March 30, 2006
The trials of teenage angst
Over wine, the past mischievous deeds spill out readily for Dad.
Jill Brooks
INtake columnist
From what I understand about parenthood, you spend all your time and money nurturing and disciplining rugrats who will, by Law of Probability, at the start of their teen years, lie, cheat and sneak behind your back.
My father is raising his second round of teenagers, as is my stepmom, who's stuck by his side since I was in high school.
One of my teen siblings recently "pulled a fast one" by lying to the parental units.
Big no-no.
It was a pretty clever lie, but that's beside the point.
My dad's reaction wasn't one of astonishment -- he's been through this before -- but should any one man suffer through a second generation of lying offspring?
There are absolutely no secrets in my family; if you mess up, your actions are free-game for immediate and extended family conversations, and maybe even the lady at the grocery checkout.
When typewriters roamed the earth I once typed a "B" over the obvious "D" I'd earned then erased in Botany (to this day I can't keep a plant alive), fulfilling my destiny in arts, not sciences.
In my grounding sentence I was allowed to go to the mailbox . . . and no further.
On a recent visit to our father's house my brother and I heard the story about our young sibling's current home-detention.
Dad has softened a little in his advancing years of parenting, as the current sibling delinquent will be going to Florida for spring break.
Oh, cruel world.
A few bottles of wine over dinner prompted my brother's and my sympathy for teenage angst and much hated math and science classes.
We then relayed many stories about which our dad had never heard.
It's an exhilarating and liberating moment admitting, as an adult (and as for my brother, an adult with wife and children), your checkered past.
My brother began: "Dad, did I ever mention the time in high school when I outran the police?"
Dads love hearing these things.
We both had plenty of stories to share; thank my dad's lucky stars our older sister, who was a pretty awful teenager, wasn't around.
My dad listened intently, a sardonic glimmer in his eye, and I kept his glass full of vino.
I shared things about myself that he didn't know, as if I were telling him a funny story I'd read in the newspaper.
"So the campus police made us get out of the pool at 3 in the morning . . .." I rattled on, precipitating a toast to parental patience and understanding.
Thursday, August 31, 2006
March 23, 2006
A blistering hot concert
These days, I pass up the front row for the upstairs at the Vogue.
Jill Brooks
INtake columnist
The Crossroads of America must not merit valuable weekend nights for national bands, causing Indy's propensity for Sunday night concerts.
But with this Midwestern-honored "school night" tradition, Love Interest and I saw the Violent Femmes last weekend.
Concerts used to begin with a little pre-partying among an interest group: drinking heavily while listening to the very music we were getting ready to hear live, only to drive home (sober, always sober) after the show, listening again.
Love Interest and I pre-partied pretty hard.
My Violent Femmes CD is living in Austin, TX with a previous boyfriend, so we listened to Wilco, cooked chicken stir-fry and took a nap on the couch until it was time to leave.
We are out of control.
Love Interest is not from Indy, and he had not been to the Vogue before meeting me; now he's there once a week (often under duress).
He asked how many times I thought I'd been there . . . 200?
I hid the truth (at least 500 times and plenty of dancing on the bar) behind the cloak of a compliment: You look really cute tonight, Love Interest.
At least 450 of the 500 times I've been at the Vogue I've stood in the front row, the most obvious place for innocent swooning.
Lately I swoon upstairs, within five feet of the bar that sells imports.
It's difficult work, vetting a show from the peanut gallery, but I was more than happy singing "Gone Daddy Gone" while squinting at band members who looked miniature, yet still young and well-fed.
One band member banged on a Peruvian drum; it looked like a ceiling tile from our vantage point.
The veteran hellions, gathered in the raucous vicinity of the Femmes, flailing their "big hands," made several attempts at establishing a threshing floor.
I was born to be in the front row, but I was never much for mosh pits; in fact, the only time I found myself within a pit's fiery pulse was at a Hole concert many moons ago.
My then boyfriend led me into the writhing heap where I tinkered with panic for approximately 22 seconds before peeling myself away from an impending heart attack.
Fear of Stupid Drunk People: The Pilot Episode.
The Femmes were fantastic, but recounting my tale at work the next day, not one person had heard of them (what . . . what?).
They asked me to sing a few lines from their most popular song.
Chuckling, and looking for an on-the-spot trapdoor, I reported: "Um, they're kind of personal."
A blistering hot concert
These days, I pass up the front row for the upstairs at the Vogue.
Jill Brooks
INtake columnist
The Crossroads of America must not merit valuable weekend nights for national bands, causing Indy's propensity for Sunday night concerts.
But with this Midwestern-honored "school night" tradition, Love Interest and I saw the Violent Femmes last weekend.
Concerts used to begin with a little pre-partying among an interest group: drinking heavily while listening to the very music we were getting ready to hear live, only to drive home (sober, always sober) after the show, listening again.
Love Interest and I pre-partied pretty hard.
My Violent Femmes CD is living in Austin, TX with a previous boyfriend, so we listened to Wilco, cooked chicken stir-fry and took a nap on the couch until it was time to leave.
We are out of control.
Love Interest is not from Indy, and he had not been to the Vogue before meeting me; now he's there once a week (often under duress).
He asked how many times I thought I'd been there . . . 200?
I hid the truth (at least 500 times and plenty of dancing on the bar) behind the cloak of a compliment: You look really cute tonight, Love Interest.
At least 450 of the 500 times I've been at the Vogue I've stood in the front row, the most obvious place for innocent swooning.
Lately I swoon upstairs, within five feet of the bar that sells imports.
It's difficult work, vetting a show from the peanut gallery, but I was more than happy singing "Gone Daddy Gone" while squinting at band members who looked miniature, yet still young and well-fed.
One band member banged on a Peruvian drum; it looked like a ceiling tile from our vantage point.
The veteran hellions, gathered in the raucous vicinity of the Femmes, flailing their "big hands," made several attempts at establishing a threshing floor.
I was born to be in the front row, but I was never much for mosh pits; in fact, the only time I found myself within a pit's fiery pulse was at a Hole concert many moons ago.
My then boyfriend led me into the writhing heap where I tinkered with panic for approximately 22 seconds before peeling myself away from an impending heart attack.
Fear of Stupid Drunk People: The Pilot Episode.
The Femmes were fantastic, but recounting my tale at work the next day, not one person had heard of them (what . . . what?).
They asked me to sing a few lines from their most popular song.
Chuckling, and looking for an on-the-spot trapdoor, I reported: "Um, they're kind of personal."
March 16, 2006
Geocache me if you can
A GPS provides a fun way of looking for all sorts of treasures.
Jill Brooks
INtake columnist
On yet another cold weekend in Indiana, Love Interest and I took an overnight road trip to visit my brother and his family. We brought three bottles of wine, one for each of us and one to share, which helped us stay up late drinking and telling stories.
The next morning, at around 6, I heard my two nephews sliding on the hardwood floors, "bowling" each other over in their socks. Dishes knocking in the kitchen for what seemed an eternity, happy voices everywhere, I secretly hoped they'd all leave.
I'm a little grumpy in the morning.
An hour later, with more relentless dish clamoring, Love Interest and I both surfaced. I spoke for both of us when begging for a cup of coffee. Within minutes we had scrumptious omelets placed before us, and the all-American family smiling and asking what we wanted to do that day.
I asked my brother, "Aren't you hung over?"
He affirmed, and suggested we all go geocaching.
If you've not yet geocached (hunted treasure) you will need one Global Positioning System device; a computer on which to look up www.geocaching.com and find a cache's (not typically "cash") coordinates and details; and a car. Throw in a couple of kids and it's a field trip, which is both ideal and superfluous because many sites are on the open range.
My great outdoors family searched excitedly for hidden waterproof containers holding loot: nickels, beads, a Koosh ball and a log book (did my brother carry a pen, yes he did).
My brother and his wife are cold weather-friendly athletes, and their children adore vegetables; it's sickening, really, and I'm sure they look at my life as a sad, collapsing edifice in deep need of repair.
Love Interest and I huddled, ostensibly inspecting the boy's findings, our bones rattling with frigid fatigue.
I thought "WWHPD?" meaning, "What would Half-pint do," Laura Ingalls Wilder, the person I think about when I am cold, lost or suffering.
She would have built a shelter, no doubt, but besides a small copse of shrubs and a gravestone, I had little else with which to work.
I grabbed the GPS and participated.
On a clear and warmer day, when you might see forever, I'm sure geocaching is a lot of fun. Challenging terrain would help, too. At the time I'm writing this there are 242,156 active caches in 221 countries. In parental time that equals umpteen hours of virtually free (after GPS purchase) entertainment.
Love Interest and I decided we'd leave that to the experts.
Geocache me if you can
A GPS provides a fun way of looking for all sorts of treasures.
Jill Brooks
INtake columnist
On yet another cold weekend in Indiana, Love Interest and I took an overnight road trip to visit my brother and his family. We brought three bottles of wine, one for each of us and one to share, which helped us stay up late drinking and telling stories.
The next morning, at around 6, I heard my two nephews sliding on the hardwood floors, "bowling" each other over in their socks. Dishes knocking in the kitchen for what seemed an eternity, happy voices everywhere, I secretly hoped they'd all leave.
I'm a little grumpy in the morning.
An hour later, with more relentless dish clamoring, Love Interest and I both surfaced. I spoke for both of us when begging for a cup of coffee. Within minutes we had scrumptious omelets placed before us, and the all-American family smiling and asking what we wanted to do that day.
I asked my brother, "Aren't you hung over?"
He affirmed, and suggested we all go geocaching.
If you've not yet geocached (hunted treasure) you will need one Global Positioning System device; a computer on which to look up www.geocaching.com and find a cache's (not typically "cash") coordinates and details; and a car. Throw in a couple of kids and it's a field trip, which is both ideal and superfluous because many sites are on the open range.
My great outdoors family searched excitedly for hidden waterproof containers holding loot: nickels, beads, a Koosh ball and a log book (did my brother carry a pen, yes he did).
My brother and his wife are cold weather-friendly athletes, and their children adore vegetables; it's sickening, really, and I'm sure they look at my life as a sad, collapsing edifice in deep need of repair.
Love Interest and I huddled, ostensibly inspecting the boy's findings, our bones rattling with frigid fatigue.
I thought "WWHPD?" meaning, "What would Half-pint do," Laura Ingalls Wilder, the person I think about when I am cold, lost or suffering.
