Creepy, Disturbing, and Just Plain Wrong

So this morning on my way to work I was listening to npr and heard some, ahem, interesting news. Apparently a bunch of women are currently protesting at facebook headquarters in Palo Alto because the site removed some pictures of them breast feeding their freaking children.

Wow. I knew the internet was crawling with loons but seriously? Ladies, if you would like the world to see your jugs and the infants attached to them, maybe you should start your own website instead of protesting one that tries to shield the rest of us from weirdos like you. You could call it www.havingchildrenhastotallyeliminatedmysenseofdecency.com.

You can read all about this latest display of American idiocy here, but I wouldn't recommend it. It does mention that the woman responsible for orchestrating this whole freakshow is from Provo, but that should surprise absolutely no one. Everyone knows that Provo and freaks go together like peanut butter and chocolate.

And This Is Why We Do Not Make Fun of Others

With the exception of my mother, my family is really not into the whole crying-because-we-are-so-overwhelmed-by-lovely-emotions thing. I didn't shed a tear on my wedding day and walked out of Life is Beautiful dry-eyed. If I am crying, it generally means that I am having a complete emotional breakdown or feeling frustrated beyond words. So last night when my older sister, (who sometimes convinces me that she just might be made of stone), told me that she cried all through church because she was so moved by the opening hymn, I was pretty much like "nya nya you have feelings!" and walked away feeling like the superior being.
Then when Mike and I got home we decided to watch the old black-and-white version of Miracle on 34th Street. I have seen this movie a thousand times and, although it does make me feel all tender-hearted and whatnot, it generally does not activate my tear ducts. I think you can all see where this is going, so let me just say that the part where the little Dutch orphan girl comes to see Santa totally made me lose it. Tears streaming down my face and the whole bit. I tried to hold my act together, but seeing that girl's face light up all sweetly when Santa started speaking Dutch to her completely unleashed my inner softie. Freaking kharma.

5 Things You Must Do Before Christmas

OK, so these aren't really things you MUST do before Christmas. I'm sure things like buying your mom a present or volunteering at the soup kitchen probably take precedence over this list. As do the traditional activities like visiting Temple Square or watching It's a Wonderful Life and all that jazz. But should you have some spare time on your hands and want to fill it with activities of a festive nature:

1. Read Truman Capote's A Christmas Memory. Oh my land I cannot even begin to describe how beautiful this story is. Truman Capote's prose is just so heartachingly subtle, so evocative, that every time I read this I find myself cursing God for not spreading some of that talent around to the rest of us. Be advised that this story is not the typical bludgeon-you-over-the head with sentimental Christmas thoughts kind of a thing, so if you find yourself crying when you hear "Christmas Shoes" (barf), this just isn't going to do it for you. But if you appreciate a more subtle approach to matters of the heart, you have found your mothership. Other literary favorites: A Child's Christmas in Wales by Dylan Thomas, The Gift of the Magi by O. Henry, and Eloise at Christmastime by Kay Thompson.

2. Go to Zoo Lights. Normally I cannot even handle the zoo. All the sad animals and the smells and swarms of small children are just not my thing. But the zoo at Christmas is a totally different story. The animals are all hibernating (except for the freaky turkeys that come out of nowhere and scare the crap out of you) and there are tons of awesome light displays. I highly recommend it but with a disclaimer: DRESS AS WARM AS YOU POSSIBLY CAN WITHOUT LOOKING LIKE THE KID ON CHRISTMAS STORY. It is frigid up there.

3. Plan a visit to Normandie Cafe and Bakery. This is one activity that I have not done yet this year so if it turns out that this Holladay treasure has turned into a rat-infested crack house, don't blame me for leading you astray. I can tell you that in previous years, this place has pretty much rocked at Christmastime. They set up a bunch of decorations, including a huge, elaborate victorian-style gingerbread house. It's the closest you can come to pretending that you are spending Christmastime in a small French village while remaining in Salt Lake. And if the atmosphere doesn't do it for you, you can get so sugared up on their delicious pastries that you will be willing to believe you're on the moon, let alone France. Don't leave without getting one of their huge chocolate-dipped macaroons. I am not accepting "but I don't like coconut" as an excuse for failing to accomplish this task. You will eat it and you will love it and your life will change forever.

