This Year's Kids

As I sit in here in the main campus library, herds of young'uns are moving through the building, being lead by my former co-workers on tours of the facility. Their faces shiny with hope and oil, their parents proud and nervous. It's nice how the world goes on.

Sometimes I'm surprised by the lack of nostalgia I feel walking through the campus. I never think, this is the spot where I that guy forced me to tell him why I didn't want to go out with him, this is where I was drunk off my ass, this is where I thought I first heard gun shots. I had a desparate conversation with my professor in that building. There's the Wawa where Qui and I used to go to buy Mint Milanos and Marlboro Lights. Instead, I just walk from my office to the pharmacy or the bank or whatever, because now the campus is just the place where I work.

My first days here as a freshman were miserable. I knew no one. My roommate was some petite, neat clubbing kid from Brooklyn who'd attended some snooty Manhattan day school on a scholarship and had no interest in spending time with a large, Midwestern geek. The only thing we had in common was that we were black. When I visited the campus before, I looked around and said to myself, "I am not like these people, but I should be." What was I thinking? Why did I come to this place where no one was like me and few were like anyone I'd hung out with in high school? At a mixer, I watched in disbelief as I saw people my age wearing tight clothes and forming conga lines. Why were so many girls dressed like tacky versions of the Heathers? What kind of young people formed conga lines of their own free will? I didn't understand.

Before dropping me off at the university, my parents wanted the family to spend some time in Massachusetts. While in MA, I visited my childhood friend who was just starting at Wellesley--so small, so green, so friendly (so intense, but I only heard about that later). That's what college should be like, I thought. Forget the options of a large university. I seriously considered transfering to Macalester even though it did not offer a communications major. But I did not transfer. I stayed, made dear friends, and thoroughly enjoyed studying communications.

As I said before, it is nice how the world goes on. I'm glad I don't get nostalgic for my undergraduate days when I am on my way to get my teeth cleaned.

I Should Be at Sears

I suppose I should be at Sears now, returning the frumpy Land's End garments that looked decent online but were, as a friend once warned me they would be, boxy and boring. But instead I am spending my vacation sitting in a building where I once worked.

I am not very good at using my vacation days. I wish I could sell them to my co-workers. They, especially the ones with children, never have enough. This morning I slept in. I watched Arthur (the cartoon about the aardvark, not the movie about the alcoholic). So the morning wasn't a total waste. I thought about how much I love PBS Kids, how it soothes my agitated brain (except for that Curious George program. Why do they let that creature go unsupervised so often?). I did the dishes, at last, while listening to some lady talk about the history of the Gatling gun on the public radio.

If anyone wonders why I don't blog more often, just read this post. This is the kind of crap I would talk about if I blogged everyday. A non problem. Too many vacation days. Cry my a river. Instead of being, I am not being, specifically not being at Sears. Should I go to the credit union today? That's another burning question.

Women in Green, Pink, Red and Orange

If the so-called PUMAs didn't listen to their own woman in orange who spoke at the DNC last night or feel any solidarity with the woman in green, then I hope they gave some attention to the woman in pink and especially the woman in red, Lily Ledbetter. Ledbetter's speech rocked! I can't remember being so fired up by a political speech.

It's inspiring to see accomplished and eloquent women with prestigious degrees on television working their sleek dresses and snazzy pant suits, but its even more important to pay heed to those women who haven't attained such status. Ledbetter's employer failed to give her equal pay, and when she fought them all the way to the Supreme Court, the court failed to give her justice.

"We can’t afford more of the same votes that deny women their equal rights," said Ledbetter. "Barack Obama is on our side."

Into the Mild

Last Friday MJP, The Kid and I spent the afternoon at French Creek State Park. Even though I'd purchased hiking shoes, special socks, and a new Swiss army knife to prepare for this adventure, we wound up spending most of our time in the bracing waters of the park's swimming pool. That was probably for the best, considering that I'd left the insect repellent back home in Philly. After splashing around in the pool with the The Kid and as many of her plastic dinosaurs (a.k.a The Dinos) as her little hands could carry, we did do a bit of hiking around Hopewell Lake. On the trail we encountered a grasshopper, a mushroom, a Viceroy butterfly, some kind of yellow and blue butterfly, one adult male human, two adult female humans, a mixed group of Mennonite humans and an empty can of Milwaukee's Best. Fortunately, even though we did cross a bridge, there were no greedy trolls to be seen.