She would have built a shelter, no doubt, but besides a small copse of shrubs and a gravestone, I had little else with which to work.
I grabbed the GPS and participated.
On a clear and warmer day, when you might see forever, I'm sure geocaching is a lot of fun. Challenging terrain would help, too. At the time I'm writing this there are 242,156 active caches in 221 countries. In parental time that equals umpteen hours of virtually free (after GPS purchase) entertainment.
Love Interest and I decided we'd leave that to the experts.
March 9, 2006
Aging isn't all that tragic
My friends in Chicago are starting to marry and have babies.
Jill Brooks Jill Brooks
INtake columnist
I'm losing my cool.
I once held prime real estate on four different friends' couches in downtown Chicago.
I'd go up for frequent concerts and we'd party like, and with, rock stars (four beers and no drugs was partying like a rock star, to me).
Ah, the delicious salad days, the days where meeting bands and hanging out backstage led to the occasional white lie as to my whereabouts. It was a selfless act so as not to worry anyone; I was always quite thoughtful.
My routine went something like this:
Concert ticket: Free (guest list).
Round of drinks: Free (female).
Memoirs left to my imaginary grandchildren: Priceless.
I liked being unattached, talking "music" for hours and collecting photographs.
I know, it was only rock 'n' roll, but I really liked it.
Most of those Chicago friends have either married or moved away, but one girlfriend still remains in the city, living a modern romance with boyfriend and baby.
She and I met on our first "Tragically Hip weekend" eight years ago in Detroit. There, we began our friendship, together and with the "Hip."
Every year I'd use my vacation days or call in sick and we'd attend shows: We were band-aids, and we were pretty good at it.
I visited her last weekend in Chicago and, my, how things have changed.
I was already tired and hung over when I got there.
I wanted a simple cocktail and a quick nap on my "property," but was instead handed a six-month-old baby: cruel, and highly unusual.
My friend let slip the phrase "I'm so ready to party," dooming the evening's promising excitement into the realm of: Jinx!
Spontaneous party evenings can't be talked about; they must erupt from least common denominators, fate with complete strangers and mistakes gone right.
How fun is a perfectly crafted New Year's Eve?
My point, exactly.
Our once typical, free-flowing stints inside several trendy bars in one night, meeting scads of new people (namely free-flowing men), was quickly replaced by disinterest, and my friend's routine calls home to check on her baby.
A young man sat next to me at a bar and smiled. From his mustache-sporting lips his dragon breath sputtered, "Dude, got a light?"
I put an imaginary phone to my ear and motioned to my friend that I was stepping outside.
It sneaked up on me, but, alone, I breathed in the cool lake air and felt contentment from being a mature, responsible adult.
Besides, the Tragically Hip's next tour doesn't begin until September.
Aging isn't all that tragic
My friends in Chicago are starting to marry and have babies.
Jill Brooks Jill Brooks
INtake columnist
I'm losing my cool.
I once held prime real estate on four different friends' couches in downtown Chicago.
I'd go up for frequent concerts and we'd party like, and with, rock stars (four beers and no drugs was partying like a rock star, to me).
Ah, the delicious salad days, the days where meeting bands and hanging out backstage led to the occasional white lie as to my whereabouts. It was a selfless act so as not to worry anyone; I was always quite thoughtful.
My routine went something like this:
Concert ticket: Free (guest list).
Round of drinks: Free (female).
Memoirs left to my imaginary grandchildren: Priceless.
I liked being unattached, talking "music" for hours and collecting photographs.
I know, it was only rock 'n' roll, but I really liked it.
Most of those Chicago friends have either married or moved away, but one girlfriend still remains in the city, living a modern romance with boyfriend and baby.
She and I met on our first "Tragically Hip weekend" eight years ago in Detroit. There, we began our friendship, together and with the "Hip."
Every year I'd use my vacation days or call in sick and we'd attend shows: We were band-aids, and we were pretty good at it.
I visited her last weekend in Chicago and, my, how things have changed.
I was already tired and hung over when I got there.
I wanted a simple cocktail and a quick nap on my "property," but was instead handed a six-month-old baby: cruel, and highly unusual.
My friend let slip the phrase "I'm so ready to party," dooming the evening's promising excitement into the realm of: Jinx!
Spontaneous party evenings can't be talked about; they must erupt from least common denominators, fate with complete strangers and mistakes gone right.
How fun is a perfectly crafted New Year's Eve?
My point, exactly.
Our once typical, free-flowing stints inside several trendy bars in one night, meeting scads of new people (namely free-flowing men), was quickly replaced by disinterest, and my friend's routine calls home to check on her baby.
A young man sat next to me at a bar and smiled. From his mustache-sporting lips his dragon breath sputtered, "Dude, got a light?"
I put an imaginary phone to my ear and motioned to my friend that I was stepping outside.
It sneaked up on me, but, alone, I breathed in the cool lake air and felt contentment from being a mature, responsible adult.
Besides, the Tragically Hip's next tour doesn't begin until September.
March 2, 2006
Itching for spring to start
If I put on another sweater, I think I'm gonna scream.
Jill Brooks
INtake columnist
We are sliding into the homestretch of the long funereal winter. Well, hallelujah, pass me another hot dog.
I am lethargic, and I don't return phone calls. Long winter naps, I celebrate you.
No amount of lotion keeps my dry skin moist; I have worn every sweater I own six or seven times; my fingernails are all broken and doing laundry helps pass tedious evenings (I consider myself especially lucky if I need spot-remover first).
My high school friend, who lives in L.A., never visits Indy between November and March. Like I don't "do" tanning beds, she doesn't "do" winter. I definitely never return her stupid calls.
Love Interest was born under deliriously sunny skies; what astounds him most about Indy is how long the line to Castleton Square Mall is every weekend. "What do people do here in the winter?" he asks.
I smile and suggest, "Beer run?"
He and I ping pong "what do you want to do" back and forth for a couple of hours, then end up cuddled under blankets on the couch.
The other day, in one linear breath, he questioned, "Jill, do you realize we are watching music?" as Comcast updated the liner notes of Ray Charles' biography.
The melancholy in Love Interest's tone startled me to attention. Calmly, I patted his leg, saying, "There, there; want me to bake another batch of chocolate chip cookies?"
I heard a bird chirping outside the window: Mother Nature . . . is that you? We're here, trapped inside the house! Call for backup!
I rescued a bug on the countertop; too cold outside, I moved him to the floor.
This can't continue.
I read by the fire. Visions of "Little House on the Prairie" pester the sentences. Thoughts about Jonathan Safran Foer's new book come out, but inside I'm beating down Nelly Oleson's door, demanding the antidote for Cabin Fever.
Love Interest asks, "Want to go to the gym?"
"Save yourself," I mutter.
I left his house the other morning (I accidentally fell asleep on the couch, dad) and drove to work.
This effort requires 1) Being awake long before the sun comes out, if the sun comes out, and 2) Catching the I-69/82nd Street split.
Cars tread the trodden trail for, like, 50 minutes. Before I hit I-465, I realized I hadn't properly lotioned my back.
The itching was uncontrollable -- winter, you are wearing me down. Frantically I unlatched my seatbelt (I had to!) and scratched, fingers twisted beneath my sweater worn for the eighth time.
We're pulling for you, spring . . . you can do it!
Itching for spring to start
If I put on another sweater, I think I'm gonna scream.
Jill Brooks
INtake columnist
We are sliding into the homestretch of the long funereal winter. Well, hallelujah, pass me another hot dog.
I am lethargic, and I don't return phone calls. Long winter naps, I celebrate you.
No amount of lotion keeps my dry skin moist; I have worn every sweater I own six or seven times; my fingernails are all broken and doing laundry helps pass tedious evenings (I consider myself especially lucky if I need spot-remover first).
My high school friend, who lives in L.A., never visits Indy between November and March. Like I don't "do" tanning beds, she doesn't "do" winter. I definitely never return her stupid calls.
Love Interest was born under deliriously sunny skies; what astounds him most about Indy is how long the line to Castleton Square Mall is every weekend. "What do people do here in the winter?" he asks.
I smile and suggest, "Beer run?"
He and I ping pong "what do you want to do" back and forth for a couple of hours, then end up cuddled under blankets on the couch.
The other day, in one linear breath, he questioned, "Jill, do you realize we are watching music?" as Comcast updated the liner notes of Ray Charles' biography.
The melancholy in Love Interest's tone startled me to attention. Calmly, I patted his leg, saying, "There, there; want me to bake another batch of chocolate chip cookies?"
I heard a bird chirping outside the window: Mother Nature . . . is that you? We're here, trapped inside the house! Call for backup!
I rescued a bug on the countertop; too cold outside, I moved him to the floor.
This can't continue.
I read by the fire. Visions of "Little House on the Prairie" pester the sentences. Thoughts about Jonathan Safran Foer's new book come out, but inside I'm beating down Nelly Oleson's door, demanding the antidote for Cabin Fever.
Love Interest asks, "Want to go to the gym?"
"Save yourself," I mutter.
I left his house the other morning (I accidentally fell asleep on the couch, dad) and drove to work.
This effort requires 1) Being awake long before the sun comes out, if the sun comes out, and 2) Catching the I-69/82nd Street split.
Cars tread the trodden trail for, like, 50 minutes. Before I hit I-465, I realized I hadn't properly lotioned my back.
The itching was uncontrollable -- winter, you are wearing me down. Frantically I unlatched my seatbelt (I had to!) and scratched, fingers twisted beneath my sweater worn for the eighth time.
We're pulling for you, spring . . . you can do it!
February 23, 2006
Our first V-Day together
by Jill Brooks
INtake columnist
Everything represents a first in a new relationship, including the first date, the first kiss, the first time you…go grocery shopping together.
The first Valentine’s Day is very important because all efforts are illuminated and linger, maybe even dawdle, in your love interest’s thoughts for at least 5 or 6 more days -- a good return on your romantic investment.
I prefer an intimate evening at home cooking dinner and cuddling before a fire to going out and sharing energy with strangers in a restaurant. I like to cocoon, and I’m a pretty cheap date.
For this Valentine’s Day, Love Interest suspected that he’d be dining on something from my four-recipe repertoire, so he offered, “How about letting me cook dinner?”
My job was to pick up wine for the evening which, oddly, is the same task my family always gives me; I see a pattern here.
That cuts deep, Love Interest.
I went to Trader Joe’s, where they stack wine deep and, subsequently, sell it cheap.