4. Watch this clip from Opus and Bill's A Wish for Wings that Work on YouTube. It is hilarious. If you happen to find things like Robin Williams playing a kiwi bird with a severe inferiority complex hilarious. Which I do.

5. Make a pilgrimage to my parent's house to behold this beautiful sight:

Sorry the picture is a little fuzzy. Husband took it with his Crackberry. I am pretty disappointed that he didn't take a video, since The Almighty Crackberry is surely capable of such a task. Had he taken a video, you all could have seen Snoopy dance with his Christmas lights to the tune of "Santa Claus is Coming to Town." My parents bought this thing a few years ago and they heart it. I think that if you gave them a choice between this and the tree, they would pick Snoopy any day of the week. And who could blame them? He is rather jolly, and could make anyone feel instant Christmas cheer. So if you are feeling Grinch-like, just knock on my parents door and they will take you to kneel at the shrine of their beloved Christmas symbol. And if you are lucky Nephew Alex will be there and he will break dance for you.

I have a crush

32 points. Against the Celtics. Now will someone please explain to me why we can't just get rid of Boozer already?

Best eaten while drinking cheap beer and watching NASCAR

Lately I have been trying to find good recipes for my crock pot, since Mike and I usually get home so late that by the time I get dinner ready we are both one step away from devouring the tablecloth. So today I went to allrecipes.com and found a link to "top rated slow cooker recipes" or something to that effect. I expected to see the usual roundup of chicken and beef, only to find this little beauty topping the list: "Slow-cooked Squirrel."

I kid you not. It was submitted by someone named Bobbie Jo and calls for "2 squirrels, skinned,gutted, and cut into pieces."

And it only gets better. One of the reviews reads: "Y'all should try this! The hard part is skinning it, and once that's done, it's easy as apple pie!" I totally agree. Husband and I always fight over who has to skin dinner.

The real icing on the cake was the reviewer that said "I'm only giving it 4 stars because it tasted a little nutty." Dude, seriously? I don't know if you were expecting the slow cooker to transform it into filet mignon, but you're eating a freaking squirrel.

Not For Optimists

Ever have one of those days? You know, those days when you wake up late, spill yogurt all over your clothes when you get to work, don’t do your homework during your lunch break because you have to read through a bunch of science articles for your bogus job, get a parking ticket while walking to class (there is a special circle of hell reserved for University of Utah commuter services), and then have to sit through a 3-hour lecture so boring that you literally cannot keep your eyes open?
All this would be bad enough, but then your car starts smoking and leaking antifreeze on the freeway because your radiator decided to crack, the soup you made for dinner ends up being so spicy your mouth burns for hours, and the chocolate chip cookies you bake in an attempt to erase the day’s various mishaps and convince yourself that the world is indeed a happy, reasonable place- the same chocolate chip cookies that you have baked a thousand times before and are usually the textbook definition of gooey deliciousness- turn out flat as pancakes. It is at this point, if you happen to be anything like myself, that you throw up your hands, yell “Good job, universe, you win”, and curl up in the fetal position, refusing to leave your bed until the forces that govern your life promise you, in writing, that they will be kinder tomorrow.

The following also applies to Anne of Green Gables

You’d think that out of my many guilty pleasures (ABC family original movies, ABBA, Molca Salsa, the X-Files, etc.), my fondness for Little Women would be the easiest to admit to. The novel is considered a literary classic of sorts, and reading is much better for the intellect than spending hours on the couch watching Mulder and Scully getting chased by vampires. Yet I would much rather walk around wearing an “I Want to Believe” T-Shirt than admit to how many times I have read and/or watched Beth die, Jo break Laurie’s heart, Amy complain about that freaking nose of hers, etc. I think this is because, unlike my other guilty pleasures, which I thoroughly enjoy and would indulge in on a regular basis were they not humiliating and/or bad for me, I kind of hate Little Women.

