tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-39427520192800391102024-02-07T12:47:35.251-05:00SnippetsEssays, photos, humor, links, and other snippets. By Snip.S. Wilsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14095739371746994269noreply@blogger.comBlogger64125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3942752019280039110.post-76903738740571859432013-02-22T03:24:00.000-05:002013-02-22T03:24:09.815-05:00Scenes from Seattle: Rooftop, evening<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhStHnY8NkLQDoUAKDZ-nPDgUGXPYQgSFxC4CnEiAD-hyKQpfyxuurNQI1EfxyPZbJjGZWt1Fa6X3aramBB1eb6uG01qwoAJb72EgLT0iWxAV4skbnUuCyvcLf-LLFLm-66J3l3pVlXPyR8/s1600/IMG_5224.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhStHnY8NkLQDoUAKDZ-nPDgUGXPYQgSFxC4CnEiAD-hyKQpfyxuurNQI1EfxyPZbJjGZWt1Fa6X3aramBB1eb6uG01qwoAJb72EgLT0iWxAV4skbnUuCyvcLf-LLFLm-66J3l3pVlXPyR8/s320/IMG_5224.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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</style>Desmond and I are on the rooftop because, if you’re a city
dog living in a pet-friendly building striving for urban chic, that’s where you
go to the bathroom: on a patch of Astroturf eight stories high, with views of
the Space Needle, and, if it’s a clear day, the Cascades. It’s after 6 PM, the
only views the lights illuminating the insides of offices and living rooms. I
haven’t noticed just how bright it is until suddenly, an overhead light is
extinguished. I look above me; the towering construction crane just turned out
its lights. Across the alley (and across the street, and down the block; this
is a “developing neighborhood,” after all) a new apartment building is being
constructed, floor-by-floor. The crane across the alley towers above us each
day, its giant arm rotating, casting shadows on the rooftop. Now it is dark,
and a figure emerges from his box in the sky: the crane operator. For a moment
I lose sight of him, but I know he’s there, out in the open space, just the
narrow steel skeleton around him. I suck in my breath as I watch him begin to
descend down, down the impossibly narrow stairs. Beside me, Desmond, unfazed,
squats and pees.S. Wilsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14095739371746994269noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3942752019280039110.post-33624071304993299162012-08-25T23:40:00.000-04:002012-08-25T23:40:56.234-04:00More Phone Cat!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDPcHsnZN0R9a2fUMq3DVuftigdyAqoPy3Q7AtU_Yi9Z34Hl1Ff3wntRAxghuBRNGYmdk6Yb7LnWvDAzwOG5Awm0uoMxZWsNXa0Ku5fKxUv46z9M9abM6eyUT5ximJDyTQy2mIKeIiUq5F/s1600/PHONE+CAT-HUMANZ.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="576" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDPcHsnZN0R9a2fUMq3DVuftigdyAqoPy3Q7AtU_Yi9Z34Hl1Ff3wntRAxghuBRNGYmdk6Yb7LnWvDAzwOG5Awm0uoMxZWsNXa0Ku5fKxUv46z9M9abM6eyUT5ximJDyTQy2mIKeIiUq5F/s640/PHONE+CAT-HUMANZ.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />S. Wilsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14095739371746994269noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3942752019280039110.post-46545241253738155112012-08-16T12:33:00.000-04:002012-08-16T12:33:57.753-04:00Phone Cat is the Meme You've Been Waiting For<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiB-9bJKWc7VC3xVRpH1HdsMIX23aPT_uJtaUN7Sc1sACUoHa76tEKHqJv1sBXHVnFvP5wi1dkW_8pmAk_St23Lcie-Vr9OuDo1v_KH1U18ChNuZBK2ouzDONZ4-IcyKN0j5qaTFJKMZ230/s1600/PHONE+CAT_DOMINOS.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="560" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiB-9bJKWc7VC3xVRpH1HdsMIX23aPT_uJtaUN7Sc1sACUoHa76tEKHqJv1sBXHVnFvP5wi1dkW_8pmAk_St23Lcie-Vr9OuDo1v_KH1U18ChNuZBK2ouzDONZ4-IcyKN0j5qaTFJKMZ230/s640/PHONE+CAT_DOMINOS.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />S. Wilsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14095739371746994269noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3942752019280039110.post-4872755758117974112012-08-15T11:45:00.000-04:002012-08-15T11:45:42.804-04:00Day 3: South Dakota to Bozeman, MT
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<b>Day 3<o:p></o:p></b></div>
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<b>South Dakota to
Bozeman, Montana: In which I get a little nuts with statistics, and we meet a new old friend<o:p></o:p></b></div>
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Day 3 was an easier trek in that we were on the road for
less than eight hours—the last “long” day of our trip. Our route took us through Wyoming,
which was beautiful, and startlingly empty. A quick bit of research confirmed this (I still had 3G in
the middle of the prarie): save for Alaska, Wyoming is the least densely
populated state in the U.S. with 5.85 inhabitants per square mile. Montana is close behind with 6.86. For comparison’s sake, my home state of
Michigan has 173.9 per square mile!
These may seem like dry statistics—and I apologize if I’m boring you—but
I was intrigued. I’d never been
out West before, never seen the vast emptiness of it, and it was a very real
reminder of, “not everyone lives the way you do,” perhaps the greatest (or
simplest) lesson of travel.</div>
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As we made our way to Montana, the landscape became mountainous. As we passed into the Montana border we
also entered Crow Country—as in the people, not the bird. Billboard PSAs specifically targeted
the Native American population.
“Don’t kill your heritage by smoking,” or something slightly more
eloquent than that. We stopped for
lunch at a Taco John’s, where we saw an honest-to-goodness cowboy who was 6’6”
without his hat, easily.</div>
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We passed through Billings, which is the most populous city
in Montana with approximately 104,000 people. (Here I go again with the facts.) For comparison, Ann Arbor
has 114,000 people. To be in this West, with so much land and so few people,
felt new, and I was surprised by how much I liked it. </div>
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We chose to stay in Bozeman because of its proximity to
Yellowstone, and because Neal’s brother had lived there for two years. He had great recommendations for hikes
nearby, as well as places to eat. Dinner that night was at Montana Ale House, an enormous
restaurant and bar that resembled a converted train station. It could have been the name, it could
have been that I was parched from our day on the road, but I’m pretty convinced
that <a href="http://www.madisonriverbrewing.com/ourbrews/yellow-humpy-hefe">Yellow Humpy Hefe</a> was the best beer I’ve ever had. </div>
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While we stood at the bar, waiting for our table, we noticed
a little old man in a Michigan shirt and hat. I was disproportionately excited. “Let’s say ‘Go Blue!’ to him,” I told Neal, imagining this
sweet old man to be an alumnus, who’d certainly have many interesting stories
to share. </div>
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So we gave our greeting, and he looked at Neal and said,
“Good morning!” then he shook his head, muttered, “what am I saying?” and took
his seat. It turned out our friend
was either senile, or old and confused, or possibly just drunk. Hopefully, the last one.</div>
S. Wilsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14095739371746994269noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3942752019280039110.post-47423432531009840612012-08-07T17:31:00.000-04:002012-08-16T12:38:31.758-04:00Road Trip Interlude: The Great U-Haul Debacle, or, The Ballad of Roger and Joan<br />
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Pulling a U-Haul is often necessary for a cross-country
move, but it’s definitely not ideal. The trailer's unwieldy, the towing vehicle becomes slow to accelerate, and every
hill feels like a struggle. Our
particular trailer had a delightful tic: when you turned on the right blinker
in the car, the trailer’s right blinker went on, and when you turned on the
car’s left blinker—the trailer’s right blinker went on. We didn’t report this to U-Haul while
on the road for fear they’d make us unload the whole damn thing and switch it out
for a new one. Under those
circumstances, the blinker situation didn’t seem all that bad.</div>
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But as mentioned previously, our biggest issue was fear of U-Haul
theft. I think any rational person would share that concern if they had all
their personal belongings in one tin-shed-on-wheels. And if Neal and I have a motto for travel, real estate, or
life in general, it’s this: Trust No One.
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For me, this has been a learned position, a result of life
experience. After being
robbed—twice—while living abroad, I had no choice but to wise up. Later on in my travels, when a Spanish
kid (barely a teenager) on a bike approached me to ask what time it was, I was
ready for him. I wasn’t wearing a
watch—he could see that—and knew I’d have to reach for my phone. Sure enough, when I did, he made to
snatch the phone out of my hand. Older
and wiser, I yanked my arm away quickly.
He rode away empty-handed. I’d
learned not to trust anyone, not even a baby-faced kid on a bike.</div>
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A year after my abroad experience, I moved to New York
City. Happily, in my four-and-a-half
years there I was never "taken in," pick-pocketed, or worse. That’s largely due to luck, I know, and
the fact that New York isn’t as bad as some would lead you to believe. But I like to think that it was also
due in part to being cautious, to being skeptical of any stranger who
approached me, no matter what they looked like. (A nun who used to collect money blocks from my office—“for
the children”—was most certainly not a nun. Her habit may have told one story, but her hard-edged features
and raspy whiskey voice told another.
Sure enough, she was exposed as a fraud by a local newspaper about a year after
I first began ignoring her pleas for “donations.”)</div>
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Neal fared nearly as well as I did in New York. (There was one incident on the subway--a drug-addled man demanding money.
Fortunately, both my husband and his wallet escaped unscathed.) “New York inspired the craziness in
me,” Neal said to me on our cross-country trip, then amended his statement. “Actually,
it was probably always there. New
York just brought it out.”</div>
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The “craziness” he was referring to was this business about
the trailer. Neal was
convinced someone was going to steal it.
He has other, lesser fears too.
Such as, that the weight of the trailer (which we named Joan) would cause
his car (Roger) to permanently sag in the back. Each day we faced the impossible debate: once we checked in at
the day’s hotel, and wanted to go elsewhere, did we bring Joan or leave her in
the parking lot?</div>
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Enter the cinderblock.
If it wasn’t enough that we were traveling with all of our worldly possessions
(save for our cat, who was on summer vacation at my parents’ house) we carried
a fucking cinderblock with us from Ann Arbor, and took it all the way to
Seattle. (Anyone know how to
properly dispose of a cinderblock, by the way?) The purpose of the cinderblock was twofold. First, if Joan and Roger were hooked
together overnight, the block was placed under Joan’s tongue so that some of
the pressure was off Roger. This
was not recommended in the U-Haul manual.
This was a crazy ritual we imposed on ourselves, so that every day,
sometimes multiple times a day, Neal would have to position himself with his
hands on the tongue of the trailer, say, “One, two, three…” and on “three”
would heave the trailer up while I shoved the cinderblock under it.</div>
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Second, the cinderblock also served as anchor/security system
when we left Joan behind. It took
both of us to lift Joan up and off the hitch. Then, we’d hook and lock her chains to the cinderblock. Again, this procedure was performed
every day, often more than once a day.
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In Missoula, I got grease on my shirt during this process,
right before we were headed out to dinner. I ran back up to the hotel room uttering a stream of
curses. After dinner, while in my
new outfit, I strained my wrist during the lift and spent the rest of the
evening with a bag of ice on it.