The Saturday before V-Day the lines at Trader Joe’s were 7-8 people deep, full of other people sent there on wine duty.
I grabbed an empty shopping cart (you may want to try this some time) and immediately got into line on the far end, near the wine.
One by one I chose my selections, returning to my cart every few minutes to fill it and push my way forward to the cash register. Since I was stocking up on wine, all the other winos applauded my creativity.
Finally it was time to pay for my heap.
I watched the bottles fill a large, paper sack. The checkout guy didn’t break stride when I said, “Wait! I didn’t mean to grab the white Bordeaux – can you please put that one back for me?”
Each cash-wrap island at Trader Joe’s comes complete with a loud, brass bell, which they sound for price checks, spills, or women who change their mind about wine.
He crashed the bell and asked a co-worker to find the red Bordeaux for me instead: slightly less embarrassing than a price check on a feminine product, but still.
I said, “Please, don’t worry about it, the people behind me are going to hunt me down and break my arms and wine bottles in the parking lot…can we just leave it alone?”
But Trader Joe’s prides itself on good service; moments later I had my red Bordeaux and several sneering enemies.
In the spirit of Valentine’s Day, I just love them.
Our first V-Day together
by Jill Brooks
INtake columnist
Everything represents a first in a new relationship, including the first date, the first kiss, the first time you…go grocery shopping together.
The first Valentine’s Day is very important because all efforts are illuminated and linger, maybe even dawdle, in your love interest’s thoughts for at least 5 or 6 more days -- a good return on your romantic investment.
I prefer an intimate evening at home cooking dinner and cuddling before a fire to going out and sharing energy with strangers in a restaurant. I like to cocoon, and I’m a pretty cheap date.
For this Valentine’s Day, Love Interest suspected that he’d be dining on something from my four-recipe repertoire, so he offered, “How about letting me cook dinner?”
My job was to pick up wine for the evening which, oddly, is the same task my family always gives me; I see a pattern here.
That cuts deep, Love Interest.
I went to Trader Joe’s, where they stack wine deep and, subsequently, sell it cheap.
The Saturday before V-Day the lines at Trader Joe’s were 7-8 people deep, full of other people sent there on wine duty.
I grabbed an empty shopping cart (you may want to try this some time) and immediately got into line on the far end, near the wine.
One by one I chose my selections, returning to my cart every few minutes to fill it and push my way forward to the cash register. Since I was stocking up on wine, all the other winos applauded my creativity.
Finally it was time to pay for my heap.
I watched the bottles fill a large, paper sack. The checkout guy didn’t break stride when I said, “Wait! I didn’t mean to grab the white Bordeaux – can you please put that one back for me?”
Each cash-wrap island at Trader Joe’s comes complete with a loud, brass bell, which they sound for price checks, spills, or women who change their mind about wine.
He crashed the bell and asked a co-worker to find the red Bordeaux for me instead: slightly less embarrassing than a price check on a feminine product, but still.
I said, “Please, don’t worry about it, the people behind me are going to hunt me down and break my arms and wine bottles in the parking lot…can we just leave it alone?”
But Trader Joe’s prides itself on good service; moments later I had my red Bordeaux and several sneering enemies.
In the spirit of Valentine’s Day, I just love them.
February 16, 2006
No cure for this sick day
Between soaps and Oprah, I'd be better off at work.
Jill Brooks
INtake columnist
I called in sick the other day; not the fun kind of "sick" where you're faking a scratchy voice and lying to your boss, eventually ending up at the Fashion Mall or on your way out of town, but a day full of real misery.
I stayed home while suffering from an over-the-counter-drug-needing plight of coughing, sniffling, sneezing, achy head, watery eyes . . . perhaps you get my point.
Having a cold in an Indiana winter is redundant, and there's salt everywhere else, so it may as well show up in your wound, too.
Colds leave me cranky and unable to accomplish anything.
Turning one page in a book is to over-commit, and I don't want visitors or chicken soup.
I lie in bed, covers tucked to my chin and fall sway to turning on the television.
I grew up in what seemed like the last American family to have cable television. Once my father saw how well cable TV "enhanced" our education (a 30-day trial), he canceled it.
I still don't have cable, and only one channel comes in clearly, but it's enough to keep me company while I blow my nose.
Daytime television is purportedly the worst thing going for Americans. It is the nexus of "dumbing down," and for one day I fully supported it.
I watched a soap opera I'd never heard of that characterized witches named Tabitha and Endora.
I may be going out on a limb here, but this was a waste of my accrued sick time. Overcome by bad dialogue, I took my first nap.
I later flipped through my three local channels, two fuzzy, one not, stunned that the same characters I watched in high school were still plotting revenge on "General Hospital."
Luke: Watch your back!
Talk shows? Unwatchable.
All day I waited for the only redeeming factor of daytime airwaves: oh, yes, Oprah Winfrey.
All women feel a kinship to Oprah, but women who watch her every day may not have noticed the gradual engendering of overproduction and sensationalism.
Oprah is someone I respect, and it pains me to say this, but her show jumped the shark.
If I had a pixel for every time the camera zoomed in on one of her crocodile tears I would need a slew of sick days.
Her issues are real -- all talk show issues are real, I suppose -- but daytime television doesn't teach much about the human condition, like a good Pulitzer Prize winner can.
Unfortunately, when sick, there are few other choices.
No cure for this sick day
Between soaps and Oprah, I'd be better off at work.
Jill Brooks
INtake columnist
I called in sick the other day; not the fun kind of "sick" where you're faking a scratchy voice and lying to your boss, eventually ending up at the Fashion Mall or on your way out of town, but a day full of real misery.
I stayed home while suffering from an over-the-counter-drug-needing plight of coughing, sniffling, sneezing, achy head, watery eyes . . . perhaps you get my point.
Having a cold in an Indiana winter is redundant, and there's salt everywhere else, so it may as well show up in your wound, too.
Colds leave me cranky and unable to accomplish anything.
Turning one page in a book is to over-commit, and I don't want visitors or chicken soup.
I lie in bed, covers tucked to my chin and fall sway to turning on the television.
I grew up in what seemed like the last American family to have cable television. Once my father saw how well cable TV "enhanced" our education (a 30-day trial), he canceled it.
I still don't have cable, and only one channel comes in clearly, but it's enough to keep me company while I blow my nose.
Daytime television is purportedly the worst thing going for Americans. It is the nexus of "dumbing down," and for one day I fully supported it.
I watched a soap opera I'd never heard of that characterized witches named Tabitha and Endora.
I may be going out on a limb here, but this was a waste of my accrued sick time. Overcome by bad dialogue, I took my first nap.
I later flipped through my three local channels, two fuzzy, one not, stunned that the same characters I watched in high school were still plotting revenge on "General Hospital."
Luke: Watch your back!
Talk shows? Unwatchable.
All day I waited for the only redeeming factor of daytime airwaves: oh, yes, Oprah Winfrey.
All women feel a kinship to Oprah, but women who watch her every day may not have noticed the gradual engendering of overproduction and sensationalism.
Oprah is someone I respect, and it pains me to say this, but her show jumped the shark.
If I had a pixel for every time the camera zoomed in on one of her crocodile tears I would need a slew of sick days.
Her issues are real -- all talk show issues are real, I suppose -- but daytime television doesn't teach much about the human condition, like a good Pulitzer Prize winner can.
Unfortunately, when sick, there are few other choices.
February 9, 2006
Roadtripping Together to Nashville
Jill Brooks, INtake columnist
It’s like I always say: one person’s acid is another person’s alkaline, so the perfect litmus test for any relationship comes in traveling together. This is especially important while on the learning curve of love.
A love interests’ quirks and eccentricities, not to mention a possible dark side, are not easily discovered when you’re simply flirting over lunch, emailing rambunctiously, or lounging around together on the couch all weekend.
You need to add stress—lots of it—somewhere outside the boundaries of creature comforts and your respective neighborhoods: you need a getaway.
Traveling often brings out the worst in people; from getting lost to not knowing the language, traveling will unmask the undetectable facets of personalities.
Remember how annoying Cindy Brady got while lost in the Grand Canyon? Alice wasn’t there to fix things, so she freaked.
I have traveled with a good many people, and I have learned that sharing a like-minded travel philosophy is as necessary as flossing.
Being a travel-Nazi and navigating every minute of a vacation may seem fun to some people, but it doesn’t really work for me.
Being an ugly American; stealing all the pillows; and professing to know more than the plane’s crew, all while synchronizing your Blackberry on the flight, seems normal, right?
I’m sorry, but the seat next to me is taken.
Road trips are the best way to weed out psychosis. I once had a boyfriend who never let me put my socked-feet on the dashboard; another one brushed his teeth with every fill-up. These were universal truths confirming that we could not be life-partners.
The best travel companion is the type who lets you be in charge of the music. If you can find this rare soul, hold on for dear life.
My new love interest and I took our first road trip together. He was late picking me up but brought chocolate, so those things canceled each other out.
We drove to Nashville, Tennessee; he steered with one hand and held my hand with the other. We talked for hours. He’d racked up all his weekend points before we ever hit Louisville.
He didn’t mind all the water I’d drunk before we left, nor did he mind hearing, “You won’t believe this, but we need to stop again.”
He let me blame mapquest.com for my bad directions (a keeper!), and let me drag him around the city explaining the history of absolutely everything.
No fights, no fussing, no line dancing or karaoke. This could really work out.
Roadtripping Together to Nashville
Jill Brooks, INtake columnist
It’s like I always say: one person’s acid is another person’s alkaline, so the perfect litmus test for any relationship comes in traveling together. This is especially important while on the learning curve of love.
A love interests’ quirks and eccentricities, not to mention a possible dark side, are not easily discovered when you’re simply flirting over lunch, emailing rambunctiously, or lounging around together on the couch all weekend.
You need to add stress—lots of it—somewhere outside the boundaries of creature comforts and your respective neighborhoods: you need a getaway.
Traveling often brings out the worst in people; from getting lost to not knowing the language, traveling will unmask the undetectable facets of personalities.
Remember how annoying Cindy Brady got while lost in the Grand Canyon? Alice wasn’t there to fix things, so she freaked.
I have traveled with a good many people, and I have learned that sharing a like-minded travel philosophy is as necessary as flossing.
Being a travel-Nazi and navigating every minute of a vacation may seem fun to some people, but it doesn’t really work for me.