I hate prissy Meg and the fact that she pretty much has no personality beyond her desire to be rich. I hate spineless Beth and really wish she would have just met her maker during that first bout of scarlet fever instead of hanging around all uselessly. I hate Marmee and her nauseating moralistic speeches (the fact that they call her “Marmee” instead of “Mother” or something equally normal is really just annoying in and of itself). I hate Jo because you can tell she is Louisa May Alcott’s shameless idealization of herself, and because she pretty much makes the worst judgment call of all time by refusing Laurie and marrying that loony old German instead. Amy is tolerable as a young girl, but gets to be a drag when she grows up and joins the other March sisters in their quest for sainthood. Laurie would be a great character had homeboy not been so attached to the Marches and gone off to party in Europe instead. I could go on and on but I think I will spare you my opinion of the March’s “poverty” (they have a maid for Pete’s sake!) and condescending treatment of the poor Hummels. ‘Cause I think you all get the idea.

So why would I, with all the books and films out there, spend my time absorbed in a story that annoys me to no end? I really couldn’t tell you. I think a part of me (the cynical part that could pretty much critique anything if it sat still long enough) likes being annoyed- likes to feel that familiar blend of irritation and nausea as Alcott describes yet another touching discourse between Marmee and the girls as they resolve, for the gazillionth time, to give up all their sinful ways so their dad can be proud of them when he comes home from fighting the racists down South. I love to roll my eyes and point out the passages that are so contrived and cheesy they make the English major in me cringe. But there is also a part of me that genuinely enjoys the story- not the melodramatic highlights included in every film adaptation- but the non-sequitor chapters that get skimmed over- like the one about Laurie’s boating party, the one that describes Amy’s various botched artistic attempts, and especially the one where Meg makes a buttload of jam that won’t thicken and pretty much has a conniption about it. The preachy “And Everyone Learned Their Lesson” tone present in the rest of the book is absent from these chapters, and they end up being lovely descriptions of wholesome, simpler times: the literary equivalent of comfort food.

My relationship with the movie is pretty similar. I love watching the 1994 version because it is a veritable gold mine of mockable qualities: Beth, as played by Claire Danes, appears to be not only shy and sickly but also borderline retarded, Susan Sarandon’s Marmee takes her character completely out of context by continually spouting random feminist rhetoric, and the actress that plays the older version of Amy is downright awkward in her primness. Despite these flaws, which keep the critic in me satisfied, I do find myself enjoying the film every time I watch it. Mostly because it is just so dang pretty. The March’s house is gorgeous whether it’s covered in snow or surrounded by spring flowers, the party scenes are detailed visions of 19th century splendor, and Christian Bale as Laurie doesn’t hurt matters, either. He and Winona Ryder’s Jo seem so perfect for each other (probably because Winona Ryder succeeds in the nearly impossible task of portraying Jo as a somewhat appealing human being), that every time I watch the proposal scene I find myself hoping that this time will be different, that this time Jo will come to her senses and accept Laurie’s beautifully worded offer instead of settling for creepy Professor Baehr.

So if you ever find me either curled up in an armchair, completely engrossed in a novel that most people outgrew at adolescence, or sitting in front of the TV admiring the beauty of 1860s Massachusetts and wondering where I can find a recipe for Christmas cake decorated with fresh holly fronds, please don’t judge. And don’t be surprised if I am shamelessly mocking Beth’s death scene.

Never a Dull Moment...

Last night my family gathered for Sunday dinner at my sister’s house. As Mike and I walked in, the conversation at the dinner table sounded a little something like this:
Mom: Grandma needs it pretty soon. Vera said Roman could get it and they would ship it from California.
Elena: Why are you having them send it? I’m sure we could get her some.
Mom: It has to be really good quality though- it can’t have any weird stuff in it.
Elena (calling to her husband): Mark, does Rorke still have that marijuana plant?

Yeah, I know. Hallucinogenic drugs are usually not the dinner topic of choice at my family’s house either, but apparently the medical and scientific geniuses that make up my extended family have shunned traditional medicine and decided that the best way to treat my grandmother’s illness is with good old-fashioned Mary Jane. And my family is surprisingly eager to help- regardless of the legal or moral ramifications. The next fifteen minutes were spent debating who out of Elena’s old high school buddies or the frat boys Smash currently associates with would be the best source of some quality weed. The issue is still undecided.
I guess I should be troubled by the fact that, while other families discuss politics, family events, etc. at Sunday dinner mine was busy touting the benefits of medicinal marijuana. But I figure my family waved goodbye to normalcy long ago, so when totally outrageous ideas like these are brought up almost daily, it’s best just to join in the fun. Plus I am kind of curious to see what my 89-year-old, stereotypically Russian-Jewish (“you all look too skinny!”) grandma is like when she’s stoned.

