mm!

Fri, 11 Dec 2009 03:42:31 GMT

Super cheesy, but :20-:40 just made my night.

Sat, 05 Dec 2009 18:15:01 GMT

Whenever I go to a free evening reading at Prairie Lights, I can't help but think:

Photo credit: Tracey Rae

1) Why the hell do I not do this all the time?
2) Damn, Iowa City.

And the coffee shop upstairs serves wine, now.

When I was younger Prairie Lights meant kiwi Italian sodas (with a straw to poke the maraschino cherry) and The Boxcar Children chapter books from the kid-sized shelves in the basement. And then I went to college and suddenly the authors were my teachers, my classmates, or at worst, someone off the recommended reading list. I was one of those doe-eyed undergraduates in pea coats that talk funny -- "Let's get vodkas and cronberries" -- and someday I'll probably be one of those older, wiser, silver-haired women that have incredible jewelry on their slightly frumpy sweaters. My life in a bookstore.

It's cold now. The frozen toes kind of cold, give up on your cute wool tights and flats kind of cold. Just four days ago I bought two peach cinnamon muffins and two milk boxes from the Co-op. Bryan and I had a 10-minute muffin date in the ped mall. It was so sunny I couldn't see, warm enough that he could roll up his jeans (well, he does that anyway).

Yesterday he sat out at my bus stop with a bouquet of just-because flowers, to surprise me after work. It was also the day I had forgotten my cell phone at home. And, if someone wants to use this in a movie please do (Hugh Grant, are you listening), I stay on the bus instead of getting off at my usual spot because it's too damn cold, and my toes could really use three or four more blocks to thaw, unknowingly leaving my boyfriend of four years and his white-and-pink paper cone abandoned on the bus stop bench.

We made it up by watching Pokemon and listening to Clipse.

Sat, 14 Nov 2009 18:49:15 GMT

Seizures are kind of like watching someone you love get kicked while they're down. You'd think that losing speech, losing a right arm and constant muscle spasms would be enough, but that's apparently not how the world works. Dad's been in a lot of pain these last few weeks as the neurologist lowered the Dilantin, which was causing gum inflammation and slower cognitive reaction, to the brand-name anticonvulsant, Lamictal. Pick your poison, basically.

My adrenaline used to get jacked up so much that my hands would shake long after his seizing subsided. It really felt like life-or-death back then, where the difference between five and six minutes meant calling 911, and now it's just of a matter of watching Dad look possessed, and then slowly, slowly regaining consciousness. The sounds are the worst, they don't even sound human. One step forward, two steps back. It's so frustrating.

Wed, 11 Nov 2009 21:07:48 GMT

This is so strange and amazing. Only six views.

Wed, 11 Nov 2009 00:42:55 GMT

I need to get back to the piano.

I took lessons from my next door neighbor for ten years. Laurie's house was humid and smelled like cats. She had red hair like me, but hers was orange and frizzy. The window in the piano room would be open to the highway traffic that separated our houses. At that age the only incentives to get through lessons were the stickers and the hand-written notes on holiday stationary. The notes reviewed our performances at those god-awful church recitals; they were fair, honest, but full of praise. Laurie had perfect cursive, too. It was like waiting for a roll of film to get developed.

I was sixteen or seventeen when I quit. It was around the time when I had Maple Leaf Rag almost memorized, and I played it over the phone for my grandma. Dad said something like, "Okay, here's Maggie," and held the receiver a few inches above the keys. He was proud. She was really sick, then.

Today's demon: The piano teacher (Hey Lynda). It was around 3:30 in the afternoon, right after school, and I decided I was done. I called Laurie and kept it short. I think it hurt her, how abrupt it was. We never really talked again after that, and it still makes me feel sore. As a parting gift I put some tulip bulbs in a paper bag and left them on her kitchen table while she was on vacation. I hoped she would plant them at the base of the flag pole, between her house and mine.

At one time in my life, I was good enough for Bach, for Haydn, for Mendelssohn. I miss that. I miss the way, after a lot of practice, my fingers knew the notes faster than my eyes. And I miss the grit and earthiness of the Joplin rags, the yellowed Gershwin songbook with the cracked spine. I remember the day my body started to move when I played. I can't explain it. After years of good posture and good wrists, it just happens and your body goes slack.