We left the park and headed for Shoefly's house (a.k.a Goatland), which is not far from the state park. Mr. and Ms. Fly, I explained to The Kid in case she was expecting a DisneyWorld of goats, only have two goats. Two turned out to be plenty for The Kid, who was quite pleased to feed them carrots. Ms. Fly fed us a tasty spinach pie, mozzarella, and some of the most flavorful tomatoes I've ever eaten, fresh from the Shoefly garden. The grown-ups drank Guinness and talked about music, politics, religion and such while The Kid and the two Shoefly boys romped around together. Mr. Fly fortified MJP with an espresso, then it was time to drive back to the big city and the ever irritating I-76 Conshohoken Curve.

In spite of a few navigational snafus, this mini vacation was a success in my book. I'd love to return to French Creek and really get my money's worth out of my hiking shoes soon.

Next

I wonder what I should do next.

Shirley MacLaine, Dream Marketer

Last night, Shirley MacLaine visited me in my dreams. She entered through my bedroom window and told me with an impish smile that my apartment smelled like cookies and feet. While I can be hardly objective about the matter, I disagree with Ms. MacLaine's assessment. How can I believe her when she's hawking her own line of aromatherapy products?

Pineapple, Origami, and Dolphin Porn

Origami and dolphin porn represent just two magical moments from the last weekend.

On Saturday, I enjoyed a screening of Pineapple Express courtesy of MJP. It's funny movie with an incredible performance from my favorite doorman Craig Robinson, but you can wait for the dvd. MJP and I discovered that we are capable of giving each other piggy-back rides, knowledge that will definitely come in handy in an emergency.*

On Sunday morning, I took my first Bolt bus ride to New York to visit Quiconque. I assure you that Qui's busted foot is--while far from fully functional--not such a dog as it thinks it is. She showed me how to make an origami star box. We also watched the most sexually charged episode of PBS's Nature since What Females Want. In The Dolphin Defender, correspondent Hardy Jones has got it bad for fin.

On the return ride from New York to Philly, I learned that you'd better be sure you're on the right bus, or you will be thoroughly mocked by the driver. This man has run out of patience for the "Boston People" who will insist on trying to redirect his bus once they notice it is going south.

*P.S. 8/14/2008

The piggy-back ride was a bad idea. Acting like playful people in "a Newport ad"(as MJP put it) can be harmful to your health. The combination of lifting a grown man and riding on a bus for hours set off some kind of nerve compression. Ever since Monday I've had intermittent numbness on the left side of my body. Not to worry. A quick visit to my GP and a condescending resident ("Sometimes our minds play tricks on us," she said. Nice bedside manner, kid.) confirms that my nerves are good enough. The numbness is almost gone now. It completely disappears after a short walk.

The Magical Maxi Dress

Finally, there's a fashion trend I can support. The maxi dress looks fabulous to me. The flowing outfits reminds me of simpler times (The 70s were simple for me. I was too busy playing to worry about stagflation and such). Mom had a most magical tomato soup colored maxi hostess dress with sequins on the bodice. My Barbies wore the style well, too.

Crunch All You Want

I was going to bust on the republicans for their crabby air pressure gage give-away, but this particular cynical gimmick actually has a useful side effect. Proper tire pressure does save gas. This morning when I heard a snippet from McCain's speech in South Dakota on the radio, it brought to mind a corn chip commercial from my youth. "Crunch all you want, we'll make more."

Too bad for the McCain campaign that the slogan is a bit tired. That snack chip motto seems right in line with his "Burn all you want, we'll drill more" energy policy.

You don't have to take care of the stuff you already have. Just consume more, shopping sheep, and we'll take care of the rest.

Overheard on Campus Yesterday Evening

". . . But then someone ending up drawing blood that they weren't supposed to."

Sets the imagination racing, doesn't it?

That's Not the Nancy

It's "when they do the double dutch, that's them dancing," not "when they do the double dutch, that's the Nancy."