I’m happy to report there was no lasting damage and my wrist was just
fine the next day. Which may have been
a teensy bit disappointing, since a cast definitely would have gotten me out of
trailer duty for the remainder of our trip.</div>
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<i>Postscript: Joan was
turned into a Seattle U-Haul facility with no major problems. The wonky signals were a result of bad
wiring on the part of the hitch installer. She is not missed</i>.</div>
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S. Wilsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14095739371746994269noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3942752019280039110.post-18366650854779590302012-08-02T15:52:00.003-04:002012-08-02T15:54:56.128-04:00Day 2: West Des Moines, IA to Rapid City, SD<br />
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<i>On July 21, exactly one week after getting married, my new husband and I departed on a road trip from Ann Arbor, Michigan to our new home: Seattle, Washington. This is my road trip diary.</i></div>
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<b>Day 2</b></div>
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<b>West Des Moines to Rapid City</b></div>
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Day 2 was the longest and most strenuous of our planned
drives. We hit the road around 7
AM again, on Central Time now. We
didn’t eat a real breakfast and hadn’t had a real meal—save for dinner—the
previous day, so it seemed like a good idea to stop for lunch. At an Arby’s somewhere in South Dakota,
we encountered one of those pretty Midwestern girls Kerouac must have been
talking about. She wore a cowboy
hat on top of her long wavy hair; she couldn’t have been more than 18. She studied me as we gave her our
orders, and when she crossed the counter to tidy up the dining room, she
commented on my shoes. “My sister
would kill for a pair of those,” she said, “she wants the sparkly ones.” She continued moving around the dining
room, chatting warmly with the patrons.
She teased an older couple, good-naturedly, saying, “Watch out, I bite!”
to something the gentleman said.
He asked her if she had a horse; she replied she just dressed like she
did.</div>
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We were careful to fill up before hitting the Badlands. We were on 90 now, Neal having taken 29
up at some point along the way while I was sleeping. I imagined the Badlands to be an empty gray desert, with perhaps
a bleached steer skull posed artfully in the sand just off the highway. If I had ever seen pictures of the
Badlands before, I had clearly forgotten them. I was at the wheel.
In order to see the Badlands, we’d have to exit 90 and take a slight
detour, which would eventually deposit us back on the Interstate, near the town
of Wall (more on that later).<br />
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Neal, my normally reliable navigator, took a look at this road
through the Badlands on his online map and became concerned about its windy,
switchback nature—we were pulling a trailer after all. So we passed the brown-and-white
national parks sign, the arrow directing “This Way” and chose a different path
to the Badlands: Big Foot Road. I
pulled onto it, and about half a mile in, began to panic. “Is that dirt road?” I said, looking
ahead. It was. </div>
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The car and trailer shuddered as Big Foot turned to dirt and
gravel. I couldn’t turn around, so
we just pressed on. In another
minute, we saw not a skull, but an entire cow, dead, by the side of the road. I quickly calculated how much water we
still had in our cooler, and wondered how long it would take help to reach us
out there. We rolled on, seeing
nothing but grass, dirt, and the occasional bird. (Vultures, no doubt, ready to feast on our remains.) After
what seemed like an eternity, we met up with the road we should have taken in
the first place.</div>
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But, the detour was worth it. The Badlands were gorgeous: great, red-and-gray striated
peaks of rock—an area formed over 37 million years of geologic activity. We’d stop every so often at the
designated viewpoints for photos; and pulled over on the shoulder at one point,
to snap a picture of a lone ram grazing near the side of the road. At one viewpoint, an elderly couple and
a group of four, middle-aged Harley enthusiasts gathered. I didn’t register the strangeness of
it, but as we were about to leave the viewpoint, one of the bikers—a smiling
blonde—crossed my path. “They
locked their keys in the car. Can
you imagine?” she said, shaking her head. </div>
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I looked from the old couple—talking to the tallest of the Harley
bunch, a man in a Sturgis shirt—to the second woman, tall and thin, her hair
covered by a bandana. She was
rummaging in her bike, speaking on her cell phone to AAA, or perhaps even the
police, attempting to give the location.
We got to our car and reached into the cooler, and offered two bottles
of water to the stranded couple. </div>
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The woman asked me, “How much?” </div>
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I told her free, of course, but she said they only needed
one. I stood for a moment longer,
considering this couple, who were probably somebody’s grandparents, who could
have been my grandparents. But
there was not much else we could do—it appeared the bikers had the situation
well in hand, and help would be arriving, hopefully sooner rather than
later. The temperature hovered in
the 90s, though there was significant cloud cover, which made it feel slightly
cooler. The old couple looked more
embarrassed than distressed, so we went on our way, once again. Neal was right, the road was quite
wind-y, but we made it through, thanks to my excellent driving, I’d like to
think.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Anyone who has driven west on 90 knows of Wall Drug. I’d been aware of it, vaguely, before
making the trip, seeing “Wall Drug” stickers plastered on cars: white,
Western-style script on a black background. On the road, you can’t avoid it. I’d estimate there were signs every three or five miles, as
far as 300 miles away from Wall (the name of the town as well as the eponymous
“drug store”). Anyway, there is
probably data on this, but I’m not interested enough to find out. It’s enough to know the advertising was
excessive and effusive. The signs
seemed to advertise a place that couldn’t be all it claimed to be all at once—a
place with 5 cent coffee, homemade donuts, free ice water, and some sort of
dinosaur on display. There were
places for shopping, activities for kids, “As seen in <i>People</i>!” and “As seen on <i>Good
Morning America</i>!” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Wall Drug’s over-exuberant marketing worked on one person in
our car: me. How could I, I
thought not at least see what all the fuss was about, a place that had
advertised itself for hundreds of miles with giddy hyperbole? I had another motive too: I was hungry. (At Arby’s I’d had a side salad—I’d been
dutifully ingesting iceberg-based based salads throughout our trip. It was often, woefully, the only source
of vegetables available on the road—and a small curly fry.) But I wasn’t hungry for just anything; I
wanted the Kerouac special, the “nutritious” (his words) and cheap meal he
ordered at diners across the country as he headed west: pie with a scoop of ice
cream. Some of the ubiquitous Wall
signs had advertised homemade pie, an opportunity I wasn’t about to pass up.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’m sure Neal would have happily passed by Wall Drug without
so much as a glance, but he humored me.
My husband, who was fresh out of an MBA program and had focused heavily
on marketing, wasn’t about to be taken in by such cheap tactics. “If this coffee is more than five
cents, I’m going to be pissed,” he said, joking. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So here’s something about Neal and I—something our family
members have likely complained about among themselves—we’re skeptics. Cynics, even. For example, we knew there was a 95% chance no matter where
we stopped, someone would try to steal our U-Haul (more on this later). In the
case of Wall Drug, the rationale was that there is no way the place could live
up to the hype; it was a glorified tourist trap, and we were too smart too fall
for it.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I knew this, but I wanted to go anyway. I wanted pie. But also, cheesy highway stops like this had been a mainstay
of my childhood. I was a
non-skeptic then, being raised by two non-skeptics, and we cheerfully stopped
and saw the world’s largest crucifix, climbed to the top of the world’s largest
Paul Bunyan statue, pulled of the highway at the Mystery Spot—a place
advertised everywhere in Northern Michigan with only a deliciously vague yellow
question mark on a black background.
It could have been anything.
I attempted to explain to Neal what it was: a house built on the side of
a hill, constructed so that there were all sorts of visual tricks: a ball that
appeared to roll uphill, a tall man appearing shorter than a short man, and so
on. The science was never
explained; the teenaged tour guides would only intone, “That’s just what
happens here at the Mystery Spot.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“That sounds pretty dumb,” said Neal, and I couldn’t
disagree. It was; but I don’t
regret having seen it.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Wall Drug was not really just a drugstore, but a whole
street constructed to look like an old Wild West town. We did not see the dinosaur garden or
whatever it was, we did not linger in any of the massive gift shops, we went
straight to the café and ordered two coffees, cherry pie a la mode for me, and
a donut for Neal. The pie, ice
cream, and donut were all homemade and delicious. The coffees were only five cents each. We didn’t stay any longer than 45
minutes, and in that way we were both satisfied.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOdhUxrUynJjDlx-dpIXJhoXZKzc9Mw8kleX-1t1xWXzBuHvjPNU4kCSaxnQF11hOT4vOE8oqHtfbcTneO6b4PSUzJzA_fzo78AFjEe9SCN2NiEpS8E0Rb3TMMp6hjFq82saeI0YY5BZk1/s1600/IMG_4499.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="149" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOdhUxrUynJjDlx-dpIXJhoXZKzc9Mw8kleX-1t1xWXzBuHvjPNU4kCSaxnQF11hOT4vOE8oqHtfbcTneO6b4PSUzJzA_fzo78AFjEe9SCN2NiEpS8E0Rb3TMMp6hjFq82saeI0YY5BZk1/s200/IMG_4499.JPG" width="200" /></a><o:p> </o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjmdE3V6ZansJj0yOhyphenhyphenGWMkd-BFd0JFuHH8XH_iTETMKb1vtXCTS2oYc9Zrd1VFaPHAN2nBPqkeWHboz559ZorEUdplQfC3TinjcvzHVvcIiNfiXBnl70dZANsTwcdIe7vWGvDvxXjbgcz/s1600/IMG_4494.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjmdE3V6ZansJj0yOhyphenhyphenGWMkd-BFd0JFuHH8XH_iTETMKb1vtXCTS2oYc9Zrd1VFaPHAN2nBPqkeWHboz559ZorEUdplQfC3TinjcvzHVvcIiNfiXBnl70dZANsTwcdIe7vWGvDvxXjbgcz/s200/IMG_4494.jpg" width="149" /></a>Day 2 was extremely long. We finally rolled into Rapid City, checked into the hotel,
unhooked and locked the U-Haul, and headed out to see a real tourist
destination—though arguably just a bigger tourist trap, depending on your
perspective—Mount Rushmore. I
don’t have too much to say about this destination, though I’m glad we saw
it. That something so massive and
detailed could have been constructed in the 1920s and 1930s is impressive. The grounds are kept beautifully. And it’s interesting to think about how
a project like this would never be undertaken today by the federal
government. Could you imagine the
outcry if a 60-foot-tall bust of George W. Bush, or a giant likeness of Barack
Obama were proposed?</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMES-9I2p_n1cEmGFZdgmWUHMK1Zu0DhTjJ1eN45YnK8_0Vk-9GyPTUV4VLxss3HtSYfZpWT5Sq7QRiuO1zLqu_WxxXzq6iIb2sDcMJnx03uXd-4ye_YTUdyJ0oHdc0VcEfCinT1250sGJ/s1600/DSCN0302.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMES-9I2p_n1cEmGFZdgmWUHMK1Zu0DhTjJ1eN45YnK8_0Vk-9GyPTUV4VLxss3HtSYfZpWT5Sq7QRiuO1zLqu_WxxXzq6iIb2sDcMJnx03uXd-4ye_YTUdyJ0oHdc0VcEfCinT1250sGJ/s320/DSCN0302.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
After a long day of driving and sightseeing, we were
grateful for sleep, and to leave South Dakota in our rearview the next
morning. It was a pretty fun place
to visit, but we were ready to get out of there.</div>S. Wilsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14095739371746994269noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3942752019280039110.post-4418551607435566302012-07-30T19:50:00.000-04:002012-07-30T19:50:03.499-04:00Day 1: Ann Arbor, MI to West Des Moines, IA<i>On July 21, exactly one week after getting married, my new husband and I departed on a road trip from Ann Arbor, Michigan to our new home: Seattle, Washington. This is my road trip diary.</i><br />
<br />
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Day 1<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Ann Arbor to West Des
Moines</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The trip actually began the night before we left (Day Zero), with the acts of
filling up then hooking up a U-Haul trailer—yes, in that order. Which means that once the trailer was
full of dozens of boxes (it looked like we had robbed a Crate and Barrel; spoils from our recent wedding), a
coffee table, another table, and a TV stand, we proceeded to lock up the
trailer, and begun the process of turning it 180 degrees. We both grabbed the tongue (that bit that connects the trailer to the hitch), and on a
count of three, lifted and turned the vehicle as far as we could. It took about four or five attempts. It was a good workout; both of
us had sore lower backs the next day.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Day 1 dawned hot and sunny. We left around 7:00 AM, Neal at the wheel, and me sleeping
sitting up in the passenger seat—fitfully—for about four hours. I didn’t miss much; I’ve driven that
stretch of I-94 quite often, though this time we bypassed Chicago and thus its
traffic. Our route, to I-80 and
points west, took us to Iowa.