Sat, 31 Oct 2009 01:05:55 GMT

Underage party-goers on Jefferson St., in between beer bongs, challenged one another on the spelling of Edgar Allan Poe's middle name.

"A-L-L-E-N you fucking pussy!"
"Fuck you douchebag it's A-L-A-N!"
"You're fucking retarded! It's two L's!"

Even though their shouting awoke me at two or three in the morning, it was really too funny to be mad about. Only in Iowa City.

Mon, 28 Sep 2009 02:00:01 GMT

I'm thinking about breaking up with grad school. Oh, crap. There, I said it.

It started as one of those novel little ideas -- I probably saw a picture of a cute baby -- that grew and grew and wormed its way into my dreams and my thoughts in the shower. But let's be honest. I think about having my own place more than I do about writing papers, or teaching, or attending conferences. I think about having a garden. My professors had their children in their 30s, their late 30s, if at all.

And it's taking some guts to figure out if I'm just annoyed to be re-taking the GRE, or if this is a legitimate feeling. Smart girls like me shouldn't be thinking about having a family, yet.

My future plans were always hand in hand: Move away to a new city, go to grad school and start a career. But why not just move away to a new city? Why does a career mean going to grad school first? Funny how something so simple is kind of blowing my mind.

I was at a sushi bar over the weekend. A brassy new friend asked, "What's the rush? You can go to grad school later." Gotta love it when the younger ones have more perspective and more confidence. That sake bomb tasted good.

I felt so solid about this before the job at the museum. I thought I needed advanced education to get the very same job I'm now excelling in, but I got it because of what I can already bring to the table. I thought I needed to be in an academic environment to pursue my academic interests, and maybe there is still some truth to that. But right now I'm stimulated and I'm corralling professional contacts and I'm paying off my school loans.

I just wish I could just stop thinking about if I'm throwing some talent out the window, especially since my energies are now focused on something other than a paper. But still, this is good: I'm listening to myself and being open to change.

Fri, 25 Sep 2009 04:34:11 GMT

My dad took this picture of me and my brothers a few years ago. He was really snapping through the roll without checking the light meter or focusing, and I think his hat was on backwards. All of the pictures turned out like this, with that stripey spotlight effect. After we developed the roll I remember feeling disappointed, but if they had perfect exposure would I remember the moment differently? Would I remember it at all? We had never seen the palisades before. It was one of those trips where Dad decided we would go and then we got in the car and went a few minutes later. Every one of those trees, for acres, turns yellow in October. It was drizzling.

Wed, 16 Sep 2009 00:11:37 GMT

Three weeks in and it's been a bit like being paid to take a self-guided crash course on African American health disparities. I'm allowed to sit in my office and read, without interruption, for hours, developing open-ended everything. Take three weeks to learn everything you can about African American history. Ready, set, go. Three weeks in, and I've lassoed the exhibit from the clouds into a comprehensive outline. First things first: forget about defining race. For now.

As a university employee, I can now request delivery of books from any of the research libraries on campus... to my desk. I felt a bit guilty about that today, knowing that I wouldn't mind being reacquainted with those endless rows of books on the fifth floor of the university library, but my boss shrugged it off.

"The service is there for you to use it," she assured me. "It gives students jobs."

A few days earlier, an older woman stopped in and watered the plants around me as I typed. "I can water the plants," I thought.

As I tried to compose an email to the author of a new book on Henrietta Lacks (an African American woman whose cells, known as HeLa cells, were extracted without her consent and lead to uncovering the secrets to cancer and viruses, among other medical advancements) I hesitated, not knowing how to convince someone to take me seriously. I got the job, didn't I?

Part of the problem, I think, is that I am essentially a student again, researching like a student, riding on the free campus shuttle with freshmen, but now struggling with rearranging my thrift store wardrobe into daily presentations. The employee badge helped. Helped explain my frumpy dress pants, I mean. I cannot work it out in those things, designer label or not.

