More than meets the eye

I was about four when I realized I lacked the wedding planning gene. I know what you’re thinking: That is way too young to tell, and how do you remember some random conversation when you were four? Something about the embarrassment of being so incredibly wrong has stuck with me all these years.

I was playing with a strip of translucent red cellophane that was included in my Transformers toy, holding it up to my eyes not just to reveal the secret pictures and words on the box, but to stagger around the room as I looked through it, turning the afternoon sun into a red haze all around me. I happily exclaimed to my mother that this must be what a wedding is like. I have no idea why I drew that parallel, and neither did she. When asked, I didn’t have an answer, and so it was just dropped, teetering out there as just another ridiculous thing kids say.

But here I am. Planning one of those things, still nearly as deficient in this estrogen-fuelled area. I’m told girls plan this in their dreams for most of their lives, but I honestly haven’t thought about it much before. If asked to count the number of blessed events I’ve witnessed, I might need all my fingers but probably no toes. And so far I’ve managed little more than vague ideas as a framework. (No extreme weather: hot or cold. Alcohol will be served. I’d like to spend less than a new car costs.) Apparently, though, I am supposed to have ideas about colors, gown styles, music, food, cake, little people on top of cake, flowers, favors, and so on. (Which honestly, is there anything more ridiculous than a white folding chair with a giant ribbon tied to the back of it?)

Luckily, there are web sites to help me. (And by help me, I mean sell me stuff.) And there are free magazines to help me. (And by help me I mean sell me stuff.) I had to Google things like what an escort card is or what kinds of flowers grow in May.

But last night, I was doing some exploratory research on dresses: first, the bridesmaid fashion, and then … just to see … bridal gowns. At first it was strictly scientific. I noted the foreign terms assigned to the dresses. A-line, mermaid (!), trumpet, so I wouldn’t look so clueless when it comes time to head to a store. But then, I started to legitimately like a couple of them. For me, even. And a little feeling began to sprout. It was… excitement. Over a dress.

It was as if somewhere in my brain, a tiny Martha Stewart with a little bicycle pump was frantically distributing more of the girl-chemical that makes me glued to Project Runway even though I’m perfectly happy in jeans and an oversized hoodie every day. It was like when the Grinch’s miniscule heart grows three sizes that day and bursts out of the measuring device. Suddenly, I could do it. Suddenly, I could be a princess for a day even though my childhood hours were spent playing with Transformers instead of marrying off Ken and Barbie.

And there you have it. Still clueless, but more engaged.

Buggy Bumpers

I was walking to my car when I saw it.

A bumper sticker on an otherwise very sensible vehicle said: "I [heart] my grand dogs."

At first I thought, "How interesting." Here's a person who is so consumed with the lives of his or her children that she's also adopted their pets as "family." Enough so to tell the world behind her.

But let me flip this and suggest that, just maybe, this person is in fact beaming with pride for the puppies of her dogs. Grand dogs.

Also a really good name for a band.

Paradise and dashboard lights.

I think the first time I felt like I was cheating on her was a couple of months ago, when I went home for an unexpected long weekend.

My Subaru, a 1994 gem we found used, and the only car I've driven for ten years since, had an expired inspection sticker. Not wanting to risk being pulled over, I rented a car for the five hour drive.

They were supposed to give me the second-cheapest model. Something "like a Ford Focus," the Web site promised. I knew I wouldn't fall in love with one of those. When I picked up the car, however, they had to upgrade me to a brand new Chevy Impala. The kind in rap songs.

At first I resisted. I grumbled about gas mileage. I nervously took turns Granny-style... slow and wide. I fumbled with the controls. Apparently, sometime around the year 2000, they started replacing every word on every knob or dial with a picture. My temperature controls, for instance, say radical things like "heat, vent, a/c, max a/c, off" The Impala's controls were like cave drawings: grill, fan, ice cube, closed circle, open circle...

Lulled by the six-speaker stereo system, slowly I began to soften. The lumbar support felt good on my back. The big engine accelerated smoothly. There was a lot of room everywhere for my bags. Cruise control went from being a vaguely annoying oddity to something I wasn't sure how I lived without. And the new car smell, my god, the smell.

And so began, around mile 300, the nagging idea set in that I'd have to join this century and get a new car soon. My Subaru, approaching 181,000 miles, is rusting. The rumbling engine sounds just a little tired. It needs new brakes.

I've been... reluctant, to say the least, about this purchase for many reasons. (Not the least of which is that it's an expensive ordeal involving a run-in with a possibly pushy salesman in a big gold watch.)

But the main reason is that trading in my first car really will be the end of an era. So many memories are wrapped up in that teal hunk of plastic and steel.