There is not much I can say about Iowa; it looked like much of the rest
of the Midwest, perhaps with more corn.
We began listening to our audiobook, <i>On
the Road</i>, which Neal had read part of before losing his copy in Europe, and
which I had not read at all.
Kerouac—or rather, the voice of John Ventimiglia, best known as Artie Bucco from <i>The Sopranos</i>, who was narrating the audiobook—said
the prettiest girls of all lived in Iowa.
I did not see enough of them to make a judgment either way.</div>
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<br /></div>
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The Marriott hotel where we stayed was updated and trying to be trendy, at least on the
inside. Behind the reception desk hung artful photographs of corn stalks.
Metal-etched cornstalks grew on the dining room’s walls where we ate a
lazy meal. (Lazy, because we
didn’t care to leave the hotel, and explore all that West Des Moines had to
offer.) We were one of only two
couples at the restaurant. The
other pair spent much of their meal cozying up to each other, and
kissing—loudly, wetly—in the half-privacy of their booth. (Meaning, we could not see them from
the neck down, thank goodness.)
Later, in the room, I joked that those two obviously weren’t
married. Neal made a face at me. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We had been married one week.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">From Michigan...</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAUa0dvEvymQcnrJLo0oQA4xycmMsOc_4mjyjfuq5jD3_r2qd18itoFmM_4cZa3LknrdYrUXwqCgm8KA-bvy-GGCanWEBGCfgGNdLAos7nhrJKget80U3qjL0CjUUuiidEWzhSTAPfT9k4/s1600/IMG_4478.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAUa0dvEvymQcnrJLo0oQA4xycmMsOc_4mjyjfuq5jD3_r2qd18itoFmM_4cZa3LknrdYrUXwqCgm8KA-bvy-GGCanWEBGCfgGNdLAos7nhrJKget80U3qjL0CjUUuiidEWzhSTAPfT9k4/s320/IMG_4478.jpg" width="239" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">...to Iowa</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<br /></div>
<!--EndFragment-->S. Wilsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14095739371746994269noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3942752019280039110.post-51400520127937174012011-09-02T22:41:00.000-04:002011-09-02T22:41:54.294-04:00The Brisket Bender, or Too Much of a Well-Smoked Thing
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<br />
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My love affair with barbecue started late. I grew up in
Michigan, not exactly the land of smoked meats, and spent seven of my formative
years as a vegetarian.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It will seem blasphemous to residents of Texas, Memphis, and
North Carolina to read what I am about to write, but it is true: I first gained
a taste for barbecue in New York City. It may not be the birthplace of
barbecue, sure, but New Yorkers have the will and the resources to bring pretty
much anything worth eating—and the chefs who make it—to their metropolis. (And
it doesn't stop at food either. I learned to surf in New York City. Yes, really
surf. And I'm sure you could learn to tango from an actual Argentinian, and how
to sumo wrestle from a master if you wished.)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I first tasted BBQ at a place where one of my publishing
colleagues worked part time. (It's debatable which job paid better.) They
served all the guilt-inducing sides, from cornbread to fried green tomatoes,
and the meat was unlike anything I'd tasted. They smoked it overnight, and when
it ran out, it ran out. Brisket was the first to go—which was okay, because I
didn't know what brisket was anyway. (I hadn't been exposed to Jewish cuisine
either; my family pronounced the “r” and "l" in yarmulke.) That first
trip I probably had chicken, maybe some pork—we all shared. I came home raving
about the food, wanting to taste it again soon. There was something in that
smoky flavor, like a drug, that kept me wanting more.</div>
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<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<a name='more'></a> A few short years later I met some meat-loving friends who introduced
me to a BBQ place in Williamsburg. In the land of skinny jeans was an
unapologetic shrine to all things meat—the fattier, the better. At this
establishment, pork belly was considered the crown jewel, though I've never
actually acquired a taste for it. Raised on tofu and rice, there is still
something too fatty, too animalistic about its name, its taste. My tastes run
to pulled pork, turkey, and brisket—which I finally had and now know
intimately. (Just don't ask me to locate where it comes from on the cow. The
front half, I'm pretty sure.)<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
At this restaurant, after an hour's wait, you'd sidle up to
the counter and order your meat by the pound. A bespectacled, mustachioed
20-something would weigh it out for you on butcher paper. This was incredibly
quirky to me, something new, especially in New York, the land of fine dining.
Little did I know this was how barbecue had been done forever.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My barbecue education had yet to
commence.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Once we arrived in Texas this summer, N and I were rubbing
our hands together (figuratively, in that cartoonish way) anticipating all of
the delicious, authentic barbecue we'd be eating this summer. Being the
meat-and-more-meat American male he is, N was probably more excited than I was,
though I was extremely excited to be dining somewhere that wasn't Pittsburgh.*</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I can't recall our first official barbecue meal. We actually
did buy some from Whole Foods** one of those first days, and ate it at home.
Again, sorry to the barbecue purists out there, but it was pretty good,
considering Whole Foods is so concerned (or so they say) with the integrity of
their meats.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
RUDY’S</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Our first real BBQ adventure was a trip to Rudy's. I have to
say it's a pretty great place; we've been there three times. There are a few
Rudy's locations and they are all attached to gas stations. This, my friends,
is fine dining. The brisket at Rudy's is quite good, as is the turkey, and the
service is as friendly as can be. On our first trip, after we told them we were
newbies, they offered us samples of their top sellers. I got a free dessert (a
banana pudding, complete with Nilla wafers and served in a Styrofoam cup) for
filling out a survey. As we sat out at the picnic table on the covered porch,
enjoying the highway views while we ate our brisket, turkey, and sausage, it
was hard not to be happy and content. And the prices definitely hit the spot
too: our mounds of meat, plus drinks and a few sides, came out to less than $30.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
STUBB’S</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
After Rudy's came a trip to Stubb's which is probably better
known for its awesome music venue (we saw Cage the Elephant and Matt & Kim
there) rather than its food, but the BBQ wasn't too bad. It was there I first
had chopped beef, which I was a bit scared of but ended up liking tremendously.
When it comes to my carnivorous habits, I'm still tentative, and therefore
prefer things that I can easily eat with a fork rather than having to separate
it from the bone (such as ribs and whole chicken). Chopped beef fits the
bill—and it doesn't hurt that it is mixed with the delicious BBQ sauce. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Going back to Rudy's after the jaunt to Stubb’s, we
discovered something on their menu we hadn't noticed before, mysteriously
called, "Spicy Chopped." The helpful (as always) cashier told us they
couldn't technically call it chopped beef—though it was mostly brisket—because
they mixed bits of pork and turkey in there too. Basically, it is a mixture of
all the odds and ends they have left after carving, mixed in with sauce, and it
is phenomenal. Its existence completely deifies the term leftovers.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
COUNTY LINE ON THE LAKE</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Actually, now that I think of it, our BBQ journey did begin
on a low note, with a place called County Line on the Lake. The water view in question,
though not actually a lake, is gorgeous. The building is made—or has the
appearance of being made—of large logs, and has its own dock, so boaters can
pull in, park their boats, and have dinner. It actually reminded me of being in
Northern Michigan, on Houghton Lake, and the paintings of wildlife that hung
inside helped further that illusion. I think this atmosphere was a huge draw,
because on the night we went it was packed. The wait was long, which was fine,
because you could sit on the dock with a drink and enjoy the views. When we did
sit, the fourteen-year-old waitress seemed a bit flustered.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The meat was okay, and you couldn't
choose your sides, which was also a minus.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Although the reality is, even when you get to choose your
own sides, they are almost always lackluster.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I've tasted (note I don't say “eaten”) so many bland beans
here it's incredible.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The only
notable side I've had has been at Stubb's, an order of serrano cheese spinach,
though it was so full of heat I couldn't finish it.</div>
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<br /></div>
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LAMBERT’S</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When N's family visited, we took barbecue upscale, dining at
Lambert's.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It's a phenomenal
place, with a sophisticated feel that would fit right in in New York City.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The portions are also NYC-esque, or
what Texans and Midwesterners would call "tiny."<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I would agree that one of our sides was
doll-sized, though in the meat department, I had no complaints.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I opted for steak instead of barbecue,
which turned out to be the best order of the night.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The brisket, while good, loses something when it gets
fancified.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It's the kind of meat
that's meant to be messy, served on wax paper—not elegantly presented and
served next to an artisanal mojito.</div>
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<br /></div>
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SALT LICK</div>
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<br /></div>
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To get back to the essence of barbecue, we made a trip out
to Salt Lick in Driftwood.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Driftwood, and the neighboring town of Dripping Springs, are located in
Texas Hill Country—an area so beautiful I'd almost consider settling down there
forever and registering for my Republican Party ID.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Almost.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Also,
there is the fact that Driftwood is located in a dry county, a caveat that only
increases the festive atmosphere at Salt Lick.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>How?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Well, you
may not be able to order booze off the menu, but you sure as shootin' can bring
your own cooler, and drink all during the wait for the table (usually 1 to 2
hours) while a band plays, and during dinner as well.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Hell, you could continue the party in the parking lot,
looking out over Salt Lick's own—wait for it—vineyard.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But back to the food, though the
atmosphere is a huge component of what's to love about Salt Lick.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The food was pretty phenomenal, particularly
the brisket.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It had the fattiness,
the perfect crust.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There were also
ribs, and turkey, and sausage—why drive all that way if not to order the whole
menu?—were each delicious in their own right.</div>
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<br /></div>
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RUBY’S / IRON WORKS</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Somewhere in this barbecue adventure, I also took my family
to Iron Works, which had a really great atmosphere, and decent food.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>N and I also went to Ruby's (not to be
confused with Rudy's), which I liked and he was lukewarm about.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This was a UT-area place, a kind of
"hipsters do BBQ," which is probably why I liked it—it reminded me of
those early days in Brooklyn.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
SMITTY’S</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But then, last weekend was a watershed moment.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We hit the proverbial barbecue
wall.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was essentially our last
full weekend here in Austin, and it seemed necessary that we make the trip out
to Lockhart, the cradle of Texas 'cue.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>There are three major places: Black's, Kreuz Market, and Smitty's.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Kreuz Market and Smitty's, the story
goes, used to be one place owned by one family.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But then there was a feud, and the BBQ dynasty became a
house divided.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A settlement was
reached: Kreuz got to keep the original name, and Smitty's got to keep the
original location.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We decided Smitty's
would be our destination.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Entering Smitty's was not unlike descending into the pits of
hell.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It looks unremarkable on the
outside, one storefront in a row of storefronts—though Lockhart does have an
eerie, ghost town vibe.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was
expecting a tumbleweed to roll through the street at any moment.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But back to hell.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Picture it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It's Texas in July, which means it's 100 degrees and sunny
out. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But when you open the door to
Smitty's, you're plunged into darkness.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>There's a long hallway you must traverse, and at the end of it is a heat
that's hotter than what you just experienced outside.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You realize the walls are blackened with soot, and that a
