation. And make sure to start with the word "voice," e.g. "Wow, babe, your voice is so husky as you describe in intimate detail the argument you just had with your sister on the phone." NEVER throw Husky out there without Voice going forward first for reconnaissance.

For example: "Wow babe, you've gotten so husky in your--" This sentence has never been completed in recorded human history, due to the fact that it is always interrupted by the female ripping the male's heart out of his chest, slathering it in Nutella, and feeding it to the male's loyal dog which, as desired by the female, dies of chocolate toxic poisoning. Why kill the dog, you ask? I told you it would get all passive aggressive up in this piece.

*****

Eight days of violently hawking up mucous which, slowly sliding down the side of my sink, reminds me of Gak. Eight days. My sides are sore from the diaphragm clean and jerks. (Note to self: start using Wii Fit again.) Standing over the sink after the most recent lung assault, my reflection de-hunches into mirrored view. Hair wilted, eyes glassy, a gossamer of spit stretching from my chapped lips to my rumpled sweatshirt. I look at myself. I only have one thought.

I'm going to sound so effing hot tomorrow.

I don't. I sound like a squeak toy going through puberty. I don't even give off the the satisfying main note a squeak toy makes. I sound like the before and after: the inhalation right before the toy trumpets its shrill cry, and the exhalation once the cry has run its course. The most unsatisfying part of that generally unsatisfying toy.

What's worse, I can't even determine my level of sexy huskiness, or lack thereof. Due to my hilariously constructed sinus cavity, traffic from my nose is taking up all the drainage lanes. Now the caravan of infection in my ear can't merge. So it just sits there, parked on the Eustachian on-ramp. Nowhere to go. Traffic is backing up, eventually lining up all the way up the canal. In the past, I've had instance where these pathogen passengers have grown so frustrated  that they've gone rogue, essentially pulling a U-turn and speeding backwards up the canal, busting through my eardrum like a car chase in a Michael Bay joint.
While the release of painful pressure was nice, the screeching and ripping that accompanied it didn't seem worth it.

Then there's the fact that I'm essentially hearing impaired for the next six weeks. Well, hearing impaired to any outside sounds, that is. Any sounds from outside my head are muffled like I've stuffed my head between two sonic pillows. But everything coming from INSIDE my head sounds OBNOXIOUSLY loud and oafish. My voice, my breathing, my chewing. All of these sounds trombone their way over any meek squeak from the other side of the tympanic membrane. I interrupt people constantly. This horrifies me enough in normal social interactions. But now, with my faulty eardrums, it could take me agonizing seconds to realize that the other person has started talking. As I chat long, I look at them, and think how odd it is that this person is moving their lips around so much.

And don't get me started on phones: I can't hear them ring in the first place. I have to literally hold my breath so I can tell if that faint chime I sensed was actually the phone. Then, on the rare occasions when I catch the incoming call before it rolls to voicemail, I trip all over the conversation, never settling into that organic conversation rhythm. Eventually I just give up and start talking over the caller:

"Yeah, sure no problem okay well I'm going to go sorry I've been so awkward on the phone but it's just because I've lost some of  my hearing and even though it's just temporary I'm really struggling to hear anything but oddly my own voice sounds really loud sort of like when you're on an airplane and you can just hear yourself you know it's so weird and I've talked to my doctor but he's all Yeah I See a Tiny Little Tear It's No Big Deal but to me it feels like a huge effing deal but I don't want to complain to him because I don't want him to think I'm a wuss but I can't help but think that if his kid had a perforated eardrum on multiple occasions he would say something a hell of a lot more concerned than It's No Big Deal but that's what I get for sticking with a doctor I don't really like It just seems easier to stay with him than try to find a new provider and he does give me Z-pack prescriptions when I ask him to oh that reminds me I have to go pick up that prescription from CVS so I gotta run it was great talking to you I'll definitely work on that thing okay well talk to you later bye!"

Needless to say, the day at work does not go as planned. I allure absolutely no one with my gravelly pipes. The best I get is a faculty member stopping by to see how I'm doing. "I heard you earlier and you sounded like death."

After choking my way through my requisite eight hours at the office, I climb into my car and steer my sniffly ass onto the highway. Merging with traffic, I crank the volume knob to vibration levels just so I can actually hear the music on the radio. I fiddle with the balance, trying to calculate my hearing loss with the amount of sound I have to shift into the left speakers so the sound balances in my head. Finally I find the sweet spot and  Adele's "Someone Like You" settles between my ears. Sure, Adele. You keep your luscious pipes to yourself. Go hang out with Phoebe at open mic night.