And maybe I'm not a professional, yet, but I can't play that feeble undergrad card anymore. Even as I made it a point to assert myself early in staff meetings, I hedged. I have a title suggestion for the exhibit, but maybe it's not provocative or interesting enough? Even though I knew it was, and it did, in fact, become the working title. It wasn't even a matter of being the new employee, waiting in the wings to figure out where I fall on the ladder. Though that might be smart, too.

A few years ago a female professor, determined to teach me a lesson (and oh, I was pissed), gave me a C once for lack of confidence. I talked the most in the class, but didn't stand behind anything I said.

"You're a woman. Don't give them room to discredit what you're saying."

It's had a few years to marinate.

To do list: Don't forget about taking photographs, making art.

Tue, 15 Sep 2009 22:09:19 GMT

Dance while you cook dinner. So good.

Thu, 10 Sep 2009 21:49:23 GMT

Have you ever been to a wedding where the love feels genuine? It seems silly to think that weddings are not always genuine, that love is a display.

This Labor Day weekend my cousin, Casey, took his time with his handwritten vows and cried through nearly all of it. But I almost remember the vows of Melissa, whom I had just met that day, more vividly: "When I was young I asked my mother how I would know about 'the one,' and she told me it would be someone who made me feel at home. And I'm at home with you, Casey." She lost her mother to cancer seven years ago.

I felt privileged to be there, to watch this sort of sacred, intimate moment, a moment that didn't need to be defined by a big budget, dollar dances, bouquet tosses, or a clumsy toast. It was nice to know that this kind of love exists.

"Donate to the American Red Cross," their gift registry advised, "A gift in our honor to people who need it more than us."
"Or, write us a long letter. Fill it with advice for the newlyweds, favorite memories, family histories. Include your favorite recipe."

They've set the standard. Congratulations, you two.

Fri, 04 Sep 2009 20:58:52 GMT

The patient library at the hospital was having a book sale: $1 for a grocery bag-full (!) It was kind of like Supermarket Sweep with books. I found a hardcover copy of one of my favorites, Lynda Barry's "One Hundred Demons," on the children's picture books table (ha) and a like-new "Laika," a graphic novel about the first living creature launched into space. And then there was the cute little cookbook with vegetarian meals for one, and Noam Chomsky's "Language and the Mind," and, well, geez, that was such a good way to end a Friday.

Mon, 31 Aug 2009 21:08:32 GMT

August has been good to me.

Today was my first day of work at the University of Iowa Medical Museum. The next year will be completely devoted to researching, writing, designing and installing an exhibit on race, medicine and health care in the United States; more specifically, the gap in health status between white and black Americans.

I can't believe I found a job in medical anthropology. I didn't think they existed without an advanced degree. There were moments when I was looking around my office this morning -- my office?! -- and not believing that I made it. The room is bright and colorful, full of artwork. My boss treats me as a collaborator, not just an assistant.

How did this happen?

Probably the most curious thing about it is that I have been happy -- joyful -- for the past two weeks or so and that sort of elation feels so unfamiliar. The kind of happy where you can hear me smiling over the phone. It didn't take long to figure out that I had assumed that I would be happy someday, just not now.

I put my life aside for my family this past year, and as a way of surviving it I tried to maintain some sort of productivity. After college it felt like my mind was degenerating simply because I wasn't reading 200 pages a day. The things I've learned how to do -- from the chain stitch to the 1098-E to roasting and peeling a poblano chile -- are real life accomplishments, and it's been hard to value that kind of learning. I've had to ween myself off academic praise. I've had to develop my own routine to make the days matter. I remember the way my brother used to exercise, almost obsessively, when he moved back home after college.

And it was all for the sake of staying afloat. Of getting somewhere, someday, and now I'm here. I'm getting started again.