pile of logs is burning, unguarded, in the middle of the floor.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>To place your order, you must stand in
line next to said fire.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It's hot,
incredibly hot; you're only six inches from a bonfire.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And you marvel at the people who
actually work here: the men in jeans who pull your meat from the smokers with
hooks, the women who stand behind the register, calmly taking your money while
the fires of Hades burn behind them.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I cut out of this scene early, staking out our spot (and
ordering cold drinks—good Lord, did I mention the heat?) in the next room,
which resembled an old-style market, with long benches where patrons could sit
and eat.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The sides here were the
most bizarre I'd seen: you'd ask for pickles, chunks of onion, a whole avocado,
a whole tomato.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There were also
bricks of cheese, which they'd cut into large strips for you, if you
asked.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>While N braved the fires to
order our meat, I picked up a few of these odds and ends, not immediately noticing
a key item that was missing: a fork.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This was not an error.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>There are no plates at Smitty's, nor are there forks.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I looked around; most people were
piling their meats onto the off-brand Wonder Bread ubiquitous at barbecue
joints.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(Rudy's is notorious for
giving about half a loaf with every order.)<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>N and I mostly shun the bread.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He because he doesn't see the point, and me because I am
afraid it will make me fat.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(Most
of you are probably shaking your heads at this—“This girls shoves fatty meats
down like nothing, but fears simple carbohydrates?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Yes, that is exactly right; my paleo friends understand.)</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And so with no forks and no inclination to make sandwiches,
we tore into our meat with our hands.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>There were some beef ribs, and a lot of brisket.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was so fatty and smoky and meaty
that it was almost vulgar.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
looked around.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Our fellow patrons
were nearly all of considerable girth.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I could suddenly feel the fat sliding down into my stomach, see it on my
fingers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I felt sad all of
sudden.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I felt regret.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I felt like an addict.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
To extend the drug metaphor: up until that point, we had
been recreational users.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We were
like the people who smoked other people's pot on weekends, smiling and having a
good time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But now, we'd stumbled
into the hard stuff.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Started
shooting up, hanging with real users.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Smitty's was like a crack den, a flophouse for heavy users.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Of barbecue.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In the car on the way home, I had my epiphanic moment.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>"I'm done," I told N,
clutching my stomach, "No more barbecue.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I'm off it."<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>He had to agree this last trip was a bit much.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The next night, we ate salmon.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But then N consulted with another BBQ fanatic at work.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She had been to Black's; said it was
good.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>"Maybe we should have
gone to Black's," he said.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
nodded.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Maybe we should have
snorted the heroin instead of injecting it.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"She
said she hadn't been to Franklin yet..." he said, trailing off.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He looked at me.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Franklin
BBQ is just a truck, but it has the reputation of being the best in the
city.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>People start queuing up for
it at ten in the morning, because supplies run out quickly.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He
continued, "Maybe Saturday, after our run, we can..." </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Suddenly,
it starts to seem like a good idea.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Chances are, on our last day in Austin before we head back North, we'll
be lining up for one last hit.***</div>
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<br /></div>
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<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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*I know I pick on Pittsburgh a lot, but their dining scene
is pretty abysmal. At a "real" Italian restaurant I was served a clam
sauce made with--shudder--canned clams. French fries are considered an
acceptable salad topping. I could go on, but I'll spare you. Okay, one more. At
their "finest" (only?) Spanish restaurant, the first main course
listed is ravioli.</div>
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<br /></div>
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**Fact: Whole Foods began in Austin, and is based here
still.</div>
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<br /></div>
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***This post was written before we left Austin.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Unfortunately—or fortunately?—when we
got to Franklin Barbecue on that day, they had just run out of meat.</div>
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<br /></div>
<!--EndFragment-->S. Wilsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14095739371746994269noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3942752019280039110.post-41851633754778803762011-07-25T16:52:00.000-04:002011-07-25T16:52:22.167-04:00This is a story in which no animal dies.<br />
This is a story in which no animal dies.<br />
A child does not stone a kitten, to demonstrate the casual cruelty of youth.<br />
No one takes an axe to an injured deer by the side of a road, to make a point about euthanasia.<br />
A man is not forced to watch as his master drowns his beloved dog, in order the show the evil, the inhumanity, of slaveholding.<br />
A small bird does not die in the jaws of a predator, whereby expressing the wildness and unsentimentality of nature.<br />
In this story, a family of rabbits will not be crushed by a bulldozer in a commentary on the shortsightedness and destructive power of human progress.<br />
Horses will not be shot, whether they are lame, sick, or overworked by a cruel master.<br />
A sack of puppies or kittens most certainly won't be tossed from a car window, or drowned in a river, in order to show a character's disregard for life and other creatures' suffering.<br />
Circus and zoo animals will not be shot or starved in order to show the depravation of a war, or a depression, or some other disaster.<br />
In other words, in this story, the family pet will not be left to fend for itself when Hurricane [fill in the blank] hits.<br />
No, this story will not contain any manner of canine, feline, equine, avian, et al, abuse, neglect, or mortality.<br />
As a result, it will not win any prizes, nor will it be published in any preeminent literary publications. No editor will hail this story as edgy, raw, or real. It will not become a piece of classic children's literature, because it lacks the tearjerking scene of a boy losing his beloved hounds.<br />
And why should this story, or rather, this author, be so adamantly against the fictive deaths of fictive creatures? Shouldn't said creatures instead be lauded for their contributions to fiction?<br />
And so the scene shifts to an awards ceremony--and certainly there would be a large enough pool from which to cull the nominees--that honors animal deaths in fiction. Even there, however, the long-suffering beasts would be the first to be forgotten. The writers would accept awards based on the grittiness of the scene, how the violence propelled the plot, and what it revealed about the character who perpetrated the malevolent act. Kudos would be given for best supporting adjectives--the gruesomer, the better--and achievement in editing. Because sometimes the best (or worst?) violence is the kind that the reader can extrapolate for himself. And so the fictive animals would be neglected once more, fading from the awards auditorium--if they were even allowed in in the first place--and into the background. They were useful only at the height of their suffering and the moment of their demise, but beyond that they were no longer required. <br />
Until someone bursts on stage--perhaps while Sarah McLachlan sings her sad song while sad video images of sad furry paws reach out to the audience from behind the bars of a cage--and declares a stop to it all. Calls all this fictive animal suffering excessive, cliched, overdone. Deems all the nominees hacks for resorting to such a common trope. And when the cry rises up from the audience, "Well, what shall we do instead?" the auditorium will go silent, waiting. <br />
And the agitator will say, "Why not just mess with the human characters? It's their kind you're indicting anyway, in the end."<br />
<br />S. Wilsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14095739371746994269noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3942752019280039110.post-25217124822045192622011-07-14T11:25:00.000-04:002011-07-14T11:25:29.667-04:00Buying Tequila at a Texas Liquor Store: A play in one act<br />
<br />
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</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
N* and I were at a liquor store here in Texas, buying supplies for margaritas. As we were checking out, the cashier asked us what tequilas we liked, so we told him. </div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
"So what do you drink?" N asked in return.</div>
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<br /></div>
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"Well," he said, "I like Milagro, and 1800, and [blank], the one over there that comes in a bottle shaped like Texas." </div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
We nodded; he continued, "I used to drink Patrón. But I don't anymore," he paused as he put our purchases in a bag. "Do you know," he said, "who owns Patrón now?" </div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
"No," we said, shaking our heads.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
"Paul Mitchell. The hair guy." </div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
...and scene. The moral of the story: real men don't buy tequila from men who sell hair products.</div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">*My fiance/life partner/father of my cat objected to being called the "Big F," a nickname I experimented with in a previous post. He suggested instead, "The Voice of Reason." I've decided to just stick with his first initial from here on out.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<br />S. Wilsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14095739371746994269noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3942752019280039110.post-48664468442890330942011-07-07T17:18:00.000-04:002011-07-07T17:18:03.365-04:00I Quit. Or, it Sucks to Suck.<br />
Growing up, I did well in school, but outside of academia I was a mess. I danced for a handful of years, dabbling in jazz, acro, and ballet. All that remains of those years--as my friends who've seen me on the dance floor can attest--are a few snapshots of me in overwrought costumes and garish pancake makeup. I took up horseback riding for a year or two, played basketball for two seasons, made two attempts at track, and survived one year of cross country. And if there is a common thread among all these activities, it was that I sucked at all of them. <br />
<br />
During horse camp, I was given Buddy, one of the most seasoned and calm horses they had. During an exercise in the indoor ring, he bolted, and I clung on for dear life. One of the adults stopped us before we made it outside. When playing rec basketball, it took me almost a whole season to make my first bucket during a game, an occasion so momentous that my coach (also my best friend's dad) leapt up from the bench and hugged me. Track was forgettable, and cross country became a months-long mind-fuck. We pounded the pavement day in and day out--no cross-training--and it got to the point where I couldn't distinguish between what was just soreness and what was an actual injury. I sat out a few races, and placed in the bottom in others. Running is not a contact sport, yet I still managed to sustain a head injury. During our summer camp, I collided with two of the members of the boys' team while playing ultimate frisbee, landing on my head and neck (or one or the other--I don't remember because I blacked out for about a minute). My coach was pretty concerned; the boys' coach, who pretty much thought I was a waste of space, berated me for skipping the next run over a "pinched nerve."<br />
<br />
So yes, I was terrible at all these things. But the other common thread among those pursuits was that they didn't last very long; I never gave myself enough time to be un-terrible. I was a quitter; I probably knew it then, and I definitely know it now. It's a big regret; what if I had stuck with one of those activities for the long haul? Maybe I would have improved, earned my varsity letter, earned a medal other than "Participation." But in the back of mind, I can't help thinking that I still would have sucked at whichever pursuit I chose, no matter what.<br />
<br />
I've written extensively about CrossFit in the past, <a href="http://readsnipsblog.blogspot.com/2010/05/crossfit-field-guide-part-i.html">what it is</a>, and <a href="http://readsnipsblog.blogspot.com/2010/07/crossfit-field-guide-part-deux.html">why I do it</a>. Since writing those posts, I've changed gyms--twice. I started at CF Pittsburgh in the fall, and have been coming to CF Central while I'm here in Austin. In total, I've been doing this thing for two years and--surprise--I still suck.<br />
<br />
<br />
<a name='more'></a><br /><br />