Wait a sec ... Phoebe never claimed that her sickness and phlegm made her speech improve ... the phlegm sexified her SINGING. That's it! I bet my hoarseness will transform me from warbly church soprano to Motown crooner. I take a deep breath, wait for the piano to strike, and belt out the chorus the husky (no offense) English songbird.

Instead of smouldering, my voice cracks, breaks, and shatters all over the beginning notes. I try to push through, adding in that hand flutter I always see divas like Mariah Carey do, like they need to conduct themselves through their arpeggios. It does nothing. As I crash and burn my way to the last notes, I realize that a car to my left has pulled even with mine. The driver, a sunglassed TDH (Tall, Dark, Handsome) is staring at me, his brow furrowed. I pause, take a mental step back, and realize he's probably trying to figure out why the hell this crazy woman is shouting and shaking her hand all over the place.

Well, that settles it. I'm feverish, I'm congested, and I have a solid 25% of a hot guy's attention before he has to merge in 25% of a mile. Screw you, Phoebe, I'll take it.

My First Boy Friend

I’m not sure how Max wound up in my life. Our family didn’t drape cobwebs across the porch railings or set up fog machines in the foyer. Jack-o-lantern trash bags were as spooky as we got. So the fact that my mom gave my older sister and me a six-foot inflatable skeleton when we were in grade school seems peculiar now. But, back then, it didn't matter how he got there. He was there to stay.

Max was everything I dreamt of in a romantic lead: tall (72 inches, according to the packaging), dark, and handsome. Trim build, perfect teeth, permanent smile, quiet demeanor, easily portable.

Max wound up hanging around long after the piles of fallen leaves had been jumped in and swept away. He donned Santa Hats and clown costumes. During lazy summer months he would come with us to the pool, showing off his impeccable dead man's float. And, if the other mothers were any indication, I wasn't the only one who had my eye on him. Max was prime cougar bait. Lounging in vinyl-strapped chaises, they couldn’t take their eyes off him. That was my first taste of the primal joy one feels when one's mate is coveted by others. The perfect boy pool toy.

After a few months it occurred to me that it was a bit indecent for Max to wander around all day in his eternal birthday suit. I decided to dress him in some play clothes I had long since found too childish for my sophisticated seven-year-old palate. Propped in a chair, scooted so close that the edge of the table pressed against his inflated sternum, Max would join my sister and me for lunch. Six legs dangling down towards the sparkling laminate floor. Four limbs tanned dark from the summer months. Two limbs blazing white with neon-colored hems reaching halfway down puffed out shinbones.

Most women have difficulty identifying exactly what brought about their body image issues. Normally it’s a complicated cocktail of blame: side comments from adult figures, peer pressure from - well -  peers, and societal expectations glossily staring back from magazine covers. Mine wasn’t. It started with my skeletal best friend, straight up. If Max could fit into my Osh Koshes, I clearly needed to grow about twenty-four inches taller and no more than two inches wider. Oh, and weigh approximately half a pound. No more. After all, his name is Max.  

But Max had his own insecurities. He was clearly very self-conscious about his lack of hair, if not his lack of skin. I didn't mind at all, but I could see it bothered him. And I wanted him to feel good about himself. One day I took a blond wig, a remnant from my sister's former days as a mermaid, and Scotch taped the frizzy bleached hairpiece to Max’s skull. Despite his neck snapping back from the weight, he loved his new look. Long, ratty hair. Gaunt cheeks. Pure hair band bad boy.

Shortly after I began dressing Max, I discovered how much easier it was to put him in dresses than pants. No safety pinning of the waist (a dangerous endeavor around Max’s delicate constitution), no fishing up a pant leg for a collapsed femur. Eventually Max wound up cross dressing more and more. It was just simpler. I remember my mom recommending that we switch his name from Max to Maxine. Ridiculous, I thought. That’s a girl’s name, and Max is clearly a BOY.

Over time, though, Max started to show his age. A few months in he wasn’t as perky as he used to be. He’d feel fine in the morning, but by early afternoon, sitting at the table, he’d start to slouch. His shoulders slumped with the weight of the pastel-colored overall jumper I had wrestled him into after breakfast. When riding in the car, his chest would surrender to the seat belt, effectively folding him in half. At first I thought it was just a phase. A mid-after-life crisis. He'd eventually snap out of it. But when he didn’t even have the conviction to wear his blond hairpiece anymore, his cranium caving in from the burden, I knew it wasn’t good.