Passing my driving test. The first place I drove myself: a softball game soon after I turned 16. Taking my friends to the movies. The way Cara said it has a comforting smell. Listening to oldies on a tinny radio in the garage while waxing it with my dad. Mix tapes. Being driven to Prom. Packing it to the hilt and heading off to college. Road trips. Drive-in movies. Defending my tiger print steering wheel cover. Digging out of the snow. Taking my grandma Christmas shopping... Everyone I love has ridden in it. Getting a new bumper with cash after my friend's lesbian roommate hit me while parallel parking. Trowa's car seat. Navigating downtown Chicago traffic and laughing because my out-of-state plates helped me get away with a lot. Speeding tickets. Five-hour drives with a kitten on my lap. Countless tearful goodbyes.

When I first got the car, the road stretched way out ahead of me. It's good to look back at how far I've traveled. It'll be good to see where I'm going next.

Who wants to take a ride?

What I've learned...

• You'll always drop your cell phone on pavement. Never on soft grass, carpet or pillows.
• Hold your keys in the opposite hand as the one you're going use to throw your trash in the dumpster.
• If it's summer and you don't have bug bites, you're probably not having as much fun as you should.
• Being in a long-distance relationship was like being in the Army Reserve: One weekend a month, two weeks a year, and you could go to war at any time.
• Go ahead and give the guy in the Audi convertible who cut you off the finger. Now, while you're young. You'll feel better, and it makes a better story. The guy in a beat-up pick-up? Don't bother.
  
• It never hurts to smile and keep your mouth shut. At least for an extra moment or two.
  

In mint condition

A side effect of being lazy for an extended amount of time is that, eventually, Newton's law catches up to you and for every period of in-action there is an equal, productive re-action. This is how hobbies happen.

As for me, I happened to receive a couple of plants as gifts. Placing a life-form, however menial, in the hands of another is an interesting gift, isn't it? "Happy Birthday. Here's a chore that also turns a rather insignificant amount carbon dioxide into a small bit of oxygen."

As it so happens, I placed one of the plants next to the couch, on which I spend days napping and watching afternoon reruns of "Malcolm in the Middle." Then one day it happened. I looked over and had the burning idea it and the other two flowers in the apartment had to be repotted.

I took swift action. With that out of the way, each one snuggled in brand new pots with Miracle Grow soil out on the patio, I itched to plant more things. And I was armed with a whole extra bag of soil left over and a brand new watering can.

I've decided that I could get into this gardening thing. I went to a real garden center and bought two kinds of mint plants. One is called Mint Julep, which I like because it makes no bones about being almost exclusively for the making of a delicious alcoholic beverage. The other kind I've decided to try is called Kentucky Colonel, which I like because it sounds like a homage to KFC. If this works out, it may be a gateway to a fullblown herb garden. Or more flowers.

Or, the pendulum of laziness may swing in the other direction, particularly after a series of fresh Mojitos, and I'll return to a more relaxed state. Ready for a new hobby.

g-l-a-m-o-r-o-u-s is b-a-n-a-n-a-s

I'm going to be in a wedding next month, and for it, I had to buy a pair of silver, bride-approved high heels. To avoid teetering like a woman on stilts at the event, I decided to practice wearing them around the house. It's fun, because 1. they make that clicking sound when I walk across the kitchen, one that I always associate with adulthood, the sound of elementary school teachers curtly clicking down the tiled hallway, and 2. It's like playing dress-up while I empty the dishwasher.

The other day, though, I realized I was vacuuming the apartment in these glitzy shoes. How "Look" magazine is that? Maybe I'll put the dress on and clean the oven.

We're Norther than South Carolina

Yesterday a coworker and I drove to Clemson, S.C. to watch Syracuse take on the Tigers in NIT action. Or, as I call it, the only postseason basketball I can afford.

The whole experience was incredibly easy. We parked a very short walk from Littlejohn Coliseum for free. Picked up our 10 dollar tickets. Then went right to whatever seat we wanted - in our case, about 10 rows behind the Syracuse bench, directly behind an already drunk guy in a cat-in-the-hat style orange and blue hat. Though he was a sight obstruction, we agreed that this guy was potential energy, about to become kinetic at game time.

He didn't disappoint, almost getting thrown out by yelling "Go CUSE!" at quiet moments during Clemson's pregame Alma Mater dirge. They take this stuff seriously -it was as if the Tiger faithful were singing a hymn in church. So it goes in the South.

Almost as entertaining were the children behind us, wherein the kid-to-adult ratio was a teetering four-to-one. One lad in particular, probably about seven, kept shouting things he'd regurgitated from years of pee wee sports. "Show 'em the heat!" he'd yell as Clemson would pass the ball in bounds. "Take your time!" he'd helpfully offer before free throws.

Or, there's my personal favorite, and the reason we dubbed him "Opie" for the rest of the game:
"Come on, Clemson! What are you good for, anyway?!"
(This is the actual spelling, but what it sounded like was this:
"Kim awn, Climpsin! Whadderye gud fer, anyway?!")His pa must've been proud.