small adjacent boats

I was as wary of Away We Go as the next person. And by “the next person,” I mean the self-conscious hipster art nerd who rolls her eyes at anything for which she might be an obvious target audience, while feeling incredibly envious of anything made by other self-conscious hipster art nerds who’ve tasted popular success.*

Okay, now that we’ve gotten that moment of meta out of the way, I will proceed to tell you how much I liked Away We Go. It’s not the most original or brilliant movie ever, but its ordinariness proves it’s not the quirk-fest the trailer implies either. It’s a simple movie about a couple in their thirties trying to figure out their lives. One is an artist who’s lost a parent (two, actually).

Sometimes I find books and movies about people in the same boat I’m in (or, say, a more pregnant, heterosexual, mountain-dwelling—but nevertheless similar—boat) to be incredibly stressful. I may have mentioned that I boycotted The Wonder Years throughout junior high. But other times, a dose of cinematic empathy is just what I need. Especially if it allows me to convince myself that my hair could look as cute as Maya Rudolph’s.

So many movies about couples are built on some sort of boring will-they-break-up, opposites-attract scenario. People spend a lot of time stomping out of rooms and chasing each other down in airports and train stations. Thankfully the only plane-/train-centric scene in Away We Go is when the airline staff doesn’t believe Verona (Rudolph) is only six months pregnant and refuses to let her fly. So they take a train.

But there’s never any doubt that, wherever Verona and Burt (John Krasinski) go, they’ll go together. They get on each other’s nerves periodically, but they’re always friends. This concept is sadly radical in the realm of romantic comedies.

As they look to various friends in various cities for models of how and where to construct their family, they encounter cautionary tales (one of which Maggie Gyllenhaal saves from being too cartoon-y) and discover that even the most Jolie-Pitt-esque families aren’t immune from heartbreak. They realize that the life they build will be uniquely, frighteningly their own and a product of their family histories. It’s a message I’m into lately. But my version involves Malaysia and cats.


*I’m assuming it tastes like donuts.

red, white and blood

When my friend Erin was training for a marathon, her girlfriend (now wife, and this is probably why) would ride her bike alongside, toting water and a stopwatch. When Craig ran the L.A. marathon, his boyfriend Kenny camped out at several spots along the route with peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and a small army of cheering friends.

When AK ran the Palisades/Will Rogers 10K on Saturday, as part of her half-marathon training, I waited at the mile two marker and spaced out until I heard her yelling, “Cheryl! Cheryl!” I looked up just in time to distract her, then see her trip on a lumpy spot of asphalt.

I poured water on her bloody knee and tried to put on a smile that said, I’m so sorry I just distracted you, but I promise not to make this one of those many times where I mess up and then apologize profusely as a strategy to force you to make me feel better about messing up. Today is about you. Run, AK, run!

She ran off and I trudged toward the finish line. I looked very, very hard at every person who crossed from minute 54 on. But then the kids who’d toddled through the 1K started pouring in, and a bunch of pushy moms and grandmas decided it would be okay to stand right in the runners’ chutes, because those ropes are just a suggestion, I guess.

Or maybe AK got obscured by the family of four who was running in front of her much of the time. Adorable, right? The family that 10Ks together stays together, right? Actually, she said that the seven-year-old kept begging to walk, and his parents kept yelling at him to keep running. Look, kid, weak little whiners don’t grow up to have houses in the Palisades.

Anyway, despite the fact that there were like five Latinos in the whole race, I missed AK’s big finish. I found her twenty minutes later, looking very ready to go home.

There are two weeks till the half marathon. I think AK will do great, but her support team still has some training to do.

bread and bread pudding

Although we devoured those fire-pit pies in a manner that would have made Cookie Monster proud, we still had two full loaves of squishy white bread left over. And while part of me wanted to wad them up into dense little balls and eat them like bon bons, I decided the more respectable thing to do would be to add a bunch of butter, sugar and milk, and make bread pudding.

Because I don’t fare well with recipes that involve complex processes (like rolling out dough) or more than six ingredients, I went with this one:

4 slices buttered toast
1 (#2) can peaches
3 eggs, beaten
1/3 c. sugar
Dash of salt
1/2 tsp. nutmeg
1 tsp. vanilla
3 c. milk

Place toast in bottom of deep baking dish. Drain peaches and save juice. Put peaches over top of toast. Mix other ingredients and half of peach juice. Pour over fruit and toast. Bake 45 minutes at 350 degrees.

I left out one egg and vanilla, which I didn’t have. And baked it for an extra twenty minutes because our oven is weird. Nevertheless, it still came out pretty damn tasty. That’s the power of bread, my friends.