35 years

Tue, 04 Aug 2009 01:05:08 GMT

Mom: The ceremony was inside the Catholic Student Center. It had to be in a Catholic church because of Jim’s parents. Jim’s parents didn’t say a word to my parents. A lady named Grace was the only person who talked to my parents. She was the kind of lady who would tell you that you had a nice aura. I got really mad ‘cause I had to go to premarital counseling beforehand, and I had to sign a piece of paper that said I would raise our children in the Catholic church. Boy, that was hard.
People came back to our house for cake. Grandma Brown helped me make the cake the night before; it was a carrot spice cake. We decorated it with marigolds, talk about making due with what was blooming at the time. It was a cold day for August.
Remember you tried your pants on and you thought they had hemmed them? They were supposed to do it at the store and they didn’t do it. The morning of the ceremony they were about five inches too long. So we called Jim Dreier’s grandmother and ran them over there really quick and she hemmed them up. Good thing she was around, she didn’t even charge us! My dress was on sale for $25 at Younkers. It was muslin, off the rack sale price. I was worried it was showing too much, so I put a flower on my chest. I had a matching shawl, it was demure. I had long hair and you had long hair.
It was a bare bones wedding. We forgot music, we didn’t have any flowers. Jim had to work on Monday, you were building pole barns.

Dad: Saturday, Aug. 3. 10:00-10:45. $300. 10-15 mph. 58-62 degrees.

Fri, 24 Jul 2009 23:28:36 GMT

Even though I am exhausted after taking these two to the pool today, I'm so glad that they are both in my life.

Tue, 21 Jul 2009 04:40:36 GMT

Graduate school plans are slowly taking shape, after, oh, years of denial.

Being interested in American issues -- no, wait, the Midwest -- is like my darkest secret. Well, sort of. Anyone who knows me in real life would call bullshit on that one, as I am rather open about my deep love and affection for my home state of Iowa. But in the anthropology classroom, having a homegrown passion -- a desire to study and work with the ~~white~~ people around you -- is taboo. As Lisa Heldke -- a native Minnesotan who explores her love of "ethnic foods" and simultaneous rejection of the bland, northern comfort food she grew up with -- would muse, white people don't have culture. Duh, guys, other people have culture. Icebreakers in my introductory anthropology courses included, "Where in the world would you like to travel?" (Or, to be cynical, what minority or subordinate group would you like to exploit?) For years I felt energized by and felt appreciation for work written by anthropologists who studied people all over the world, yet I never found myself taking a firm grip on a country or culture except the one I've known -- the so-called "majority."

Getting to the point where I could even admit that I was interested in the Midwest was one thing, but it was followed by a long period of self-reflection: Am I interested in this area because the people look like me? Do I assume that because they look like me, getting them to open up and reveal their lives to me will be easier? Am I interested in this predominately Anglo environment because it relieves my guilty conscience (I have a feeling all anthropology students feel it at some time or another) of the heavy weight of colonialism? Boo, I can't believe how serious I am getting on livejournal. But this stuff drives me nuts!

Do Latinas studying Latinas have this problem?

Of course, there could be a simple answer for all of this. Is this interest solely due to my lack of international travel? Often it seems like people find their passions inadvertently, via service with the Peace Corps or work with an NGO.

Maybe I should do that, huh?

If I could figure anything out about myself, it would be my infuriating lack of desire to see the world. As an anthropology major, no less. I see through the fact that travel, especially international travel, is valued and collected like cultural clout, and I tend to believe that there is a responsibility to experience different people and environments as a way to develop into a well-rounded person. But if I had the desire (and the moral responsibility, no less) I would go, wouldn't I? There's always a way. But it's the money issue, I say. There are higher priorities on the list, like getting health insurance.

Funny how finances feel like a scapegoat.

If it isn't clear by this point, I'm pretty guilty of hyper-obsessing about the intent behind the projects I want to pursue. It reminds me of a moment a few years ago, when a former co-worker and I were heaving bulging trash bags of coffee grounds into the dumpster. She revealed, as we dragged the trashcans behind us on the cement, that she had walked out of her Americorps position once she realized why she was really hanging out with those underprivileged kids: she wanted to help the needy, and she wanted to feel like a good person. Upon that realization, her work didn't feel honest anymore (I can relate to this). But then, one counters, does the wrong motivation for volunteering in the community balance the consequence of not volunteering at all?

The thing is, when I admitted similar feelings to her, she cut me off. "You're a good person," she said. "You'd be perfect for that kind of work."

What does that even mean?

"We're all guilty of wanting to be good people," my thesis adviser told me today, as a word of precaution for the personal statement, "make sure you don't overdo it."