The impetus for this post was the workout I had this afternoon. It was a "chipper," meaning you have to perform several reps of a grueling exercise before moving on to the next one. And the next one. And on and on until you finish, and you feel like your body's been through a wood chipper. To set the scene: the gym is crowded, full of eager, fit people. The temp is in the mid-to-high 90s and sunny. But sunny makes it sound too cheerful, when really it feels like you're being baked alive. So I go through this chipper, and I end up dead last. I'm on the final task, which takes place in full sun, and involves holding a 25-pound plate over my head while I lunge 150 feet. "It's too heavy," I say to someone, who's standing over me, shouting words of encouragement. I'm mad, frustrated, because I'm using the same plate that all the other, stronger women used, the ones who are actual athletes. Then I say the worst possible thing, which is that I feel like I'm about to throw up. Which is how I really do feel. But it's a red flag; I could have heat exhaustion, so the coach instructs me to move into the shade. I take some water, then go back out and finish--because not finishing would have been unacceptable; I only had 50 feet to go. I'm done in 19:04, the slowest time of the day. My classmates are almost done with their cool-down stretches when I head back in, lock myself into the bathroom, and dry heave into the toilet.<br />
<br />
I wrote down my stats and left, unable to look at anyone. I don't know them, really, I'm still pretty new, and I'm afraid they all think I'm a complainer, a loser, a last-place finisher. In reality, I know that they're all adults, and are just concerned with getting in their own workouts before going back to work and continuing on with their lives. But I still feel like that high school kid, in a cross country meet lagging several minutes behind my teammates, crossing the finish line and crying--because my entire body ached, because no one asked me to homecoming, or would. Because I sucked.<br />
<br />
Of course, if I step back and get some perspective, I'm forced to ask myself: what does it matter if I finish last in a workout? I'm there to get exercise; I have other, more pressing, matters to worry about in life. But I just can't ignore my inner Snip critic--<i>shouldn't you be better by now</i>? I don't have any illusions of grandeur, of being the best, but I would like to be on par with my classmates, be somewhere comfortably in the middle. I dread partnering up for weightlifting, as most of the women can squat, deadlift, and clean twice what I can. There's always a major reshuffling of weights, and I have to apologize profusely to whichever poor soul gets teamed up with me. They're always very nice and gracious, but I wouldn't blame them if they secretly wanted to strangle me.<br />
<br />
I try to smile and be positive, because if there's anything worse than someone who sucks at stuff, it's someone who complains while doing said stuff (which I like to call being a whiny weinerface). And I think that's where I'm really frustrated with myself right now. I regret saying the weight was too heavy, or that I felt sick. I regret complaining about slipping off the pull-up bar. Though, really, I was completely slick with sweat and there was no chalk. The fact is, even though it was true, everyone else was dealing with the same issue--I'm just the one who griped about it. It's like being under physical duress erases any filter I have; what I think, I say. And most of it is not very positive.<br />
<br />
Complaining is just a way of making excuses, trying to rationalize why everyone else is leaving me in the dust. The other day I saw someone cheating a movement during a workout; someone who inevitably passed me up, beating me to the finish. My gut reaction was to call out, "Hey, I saw that!" and I did. It's what a coach would have done, I thought. When I told my fiance the story later in the day, his reaction was pretty much, "Why does it matter?" I felt terribly embarrassed then. While I was thinking of it from a helping or coaching perspective, if I were really honest with myself, I was probably a bit annoyed too. Once again I was falling behind the others, and I was frustrated.<br />
<br />
So why I am so easily agitated, so competitive, especially when it doesn't really matter? I've heard the analogy before that people are like Russian nesting dolls, where one fits inside of the other--though I'm 27 now, the 16-year-old me and the 12-year-old me are all still inside somewhere. Maybe I still feel like I have something to prove to that bearish cross country coach, to show him that I'm not weak and whiny.<br />
<br />
But perhaps it also has something to do with my chosen path. Writing isn't exactly the most gratifying career choice, personally or professionally. Personally you're always revising, beating yourself up, wondering if you're getting anywhere. And writing professionally is more like a pipe dream than a career path. You may never get published by a magazine, or receive a book deal. And even if you do, your publisher may not make you a priority, or you won't get reviewed, or you get bad reviews, or you'll only sell a dozen copies. (Or <a href="http://www.themillions.com/2011/07/the-year-of-wonders.html">this</a> could happen, as I read on The Millions today.) So it seems wise to measure success in other ways, in other realms. Being able to beat most of your fellow writers in a pushup contest isn't much, but at least it's something.<br />
<br />
Maybe that's it. As I receive a steady trickle of rejection letters from lit magazines, I'm just struggling to find my worth elsewhere. I want to focus on something quantifiable, achievable, and CrossFit promises those things. And when I'm sweating it out--hurting, indignant--I'm not feeling simple frustration at the workout, but at everything, at sucking at life in general. At still not being asked to the metaphorical dance.<br />
<br />
But I can take solace in the fact that I've grown a bit since my school days. Even if I can be a whiny weinerface sometimes, I don't plan on quitting CrossFit now or any time soon. (My apologies to my weightlifting partners, present and future.) The times I feel good, the rare days I can actually note an improvement, make me feel too good. And maybe Jennifer Egan will challenge me to a pushup competition one day; in which case, I'll be prepared.<br />
<br />S. Wilsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14095739371746994269noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3942752019280039110.post-56355460000172688212011-07-05T17:55:00.001-04:002011-07-05T17:57:37.603-04:00My Jury Experience, or, Why I Can't be Outraged by the Casey Anthony Verdict<br />
When I checked facebook and twitter this afternoon, everyone was abuzz about the Casey Anthony verdict. Some were cracking jokes (um, too soon?) but most were indignant, espousing variations of, "How is this possible?" and "It's unbelievable!"<br />
<br />
I haven't followed the case very closely, though I will admit to clicking on a few of the more sensational headlines. Shockingly--or perhaps not so much--many of these stories appeared on "entertainment" sites like People.com. However, I'm not intending to write about the murder-trial-as-entertainment issue, as that's been covered frequently elsewhere, and by people with more experience and credibility in that arena. All I will say is that if Nancy Grace is covering it, I probably want to stay far, far away.<br />
<br />
Rather, hearing about the verdict and reading the subsequent reactions remind me of my time as a juror on an attempted murder trial--an experience I haven't felt comfortable documenting publicly until now.<br />
<br />
To set the scene: it was my first time being called to jury duty: one of those natural rites of passage that everyone complains about. Anytime someone I knew--family, friends, co-workers--got called for jury duty, their immediate response (at least, the first one they expressed) was either one of, "I hope I don't get picked" or, "I'm going to try and get out of it."<br />
<br />
Now, in most cases, I am a play-by-the-rules kind of gal, as I know many of them are in place for a reason. For example, I always power down my electronics on airplanes when told. (I freak out when I see others using their cell phones during takeoff and landing; I have to restrain myself from screaming, "DEAR GOD, DO YOU WANT US ALL TO DIE IN A FIERY CRASH, YOU ASSHOLE? TURN THAT PHONE OFF NOW!") Perhaps the term I'm looking for is socially responsible--like, the reason I follow traffic laws is not simply because it's "the law" or I don't want a ticket, but because I don't want to run over someone's Gran while she's on her way to church. So when I got picked for jury duty, I felt the same sort of responsibility. I resolved to be honest, to not actively try to get out of it, because it was the right thing to do. I thought, well, if I were ever put on trial, I would want someone like me to be on the jury. It's a terrifying thought that you might be wrongfully accused, and then convicted, of a crime because you didn't get a fair trial. (Though, let's face it, the odds of me, a white, middle-class female, being accused of a felony are pretty slim.)<br />
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Suffice it to say, I went in there, answered honestly, and was picked. Apparently I'm not the only person who'd want a middle-class white female on their jury.<br />
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My juror experience was fascinating and, at times, terrifying. The defendant was accused of shooting a man in broad daylight over a silly argument. At the outset, we were told that there were witnesses, including the victim himself, and that we'd be hearing from them. We were also told there was no forensic evidence, that this wasn't like CSI or other TV shows; this was reality, and we'd simply have to use our best judgement, based on testimony, to come to a verdict. That was slightly disheartening--who wouldn't want "scientific" evidence?--but it seemed reasonable enough. This wouldn't be so bad. I was completely unprepared for what followed.<br />
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The eyewitnesses were brought to the stand in handcuffs. At first, this wasn't explained. I wondered--was this person being brought in from jail, on an unrelated charge? Was this court policy? Eventually it came out that the witnesses--including the victim and his family--did not want to testify. While on the stand, they all evaded the prosecutor's questions. They didn't know; they couldn't remember. The prosecutor became visibly agitated. Hadn't they picked the man in a lineup? Hadn't they testified in front of a grand jury?<br />
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On one of the last days of the trial, the prosecution brought in the only witness not wearing handcuffs. While this was a noteworthy development, my attention was divided between him and a man in the "audience." There had been a smattering of observers throughout the trial: some seemed to work for the DA, others may have been law students, and some appeared to be associated with the defendant. This man fell in the latter camp. He had a menacing stare, and made his hands visible. At one point, it was pretty clear his hands were forming the shape of a gun. Was he signaling to the witness, or to us, the jury? Or both? Was this really happening, in real life, even though it seemed straight out of Law & Order?<br />
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During the next recess, we later found out, some of the jurors asked to speak to the judge to express their concerns about this mystery person. The court officer/bailiff* (I was never sure who was who) also noticed the disruption, did his due diligence, and essentially chased the guy out. Still, that couldn't scrub the incident from our collective memory as we were told we were done listening to testimony, and would reconvene the next day to deliberate.<br />
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That night I couldn't sleep. While it seemed like there was some intimidation going on (the handcuffed witnesses), I had to base my decision on what was said in court, not what was unsaid. And the intimidating man, who wasn't part of the trial, couldn't be factored in at all. But was I rationalizing in this way, leaning toward a not guilty verdict, because I was intimidated? I don't really think so, though I <i>was</i> scared. It was just that, frustrating and counterintuitive as it may have seemed, there hadn't been much that we were told or shown in the trial that pointed to the defendant's guilt "beyond a reasonable doubt."<br />
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The next day, we waited in our stew room, still unable to speak to one another about the trial, waiting for the judge. Then, word came. There had been a plea deal; we no longer had to deliberate. In other words, we were off the hook. I was so relieved. I hadn't really known what I would have decided; especially when the other jurors expressed their belief that the guy was guilty, no question. Would I have argued the other side? Would they have swayed me? It may be a cop out, but I was glad to have fulfilled my duty without actually having to take responsibility. On the other hand, it could have been another eye-opening experience to go through that process with a roomful of strangers.<br />
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So what does this have to do with the Casey Anthony verdict? For me, it makes it hard for me to feel outraged about the outcome, no matter how unfair it may seem. While media outlets have largely made their sentiment--guilty!--clear, what happens in a courtroom is a different story. When you are made to see only the evidence, and hear only the testimony, without all the outside noise, the only thoughts you can rely on are your own. And that, at least for me, was incredibly difficult. In a courtroom, there are rarely "facts" or "truth," just one side versus another. You have to confront the fact that all human decisions are subjective, even when you don't want them to be. You may be sending an innocent person to jail, or letting a guilty one go. Do you base your decision on what you <i>think</i> is right? Or what you <i>feel</i> is right?<br />
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The good juror that I was, I refrained from researching my case until after the trial was over. My half-dozen searches brought up absolutely nothing. A guy getting shot in broad daylight in a poor neighborhood didn't even warrant a write-up in a community crime blotter. Again, arguments can be made and lines can be drawn about the crimes that go unnoticed, and the ones that draw national attention--but I'm not going there either.<br />
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The only sort-of argument I wish to make is this: perhaps the next time you get a jury slip in the mail, don't consider it the worst thing. At the very least, the experience could provide some perspective. (Or you'll read a book for a few days and get sent home.) At most, you could find yourself a part of some television-worthy drama. And--admit it--you wouldn't rue that kind of excitement. I'd certainly do it again, even after a (possible) intimidator pointed an (alleged) finger gun at me. It makes for a great story.<br />
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*Everyone I encountered who worked for the court was incredibly kind, smart, and helpful. It definitely affected my experience.<br />