Life Lessons Learned the Hard Way

1.If there is a beautiful patch of fresh powder at a ski resort on an otherwise tracked-out day, there is probably an explanation for this. Which you will soon discover when you find yourself either trekking through an endless stretch of knee-deep snow or staring down the face of a cliff, silently praying and sending telepathic messages to the ski patrol.
2.Midnight is not the best time to begin writing the classical Greek history research paper you have been putting off all semester. That is due at 10 the next morning.
3.Two hours spent reading Twilight and wondering what in the world could have convinced the general population that this cheesy, boring, so-obviously-written- by-a-BYU-alum piece of trash is in any way entertaining is two hours of your life you will never get back.
4.Two hours spent re-reading the Anastasia Krupnik, Baby-Sitter’s Club, or Ramona series is a much better use of the time set aside for enjoying guilty pleasures of the adolescent lit variety.
5.Think twice before buying a 1994 Subaru Impreza with no air conditioning.
6.If you ever have to interact with anyone working at a college administration office, pretend that they are severely mentally challenged. That way when they lose your transcript, inform you that the application you handed them TWO HOURS AGO is nowhere to be found, or claim that they have no record of you being a student there (which you have been for the past 3 years), you will not lose your temper but instead act out of compassion because, really, they don’t know any better.
7. If you find yourself in a foreign country, make sure to write down the exact address of your hotel before taking off in a zeal of sightseeing excitement. Wandering through Paris for three hours in a jet-lag induced haze is tres terrible.
8.Excessive library fines do not go away if you simply ignore them and use your mom’s card for 2 years. Collection agencies get involved. It’s messy.
9.If you choose to participate in the glorious event that is Winger’s annual all-you-can-eat wings special, wear clothes you don’t mind permanently staining. Pants with a stretchy waistband are also recommended.
10. Never get a mindless desk job.
* My favorite life lesson, entitled "Never Wear a Girdle Through Airport Security" was not experienced by myself and therefore does not qualify for inclusion on this list. You will have to check out my sister's blog for that one.

Change

Cottonwood Mall is gone. Bulldozed to the ground. Most people find this welcome news but a part of me is devastated. The mall is where I got my ears pierced at the tender age of six, where I bought Christmas presents for the first time, and where I spent the bulk of my meager allowance for the first 15 years of my life. When I was a child, the mall was a magical, bustling place where I accompanied my mom on her various errands in hopes of being rewarded with an ice cream cone from Golden Swirl. In later years the mall became a Mecca for me and my friends. Practically every Friday afternoon was spent trying on clothes we couldn’t afford, weaseling free makeovers from the makeup counters, or just wandering aimlessly while we waited for someone’s mom to pick us up.
In recent years the mall has become a barren ghetto- the Tijuana of Utah shopping establishments- so I guess I should be glad that the building will be put out of its misery and transformed into something better. Yet my stubborn desire for things to remain as they are- as I remember them- outweighs my rational thought in matters like these. When driving through the Holladay neighborhood I grew up in, I am constantly reminded of my inability to let go. The restaurant on Murray-Holladay Road, which has gone through various incarnations but now bears the moniker “Sharon’s Café”, will always be Corey’s Kitchen, home of the greatest curly fries known to man. The Store will never fully replace Kathy’s, a health food emporium with a free juice station and a device that ground peanuts into organic peanut butter right in front of your eyes. And I will never stop mourning the loss of Video Vern’s. The place was HUGE, with a fantastic selection of creepy old movies, 99 cent rentals, and free popcorn. Blockbuster does not even compare.
I realize that one day I will have to grow up. I will have to accept the fact that Java Jim’s closed down without me ever facing my childhood fears by going inside. I will have to refrain from cringing every time I see the remodeling disaster that transformed Olympus Junior High into something resembling a federal prison. I will have to stop dissolving into panic mode every time my older sister mentions buying my childhood home from our parents to completely gut and remodel it. I try to tell myself that all this is normal- that things change and I need to deal with it. But really I just take comfort in the fact that Olympus Pharmacy is still standing and my now defunct elementary school has been saved from demolition and instead converted into Holladay City Hall. God bless the Utah State Historical Society.