Note: The picture above is not of my bread pudding. It’s more like what my bread pudding would look like if it went to Glamour Shots. But opted for a polka-dot table cloth instead of a sparkly prom-picture background.

what i have learned in researching mermaid tattoos

1. This blog provides good ideas of what not to do, and even better commentary. It also makes me a little nervous. I wouldn't want to end up on there. But by forgoing text (I love words so much that having one tattooed on me would just be too distracting), I eliminate the possibility of misspelling, which cuts my chances of appearing in the Gallery of Regrets by at least fifty percent.

2. It's all about the tits. Even though I walked into Artifact Tattoo with a ready-made mermaid, Justin gave me a couple of mermaid art books to look through for additional ideas. "Do you want her boobs to show?" he asked. My mermaid is roughly a B-cup, not hidden by cheesy, strategically-placed hair, but kind of in the shadows. Technically her boobs do show. So what he must have meant was, "Do you want her giant porno tits to protrude into the viewer's face as if she were shot with one of those trick lenses they use for those photos of big-nosed dogs?" The answer to that would be...no.

midsommar!

Our friend Joel wanted to celebrate the beginning of summer in an ancient and traditional way. So he did what modern people in search of tradition do, and went online. That's where he learned about Midsommar, a Swedish solstice festival in which revelers (and after months of Scandinavian winter, the Swedes know how to revel) decorate a may pole-like cross called something that sounds like "schlong," dance around it and drink heavily.

Joel and his wife Holly decided that Lightning Point Campground in the Angeles National Forest would be the perfect place to set up their schlong. We weren't able to join them for the official ritual (which wasn't so official, seeing as how it took place a week after solstice), but we drove up Saturday night in time to camp and appreciate an only slightly-wilted schlong.


AK and I were finally able to break in the tent my dad gave us for Christmas. My dad, who loves camping but hates discomfort, always preferred motor home camping. When I told him we cooked dinner over the campfire, he said, "Well, I guess that's nice if you don't mind the smoke."

I kind of feel like this is my travel hat now. It goes with my lots of places, but I almost never wear it in L.A.

Holly grew up in Colorado and knows her way around a mountain. She handled burning logs with her bare hands.

Joel and Holly taught us a classic Midsommar song (complete with hand motions) and were kind enough to stage a reenactment of the previous night's festivities.



At dusk, wild animals started to emerge.

L.A. puts on a good sunset. (I know, I know, it's the smog, but whatever.) In one direction: piney silhouettes and a gorgeous mountain-scape. In the other: a valley of twinkling lights to remind us that, even though there was no running water and there were only two other cars in the whole campground, the city wasn't far away. (Not to detract from the pretty-sunset moment, but I have to mention that although there were only two other camping parties, we saw them both peeing. Beware overconfidence in the remoteness of your biffy.)

We toasted to Midsommar with shots of Aquavit, a Swedish liquor made from potatoes and caraway. Soon we were slurring, "Gimme some more of that Aquanet."

Then, the moment we'd all been waiting for (you know, besides the schlong dance): Joel and Holly busted out their pie irons--a magical and wonderful apparatus that was new to AK and I--to make fire-pit pies. The recipe: Slather butter on two slices of the cheapest, squishiest white bread you can find. Place one in each side of pie iron. On top the bread, place whatever delicious sugary ingredients appeal to you (AK: apple pie filling; me: marshmallows, chocolate and graham crackers, for the sheer decadence of making a s'more sandwich, which is like a sandwich in a sandwich). Clamp pie iron shut. Place on coals. Eat. Take up serious exercise routine so as not to die of butter overdose.

When the fire died down and we zipped ourselves into our sleeping bags, every noise began to sound exactly like a bear nudging the tent with his nose. As my heart pounded and my eyes refused to shut, I wished that I had a boom box and a CD of soft traffic noises to lull me to sleep. Maybe punctuated by the occasional gun shot.

But we made it to the morning, and suddenly all that quiet seemed peaceful again.

We took a walk along one of the many sunny mountain ridges, where we enjoyed the view, spotted lizards and talked about graduate programs like the pioneers we are.

I think this sign had something to do with ATVs or maybe horses, but we took it as our cue to head back to the city.

black and white and days that burn bright

If I were to post a proper tribute to Michael Jackson, I would track down the video of the dance I choreographed to “Black or White” in eighth grade. But I’m not such a fan as to post a proper tribute, so I will just describe it to you, to the best of my recollection:

Costume: thigh-length biker shorts, white V-neck, scrunchie.

Choreography: I began in a crouch similar to what yogis call “child’s pose” and stayed in this position throughout the long, irrelevant-to-the-rest-of-the-song dialogue between Macaulay Culkin and Norm. When the music began, I jumped up into a straddle-squat sort of thing, then took big, jammin’ steps backward, pulling my arms back in a similarly funky fashion.

