This, however, is something to put up with

# 24 - I wear the ugliest sweater known to man when I write.

When I saw Wonder Boys for the first time and got to the part where Michael Douglas wears that raggedy pink chenille robe while he's writing, I almost died, because I do something very similar.

I bought the ugliest sweater known to man used from a thrift shop that sold clothes by the pound when I was in college. It was my "smoking sweater." I bought it the sweater because I didn't want to get my winter coat all stinky when Lady and I smoked Swisher Sweets on the dorm balcony. We took turns spitting over the railing, and thought being cigar smoking, lugie hocking girls made us so bad-assed.

I haven't smoked a crappy cigar, or any cigar for that matter, in years and years and years and years. But the sweater gets lots of use. As soon as it gets cold around here, I throw my writing sweater on when I work.

It's ESPRIT, probably circa 1988, made from acrylic yarn, about 5 sizes too big, and scratchy as all hell, but it's really really warm. I guess it's my security blanket or something. I've actually never really thought much about why I'm so attracted to my writing sweater. Maybe it reminds me of good times with Lady. Maybe it feels like my lifeline back to me when I'm spending time hanging out in someone else's head. Maybe it's a statement to myself that it doesn't matter what I look like while I'm writing. Or maybe, I like it just because I like it.

On Tuesday, when my husband came home from work, I was wearing the sweater, which falls halfway to my knees, a pair of black and white running shorts, and big fluffy pink socks with black flip-flops. "Oh sweetie," J said laughing, "Nice outfit."

But damn, if I didn't get some awesome work done on my April book on Tuesday. There's magic in that sweater, I tell you.

#25 - I clean up real nice, I swear.

Something that's been bugging me

While some of my blog friends are taking on serious political issues, like Beej talking smart about the banking crisis, or Howling Hill spreading the word about a Palin poll, I want to discuss something that's been bugging me for the past few days: Jessica Simpson's gas.

Yeah, I know. I'm all about the hard hitting issues today. Since my other site, Allie's Answers, actually started as a column for the now defunct sister-site to I'm Not Obsessed, I feel that I can legitimately and unabashedly read INO on a regular basis. In case you don't use celebrity gossip as junk food for your mind, I'll fill you in on the details of said gas.

In a recent interview, Jessica Simpson, or J-Simp, as I like to call her, said:

"To be my man, you have to put up with a lot. I toot under the sheets, I spend a lot of money and I can belch the ABC’s."

A bunch of INO readers then followed up with comments of the "Ew, she's so gross!" variety. I'm not a Jessican Simpson fan, (that's just not my kind of music), but when I first read her quote I thought, 'good for her for admitting to being human.'

Then I thought about it a little more, and something about it really started to bug me. Why is being human and having human bodily functions something to "put up with?"

So what? She farts. Here's a news flash for you: we all do. Everyone. You do. I do. Mother Theresa did, and I'm pretty sure J-Simp's football playing boyfriend does too. I'm not saying we should throw a parade about it or anything, and I'm all for being polite in polite company, I just think it's sad that J-Simp thinks that passing gas in the privacy of her own home is a lot to put up with. And I think it's really sad that all these other women commenting think it's so obscenely gross and feel the need to speculate that this somehow means she's a sad person, or "a loser", or "an embarrassment to women."

But it's not just about J-Simp and her gas. When did we start apologizing for being human? I'm sure it's been going on in one form or another as long as homo sapiens have been in existence, but why? My dog never apologizes for the fact that he makes the rug smell like dog feet, or leaves big tumbleweeds of fur all over the house. And my cat has never once apologized for being an enormous bitch. What is it about us that we feel the need to?

I was watching Northern Exposure last night (big surprise there, huh?) and Chris in the Morning, quoting Goethe, said, "You are, when all is said and done, just what you are." I believe Popeye also said something very similar.

Well, if that's true, then what's all the fuss about? Why can't we just accept ourselves instead of wrestling with constant pressure to be "perfect" beings? Think about how many scandals, and cover-ups, and battles, and injustices are caused simply because we can't accept the truth of another person's existence or the truth of our own. I'm not saying J-Simp is her gas, or that the recently un-closeted Clay Aiken is his sexuality (also not my kind of music), or that anyone is ever defined by just one detail of their existence, but why are the human details, the little facts of being human, ever any kind of issue at all? Maybe if we could find a way to stop trying to cover up who we are, we could focus on what we can do.