Last week Bryan brought over an impressive documentary about gang warfare in southern Los Angeles (which, when watched concurrently with the second season of Battlestar Galatica, fosters ~~amazing~~ frightening dreams about red and blue Cylons). Not only did the director visually and creatively put my own current five-minute film project to shame, I felt like any academic interests I want to pursue don't have any business next to the work done by community leaders trying to mentor kids through LA's deadliest neighborhoods. I felt soft, indulgent.

I wish I could stop worrying about where I land on the righteous scale and just do what I need to do.

So, without further ado, and without shame, here are my fucking interests, no matter how bland or boring or safe they may be: Oral history, seniors and retirement issues, museums and historical societies, community building, film, video or sound recordings, folklore, storytelling.

And here, hopefully supporting a hybrid of anthropology, American studies, history, and communications studies, is my first preliminary list of schools:

Penn, NYU, Indiana, UCLA, Texas.

Okay, that felt good.

Mon, 06 Jul 2009 01:56:12 GMT

Every weekend I proofread content for three local newspapers, and there are usually between six to ten obituaries. Luckily, I've only proofed one for an individual I knew personally. Each funeral home uses its own template and style -- with varying degrees of correct punctuation -- but every once in awhile there is a sentence or two that colors the individual, a sentence that makes me feel as if I know them better. A few months ago I began a running file of these sentences, like this:

William C. Strasburger, 66, of Solon, died Saturday, March 28, 2009, at Veterans Affairs Medical Center in Iowa City from complications of surgery. He was renowned for the French toast he made for his grandchildren.

This week there was a woman named Georgia who died, and I've reread her full obituary three times now. It is rare, and a little odd, to feel happy after reading an obituary of someone you've never met.

Until very recently, Georgia was able to indulge her passion for
vegetable gardening, and she often would wear herself out during the
first warm planting days of spring. Georgia also enjoyed University
of Iowa sports — she was very poor company if Iowa wrestling was being
broadcast on the radio or television. She always relished family
gatherings, especially if these were accompanied by a picnic. Despite
her dwindling energies, Georgia never lost her enthusiasm for fishing.
Every year Georgia would spend one week fishing (often in a canoe)
for bass and pan fish in northern Minnesota. She would cast plugs for
bass until her wrists were limp and her elbows sore. And in her
younger years she would walk trout streams for hours, always reluctant
to quit, as she anticipated the excitement of the fish that were
waiting for her around the next bend in the stream. Her body wore
out before she lost her enthusiasm for life. In her last months she
still was inclined to play on the floor with her great grandchildren.
Georgia carried with her a subtle, and usually unintentional, humor.
She had an unorthodox style of dress that originated from a belief
that any articles of clothing could be coaxed into a matching
ensemble. Rather than chasing fashion, she let fashion chase her.
Georgia belonged to a generation that has enduring memories of the
Great Depression. Thus everything had value, from an old rusted
washer she found in a street gutter to a wormy and bruised windfall
apple. She loved unselfishly. If someone expressed admiration for
one of her possessions, he or she soon was receiving an offer of a
gift.
In spite of her advancing years, Georgia understood the heart of a
child. She had a special knack in selecting just the right toys for
her beloved great grandchildren Ana and Kane. She once bought a goofy
lavender mechanical monkey that we thought would soon be on the back
table of the next garage sale. Kane and Ana were delighted. They
sang and danced with the monkey for years until its song and its dance
were almost gone.
We will all remember how Georgia loved her family unconditionally,
even when moments of selfishness, ill temper, thoughtlessness,
impatience or arrogance made us considerably less lovable. May this
memory remain in us, and if truly honored in our lives, perhaps it may
also become our legacy.
Ever practical, Georgia registered with the University of Iowa’s
Deeded Body Program. Therefore, memorial services will be scheduled
at a later date.

Sun, 05 Jul 2009 17:08:36 GMT

I love this picture

Fri, 26 Jun 2009 00:11:03 GMT

Thu, 18 Jun 2009 21:27:29 GMT

Does anyone have flickr? May I add you? I'm addicted.