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<br />S. Wilsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14095739371746994269noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3942752019280039110.post-18893626312481798922011-06-30T11:04:00.000-04:002011-06-30T11:04:37.112-04:00Hedberg-esque Photo Caption<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBnzOGh4mtX4-jWJjqNWoxKttT9Y0crmF92fBnGNZtIMOCIk6ATKaicfK1y-2qkA_guZ8CRunRLW6ZfwGvzgvX8jjbjjKVrdbxsUEfihvjd53CZJi1BCIHFwBhZt8gIo6KtVx57eRgAf89/s1600/IMG_0556.JPG" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="478" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBnzOGh4mtX4-jWJjqNWoxKttT9Y0crmF92fBnGNZtIMOCIk6ATKaicfK1y-2qkA_guZ8CRunRLW6ZfwGvzgvX8jjbjjKVrdbxsUEfihvjd53CZJi1BCIHFwBhZt8gIo6KtVx57eRgAf89/s640/IMG_0556.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />
So where do the unimportant birds hang out?<br />
<br />S. Wilsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14095739371746994269noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3942752019280039110.post-84754667855558036542011-06-23T16:55:00.001-04:002011-06-23T17:06:28.660-04:00On Writing: Ur Doin it Wrong<br />
Lately I've been using the hash tag #lifelessons on twitter*, which is a term that I use to highlight things I learn after doing something dumb. Like, how to use the soap sprayer at the do-it-yourself car wash without getting hit in the face; or, if you take apart the vacuum cleaner to clean the filters, you should remember how it all fits together. I've been doing a lot of these "dumb" or mundane things recently because I am currently without a job. School's out for the summer--cue song--and I chose to come to Austin with the fiance and work on my novel while he goes to his real job and gets paid real money. It sometimes gets a little awkward when people ask what I'm doing here (not to mention where I'm from--see <a href="http://readsnipsblog.blogspot.com/2011/06/who-are-you-and-where-are-you-from.html">earlier post</a>), and I've even had one person refer to my role as the "trophy fiancee." Har har. I decided to take that one as a misguided compliment.<br />
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Of course I do tell people that I'm here working on my book (or "my novel," or "my writing," depending on my mood) which inevitably makes me feel like a fraud. I'm not lying; I am working on something that I hope will become a novel...someday. But the state of "being a writer" seems like such a lofty concept that I'm never sure if I'm embodying it now, or if I ever will.<br />
<br />
It's a topic that often comes up among my peers and in my writing workshops. One of my professors (a "real" writer, she has two books that one can actually purchase from booksellers) is fond of saying that the writing process is like masturbation--everyone does it, but no one wants to talk about it. In other words, it's highly personal. You'll sometimes see depictions of writers in movies or on television: set to a manic score, a solitary person (usually male), pounds out words on a typewriter (more dramatic, more tactile than a computer), balls up papers and throws them into the trash, and then....montage over, writer magically delivers bound manuscript to agent/publisher.<br />
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The problem with these romanticized visions, and the highly personal and individualized nature of the writing process, is that when I'm working toward that finished product, I'm constantly thinking: am I doing it wrong?<br />
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Hence the reason for feeling fraudulent, and for being annoyed, and then evasive, when people ask, "How's it going?" "What's your book about?" "How much is written?"<br />
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"How's it going?" is easy to answer; I'll just say "fine" and change the subject. "What's it about?" is trickier; I'm pretty sure the idea I'm starting out with will change ten times, and I don't want to oversell it ("it's a bildungsroman," "it's a commentary on relationships") because that just makes me sound pompous, nor do I want to undersell it ("um, it's about this girl," "it's mostly bullshit") and make it sound like I'm dumb or wasting my time. Not that I should care how it sounds to other people--but I somehow feel like talking about what I'm doing, much like sharing your birthday wish after you blow out the candles, will doom it somehow.<br />
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And the "how many pages" question--well, there's no number I could say that would seem or feel high enough. And what counts as pages? Actual text that (might) appear in the finished project? I'd be terrified to count those at the risk of becoming discouraged. But it also wouldn't seem fair to count those other pages, the ones that contain character sketches, notes on the plot, structural concerns, etc. But those are important. Right?<br />
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The time I devote to writing is also something that concerns me. It always feels like I should be spending more time writing when, theoretically, I have all the time in the world right now. But I lose just under two hours driving the Big F** to and from work, another two hours working out (including commuting and showering), then there's cooking, taking apart the vacuum, washing the car--you know, that dumb stuff I mentioned earlier. Sometimes I worry that it's the dumb stuff that occupies too much of my brain, when I should be focusing on putting words to page (or screen). And what counts as actual writing time? Hours spent reading, thinking, and doing research? Submitting work to publications? Does writing this blog count as practice, as a warm up for the heavy lifting that is Actual Writing?<br />
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The there's the issue of having the time, but not the inclination. I'm only the one millionth person to have this problem, I know, because there's a common term for it: writer's block. But--and here is the dog-chasing-its-tail part of it--to have writer's block, I have to be an actual writer. Otherwise, I'm just someone who has nothing interesting to say, and/or doesn't have the talent to put it to paper. So am I a writer? An aspiring one, say, a writer with an asterisk (*)? Or am I just a fraud, a trophy fiancee?<br />
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It seems the only rational course to take is to just keep doing what I'm doing (be it writing or something else) and enjoy this time while I have it. Speaking of which, I encourage all writers who have jobs, responsibilities, and/or children to tell me to STFU in the comments section. Really, anyone who is currently contributing to society can tell me to shove it. But...can you also tell me how to put a Bissell Powerforce Bagless back together while you're at it? Kthxbai.<br />
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*If you don't follow me, please do: <a href="http://twitter.com/snippetsblog">twitter.com/snippetsblog</a><br />
**I'm testing out nicknames for my fiance. I'm pretty sure he'll hate this one.<br />
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<br />S. Wilsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14095739371746994269noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3942752019280039110.post-35436932445438071932011-06-21T10:47:00.000-04:002011-06-21T10:47:00.351-04:00Book Review: Gryphon<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcpw5A0sk4I-gKI2HeO4q5ZXyiwnB3s3neeRVz3nWEnUmfkn4otpKx_cCF1CwouKTOtqY3ShlEgL2vlCVBk4VU1oJSaMR-2wLwWb-F7CWsBE9CXNrhH9ByzFPYx24s_jZs9yR_py8CeMas/s1600/41OlcBdb-vL._SL500_AA300_.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcpw5A0sk4I-gKI2HeO4q5ZXyiwnB3s3neeRVz3nWEnUmfkn4otpKx_cCF1CwouKTOtqY3ShlEgL2vlCVBk4VU1oJSaMR-2wLwWb-F7CWsBE9CXNrhH9ByzFPYx24s_jZs9yR_py8CeMas/s320/41OlcBdb-vL._SL500_AA300_.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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I'm not sure why books of short stories aren't more popular, considering that today's collective attention span is so limited.<br />
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I recently reviewed Charles Baxter's story collection <i>Gryphon</i> for <a href="http://hotmetalbridge.org/">Hot Metal Bridge</a> and I highly recommend it. Check out the review <a href="http://hotmetalbridge.org/2011/06/gryphon-new-and-selected-stories/">here</a>.<br />
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<br />S. Wilsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14095739371746994269noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3942752019280039110.post-81603543022970632922011-06-06T15:13:00.000-04:002011-06-06T15:13:36.814-04:00Who are You, and Where are You From?<!--StartFragment-->
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Where are you from?</i></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s an innocent question, an easy one. People ask it
expecting a few words in reply, a simple answer: <i>I’m from Chicago. I’m from
Branson, Missouri.</i> To which they can respond: <i>Oh yeah, I’ve been there.</i> Or, <i>Oh,
what’s that like? </i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But when someone asks me this question lately, I
freeze.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What do I say? And how
much do I share?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
To get you up to speed, I’m currently (living in? residing
in? visiting?) Austin, Texas. The Fiancé accepted a summer internship here, and
I tagged along, because: a) it was a chance to spend time together after eight
months of long distance, b) I had nothing going on employment-wise, which meant
I sure as hell wasn’t staying in Pittsburgh, and c) I’ve never been here, and I
was curious.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I love going new
places; it’s like an adventure.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>(Though living in a characterless condo and going swimming every day
isn’t exactly backpacking in Patagonia, but you take what you can get.)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But back to the question at hand. The obvious answer is that
I’m from Michigan. I was born and raised there; I went to school there. Yet
“Michigan” isn’t really significant to my adult life, other than being the
place where my family lives. I never worked there (my adolescent stints at
Meijer and The Pita Peddler don’t count), I’ve never paid my own rent or
mortgage there, I haven’t directly been affected by its economy, its recent
pains. </div>
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<br /></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdkW0X181P_So2NOkHpwxL1iczo1EAIzMzql55by57GYecY35IBXoGwhYtYt4ANO_I3eZ8jxte35DVxk8idGNwQqtrAUuDO719iWvy1tq-LSvNM4Fgk8GCE6e57mnsVd9poSqQOHN9pA_7/s1600/23301_102193233152775_5745_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdkW0X181P_So2NOkHpwxL1iczo1EAIzMzql55by57GYecY35IBXoGwhYtYt4ANO_I3eZ8jxte35DVxk8idGNwQqtrAUuDO719iWvy1tq-LSvNM4Fgk8GCE6e57mnsVd9poSqQOHN9pA_7/s1600/23301_102193233152775_5745_n.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Actually, I'm from farther east, closer to the thumb. But you get the idea.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Now, I suppose, I’m “from” Pittsburgh, though that doesn’t
feel right either.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Three-quarters
of the year I go to school there and am employed there, and I rent my own
apartment—just me!—for the first time ever.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have friends, a place where I volunteer, “my” gym, “my”
stores, “my” places I go to write. But it feels temporary, secondary.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Temporary because once I graduate, I’ll
move on to—I don’t know where. Secondary because it’s not really where I want
to be (no offense to the University, and my incredibly intelligent and awesome
friends). But, if this were <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Pretty in
Pink</i>, Pittsburgh would be Duckie (Jon Cryer, forever the second banana):
he’s cool and nice and all, but you don’t want to date him, or take him to
prom.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So who’s Blane (as played by Andrew McCarthy)? New York, of
course, and Brooklyn specifically. I’m well aware I can’t technically say
I’m “from” New York, or, God forbid, that I’m a “New Yorker.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There are rules about making such
claims, and being that I only lived there for four (I’m ashamed just by typing
that paltry number) years, I can’t take ownership other than to say I lived
there.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But when I’m standing in front of someone new, and they are politely
waiting for an answer—so they can start to form a connection, and begin to
piece together who I am—to say “Brooklyn” seems more telling than any other
option. It’s where I ended one career and began another (and another), where I
made my first real adult friends, where I grew my first (and only) real adult
relationship—essentially, it’s where I became an adult.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And Brooklyn remains, in relationship
terms, the One Who Got Away—the one who is the measuring stick for other
relationships, other cities.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Which
is why poor Pittsburgh, with its bad food and Midwest sensibility, never stood
a chance. And why I keep fantasizing Austin to be Brooklyn—it’s just that someone
shrunk it down and turned up the heat.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So what do I really say when people ask that deceptively
simple question, <i>Where are you from? </i><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Inevitably, too much. That I’m from Michigan, but worked in New York,
and now I’m a grad student at Pitt… And then their eyes glaze over, or they
look at their watches, or gaze longingly at their cars, their escape.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And I realize I really need to keep it
simple or I’ll never make new friends.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But I guess that’s the problem with clinging to a past
relationship—it makes it that much harder to form a new one.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<!--EndFragment-->S. Wilsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14095739371746994269noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3942752019280039110.post-79712892828647292882011-02-08T23:04:00.000-05:002011-02-08T23:04:50.966-05:00Caption This Photo<br />
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<b>"Oh no, Grace, don't look now! That heroin addict from across the street is wearing your wedding gown; I think she's trying to steal it!"</b><br />
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I've started buying (and receiving) wedding magazines. So far I haven't found them exactly...useful. All the stuff about choosing themes and bridesmaid dresses--it's just not my thing. But they can be (unintentionally) hilarious at times. Who wants to look like this chick on their wedding day, really?<br />
