Two Nice People

Sometimes — when she’s not worrying about being unloveable or unemployable or the ramifications of moving a TV into her bedroom – my crazy anxious older sister says something wise. Like this reflection on her recent break-up:

“We were just two nice people who cared about each other but didn’t have a future…and took too long to end.”

All I want for Christmas is…

Without bragging too much (because I have a few friends who spent less-than-ideal family Christmases), I have the best family ever. EVER. I went home and giggled lots and received some wonderful Christmas gifts and more money than I deserve.

With that in mind, here are a few of my favorites, reinforcing that cliché, “It’s the thought that counts”:

Tape — A stocking stuffer. Extremely useful, especially after going through almost an entire roll making my construction paper Christmas tree chain.

Ice-scraper Mitt — Part oven mitt, part ice-scraper, all awesome. My grandma got one of these for all of my sisters. Stick your hand into this fleece-lined glove and you can grip the handle of the standard car scraper that sticks out the top. Naturally, we experimented with this gift — shaking hands, scratching backs, and even attempting to use it as a traditional oven mitt. Not recommended.

Sewing Kit — To be more precise, a travel sewing kit swiped from the hotel room on my parent’s recent trip to Hawaii. There’s a picture of a waterfall on the front, and the back reads “Lose yourself in the mist.”

Tie-dyed T-shirt — My baby sister made me a shirt for Christmas. When I visited a few months ago I had to borrow one she already had while I washed all of my clothes. I didn’t take it off the whole weekend, so she decided to make me my own. She also gave me a Bath & Body Works gift card. She figured out there was one at the Ottumwa mall and thought it would help me “get out more.” I am pathetic and loved.

Merry Christmas, friends.

Hey-o, journalism students.

So it seems I’m disqualified unless I get myself into grad school ASAP, but this weekend a friend told me about New York Times columnist Nicholas Kristof’s annual trip to different African countries with with one lucky essay contest winner.

Check out his blog post, a goofy video and instructions on entering here. Then pass it on.

Coincidentally, last week I had just started reading Kristof’s book Half the Sky (co-written with his wife and fellow NYT correspondent Sheryl WuDunn – ooooh, spouse news teams) about worldwide oppression of women, how they’re/we’re overcoming it and what we can do help.

Both worth a look.

Lessons Learned

St. Louis feels more and more like a hometown each time I go back.

Lady Gaga plays piano.

Bars can be fun. Since turning 21, I’ve only had the pleasure of making awkward I-really-don’t-want-you-around conversation with a cowboy wedding attendant at the Dukum and avoiding Ottumwa bars entirely. Turns out urban bars are much classier (or at least much more pretentious) which makes for fun games of “Name that Obscure Canadian Band” playing over the speakers while drinking cheap hipster beer.

My 80-year-old farmer grandpa dresses like a hipster.

There will never be enough time to spend with old friends, so…

When I have hugs to motivate me, I can get by on only 3 hours of sleep.

My morning-person personality is squandered on the night shift.

Express has a men’s section.

It’s hard to stare up at tall buildings for extended periods of time.

A reminder from high school history teachers: Four years (or three years) changes everything.

Word is our generation is destined for five to seven lifetime careers. Yay! I don’t have to be a copy editor for the next 45 years – or even the next four to five months…

I ranted about Ottumwa a lot. I apologize. It’s time to start taking steps to change this situation.

So the big question is: Can we all quit our jobs, drop out of school and live together in an adobe house in New Mexico?

“As for me, I have to agree, I’m as fickle as a paperdoll.”

My best stories start at the YMCA.

She beamed at me across the locker room, wrapped in her lime green, flower-appliquéd towel. And I knew there would be trouble.

We said our hellos. My new late-fifties friend started the conversation with, “I got tired of holding my swimsuit.” I didn’t ask questions.

“What are you here to do?” she asked.

“Oh, just use the treadmills, I guess,” I responded.

“I come here for the swim classes. They have them all morning, every morning. Water aerobics – it’s great! They have a deep water class. You would like that one.” This woman had an uncanny ability to discern strangers’ preferred type of aquatic exercise.

“Hmm, I’ll have to try it. You just do the exercises without touching the bottom?”

“Everybody gets floaties,” she explained enthusiastically.

Quick vision of myself wearing water wings surrounded by septuagenarians. “Yeaaah, I’ll have to work on my swimming.”

“Oh, you don’t have to be a swimmer,” she chuckled. “There’s a life guard.” And then the towel slipped.

“Waaahokay,” I squeaked. “Well, you have a good day now! See you…” I fast-walked for the door.

“You have fun!” she called. “It’s not worth doing if it’s not fun!”

Thanks for the life lesson, YMCA lady. And thanks for flashing me mid-conversation.

Oops.

Probably need to cut back on these encounters with the law recently.

On the upside, it seems being nice (and attributing yielding instead of stopping at a sign to “being cold”) still counts for something. Yay, verbal warning.

Mom, if you’re reading this, I’m driving with an expired insurance card. And I’m down to 25 days to get new plates. Can I still be the favorite child?

Good times never seemed so good.

CAN’T STOP LISTENING…

My first memory of Neil Diamond (just like one of those “Where were you during the moon landing/Kennedy assassination/9-11 attacks?” questions) is of a Christmas season at least a decade ago. His song, Little Drummer Boy or something in that vein, came up on the radio and Mom started grumbling. “Neil Diamond… He’s Jewish, but he sings Christmas songs. It’s all about the money.”

My most recent memory of Neil: My oldest sister explaining to my youngest sister that Sweet Caroline is “the ultimate drunk song.”

The Break-up

Dec. 10, 2009

Dear Winter in Iowa,

I have tried so hard to maintain our beautiful relationship. I praised you in the presence of grumpy, snow-hating bank tellers and shared a relatively happy hour shovelling snow with a neighbor.

But now…fuck you, Winter.

This morning, I’m over it. What we had was perfect, but the tow-truck and pissy police officer were too much (just because I misread the emergency snow route notice!? That’s low, Winter). Now I have no place to park, 30 days to get Iowa license plates, and I’m out the $25 of what seemed to be bribe money to get the tower to go away. That’s taken directly out of my Macbook-buying fund, Winter in Iowa. You know how much that means to me.

No more snow angels or cuddling up by the window at night to watch your flurries. We’re through, I’m moving on. Spring in Santa Fe is looking so good now…

Love (not anymore), Zoe