Being an ugly American; stealing all the pillows; and professing to know more than the plane’s crew, all while synchronizing your Blackberry on the flight, seems normal, right?
I’m sorry, but the seat next to me is taken.
Road trips are the best way to weed out psychosis. I once had a boyfriend who never let me put my socked-feet on the dashboard; another one brushed his teeth with every fill-up. These were universal truths confirming that we could not be life-partners.
The best travel companion is the type who lets you be in charge of the music. If you can find this rare soul, hold on for dear life.
My new love interest and I took our first road trip together. He was late picking me up but brought chocolate, so those things canceled each other out.
We drove to Nashville, Tennessee; he steered with one hand and held my hand with the other. We talked for hours. He’d racked up all his weekend points before we ever hit Louisville.
He didn’t mind all the water I’d drunk before we left, nor did he mind hearing, “You won’t believe this, but we need to stop again.”
He let me blame mapquest.com for my bad directions (a keeper!), and let me drag him around the city explaining the history of absolutely everything.
No fights, no fussing, no line dancing or karaoke. This could really work out.
February 2, 2006
Faking Football
Jill Brooks, INtake columnist
The infancy stage of a relationship should be treated like such, with a gentle hold on its developing fontanel and an overnight bag packed full of extra clothes.
This is the time to be the person you always thought you could be, the only possible time in the course of the relationship, if it lasts, when your partner will smile while thinking, “She’s perfect,” so beef it up.
For me, this generally means keeping an open mind about things in which I have no interest: meeting hordes of new people, hanging out at sports bars, or, the worst, lying around all day watching football.
By your thirties, if you’ve never enjoyed watching football, it’s highly unlikely that you will. The Colts helped matters, but let’s not “go there.”
Kinetic enthusiasm about who got traded, who signed with which league, or who’s playing in the Super Bowl creates not a stir of sincere interest from me; still, the relationship is just getting started and my job is to fetch sticks.
I’ve learned to tolerate football, meaning I’ve learned to stare at the television and pretend I’m watching. I had no idea my adolescent talent for tuning out my father’s lectures would come in so handy later in life.
The trick is spooning with your boyfriend and diverting him from any close-ups displaying your true attention span. This is what I do. I can usually last about an hour before I make an excuse to visit the restroom or get him another beer, where I can, in private, shake off the total boredom.
When I return to the couch I sneak in a few minutes of conversation—taboo while he’s watching sporting events—and because I’m quick and bringing him a beer, he usually lets it pass.
Pass: that’s a good word to announce while you’re bored, too, as in, “Nice pass!” This proves that you’re watching and actually know some of the plays. “Pass” is my favorite because it’s so obvious.
Some other point-winning interjections might be, “Nice tackle,” “Great touchdown,” or, simply, “Run!” When I yell at a player to run I can almost feel the “she’s perfect” button being pushed.
Don’t try mentioning a field goal until you’re somewhat advanced in yours methods; field goals rarely look like they’re actually going through the yellow bars, to me.
Finally, act happy when his team wins, or really pissed when they lose, and tell him that they played a really good game, no matter what.
You’re only perfect, after all.
Faking Football
Jill Brooks, INtake columnist
The infancy stage of a relationship should be treated like such, with a gentle hold on its developing fontanel and an overnight bag packed full of extra clothes.
This is the time to be the person you always thought you could be, the only possible time in the course of the relationship, if it lasts, when your partner will smile while thinking, “She’s perfect,” so beef it up.
For me, this generally means keeping an open mind about things in which I have no interest: meeting hordes of new people, hanging out at sports bars, or, the worst, lying around all day watching football.
By your thirties, if you’ve never enjoyed watching football, it’s highly unlikely that you will. The Colts helped matters, but let’s not “go there.”
Kinetic enthusiasm about who got traded, who signed with which league, or who’s playing in the Super Bowl creates not a stir of sincere interest from me; still, the relationship is just getting started and my job is to fetch sticks.
I’ve learned to tolerate football, meaning I’ve learned to stare at the television and pretend I’m watching. I had no idea my adolescent talent for tuning out my father’s lectures would come in so handy later in life.
The trick is spooning with your boyfriend and diverting him from any close-ups displaying your true attention span. This is what I do. I can usually last about an hour before I make an excuse to visit the restroom or get him another beer, where I can, in private, shake off the total boredom.
When I return to the couch I sneak in a few minutes of conversation—taboo while he’s watching sporting events—and because I’m quick and bringing him a beer, he usually lets it pass.
Pass: that’s a good word to announce while you’re bored, too, as in, “Nice pass!” This proves that you’re watching and actually know some of the plays. “Pass” is my favorite because it’s so obvious.
Some other point-winning interjections might be, “Nice tackle,” “Great touchdown,” or, simply, “Run!” When I yell at a player to run I can almost feel the “she’s perfect” button being pushed.
Don’t try mentioning a field goal until you’re somewhat advanced in yours methods; field goals rarely look like they’re actually going through the yellow bars, to me.
Finally, act happy when his team wins, or really pissed when they lose, and tell him that they played a really good game, no matter what.
You’re only perfect, after all.
January 26, 2006
A sister's need for speed
Put Jill behind the wheel for a fast fun squeal.
Jill Brooks
INtake columnist
Having "Indy" blood, I love to speed. I'm an aggressive driver and a "life in the fast lane" constituent -- best to stay out of the left lane.
My high school boyfriend taught me skill by providing lessons on how not to be a chick driver. We'd practice top speeds, "donuts" in the snow, and maneuvering in and out of traffic on the highway.
We were a parent's worst nightmare.
After many speeding tickets, trips to traffic court, insurance hikes and some needed maturity, I'm finally learning to slow down.
I still hold a torch for parallel parking.
At a recent charity event I was granted the opportunity to unleash my honed skills and race around the track at Fastimes Indoor Karting.
Here, I learned a little something about myself: under pressure, I'm a hormone-injected chicken.
I suited up to race against some guys from Q95. We wore goofy mechanic jumpers, closed-toed shoes, balaclavas (better known as head socks) and helmets, ruining my otherwise perfect hair day.
And what is it about zipping up a one-piece that immediately causes the urge to use the facilities?
After a quick movie and signing a waiver stating that broken bones were OK by me, we were off.
I couldn't hear anything from underneath my helmet, and for what it's worth, I couldn't see too well, either.
I felt like a toothpick balancing a giant muskmelon on my head.
One of the guys yelled, "Blah, blah, blah" and I panicked.
I raised the flap on my helmet, screaming back, "What?"
"Keep your helmet open a bit -- it'll help you breathe," he calmly suggested.
"Yeah, great, thanks," I replied. More panic.
We lined up to enter the karts, the movie drills still churning in my head: don't crush the tie rod end; foot off the seat; don't grab the muffler. I was laughing and whimpering simultaneously, and just once I think I breathed, "I want my mommy."
The race began. The men took off leaving me in a lonely cloud of track dust. Me: the Sunday driver. Slowly making my way through the first hairpin turn I bellowed with laughter, thinking, "Wait a minute, this is fun."
I climbed the hills of the bi-level track and skidded around its corners; the wind swept my helmet and I hadn't even reached 40 mph. This was living; this was exhilaration at its finest. I was terrible and each guy lapped me three times.
And for a mere $18 a race, I can't wait to try again.
A sister's need for speed
Put Jill behind the wheel for a fast fun squeal.
Jill Brooks
INtake columnist
Having "Indy" blood, I love to speed. I'm an aggressive driver and a "life in the fast lane" constituent -- best to stay out of the left lane.
My high school boyfriend taught me skill by providing lessons on how not to be a chick driver. We'd practice top speeds, "donuts" in the snow, and maneuvering in and out of traffic on the highway.
We were a parent's worst nightmare.
After many speeding tickets, trips to traffic court, insurance hikes and some needed maturity, I'm finally learning to slow down.
I still hold a torch for parallel parking.
At a recent charity event I was granted the opportunity to unleash my honed skills and race around the track at Fastimes Indoor Karting.
Here, I learned a little something about myself: under pressure, I'm a hormone-injected chicken.
I suited up to race against some guys from Q95. We wore goofy mechanic jumpers, closed-toed shoes, balaclavas (better known as head socks) and helmets, ruining my otherwise perfect hair day.
And what is it about zipping up a one-piece that immediately causes the urge to use the facilities?
After a quick movie and signing a waiver stating that broken bones were OK by me, we were off.
I couldn't hear anything from underneath my helmet, and for what it's worth, I couldn't see too well, either.
I felt like a toothpick balancing a giant muskmelon on my head.
One of the guys yelled, "Blah, blah, blah" and I panicked.
I raised the flap on my helmet, screaming back, "What?"
"Keep your helmet open a bit -- it'll help you breathe," he calmly suggested.
"Yeah, great, thanks," I replied. More panic.
We lined up to enter the karts, the movie drills still churning in my head: don't crush the tie rod end; foot off the seat; don't grab the muffler. I was laughing and whimpering simultaneously, and just once I think I breathed, "I want my mommy."
The race began. The men took off leaving me in a lonely cloud of track dust. Me: the Sunday driver. Slowly making my way through the first hairpin turn I bellowed with laughter, thinking, "Wait a minute, this is fun."
I climbed the hills of the bi-level track and skidded around its corners; the wind swept my helmet and I hadn't even reached 40 mph. This was living; this was exhilaration at its finest. I was terrible and each guy lapped me three times.
And for a mere $18 a race, I can't wait to try again.
January 19, 2006
I’ve found a love interest. Scientifically this means I can no longer concentrate; I’ve been spending an inordinate amount of time staring out my window in a daze; and everyone must repeat things twice.
It’s the “beginning of a relationship” type of love interest, not to be confused with the common crush. I’m certain he’s thinking about me too.
I check my cell phone every couple of minutes to see if he’s calling, then my e-mail in-box, then my cell again. This goes on all day, while blue skies hover over the grayness of winter. Is it cold outside? I hadn’t noticed.
I feel giddy and I laugh uncontrollably; ten minutes later I think I may cry. I’m an emotional avalanche and I don’t even mind that the stupid, frickin’ idiot in front of me just cut me off in traffic. The world is peaceful and full of beauty.
I check my in-box again.
Love poems come into my head all day and I begin my fifty-first journal. Pen poised against paper, my head tilts to one side and I sigh. Was that a unicorn that just slid down that rainbow?