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<br />S. Wilsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14095739371746994269noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3942752019280039110.post-14475704071842671672011-02-03T12:28:00.001-05:002011-02-03T12:29:07.903-05:00Words Matter<br />
I am agitated.<br />
<br />
I'm trying my hardest not to be--it's unhealthy. I can feel the stress taking over my body, causing me to shake. But some issues are worth agitation. Or downright anger.<br />
<br />
Yesterday, there was a flurry among many of my friends on facebook about a bill put forth in the House by Republican Chris Smith, called the "No Taxpayer Funding for Abortion Act." Whether you are on the side of pro-life or pro-choice, the issue with this bill--the issue that agitates me--is how it is attempting to redefine rape. The bill says: "cases of 'forcible' rape but not statutory or coerced rape," are the only cases in which federal funding for abortions will be allowable.<br />
<br />
Wow.<br />
<br />
As a writer, I am obsessed with words. Words matter. And in this case, the word "forcible" is being used by politicians in a manner that is so demeaning, so backwards, and so hurtful...I'm speechless.<br />
<br />
Essentially what this stipulation is saying is that unless a woman is forced into the act of sex in some physically violent manner, federal funding for an abortion will not be available to her. One has to wonder--will she have to show proof of her physical injury? Will there need to be bruising of some kind? The message that's being sent is that even if you didn't give consent, unless your rapist slapped you around, you're not deserving of public support. Your rape, what you endured, doesn't count in the eyes of the law. Those psychological scars? The mental anguish that will last years after any physical bruises have disappeared? That is not proof enough. Perhaps you didn't fight hard enough. Perhaps you weren't even raped at all.<br />
<br />
I try not to be too reactionary, especially when it comes to politics. Perhaps this bill is not something to get too bent-out-of-shape about. In fact, Democrat Daniel Lipinski, a co-sponsor of the bill, said: "The language of [the bill] was not intended to change existing law regarding taxpayer funding for abortion in cases of rape." Okay then. But then why, Mr. Lipinski, include that word "forcible" at all?<br />
<br />
At some point, I feel one has to say something. Because what's next? Perhaps legislators will decide to place the word "unprovoked" in front of the word "rape." Were you wearing a short skirt at the time of the assault? Yes? Well then, you were asking for it. No funding for you.<br />
<br />
Here's a link to a petition against the bill:<br />
<br />
<a href="http://pol.moveon.org/redefining/?rc=fb.share.redefining.button.v1">http://pol.moveon.org/redefining/?rc=fb.share.redefining.button.v1</a><br />
<br />
I object to their phrasing it as "dangerous GOP legislation" since some Democrats support the bill as well. I understand where they're coming from, since a majority of the backers are Republican, but I hope an issue such as this would transcend any political affiliation. <b>If you are a woman, or if you love and respect women, I hope you'd consider signing.</b><br />
<b><br /></b><br />
<b><br /></b>S. Wilsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14095739371746994269noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3942752019280039110.post-76637323774210094892011-01-30T23:06:00.001-05:002011-01-30T23:11:25.811-05:00Nothing Has Changed, Everything Has Changed<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #262626; font-family: Helvetica;">I got engaged two weeks ago.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #262626; font-family: Helvetica;">The proposal was expected (after six
years of dating) but also caught me off guard (so much so that I pretty much
collapsed in the snow when it happened). Since then, nothing has changed, and
everything has changed.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #262626; font-family: Helvetica;">I say nothing has changed,
because it really hasn't. At some point I realized I loved him and always
would, that I wanted to be with him to the exclusion of anyone else. Though I
should say "points," because if love is anything, it is cyclical. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #262626; font-family: Helvetica;">I knew a few months in, when the
relationship was still new, that I wanted to marry him one day--and even said
as much on a drunken New Year's Eve phone call. (As if there is any other
kind.) <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #262626; font-family: Helvetica;">But then he finished college,
moved away, and I had to stay behind. We had to rewrite our relationship, which
we did quite literally, sending each other cards and letters by
mail--completely anachronistic in the digital world in which we lived. When he
sent me five cards on one Valentine's Day to make up for a long silence--I knew
then. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #262626; font-family: Helvetica;">I knew again when he asked me to
move in, and said that of course Max, my Puking Wonder Cat, could come too. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #262626; font-family: Helvetica;">Then, after an extremely
difficult period, enduring the deaths of loved ones and facing uncertainty,
both financial and otherwise, together--a dark period that culminated with
another geographic separation--I knew again, as he helped me unpack the last
moving box, that we couldn't be apart.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #262626; font-family: Helvetica;">And so the proposal, the
engagement, the eventual marriage--they are all part of this continuity. Simply
an official nod to the fact that, no matter what happens, we'll be together.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #262626; font-family: Helvetica;">And yet everything has changed.
Some of the shifts are tiny, insignificant. For example, this was not what I
was planning on blogging about this week (inconsequential). And I had a
five-minute fit of anxiety about what to do with my ring before I went to the
gym. (I decided to leave it home, for safekeeping, and literally rushed home,
washed my hands, and put it back on again, as if not wanting to be caught
without it.) I got a manicure for the first time in years, because my fingers
looked too ragged in comparison to the shining new object on my left finger.
And I broke my resolution not to go back to Michigan until February (part of my
effort to connect more with Pittsburgh). It seemed different that I'd be
visiting my fiancé, not my boyfriend. Plus, my mom still needed to see the ring
in person.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #262626; font-family: Helvetica;">But then there's the big part,
the wonderful and also terrifying part, that this little circle of platinum
signifies. And that's this: it's not just me anymore. Once I graduate and am
ready to move on once again, it won't be a question of where I want to go, what
I need to do--but where <i>we</i> want to go, and what <i>we</i> need to do. I think, if you do
it right, this isn't as restrictive as it seems. Perhaps my fiancé, my husband,
will lead me somewhere I never thought I'd be. Perhaps my career will give us
an opportunity we never considered. For the first time, my needs will be equal
to someone else's. On the bad days, this may be frustrating. But the rest of
the time, it will be comforting to know I will never have to be alone.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #262626; font-family: Helvetica;">One of the consequences of
getting engaged is that I can now watch those horrible wedding-themed
television shows (<a href="http://tlc.howstuffworks.com/tv/say-yes-to-the-dress">Say Yes to the Dress</a>, <a href="http://www.wetv.com/bridezillas/">Bridezillas</a>, et al) and chalk it up to
research. But if I actually let
those shows inform my reality, I’d believe that a wedding was the most selfish
spectacle ever invented. (The favorite
invective of the brides on these shows: “It’s MY day!”)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #262626; font-family: Helvetica;">But I think the opposite must be
true. If you enter into it the
right way, marrying someone has to be one of the least selfish things you can
do. Something <i>has</i> changed; you’ve
made a pact—one you’ll work for, sacrifice for, in myriad ways, big and small,
for the rest of your life.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>S. Wilsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14095739371746994269noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3942752019280039110.post-5390246208666968032011-01-20T11:07:00.001-05:002011-01-20T11:10:47.583-05:00Not-So-Breaking NewsWhy "symbolically" attempt to repeal health care reform? It's just that the Republicans are so darn sentimental...<br />
<br />
<object height="270" width="480"><param name="movie" value="http://www.hulu.com/embed/pyncDQsoxqPpIXoAUbH-7Q/61/204">
</param>
<param name="allowFullScreen" value="true">
</param>
<embed src="http://www.hulu.com/embed/pyncDQsoxqPpIXoAUbH-7Q/61/204" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" width="480" height="270" allowFullScreen="true"></embed></object>S. Wilsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14095739371746994269noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3942752019280039110.post-70912074597139325292011-01-07T00:09:00.000-05:002011-01-07T00:09:38.614-05:00The Season of Self-Loathing<!--StartFragment-->
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So, January.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>It’s cliché, I know, to talk about New Year’s resolutions.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But I don’t have much else to discuss
(and I must discuss something, as “posting on the blog once a week” is one of
my NYRs), and it beats all the other topics my friends are discussing these
days: the doomsday scenario of the Republicans taking over the House, the
doomsday scenario of the Michigan coaching situation, etc.</div>
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My problem with NYRs is that I already feel the pressure,
almost every day, to be perfect in all aspects of life.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I touched on this idea in my last post—the
struggle of trying to be a successful student while maintaining a rigorous
workout schedule.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Do I really need
another push, telling me I have to better myself in some way?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A nagging voice telling me I must make
up for my positively slovenly behavior of the past few months?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(I made Christmas cookies, yes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And I ate quite a few…GUILTY!)</div>
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The other problem with NYRs is that they’re often
contradictory.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Last year at this
time, I embarked on a Paleo Challenge, where I ate nothing but whole, real
foods for six weeks.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No sugar,
wheat, dairy, beans, legumes, or processed anything.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I felt great, I looked pretty good (if I do say so myself),
and I felt pretty darn virtuous.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The problem was, it was really difficult to maintain, not least of all
because it was expensive.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And
that’s where the contradiction comes in: I want to eat well, but I also want to
spend less money.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I need to spend
less money.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I currently make
negative money.</div>
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Of course, some of my friends and Paleo diehards would like
to tell you that you can do the diet on the cheap, and to them I say, respectfully:
shut the heck up. Non-Paleo (and not necessarily bad-for-you, depending on whom
you ask), filling foods such as beans, quinoa, and oatmeal are certainly
cheaper than the quality proteins (grass fed beef, free range that) the diet
recommends.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Add to it that I’m
dining alone, and cooking alone, and that $11 per pound cut of meat becomes
less appetizing when there’s no one to share it with.</div>
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And so, I’m torn.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>As many of my friends renew their diet promises this January, I feel
pulled to join them, even guilty if I don’t.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But then I look at my bank balance, and realize my no-budget
trips to the market (What single person spends $80 on groceries, really?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>How am I not 300 pounds?) have got to
change.</div>
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At this point, another glaring problem with NYRs comes into
sharp focus—they’re pretty selfish.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>When I’m not obsessing over school, exercise, diet, and money, I’m
worrying that I’m not being a good enough girlfriend, friend, daughter, or
sister.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I don’t call my friends
enough, or see my family enough.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Yes, nearly all of them live over 300 miles away, but I could still be
doing a better job.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I still
haven’t learned how to Skype—that’s definitely something I should be doing,
right?</div>
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Perhaps I’m crazy—okay, certainly I’m crazy—but I know a lot
of other people out there, especially my girlfriends, feel similar amounts of
guilt.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And so I declare January to
be “Stop Beating Yourself Up Month.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>It’s kind of a resolution itself, I’m aware, but it’s a hell of a lot
better than “running every single day for a year”—which is actually more of a stunt
than a personally beneficial activity.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>(Yes, I considered it.)</div>
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And so, we are one week into the New Year and this is the progress
I’ve made so far: I saved $230 by switching my car insurance.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then I watched several hours of trashy
TV and didn’t feel guilty about it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Well, I’m trying not to, anyway.</div>
<!--EndFragment-->S. Wilsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14095739371746994269noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3942752019280039110.post-49051070559804584052010-10-03T18:35:00.000-04:002010-10-03T18:35:39.173-04:00Life of the Body, Life of the Mind<!--StartFragment-->
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">This move to Pittsburgh has been a momentous one. I changed cities, career paths, the
direction of my life. While this
is certainly a movement forward for me, I sometimes feel like I’m making a
trade. No offense to Pittsburgh,
but when it comes to swapping it for Brooklyn, I feel like I’m getting a bit of
a raw deal. (Though I do
appreciate the 30%+ discount on rent.)