My mom tried to perform emergency surgery on him. We laid him out in the family room, his whiteness standing out in clinical contrast to the dark tan carpet. My mom pushed down on his chest while I lowered my ear close to his joints, listening for that malignant hisssss. Every time we located a puncture, my mom would apply a makeshift bone graft using a patch from a raft repair kit.  After each session Max would recover for a little while. But, eventually, we had used up an entire repair kit and Max still struggled. The patches hardened into callouses that snagged his skirts and caught his hair, strands ripping out of his damaged mane.

My mom knew it was time, even though I denied it. I was certain that another surgery would make him right as rain again. More and more often, though, I would just leave Max in my room, slouched between the toy chest and the closet door. It took too much effort to clothe him every day. It grew depressing, being around his deflated state. Eventually I moved on to other friends, Barbie and Breyer Horses and Skip-It. All fun and carefree. It wasn’t until after a few weeks that I even noticed he was gone. One day, while cleaning, my mom had deflated Max and rolled him up, wedging him into a crevice in the toy chest. A few years later, our family moved into a new house. I don’t think Max made the cut.

For the first Halloween in our new home, my mom went to the store and bough another inflatable skeleton, this one just 48 inches tall. I tried dressing him up, but it wasn’t the same. Maybe it was a matter of scale, the fact that Max was a good head and shoulders taller than me, that made him seem real. On this smaller, squatter skeleton, the wig looked ridiculous and out of place. It was like putting lipstick on a bike. It didn’t make any sense. We hung up the skeleton by our front door to welcome the Trick-or-Treaters and them promptly stowed the flattened bones away with the pumpkin baskets and orange trash bags.

It has been years since I last saw Max. Looking back, I’m actually pretty impressed that my mom was so accepting of my imaginary life with him. A twelve-year-old playing with a full-sized skeleton? That scene would definitely raise some eyebrows in most nosy neighborhoods. But I never remember my mom saying a word about what the people down the street or around the pool would think. She didn't care why I cared about him. She just let me play, let me take care of this other being. And then, when I felt burdened being around him, when I felt guilty about abandoning him, she let me off the hook.

This October was the first Halloween of my adult life where trick-or-treating preparations were in order. I had moved into a new home, my first house, on a suburban street streaming with children. A few days before the night of begging was to take place, I stopped by a store on my way home from work to pick up some bags of chocolate-covered charity. Wandering the aisles of FUN SIZED! and PAKS A PUNCH! and SWEET TREATS!, doing borderline calculus to figure out the best deal, I spied Halloween decorations peeking out from an end display. I couldn’t resist.  

I walked over, scanning the shelves of plastic cauldrons and preposterously hairy spiders. I thumbed through costumes of Sexy Nurse! and Sexy Bumble Bee! and Sexy Nun! (Halloween is about zombies and vampires. When did slutty replace scabby, may I ask?) Eventually, I came across what I had been searching for:  strung up above the bottom-shelf fog machines, a row of skeletons of all shapes and sizes. Glow-in-the dark ones, glittery ones, ones with red eyes and motion detection.

I don’t know if it was their lecherous stares or the fact that they were molded out of polyurethane, but none of them seemed worth taking home. None were like Max, with his open smile and vulnerable softness. None of them came alive. None of them needed me.

I picked up my shopping basket, heavy with Kit Kats and Butterfingers, and headed toward the check-out counter. I could try to search for him on the store's website. Heck, I could Google him. But that somehow feels cheap. I've always been a little queasy about the idea of internet dating. I'd rather just wait for fate to bring us back together. If it's meant to be, it'll happen. Maybe next October we'll meet again.

An Alternative Gift Wrap

The following is a Public Service Announcement to all individuals who borrow items from acquaintances and then take forever (if ever) to give said borrowed items back.

When returning a late item, this is totally the way to win back all lost points:

Wrap said item in chocolate bars.

I mean, come on. There's no way I can maintain an irritated glare when staring at the beautiful block lettering of HERSHEY'S. This formerly-flaky-now-fabulous friend was even so kind as to provide both an almond and a nut-free option. Suddenly I no longer care that this particular DVD was borrowed a mere seven months ago.

(I also love how Jim Carrey is suspiciously eyeing the candy bar above him. Jim, if you could only be so lucky to be completely emprisoned by chocolate.)

_

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.