I close my eyes and picture my love interest’s cute dimples smiling at me, the cleft in his chin and his strong arms that are dying to wrap themselves around me. I nod as he expresses his vast knowledge for business law, mergers and world politics.
Keep talking, Love Interest, I’m listening, but I can barely hear you over that gleam in your blue eyes.
I wonder what I’ll cook him for dinner. Does he like salad? I wonder what he’ll look like in the black turtleneck I plan on buying for him. I’ll bet he can even iron his own shirt.
If I book now, I’m sure I can get a good deal on the honeymoon package.
I check my in-box, and right after our annual budget meeting at work I’ll practice writing his last name as my own.
Love Interest likes my kind of music: be still my heart. Consider him pre-approved for Brooks’ family gatherings. My parents will love you, Love Interest.
Love Interest and I hang out a lot. We listen to jazz or blues and sip wine while he mulls over legal documents. I sit with my laptop on my apt legs, and look up at him working between each typed word.
Until they become boyfriends, Love Interests are perfect in everyway.
You sure got it right, Santa—he’s much better than a shiny new bike.
Love Interest Revealed
Jill Brooks, INtake columnistI’ve found a love interest. Scientifically this means I can no longer concentrate; I’ve been spending an inordinate amount of time staring out my window in a daze; and everyone must repeat things twice.
It’s the “beginning of a relationship” type of love interest, not to be confused with the common crush. I’m certain he’s thinking about me too.
I check my cell phone every couple of minutes to see if he’s calling, then my e-mail in-box, then my cell again. This goes on all day, while blue skies hover over the grayness of winter. Is it cold outside? I hadn’t noticed.
I feel giddy and I laugh uncontrollably; ten minutes later I think I may cry. I’m an emotional avalanche and I don’t even mind that the stupid, frickin’ idiot in front of me just cut me off in traffic. The world is peaceful and full of beauty.
I check my in-box again.
Love poems come into my head all day and I begin my fifty-first journal. Pen poised against paper, my head tilts to one side and I sigh. Was that a unicorn that just slid down that rainbow?
I close my eyes and picture my love interest’s cute dimples smiling at me, the cleft in his chin and his strong arms that are dying to wrap themselves around me. I nod as he expresses his vast knowledge for business law, mergers and world politics.
Keep talking, Love Interest, I’m listening, but I can barely hear you over that gleam in your blue eyes.
I wonder what I’ll cook him for dinner. Does he like salad? I wonder what he’ll look like in the black turtleneck I plan on buying for him. I’ll bet he can even iron his own shirt.
If I book now, I’m sure I can get a good deal on the honeymoon package.
I check my in-box, and right after our annual budget meeting at work I’ll practice writing his last name as my own.
Love Interest likes my kind of music: be still my heart. Consider him pre-approved for Brooks’ family gatherings. My parents will love you, Love Interest.
Love Interest and I hang out a lot. We listen to jazz or blues and sip wine while he mulls over legal documents. I sit with my laptop on my apt legs, and look up at him working between each typed word.
Until they become boyfriends, Love Interests are perfect in everyway.
You sure got it right, Santa—he’s much better than a shiny new bike.
January 12, 2006
One thing I counted on in the weeks leading up to the holidays was that no one would be at the gym; countering this intuition was knowing that in January the resolution setters would give the memberships they so joyfully pulled from their stockings a try.
Every year they arrive, products of Men’s Health Magazine and the Women’s Channel. I applaud them for their efforts, I really do; I just want them to learn gym etiquette.
The first rule of thumb, believe it or not, is to wear deodorant: yes, come clean.
Gyms don’t usually have windows or good air-purifying systems: an architectural oversight. When I walked into my gym on January 2 it was packed, which I expected. It was also hot enough to grow orchids, and smelly enough to fertilize them.
Attempting to run, the odor almost knocked me off the treadmill.
If you’re uncertain about a possible intrusion upon innocent bystanders’ olfactory systems, might I suggest a body odor self exam. Might I also suggest you shower to shower each day.
Next in my observant little crux is the matter of television volume control. First of all, get an iPOD and keep it to yourself, will ya? But if you must watch football or comic psychodrama, please do so quietly.
While trying to set my pace I was forced to turn New Order up so loud that my brains addled between my headphones, yet I could still hear the syrupy sighs from the Gilmore Girls on WB.
Two words, you TV fanatics: you suck.
And then there are those who show up—if I live forever I will never understand this—to socialize. Stereotypically I would gather women do this more than men, but I witnessed two cases, a hanger-on girlfriend and a hanger-on boyfriend, who were only there to chat/laugh/giggle/flirt/watch TV (my hands shake as I type this) with their soon-to-be first dates.
To the hangers-on: we are working; please wait until passing period to talk
I smiled, however, with the promise that these workout crashers would vanish come February.
I am by no means a top physically fit specimen, but going to the gym is my one chance to run a few miles, collect my thoughts and chill.
Gym friends become like a strange family; after a while, seeing the same people in their workout clothes becomes as comfortable as seeing your grandmother walk out of the bathroom with her skirt tucked in her pantyhose.
Welcome newbies; learn decorum and good luck with your resolution.
Sweat Smelling Gyms
Jill Brooks, INtake columnistOne thing I counted on in the weeks leading up to the holidays was that no one would be at the gym; countering this intuition was knowing that in January the resolution setters would give the memberships they so joyfully pulled from their stockings a try.
Every year they arrive, products of Men’s Health Magazine and the Women’s Channel. I applaud them for their efforts, I really do; I just want them to learn gym etiquette.
The first rule of thumb, believe it or not, is to wear deodorant: yes, come clean.
Gyms don’t usually have windows or good air-purifying systems: an architectural oversight. When I walked into my gym on January 2 it was packed, which I expected. It was also hot enough to grow orchids, and smelly enough to fertilize them.
Attempting to run, the odor almost knocked me off the treadmill.
If you’re uncertain about a possible intrusion upon innocent bystanders’ olfactory systems, might I suggest a body odor self exam. Might I also suggest you shower to shower each day.
Next in my observant little crux is the matter of television volume control. First of all, get an iPOD and keep it to yourself, will ya? But if you must watch football or comic psychodrama, please do so quietly.
While trying to set my pace I was forced to turn New Order up so loud that my brains addled between my headphones, yet I could still hear the syrupy sighs from the Gilmore Girls on WB.
Two words, you TV fanatics: you suck.
And then there are those who show up—if I live forever I will never understand this—to socialize. Stereotypically I would gather women do this more than men, but I witnessed two cases, a hanger-on girlfriend and a hanger-on boyfriend, who were only there to chat/laugh/giggle/flirt/watch TV (my hands shake as I type this) with their soon-to-be first dates.
To the hangers-on: we are working; please wait until passing period to talk
I smiled, however, with the promise that these workout crashers would vanish come February.
I am by no means a top physically fit specimen, but going to the gym is my one chance to run a few miles, collect my thoughts and chill.
Gym friends become like a strange family; after a while, seeing the same people in their workout clothes becomes as comfortable as seeing your grandmother walk out of the bathroom with her skirt tucked in her pantyhose.
Welcome newbies; learn decorum and good luck with your resolution.
January 5, 2006
Tattoo Me
Jill Brooks, INtake columnistIn the cold, black night of Christmas Eve, my sister-in-law and I applied fake butterfly tattoos on our lower backs then positioned ourselves stretching and repositioning tree ornaments so that the entire family, alarmed and appalled, noticed them.
Both of our mothers were present, and both screeched in two-part harmony when they laid eyes upon the emblazoned flying monarchs.
Happy on wine and a successful holiday shockwave, my sis-in-law and I high-fived like giddy school children.
Thank you, Pinot Noir.
I would never get a real tattoo because I detest pain; I am especially grievant about self-inflicted pain.
My mom should know me better; I was thirty when I got my wisdom teeth pulled, so what made her think I’d suffer through needles permanently imprinting murky details on my skin?
After all, I was the only student in my seventh-grade science class who wouldn’t prick my finger to find out my blood type. I felt that in a medical emergency it would be much more romantic if the doctors, who were rushed and worried about me, were forced to figure it out themselves.
I want a blaze of glory, the murmurs from the hospital staff as they wheel me into the emergency room asking, “Did anyone get her blood type?”
I’ll be just as surprised as them.
Tattoos fascinate me, however, and I have must admit that my temporary butterfly (he will have long washed away by the time this prints) gave me a weird sense of being cool.
I felt like I’d joined a club and our sign (saturated with water; pressed firmly; held for 30 seconds; peeled back slowly) read: No moms allowed.
Society dictates what’s “in” and, amazingly, even preschool kids fall to its teachings. My young nephews, for example, already associate being “cool” with wearing fake tattoos (yes, I stole my fluttery friend from a four-year-old).
As long as they drink at home, we can buy kids the nectar of cool, right?
There’s nothing wrong with it, of course, but as a purist I’m hoping they outgrow their childhood-tattoo fraternity.
For most, tattoos represent the psychological fulfillment of self-interpretation and expression. Tattoos began as a sign of membership in a culture of sailors, but today people use them to say: This is who I am.
The trouble is, some days I’m a butterfly, while other days I’m a raging bull. Most days I keep to myself, so unless I stand studying it in the mirror, a tattoo’s power of suggestion is pretty irrelevant.
The butterfly sure looked cool, though.
December 29, 2005
The first writing assignment I can remember was an obligatory letter to my grandmother when I was in elementary school; we, the untrained populace of second-graders, each began with:
“Dear Grandmother,
How are you? I am fine.”
Our teacher derisively rebuffed our shallow conversational skills, requesting we be a trifle more creative.
I gave it another shot:
“Dear Grandmother,
I’m not allowed on the playground until this is written, so hurry up and read...”
By the eighth grade I was a freak child consorting with phraseology, complex sentences and clauses (both independent and subordinate), while petitioning against ne’er-do-well dangling modifiers. Growing appreciation for grammar (See, right there, I dangled a modifier—horrifying, aint it?).
That same year I flunked my first math test (shoulders shrugging in breezy apathy), and was introduced to journaling.
The world of words spun on its axis.
My weekly assignment was to write two paragraphs in my trusty Mead spiral, but my best friend and I usually chronicled the social climate of middle school upon four to five pages per day.
My English teacher, a robust, free-thinking African-American woman, became my mentor, and journaling became my favorite escape.
She taught us that telling the truth about infinitesimal and secret details was OK, because it was our journal and our private thoughts, with one general rule: she got to grade them, so no profanities or we’d be busted.
I was cool with that.