The moves that ensued were stolen from three main sources:

• Gymnastics: I never did a dance that didn’t have at least one cartwheel or back-walkover in it. I had to distinguish myself from my fellow middle-school dancers (especially the ones gifted with, like, rhythm) somehow.
• Routines learned at Act III, the tiny Redondo Beach studio (now a plumbing supply store) where my friends and I took lessons.
• Routines learned at Act III and choreographed by Anita. Although Michelle, Stella and Phineas were arguably the best teachers, and I idolized them to no end, Anita was in her own category. Mostly she was a fellow student, but she subbed for a couple of classes, and I spent many long sessions of stomach crunches trying to convince myself I wasn’t in love with her. A video that opens with a title card saying, Dance by Cheryl, Choreography by ANITA!! says otherwise. She was an ex-gymnast with ass-kicking thighs and burgundy hair cut into a particular style of bob that, I’m realizing, still makes me swoon whenever I see it on a girl. Or even an emo-ish guy, really.
  

What? Oh, right, Michael Jackson. That’s who we were talking about.

Even after rewinding the tape the hundreds of times it took to perfect my moves, I still couldn’t get the lyrics of “Black or White.” I took my baby on a Saturday sun? I had to tell you I ain’t second to none?...Damn it you’ll agree with me, the truth is either wrong or it’s right? Doop a doop a doo yeah yeah yeah? A quick internet search tells me this is not how it goes.

But I got that the song, and Michael, had a queer and vulnerable edge. Not that it was particularly edgy, even in the early nineties, to advocate for racial harmony (or, um, the freedom to play loud music? Still not sure what Macaulay was campaigning for). But something about dressing like a soldier and looking like a girl—a frail one whom Anita could easily beat in a fight—was intriguing, even sexy.

If Facebook is any indication (and that’s about the only thing Facebook ever is), people are feeling nostalgic and generous, with a touch of meta (status update: “On which social networking site did you first hear the news?”) and a dash of anger (“Karma’s a bitch, huh MJ?”).

Michael and I weren’t so close that I identify strongly with any of these sentiments. But yesterday’s double-dose of celebrity death coincided with learning about a friend’s close call, making it one of those strange days that burns a little brighter than others. A day that makes you wonder if you’re shaking in your car because of that Diet Coke or for other reasons. Makes you end the day talking to your mom after deciding that, while you have a strict no-asking-for-concrete-favors policy with God, your mom-as-angel is totally fair game.

You can ask her to hover over a particular apartment building in a particular part of the city and help a particular girl make the right decisions. Because she was always good at that, and if she enjoyed helping you research your undergrad thesis, she’d probably appreciate being asked to help in this instance too. Moms like to feel needed.

when the cat's away, the mouse will clean out the garage

AK has been in Seattle for the past few days. Yesterday, she called me from the road. "It's great seeing people," she said, "but it's kind of nice being by myself in the rental car for a little while and getting to stop for food whenever I want."

In other words, the extrovert had reached her limit. I've used my time to geek out introvert-style, meaning I have:

• cleaned out the garage*
• cleaned almost everything else, although I didn't get to wash the walls, liked I dreamed I would
  
• written--just the normal amount
  
• taken three yoga classes
  
• finally (maybe) figured out how to use the flash drive my dad gave me for Christmas in like 2007
• made an omelet with cheese, which AK hates
• watched Anchorman

And now I've reached my limit. It's been fun being a nerdy hermit (and as soon as I'm done with this post, I'm going to curl up with a bean-filled Japanese dessert and my book about the supreme court), but I think I'm just about done. I need AK back, and I need her to remind me that I like talking to humans and, sometimes, listening to loud music.

It's funny how couples cast themselves in these little roles: I'm the introvert, she's the extrovert; I'm OCD, she's messy, etc. Within our sample population of two, it's true that we are at opposite ends of a couple of spectra. But if we actually looked at the whole population, we'd see that we're probably just on different sides of the middle. Maybe because I crashed an abnormal psychology class last night (long story), I'm inspired to draw a scientific diagram of the introversion/extroversion spectrum to illustrate my point.

A-------------------------------B-------C--------------------------------------------D

A=J.D. Salinger
B=Cheryl
C=AK
D=Heidi and Spencer

Okay, I'm going to stop now. Just by drawing it, I put myself a little too close to the whackjob end of all scales for comfort. Now on to the charming drama of the appellate process!


*We don't have a real garage. We have a garage door that opens to a sliver of storage space--basically a false front that can pass as a garage in front of building inspectors. So it actually doesn't take long to clean out.