But I also feel like I’ve traded a life of the body for a life of the
mind.</span></span></div>
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<o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span></span></o:p></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">In New York, I began with—not much. As friendships went, I was rich in
quality but poor in quantity. Eventually I made more friends, and they generally
fell into two categories: my running friends and my CrossFit friends. Though they differed in their preferred
methods of exercise (long runs versus heavy weightlifting) and diets
(vegetarian versus a devout worship of bacon), they were similar in a lot of
very important ways. They were all
energetic, welcoming, and incredibly smart. I can count among them teachers, an equities analyst, a
philosophy professor, a life and business coach, a hugely popular
blogger/writer, business owners, an event planner, tech geniuses, and an
architect. </span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Their collective brilliance made for excellent conversation
during post-workout brunches or beers.
But one of the beautiful things about exercise-based friendship was that
it was a way of escaping those things we did for money. The exercise freed us from the stresses
of the day, if only temporarily.
You could, in some way, run from a looming deadline, or simultaneously
push away a heavy weight and the heft of a boss’s expectations. </span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">On a run, talk quickly turned from workaday frustrations to
mileage, pace, and training plans.
No matter what incalculable tasks we faced in other realms of life, in
the CrossFit gym, we knew we could progress in incremental amounts—two pounds,
five, ten—with careful, consistent practice. Whether I had a “good” workout or a “bad” one often didn’t
matter; I’d come home sweaty, taxed, and smiling. </span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">This is the life of the body: testing the limits of your
physical abilities over and over, willing yourself to be better, faster,
stronger. </span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">So now here I am in Pittsburgh. I’m a graduate student. I’m also a teacher.
My hours are no longer 9 to 5:30.
In some ways, my “hours” now never end. I just eventually fall asleep, only to wake up and
immediately pick up where I left off.
I’m constantly writing, reading, and creating lesson plans. </span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">If I had to relate the experience of first-year teaching to
my CrossFit friends, I’d say it was like trying to complete Fran, or
Helen—maybe both back-to-back—with no warm-up. If I had to describe what it was like, standing in front of
19 over-stimulated and under-rested college freshman three days a week, to my
running friends, I’d compare it to running a marathon. A hilly one. In 90 degree heat.
And you don’t get a medal at the end. On the contrary, you often leave feeling completely
defeated: you are the worst teacher in the world; your students aren’t learning
anything. And they hate you.</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Spending a large amount of time with brainy grad students
and brilliant writers isn’t always easy either. It requires an incredible amount of work and energy to feel
like you can even hang with them.
And when you hear someone is halfway through his novel, or that another
person wakes up at 6 AM each day to write—you rush to your own computer, or
notebook, willing the words to flow for you as easily as they do for your
classmates. You are no writer, you
say to yourself. You are a fraud,
a hack.</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">This is the life of the mind. Always in your head, always attempting to create, learn,
instruct.</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">When I was a five-day-a-week corporate drone, I felt like I
was losing a part of myself. Now,
to be working and learning in an environment that I find challenging,
fascinating, and constantly surprising is a wonderful thing. But it’s also exhausting. I’ll wake up at 8 or 9, do work, go to
class, then come home and work some more—sometimes until as late as 2 or 3 in
the morning. </span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Unfortunately, this leaves little time for exercise. If I do have time, I’m often too
exhausted to do much beyond play with my cat. (And even then there are nights when pointing a laser mouse
at the ground from the comfort of my couch seems like incredibly taxing work.)</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Hilariously—at least, for all of you who get to read about
it later—I am signed up to run the Chicago Marathon next weekend. This ain’t my first rodeo (see Detroit,
2008, and New York, 2009), but I’m absolutely terrified. I’ve been running, but probably not
enough. I’ve given up on doing the
recommended training mileage, because it would take too long. The Pittsburgh hills are absolutely
brutal. Where I was used to doing
9:00-minute miles in Brooklyn, I’m happy to clock in 11:00-minute miles
here. So I go out for time: two
hours, two-and-a-half, three. I
hope it will be enough.</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">This weekend, I attended a writers’ retreat in a
Pennsylvania state park. On
Saturday morning, the day dawned sunny and cool: perfect running weather. I went for five miles—any longer and I
may have gotten lost in the park wilderness. (Or been captured by the people in the “Primitive Camping”
area, who, I imagine, would have roasted me on a spit.) Plus, I needed to get back and write.</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">In that brief time while I was on the run, I thought about
how I didn’t want to feel like I was giving up one life for another. I want to have both. Exercise and thought feed off of each
other. A workout that pushes me to
physical exhaustion can bring mental clarity. And accomplishments in the gym or at a race wouldn’t mean as
much if I weren’t achieving things in the real world, where the benchmarks are
fuzzy, and the finish line is an illusion. No one will ever give me a medal for my work in the
classroom, and it’s highly unlikely my writing will ever garner prizes or
accolades. But what I get back is
infinitely better: a life. A full
one.</span></span></div>
<!--EndFragment-->S. Wilsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14095739371746994269noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3942752019280039110.post-26463352300428114182010-09-07T00:49:00.000-04:002010-09-07T00:49:21.926-04:00When the Going Gets Tough, Hug a KittySo. It's been a while. It's not that I've had nothing to write about; in fact, the problem is just the opposite: I've had so much to write about that every time I sit down to write a new post, an, "I'm back!" post, I become paralyzed as my fingers hover over the keys. I've had a few false starts: I began a post about my vacation, started one about marriage and babies...then never finished either.<br />
<br />
Then, today, as I was suffering through a tortuous run, it hit me: fuck it, I'll write about this.<br />
<br />
But first, a summary. In mid-July I quite my job in New York. I spent one-and-a-half blissful weeks doing all the things I've ever wanted to do in NYC: visiting the Whitney, going surfing in the Rockaways, touring the Cloisters, etc. Then there was half a week of harried, stressful packing. I decided to leave NYC--and my job, and my lovely friends--to go to Pittsburgh, pursue a graduate degree, and write (and teach) full time. However, I still had some time before school started. So the BF and I began a wonderful, perhaps overly ambitious, summer vacation. In the span of about three weeks, we visited Cincinnati, Nashville, Chicago, Ann Arbor, Detroit, and a very northwestern tip of Michigan.<br />
<br />
Eventually, we had to get back to reality. I've been in Pittsburgh now for two weeks. Classes have started, I like them, and I am mostly very happy to be here. It's lonely though; I don't know anyone in Pittsburgh, and I'm a minimum four-and-a-half hour drive from anyone who loves me. But, I try not to dwell on that fact.<br />
<br />
So, back to that run. For some reason, even though I have been running off and on for about 12 years of my life, running here has felt unnatural. Today, for example, the very first steps I took, all I could think was: I'm uncomfortable. Half a mile in, I had to stop and take off my top layer of clothing. What on earth had possessed me to wear long sleeves? Then my headphones kept flapping, and hitting me in a way that irked me like crazy. I thought: how had I ever done this before?<br />
<br />
The fact is, in running, as in life, it doesn't get easier. It's just when you start to get comfortable that things tend to get tough all over again.<br />
<br />
With the running, I know I am pushing it a little too hard. I've been on the road, I'm going through huge changes--my body and mind are a mess. But I signed up for the Chicago Marathon (10/10/10) ages ago, before I even knew I was coming to Pittsburgh, and committed to running with a group of serious runner friends. So every day I keep thinking about where I should be physically, and getting frustrated by where I actually am. In addition to my mental roadblocks, it's been difficult to adjust to the topography here. Michigan and New York--both places I lived and ran before--were very similar in their low, flat terrain. And though Pitt isn't Denver, the elevation is higher than what I'm used to, and it's hilly. The other day I was convinced I had run uphill both ways to and from my house.<br />
<br />
Just as my lack of preparedness has hurt my running, it's the things I didn't prepare for that have made this transition so difficult. First, there was the flood that occurred in my new apartment while the BF and I were on vacation. While I was anxious about starting school again, I hadn't anticipated spending hours a week on the phone with my new landlord, trying to get things fixed. My first day of orientation, I found myself in a school bathroom in tears. It was a lot to take on my first day in an unfamiliar place.<br />
<br />
I also didn't fully foresee how hard it would be to live apart from the BF again. We did the distance things once before, and remarkably well too. I knew I was going to miss him, and I knew we were going to get through this like we had before. I just didn't know how hard it would be to watch him pull away in his car, leaving me alone here, in the fullest sense of the word. I didn't just cry; I sobbed. For days, it felt like I'd lost an appendage, a piece of myself. <br />
<br />
But for now, I think, the hardest part is over. My apartment is fixed, I've started to meet people, and the BF and I have settled into a comfortable and frequent phone routine. I can only hope the running will also fall into place in time, that I'll relearn my stride, and be able to take on the hills with confidence, perhaps even enthusiasm. All I can do is lace up my shoes again tomorrow, and try again. At the very least, I can still go to Chicago to cheer on my friends.<br />
<br />
Yes, the worst seems to be behind me--at least, until it gets tougher all over again.S. Wilsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14095739371746994269noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3942752019280039110.post-19902889096758367042010-08-14T23:22:00.001-04:002010-08-14T23:22:39.125-04:00On the RoadSnippets has been on the road the past two weeks, but more posts are coming soon! Am currently at Hamburger University* in Elmhurst, IL. I've chosen to minor in ketchup.<br /><br /><br />*Hamburger University is real. We happen to be staying at the Hyatt on the campus of McDonald's headquarters.S. Wilsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14095739371746994269noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3942752019280039110.post-23935975425248968722010-07-29T07:00:00.002-04:002010-10-03T18:58:07.898-04:00Mow, Dog, Mow!<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande'; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 11px;"><object height="250" width="400"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/kb4mU59-7jE&hl=en_US&fs=1?color1=0xcc2550&color2=0xe87a9f">
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande';">The best is when he looks at the camera like, "Whaddup."</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande';"><br /></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande';">Thanks to my friend Matt at <a href="http://warmingglow.com/">Warming Glow</a> for this one.</span></div>S. Wilsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14095739371746994269noreply@blogger.com1