I logged detail after uninteresting detail about my Midwestern life, capturing each vital crush, my first kiss and my first love, with ink on paper. Each boyfriend got his own journal; I was a passionate scribe.
To date, I own around 50 almost-full journals, all of them especially hilarious over a bottle of wine.
Recently, I decided to look up my former eighth-grade English teacher. I called the human resources department of my alma mater, and within a half hour she phoned me back.
She was delighted that a former student held her in such high regard, as she tried placing me: “Jill Brooks, um, your name sounds familiar…” I said, “Don’t picture the smartest student from your class; focus on the enthusiastic daydreamer.”
There, in the deep recesses of her mind, I was.
We reminisced for over an hour; she said getting my call made her 39 years of teaching worth while.
A moment before we hung up she exclaimed, “Jill, you’ve made my year—thank you so much for calling.”
You too should call your favorite teacher and behold the power of words.
Inspired by a Teacher
Jill Brooks, INtake columnistThe first writing assignment I can remember was an obligatory letter to my grandmother when I was in elementary school; we, the untrained populace of second-graders, each began with:
“Dear Grandmother,
How are you? I am fine.”
Our teacher derisively rebuffed our shallow conversational skills, requesting we be a trifle more creative.
I gave it another shot:
“Dear Grandmother,
I’m not allowed on the playground until this is written, so hurry up and read...”
By the eighth grade I was a freak child consorting with phraseology, complex sentences and clauses (both independent and subordinate), while petitioning against ne’er-do-well dangling modifiers. Growing appreciation for grammar (See, right there, I dangled a modifier—horrifying, aint it?).
That same year I flunked my first math test (shoulders shrugging in breezy apathy), and was introduced to journaling.
The world of words spun on its axis.
My weekly assignment was to write two paragraphs in my trusty Mead spiral, but my best friend and I usually chronicled the social climate of middle school upon four to five pages per day.
My English teacher, a robust, free-thinking African-American woman, became my mentor, and journaling became my favorite escape.
She taught us that telling the truth about infinitesimal and secret details was OK, because it was our journal and our private thoughts, with one general rule: she got to grade them, so no profanities or we’d be busted.
I was cool with that.
I logged detail after uninteresting detail about my Midwestern life, capturing each vital crush, my first kiss and my first love, with ink on paper. Each boyfriend got his own journal; I was a passionate scribe.
To date, I own around 50 almost-full journals, all of them especially hilarious over a bottle of wine.
Recently, I decided to look up my former eighth-grade English teacher. I called the human resources department of my alma mater, and within a half hour she phoned me back.
She was delighted that a former student held her in such high regard, as she tried placing me: “Jill Brooks, um, your name sounds familiar…” I said, “Don’t picture the smartest student from your class; focus on the enthusiastic daydreamer.”
There, in the deep recesses of her mind, I was.
We reminisced for over an hour; she said getting my call made her 39 years of teaching worth while.
A moment before we hung up she exclaimed, “Jill, you’ve made my year—thank you so much for calling.”
You too should call your favorite teacher and behold the power of words.
December 22, 2005
Letter to Santa
Jill Brooks, INtake columnist
Dear Santa,
I’ve been a very good girl this year, so I was wondering if you’d grant special consideration to this request.
I’ve tried to do my part for society: I always wear my seatbelt and signal my intentions; I’ve been kind to strangers; have supported local charities—hell, I even write grants for local charities.
Sorry I said ‘hell’ just then, Santa.
Anyway, my needs are fairly simple. Besides hoping for world peace and elegant, sexy shoes that don’t blister my toes, I was hoping maybe you could find me a new boyfriend.
Now I know my penchant has been for tall, dark and handsome attorneys and musicians (there’s a missing link in there I’ve been trying to figure out for years), but I’m willing to branch out this holiday season.
A blonde professor would work, or maybe a professional sports figure, to spice it up a bit. If not, I’ll settle for him being gainfully employed.
He has to like music, though, and I mean a lot of it. I can’t date anyone who doesn’t “get” the Tragically Hip, their confluence of grassroots rock-n-roll and complex poetry; he probably should know a little something about bluegrass too.
He should expect road trips to concerts, and needs to pay attention at them and not keep talking in my ear; I’m not there to converse, I’m there to rock. Tell him to plan on hanging around backstage after the show.
If he could be taller than me, so I can wear heels once in a while, that’d be great. And if he could please take me to places that require heels, I’d love it; I don’t think this is asking for too much, do you, Santa?
In theory, my heart would melt if he loved kittens and children, but cats make me sneeze and children sometimes do too. My goal is to spend my life traveling, so it’s OK if he doesn’t want cats or children; he just needs to get along with my family.
I don’t need him to send me flowers or scrape the snow off my car, but if he could swing by and pick up my dry cleaning I’d be thrilled.
Most importantly, Santa, I hope he makes me laugh like crazy. I can overlook a receding hairline or crooked teeth if he can do that.
Be careful on your trip, Santa, and I’ll be sure and leave you some store-bought cookies; if you swing by Europe first, bring me a man from there.
Thanks a lot.
Letter to Santa
Jill Brooks, INtake columnist
Dear Santa,
I’ve been a very good girl this year, so I was wondering if you’d grant special consideration to this request.
I’ve tried to do my part for society: I always wear my seatbelt and signal my intentions; I’ve been kind to strangers; have supported local charities—hell, I even write grants for local charities.
Sorry I said ‘hell’ just then, Santa.
Anyway, my needs are fairly simple. Besides hoping for world peace and elegant, sexy shoes that don’t blister my toes, I was hoping maybe you could find me a new boyfriend.
Now I know my penchant has been for tall, dark and handsome attorneys and musicians (there’s a missing link in there I’ve been trying to figure out for years), but I’m willing to branch out this holiday season.
A blonde professor would work, or maybe a professional sports figure, to spice it up a bit. If not, I’ll settle for him being gainfully employed.
He has to like music, though, and I mean a lot of it. I can’t date anyone who doesn’t “get” the Tragically Hip, their confluence of grassroots rock-n-roll and complex poetry; he probably should know a little something about bluegrass too.
He should expect road trips to concerts, and needs to pay attention at them and not keep talking in my ear; I’m not there to converse, I’m there to rock. Tell him to plan on hanging around backstage after the show.
If he could be taller than me, so I can wear heels once in a while, that’d be great. And if he could please take me to places that require heels, I’d love it; I don’t think this is asking for too much, do you, Santa?
In theory, my heart would melt if he loved kittens and children, but cats make me sneeze and children sometimes do too. My goal is to spend my life traveling, so it’s OK if he doesn’t want cats or children; he just needs to get along with my family.
I don’t need him to send me flowers or scrape the snow off my car, but if he could swing by and pick up my dry cleaning I’d be thrilled.
Most importantly, Santa, I hope he makes me laugh like crazy. I can overlook a receding hairline or crooked teeth if he can do that.
Be careful on your trip, Santa, and I’ll be sure and leave you some store-bought cookies; if you swing by Europe first, bring me a man from there.
Thanks a lot.
December 15, 2005
Iwanttofindlove.com
In today's digital age, dating has become a somewhat risky game.
Jill Brooks Jill Brooks
INtake columnist
Dating practices of late seem a bewildering labyrinth of potluck compatibility and wily aggression.
With so many ways to meet a perfect mate, such as on the Internet or during a three-minute dating interview, it's no wonder romance has left the building.
I am old-fashioned, so, for me, love will wait on the top of the Empire State Building on Valentine's Day, or gather in all the townspeople on Christmas Eve to help get my husband, who almost jumped off a bridge, out of debt.
We'll kiss under the mistletoe, and everyone will cheer and sing "Auld Lang Syne."
I'm really not idealistic, I swear.
Several of my friends have been casting their nets on the Internet to find that special someone, a ritual I could never bring myself to try.
They receive daily e-mail messages or computer "winks," which I think means they're makeout worthy. The person's identity is secret, and they are unreachable, and the whole concept screams: Buyer beware.
A friend of mine compares it to getting in a car with a stranger; I compare it to riding with a blindfolded stranger in a Pinto.
Americans are governed by their busy schedules, so I understand the utilitarian approach to true love. The problem is, most of my girlfriends who've been out with Internet guys say that the suggestion of sex -- i.e. having it immediately -- is a standard topic presented by Internet men.
Coming from a complete and potentially creepy stranger, such fervent lust will likely thwart the possibility of a second date.
In other words, overzealous testosterone often freaks women out.
Another friend of mine recently had a succession of dates with an Internet guy. He wasn't creepy, so after the third date she invited him over for pizza at her place, in a suburb of Indy.
He stopped on his way to get a bottle of wine from the grocery (grocery store wine: red flag), and while heading back to his car was stopped at gunpoint by 10 policemen.
He matched the description of someone who'd just robbed a local store. After being thrown to the ground in the rain, humiliated in front of other customers and found to be the "wrong guy," the poor chap actually remembered to pick up the pizza.
Shaken like a dry martini, he arrived at my friend's house with minutes to spare.
They weren't singing "Edelweiss" on stage one last time before fleeing Nazi-occupied Austria, but he earned romantic respect for effort.
The relationship didn't last, but my friend's hope of finding cyber chemistry rolls on.
Iwanttofindlove.com
In today's digital age, dating has become a somewhat risky game.
Jill Brooks Jill Brooks
INtake columnist
Dating practices of late seem a bewildering labyrinth of potluck compatibility and wily aggression.
With so many ways to meet a perfect mate, such as on the Internet or during a three-minute dating interview, it's no wonder romance has left the building.
I am old-fashioned, so, for me, love will wait on the top of the Empire State Building on Valentine's Day, or gather in all the townspeople on Christmas Eve to help get my husband, who almost jumped off a bridge, out of debt.
We'll kiss under the mistletoe, and everyone will cheer and sing "Auld Lang Syne."
I'm really not idealistic, I swear.
Several of my friends have been casting their nets on the Internet to find that special someone, a ritual I could never bring myself to try.
They receive daily e-mail messages or computer "winks," which I think means they're makeout worthy. The person's identity is secret, and they are unreachable, and the whole concept screams: Buyer beware.
A friend of mine compares it to getting in a car with a stranger; I compare it to riding with a blindfolded stranger in a Pinto.
Americans are governed by their busy schedules, so I understand the utilitarian approach to true love. The problem is, most of my girlfriends who've been out with Internet guys say that the suggestion of sex -- i.e. having it immediately -- is a standard topic presented by Internet men.