100 Things - 15 through 23

15. I've had The Hiphopopotamus vs. Rhymenoceros stuck in my head almost continually since I first heard it a few months ago, but I still think it's freaking hysterical, and I'm not tired of it at all.

16. October is my favorite month.

17. The sound of leaves crunching underfoot is my favorite sound, and I don't think I could handle moving to an area that doesn't have real seasons, because I'd miss that sound too much.

18. Every fall I eat apples until my stomach hurts. I never learn my lesson.

19. I studied classical voice for about 10 years. I'm not saying I was ever fantastic, but I didn't drive animals and small children to cover their ears and hide or anything. Every once in awhile, when J's not home home, I'll pull out one of my old accompaniment tapes and wail a little Schubert or Faure, but I hate hate hate singing in public, and I just won't do it anymore.

20. I gave up coffee for a year and switched to green tea, but life just wasn't as sweet, so I'm back on the sauce (sauce being coffee).

21. I don't drink much, and my tolerance sucks (it's kind of a chicken or the egg thing). When I have to fill out forms a the doctor's office and I get to the line where they ask how many drinks I have in a month, I write in that for the most part, I only have a glass of wine every other month or so at the most.

22. I am more verbose than most forms allow me room for.

23. I hate holidays and much prefer every day life, and wish we could just celebrate the people we love when we feel like it. I am thisclose to swearing off holidays completely.

Back to School

On Monday, I went to speak at a lit class at my alma mater. They studied my short story and were even writing papers on it.

I'd planned to get up early to pretty myself up. I was even going to break out the flat iron so instead of having weirdly curly hair, I'd be sporting a sleek bob, and I could feel all professional and whatnot. But while I was making coffee, J snuck into the shower, and by the time he was done, I had 30 minutes to get out the door.

It's important in my getting ready time to always figure in ten minutes that completely disappear from time and space. Ten minutes gone into nothingness, plus five for showering, two to cover a zit, another two for mascara and lip balm, a minute to dab some concealer on the jet lag bags that will not leave my under eye area, and three cursing the evil hair dresser who robbed me of 18 inches of hair in December, making a cute ponytail impossible even 8 months later -- this left me with seven minutes to brush my teeth, get dressed, and do the shoes/keys/purse search.

So not only did my hair not get the flat iron treatment, it didn't even get a chance to rendezvous with the hair drier, and I had to drive to school with the air vents going full blast in an attempt to look somewhat pulled together when I got there. Thankfully, aside from a slightly cowlicky curl on the right side of my head (which I tucked behind my ear - problem solved), and an all over backward windswept look, the vents didn't do a bad job. I didn't feel sleek, but I was completely presentable, and I made it to campus with time to spare. I spent this time walking slowly so I could check that my weird curl was staying tucked behind my ear in my reflection in the rectangles of glass on doors to empty offices and classrooms.

The class was awesome. The students were very enthusiastic about the story. The professor told me beforehand that he wanted to leave the floor open to student questions, but would step in and ask something if there was a lull, but there was a pretty steady stream of questions the whole time. We talked about the themes I dealt with in the story, how character moves story for me, how I approach character development, and about some of the cultural and social things that were going on in 1982, when the story takes place.

Then we talked about submitting work, the query process, working in a writing group, being thick-skinned about rejection, and revising.

I'd been so nervous about speaking to the class, but once I got to the classroom, I was fine. In my past life, I was a manager at a corporate office, and had to run meetings with my team every week. This was so much easier. I was talking about a story I know inside and out, instead of fumbling with a bunch of meaningless numbers and stats, and no one in the room was pissed at me for a raise they didn't get or having to work the day after Thanksgiving.

And damn, I'd be remiss if I didn't mention how amazing it feels to know that THESE KIDS STUDIED MY STORY! And they liked it.

#14 - I believe Northern Exposure to be the best written TV show ever

And if you don't, I'm going to seriously start doubting your sensibilities.

Okay, not really. But come on? How can you not love Northern Exposure? The dialogue, the themes they so effortlessly work around, the understated genius of it all.