Sun, 07 Jun 2009 00:00:05 GMT

In the past two weeks, Bryan and I went from Iowa City to Kansas City to Denver to Las Vegas to Los Angeles to Salt Lake City to Phoenix to Sedona to Los Angeles to Salt Lake City to Oakland to Salt Lake City to Minneapolis and finally, barely, to home. We went by bus, plane, trolley, and subway.

Most of the cities were experienced superficially, at all hours, through the Greyhound tunnel or the Delta terminal. With some, we dug deeper, pulling out our credit cards in exchange for new experiences. In the cities with friends, we went even further. And the daily turnover of languages and food and city aesthetics and social norms, seamed together by our one-way tickets, was enough of a jolt to feel really uncomfortable, to feel challenged enough to forget my life at home.

There were moments when the stars aligned, too, like when eight of us - who more or less had all met each other that day - were laughing so hard at Coach Sushi in Oakland that it was difficult to imagine any of us in any other place at any other time.

It only took ten days to forget what happened to Dad. It seems cruel of whatever part of my brain that processes these things that the most colorful, most flavorful elements of learning how to wrestle a trip like this were the very moments that tricked me into thinking that I had Dad again. Whenever I sat on the plane - there were about eight flights - I looked out the window and heard him talking in complete sentences, telling me about glaciers, saw him walking and jumping.

In the Utah desert our bus was weaving through empty canyons and most everyone was sleeping, or at least closing their eyes as a way of coping with monotony and stiff joints, and I was working my way through podcasts. Dutifully, I listened to Dan Savage struggle his way through a piece about losing his mother, and I listened to a couple from Texas talk about losing their pet bull, Chance, and then seven years later losing the clone of their beloved bull, Second Chance, and eventually in the absolute darkness of that evening in Utah I felt like the only people in the world were me, Dan Savage, and that couple from Texas. I felt like when the woman from Texas said, "We didn't know that when we brought Chance back to life that we would only have to lose him twice," she was talking to me and Dan Savage and were we were all nodding in the desert together.

I've been home for two days and this is what I am thinking about: how green Iowa is and how good Iowa smells, and what is left of Dad, what is left of Mom. It is hard to process much more than that. I'd like to someday return to my notes and write at length about those new cities and new people, but for now I am just at the brink of realizing that I did this and that at certain points of this trip I healed, even if that healing feels fleeting now, by leaving behind the core of what I knew and what I am.

Wed, 20 May 2009 01:29:46 GMT

"Pretty Wings" by Maxwell. So good to hear your voice again.

Last day at Lou Henri

Tue, 12 May 2009 03:20:57 GMT

These drawings are by Daniel, the dishwasher. The drawing of me has freckles and a thick neck and it is labeled, "la roja," but he usually called me mija.

Self-taught and a bit bossy, though never to me, Joe made a good eggs florentine.

This is Carl. Since he eats at the restaurant daily, his meals are $5. I have seen him every day that I've worked for the past three years.

Only the veteran servers get this tip jar. The rest have painted goards. My jar had pictures of cats torn out from magazines.

new camera

Wed, 29 Apr 2009 14:51:56 GMT

Thu, 16 Apr 2009 18:28:13 GMT

Last night, after meeting Eula Biss and being too shy to do anything about it, I stood in front of the seafood case at the New Pioneer Co-op. I was holding Eula's new book, a chocolate chip cookie, and honey dijon chips.
"Can I help you?" A man with a green apron walked up to the case, wiping his hands on a towel. There were two large salmon displayed on ice, with four or five smaller fish flanking each side. The smaller ones looked like back-up singers. On cue, the mouths began to flap, opening and closing like the singing bass used to do a few years ago if you pushed the red button.
"How often do you do that?" I asked, watching the man's fingers tug gently at the pieces of fishing wire, which had been cleverly sewn into the mouths and were long enough to manipulate discreetly outside of the case.
"Oh, about four times a month," he said. "Some of the guys do it a lot more than me."

About twenty minutes earlier, I was standing outside of Prairie Lights, catching up with a former classmate. She had been a student of Eula and I was a student of Eula's husband.
"And my mom died last May," she said, after mentioning her grad school plans and how her five-year-old was doing in kindergarten.
"Really? My dad had a stroke last April," I replied, in a way that you say, yeah, I've eaten at that restaurant too.