Coming from a complete and potentially creepy stranger, such fervent lust will likely thwart the possibility of a second date.
In other words, overzealous testosterone often freaks women out.
Another friend of mine recently had a succession of dates with an Internet guy. He wasn't creepy, so after the third date she invited him over for pizza at her place, in a suburb of Indy.
He stopped on his way to get a bottle of wine from the grocery (grocery store wine: red flag), and while heading back to his car was stopped at gunpoint by 10 policemen.
He matched the description of someone who'd just robbed a local store. After being thrown to the ground in the rain, humiliated in front of other customers and found to be the "wrong guy," the poor chap actually remembered to pick up the pizza.
Shaken like a dry martini, he arrived at my friend's house with minutes to spare.
They weren't singing "Edelweiss" on stage one last time before fleeing Nazi-occupied Austria, but he earned romantic respect for effort.
The relationship didn't last, but my friend's hope of finding cyber chemistry rolls on.
December 8, 2005
Jill Brooks, INtake columnist
This is the absolute last holiday season I’m spending alone. My shopping is finished, so I’ve spent the time I saved not waiting in last-minute lines concocting my new year’s resolutions.
A steady boyfriend, cooking lessons and getting to bed at a sensible hour top the list…now I hold out for January 1.
My family, who is collectively much busier than I am, sugarcoats my status “single and carefree” to sweeten their true feelings: “She’s incapable!”
They know I keep a late-night schedule and eat cereal for dinner, so when I ask what I can bring to a family dinner, I get, “Oh, a bottle of wine would be nice, or maybe you can buy a pie” (note that “cook” a pie is not offered).
Last year I was allowed to make the sweet potato casserole. I feel recipes are trifle suggestions, so looking out for everyone’s best waistline, I added only a fourth of the sugar.
When my step-mom passed the sweet potato casserole at dinner this year, I said, “Wait a minute, I could have made that!”
An uncomfortable hush befell the table, and she sweetly said, “It’s OK, we knew you were busy…”
I’m no fool; I know when my sweet potatoes aren’t wanted.
Wonders abound. For the second year in a row I succeeded in the major undertaking of baking two pumpkin pies (please keep in mind, there are many ways to define success).
I shopped for the necessary ingredients: two cans of Libby’s easy pie mix, some form of canned milk and frozen pie crusts.
Apparently, this canned milk phenomenon is important. The “suggestion” calls for evaporated milk. While shopping this year, like last year, the only “fat free” variety of canned milk was, um, I think they call it “condensed.”
It sounded gross, but it was fat free, so I bought it. Close enough.
Before I began cooking (i.e. mixing two cans together) I spoke to my sister, who insisted the two cans were not the same and that I needed to return to the store…for ten ounces of milk (to date, I own four small cans of condensed milk).
Such peccadillos make me begin hating the holidays, reassured that a boyfriend, even a bad one, would somehow make it all better.
Success, in a pie shell: I wrapped them in tinfoil and presented them at Thanksgiving dinner. The edges were burned and the centers were cold, but my family, the dear souls who keep faith in me, wheezed “delicious” behind gritted teeth.
Jill Brooks, INtake columnist
This is the absolute last holiday season I’m spending alone. My shopping is finished, so I’ve spent the time I saved not waiting in last-minute lines concocting my new year’s resolutions.
A steady boyfriend, cooking lessons and getting to bed at a sensible hour top the list…now I hold out for January 1.
My family, who is collectively much busier than I am, sugarcoats my status “single and carefree” to sweeten their true feelings: “She’s incapable!”
They know I keep a late-night schedule and eat cereal for dinner, so when I ask what I can bring to a family dinner, I get, “Oh, a bottle of wine would be nice, or maybe you can buy a pie” (note that “cook” a pie is not offered).
Last year I was allowed to make the sweet potato casserole. I feel recipes are trifle suggestions, so looking out for everyone’s best waistline, I added only a fourth of the sugar.
When my step-mom passed the sweet potato casserole at dinner this year, I said, “Wait a minute, I could have made that!”
An uncomfortable hush befell the table, and she sweetly said, “It’s OK, we knew you were busy…”
I’m no fool; I know when my sweet potatoes aren’t wanted.
Wonders abound. For the second year in a row I succeeded in the major undertaking of baking two pumpkin pies (please keep in mind, there are many ways to define success).
I shopped for the necessary ingredients: two cans of Libby’s easy pie mix, some form of canned milk and frozen pie crusts.
Apparently, this canned milk phenomenon is important. The “suggestion” calls for evaporated milk. While shopping this year, like last year, the only “fat free” variety of canned milk was, um, I think they call it “condensed.”
It sounded gross, but it was fat free, so I bought it. Close enough.
Before I began cooking (i.e. mixing two cans together) I spoke to my sister, who insisted the two cans were not the same and that I needed to return to the store…for ten ounces of milk (to date, I own four small cans of condensed milk).
Such peccadillos make me begin hating the holidays, reassured that a boyfriend, even a bad one, would somehow make it all better.
Success, in a pie shell: I wrapped them in tinfoil and presented them at Thanksgiving dinner. The edges were burned and the centers were cold, but my family, the dear souls who keep faith in me, wheezed “delicious” behind gritted teeth.
December 1, 2005
Scotland & Ireland
Jill Brooks, INtake columnist
I’m not knocking Indiana, but I love getting away. While traveling I become a very quiet listener, soaking up all the minute details my brain can hold. I journal daily, visit all the museums and used bookstores and, for a clotheshorse, I pack really well.
I recently visited Ireland and Scotland; not to find my family roots (they’re resting peacefully in England), and certainly not for the beer (yes, Guinness still tasted the same to me, like mud). I went for the rain, the wind, the sea and the history.
I packed one sensibly-sized suitcase full of Patagonia wear and cords, adding one dressy outfit with the most uncomfortable pair of sexy, strappy shoes I owned, knowing I’d be trading their space for a T-shirt or two (They may still be in a closet in Glasgow).
I debated over carrying both a hairdryer and a hair-straightener, and finally prioritized, which obviously meant bringing the straightener. I’m a girl, after all.
Potatoes were served with every meal, so I’m currently working off my cushiony “British Isles tire,” but it was worth the yummy, additional cholesterol.
Far the best thing about traveling is meeting the locals and fully immersing myself in their culture. This is often where my romantic sensibilities begin to take hold and, for instance, I actually hear myself thinking that I could live in an Irish town called Limerick, or Killarney, or Cork, hang out night after night watching Gaelic football or Rugby, and date a guy with horribly bad teeth.
This dream faded pretty quickly.
And then there was Edinburgh, Scotland. This must be the city where the very first muse breathed poetry and fairy tales into the dream sequence of every last female.
I surrendered to this city; here, I didn’t want to waste a single moment. Sure, the buildings could all use a fresh sandblasting, but their walls sang a plaintive requiem ode to the Bard.
And who wouldn’t want to see the land where the merry Queen of Scots finally bought the farm, anyway?
It is true, however; you can pack in so much quality sightseeing that you begin having a massive cultural implosion.
A conversation:
My friend: Want to stop at that beautiful medieval castle surrounded by lush, rolling meadows and stone walls that we’re now passing?
Me (staring forward): Seen one castle, seen ‘em all.
I emailed home almost daily and missed the people who missed me: A seeker, a dreamer and a homebody, if ever there were one.
November 23, 2005
All good things must end
The Patio will close its doors, but the memories will live on.
Jill Brooks
INtake columnist
Away on vacation for two weeks, where the only world news available was BBC reports on real estate, fly fishing and cooking, I couldn't wait to get back to my motherland and find out the scoop.
Tucked away in the corner of my favorite coffee shop, I caught up on intriguing happenings: countless coverage on the new Crate & Barrel (really, people, it's just another retail store); Colts win; Bush messes up again, and . . . what's this? The Patio will be closing.
The Patio in Broad Ripple is a quaint little rock venue with no actual patio, but walls held together with Scotch tape and band flyers instead.
I heard my first punk rock band there, fell in love with my first guitarist (followed swiftly by a drummer) and puked in my first public toilet (anyone who's been to the Patio knows this is equal to jumping in the canal, which I've also done).
Go ahead and sell the Patio, but those precious memories, they're mine.
Rock 'n' roll dreams came true at the Patio. My girlfriend kissed Dave Pirner there, another friend drove Alanis Morissette to her hotel after a show (nothing happened); and I once took John Doe, from the band X, to get tacos after a set.
Walking into the Patio was like walking into your creepy uncle's garage. Very often the "opening band" began around 11 p.m. There were a lot of late nights at the Patio but, amazingly, no one ever left drunk (so, moving right along . . . ).
People from all walks of life crowded the Patio; many sat at tables during shows while the rest of us danced in the front row. No one ever screamed "Down in front," and if they had, you'd never have heard them. There, free-spiritedness graduated Magna Cum Stereo.
Patio musicians were always welcoming. Singer Michelle Shocked signed a "while you were out" pad for me; bassist Mike Watt, a poster for my brother; and Dan Bern, an autograph for my boyfriend. I could always count on a smile from Otis Gibbs, and Vess Ruhtenberg thanked me every time I showed up to see one of his bands.
Change and growth are vital for a community, especially communities running low on, say, war memorials and swanky martini bars (don't get me started), but the Patio is a deep-dish slice of Americana with extra cheese, and it will surely be missed.The Patio's last night is with Gravelbed, Randy King and Otis Gibbs on Nov. 26.
Long live the spirit.
All good things must end
The Patio will close its doors, but the memories will live on.
Jill Brooks
INtake columnist
Away on vacation for two weeks, where the only world news available was BBC reports on real estate, fly fishing and cooking, I couldn't wait to get back to my motherland and find out the scoop.
Tucked away in the corner of my favorite coffee shop, I caught up on intriguing happenings: countless coverage on the new Crate & Barrel (really, people, it's just another retail store); Colts win; Bush messes up again, and . . . what's this? The Patio will be closing.
The Patio in Broad Ripple is a quaint little rock venue with no actual patio, but walls held together with Scotch tape and band flyers instead.
I heard my first punk rock band there, fell in love with my first guitarist (followed swiftly by a drummer) and puked in my first public toilet (anyone who's been to the Patio knows this is equal to jumping in the canal, which I've also done).
Go ahead and sell the Patio, but those precious memories, they're mine.