I don't just watch Northern Exposure, I study it. I mean, I don't spend days in a dark room watching and taking notes, but when I watch it, I do pay attention to detail more than I would with another show. And every time I watch an episode, I notice something new. The episodes (at least until the final season) were so carefully constructed. You can draw parallels between the character's experiences in the different plot lines of every episode, but it never ever feels like a Lifetime Original Movie, (even though Janine Turner pretty much moved to Lifetimeland after leaving Cicely). It's one of the few shows I loved as teenager that still holds up today (21 Jumpstreet, not so much).

So while we were in Seattle for the wedding of Lady and Mr. Lady, and I discovered that Roslyn, where they filmed Northern Exposure, was less than two hours away from the city, I set my mind on going. Roslyn served as the fictional Cicely, Alaska, a town "on the cusp of the new Alaskan Riviera."

I'm not usually this dorky. I will totally admit to being dorky on a regular basis, but I'm not usually this dorky. On the last day of our trip, we went kayaking on Lake Union, and passed by the houseboat from Sleepless in Seattle. Lady told us that people still flock to see it. I snorted heartily, until J gave me a look that said, "people in glass houses . . ."

Of course we did later agree that Northern Exposure is sheer brilliance, while Sleepless in Seattle was, well, just a movie.

I was in HEAVEN in Roslyn. As a writer who loves my characters and stories so very much, found it moving. I know it's weird, but it meant something to me. These writers had this vision -- a story, characters, scene and setting and look and feel -- and it all came together in this small town in the middle of nowhere, Washington as a sort of living manifestation of their ideas. Aside from all of that, it was just plain cool to be in the setting of a TV show I've been watching over and over again since 1990.



We ate lunch at The Brick. The exterior served as Holling's bar on the show, but the interior was shot elsewhere. Aside from being a TVland icon, The Brick is also the oldest tavern in Washington State. There's a trough of running water that runs under the bar stools and serves as a spittoon. I couldn't help but wonder how many drunk people had accidentally stepped in it. The food was so so, and actually, better than I'd expected.

We walked around town a little.



KBHR, the radio station from the show, is still set up with Chris in the Morning's equipment in the window and Minnifield Communications Network still on the front door.


Joel's office is the Cicely Gift Shop, and his name is still in the front window.



We didn't go in, but it the shop is apparently still packed full of NE gear.



The original Village Pizza burned down, but has been rebuilt exactly as it was.

I suppose there's something sad about the fact that it's still reasonable for the town of Roslyn to sacrifice main street real estate as a shrine to a television show, but it was fun to see. And who knows how much longer it will be around. There's an enormous luxury development (over 3,000 residences, according to Wikipedia) under construction in the neighboring area, and I'm guessing real estate prices in Roslyn will go up fast.

It was also fun to see another woman, about my age, running around town with her camera, taking pictures of the same things I was busy snapping. In an age of the crappiest of crappy reality television taking over the networks, it's nice to know that there are other people out there who still appreciate Northern Exposure as much as I do.

I'm back + #13

I've been away for the past couple of weeks, on the left side of things.

I'll catch you up my trip and all that fun stuff once I figure out how to get the 400+ pictures off of my iPhone, and shake this awful jet lag.

In the meantime, I feel like I need to give you some back story on some of my friends so when we go forward, you'll know what I'm talking about.

#13 - I Adore My Ladies

In college, I met an amazing group of women. We all lived in the same dorm (it was the quiet study dorm, because we were all cool like that), and went to dinner together, skinny dipped in the quarry (until it actually occurred to me what a quarry was -- the idea of tunnels under the water is too freaky for me), wreaked havoc, laughed until we cried, cried until we laughed, and wore a lot of bizarre clothes to weird parties.

Even though we haven't all been together in the same place at the same time since about 2002, and our communication is sometimes spotty, these ladies are my family, and no matter what happens, a huge chunk of my heart will always belong to them.

I call most of my close female friends, and even my husband at times, Lady, as a term of endearment, but only 5 ladies are actually My Ladies. And while I have decided to blog about my life, they have made no such decision, so I'll give them nicknames:

• Lady (I know this gets confusing, but I refer to her as Lady like it's her name). She just married Mr. Lady two weekends ago.
• The Other 1/4 - A story we will get to.
  
• The Professor - This woman is the epitome of class, grace, and kindness. She's going for her PhD right now.
  
• The Flautist - You haven't heard flute music until you've heard this lady play. She also plays almost every instrument I can think of.
  
• The Accountant - I've never met anyone who loves her job as much as this lady. She carries her handbag on hikes and is never without her cell phone.