Rock 'n' roll dreams came true at the Patio. My girlfriend kissed Dave Pirner there, another friend drove Alanis Morissette to her hotel after a show (nothing happened); and I once took John Doe, from the band X, to get tacos after a set.
Walking into the Patio was like walking into your creepy uncle's garage. Very often the "opening band" began around 11 p.m. There were a lot of late nights at the Patio but, amazingly, no one ever left drunk (so, moving right along . . . ).
People from all walks of life crowded the Patio; many sat at tables during shows while the rest of us danced in the front row. No one ever screamed "Down in front," and if they had, you'd never have heard them. There, free-spiritedness graduated Magna Cum Stereo.
Patio musicians were always welcoming. Singer Michelle Shocked signed a "while you were out" pad for me; bassist Mike Watt, a poster for my brother; and Dan Bern, an autograph for my boyfriend. I could always count on a smile from Otis Gibbs, and Vess Ruhtenberg thanked me every time I showed up to see one of his bands.
Change and growth are vital for a community, especially communities running low on, say, war memorials and swanky martini bars (don't get me started), but the Patio is a deep-dish slice of Americana with extra cheese, and it will surely be missed.The Patio's last night is with Gravelbed, Randy King and Otis Gibbs on Nov. 26.
Long live the spirit.
November 17, 2005
Only teenage wasteland
Does teen love free of violence exist only on "7th Heaven?"
By Jill Brooks
INtake columnist
I read about the adorable teenage couple last week, the one with the boyfriend who murdered the girlfriend's parents over her curfew.
Now the saying, "Oh, those crazy kids" holds a whole new meaning.
I mean, what the hell?
Teenagers have gone mad, which makes me even more terrified of ever having a little kid who might grow up to be one.
When I was a teenager, my boyfriend and I skipped an occasional class, ate bagels in Broad Ripple, talked about our World Lit homework, necked behind public buildings and went home for dinner.
Murder/suicides were never part of the program.
His parents liked me; still, if they hadn't, it's safe to say I would not have plotted against them.
What the frantic kid from Pennsylvania forgot to consider was this: Had things worked out between him and his sweetheart (their love could, in fact, die on the vine due to his prison sentence), her parents would have eventually been his in-laws.
Think, kid, think!
In these tragic instances, I used to solely blame the parents; in our heads, don't we enjoy blaming parents?
But I'm not so quick to toss out this opinion, because somewhere in a young kid's mind must exist a drawbridge between what's right and what's wrong.
I do not understand vengeance. Parents aside, if someone wants to break up, they are simply checking their moon out of your seventh house; Jupiter no longer sees the need for Mars; they want a new cup of tea -- the sky is not falling.
When I've been the recipient of a Dear Jill letter, I kept it simple: goodbye.
Sure, the parting produced tears, plenty of chocolate eating in bed and pages and pages of Sylvia Plath for a couple of weeks, but then I visited the move on.org of love and got on with life.
I know plenty of women who've, after a heart-wrenching break up, keyed a guy's car, called all his friends and family and virtually sabotaged every aspect of his life. Not that I haven't entertained the thought of a poison pen letter or two, but this leads to bad karma, and who needs that?
Sadly, what teenagers don't always understand is that yes, young love is good love, but more than likely it isn't the only love. So, don't kill the parents, eh?
There is enough evil in the world; next week, I want to read about the teenagers of the world running through flowered meadows, laughing and embracing, merely plotting their life's work.
Only teenage wasteland
Does teen love free of violence exist only on "7th Heaven?"
By Jill Brooks
INtake columnist
I read about the adorable teenage couple last week, the one with the boyfriend who murdered the girlfriend's parents over her curfew.
Now the saying, "Oh, those crazy kids" holds a whole new meaning.
I mean, what the hell?
Teenagers have gone mad, which makes me even more terrified of ever having a little kid who might grow up to be one.
When I was a teenager, my boyfriend and I skipped an occasional class, ate bagels in Broad Ripple, talked about our World Lit homework, necked behind public buildings and went home for dinner.
Murder/suicides were never part of the program.
His parents liked me; still, if they hadn't, it's safe to say I would not have plotted against them.
What the frantic kid from Pennsylvania forgot to consider was this: Had things worked out between him and his sweetheart (their love could, in fact, die on the vine due to his prison sentence), her parents would have eventually been his in-laws.
Think, kid, think!
In these tragic instances, I used to solely blame the parents; in our heads, don't we enjoy blaming parents?
But I'm not so quick to toss out this opinion, because somewhere in a young kid's mind must exist a drawbridge between what's right and what's wrong.
I do not understand vengeance. Parents aside, if someone wants to break up, they are simply checking their moon out of your seventh house; Jupiter no longer sees the need for Mars; they want a new cup of tea -- the sky is not falling.
When I've been the recipient of a Dear Jill letter, I kept it simple: goodbye.
Sure, the parting produced tears, plenty of chocolate eating in bed and pages and pages of Sylvia Plath for a couple of weeks, but then I visited the move on.org of love and got on with life.
I know plenty of women who've, after a heart-wrenching break up, keyed a guy's car, called all his friends and family and virtually sabotaged every aspect of his life. Not that I haven't entertained the thought of a poison pen letter or two, but this leads to bad karma, and who needs that?
Sadly, what teenagers don't always understand is that yes, young love is good love, but more than likely it isn't the only love. So, don't kill the parents, eh?
There is enough evil in the world; next week, I want to read about the teenagers of the world running through flowered meadows, laughing and embracing, merely plotting their life's work.
November 10, 2005
My Dad's Better Than Your Dad
Jill Brooks, INtake columnist
I rival Marsha Brady for two things: long blond hair, and for which one of us has “Father of the Year.”
In her early years, before the swollen nose and cheerleading competition, Marsha wrote a letter about her father, which actually led to her untimely grounding. Ultimately, Mike Brady learned his lesson about trusting his children, oh did he ever.
My letter goes like this:
My father has seven children: a four-decade mission he never expected, but fully accepted.
Each of us is the “favorite” to him, each of us equally valued and nurtured. But one of us truly holds the key to his heart; although I am somewhat of a “daddy’s girl,” it isn’t me, it’s my younger sister.
She is one of quadruplets and has severe cerebral palsy. In fourteen years she’s had fourteen surgeries. She has limited movement, cannot walk or talk, and is fed through a feeding tube in her stomach, but she smiles and laughs as much as any of us.
When I was in school the special needs students were kept from the mix. They spent their days at the opposite end of the long hallway, far from “regular kids” who never saw or spoke to them. I caught glimpses a few times, and I must admit I didn’t like what I saw.
Back then, we were unintentionally taught to fear special needs. It was weird and different, unfortunate and sad. We were the lucky ones; they were the handicapped.
Schools have changed immensely over the years to fit the needs of these truly special children, and my sister enjoys bowling, horseback riding and many friendships.
She lives with my incredibly loving family, but my dad brings the purest sparkle to her eyes. He gets her up every morning, pushes her on daily walks in her wheelchair, making every moment with her a fun game. There is much to learn and enjoy from the handicapped.
The non-profit organization Suite Dreams recently furnished and decorated her bedroom, the place where she spends most of her childhood, at no cost to my parents. My father, a humble and warm soul, was asked to give a speech at their annual black tie event. He complained about the tux part, but assiduously composed his thoughts about his daughter: a relatively simple task given he is constantly thinking of her.
After the event, I was proud to hear how many people were touched by his testimony, and I have to say, Marsha, your dad is no match for mine.
My Dad's Better Than Your Dad
Jill Brooks, INtake columnist
I rival Marsha Brady for two things: long blond hair, and for which one of us has “Father of the Year.”
In her early years, before the swollen nose and cheerleading competition, Marsha wrote a letter about her father, which actually led to her untimely grounding. Ultimately, Mike Brady learned his lesson about trusting his children, oh did he ever.
My letter goes like this:
My father has seven children: a four-decade mission he never expected, but fully accepted.
Each of us is the “favorite” to him, each of us equally valued and nurtured. But one of us truly holds the key to his heart; although I am somewhat of a “daddy’s girl,” it isn’t me, it’s my younger sister.
She is one of quadruplets and has severe cerebral palsy. In fourteen years she’s had fourteen surgeries. She has limited movement, cannot walk or talk, and is fed through a feeding tube in her stomach, but she smiles and laughs as much as any of us.
When I was in school the special needs students were kept from the mix. They spent their days at the opposite end of the long hallway, far from “regular kids” who never saw or spoke to them. I caught glimpses a few times, and I must admit I didn’t like what I saw.
Back then, we were unintentionally taught to fear special needs. It was weird and different, unfortunate and sad. We were the lucky ones; they were the handicapped.
Schools have changed immensely over the years to fit the needs of these truly special children, and my sister enjoys bowling, horseback riding and many friendships.
She lives with my incredibly loving family, but my dad brings the purest sparkle to her eyes. He gets her up every morning, pushes her on daily walks in her wheelchair, making every moment with her a fun game. There is much to learn and enjoy from the handicapped.
The non-profit organization Suite Dreams recently furnished and decorated her bedroom, the place where she spends most of her childhood, at no cost to my parents. My father, a humble and warm soul, was asked to give a speech at their annual black tie event. He complained about the tux part, but assiduously composed his thoughts about his daughter: a relatively simple task given he is constantly thinking of her.
After the event, I was proud to hear how many people were touched by his testimony, and I have to say, Marsha, your dad is no match for mine.
November 3, 2005
Middle Child Syndrome
Jill Brooks, INtake columnist
Birth order is fascinating. I grew up as a middle child, and for those of you “middle children” out there, you know what that means: time alone.
My parents did a great job of parenting even when they weren’t trying, but stereotypically middle children often get lost in the shuffle.
Known for seeking friendships, or anyone who will communicate, outside the family, we are usually the ones parents don’t worry about, the self-sufficient keepers of the peace.
In an article by Robert Needlman, MD., he says that “unlike first children, who often define success by their ability to meet their parents' expectations, middle children are more prone to rebel against the status quo.” That’s because no one is watching us.
I never intentionally rebelled against the status quo; I simply had my own ideas of how the world should work. My parents spent a lot of time allowing my siblings and I to figure out our own lives, and we thank them for that, but I have a few words of wisdom I might impart to a daughter, if ever I had one:
Stop thinking the lost match to your sock will reappear: it’s gone forever so move on with a new pair. Boyfriends generally work the same way.
Angrily speeding around someone will only get you to the red light faster (followed by “do as I say, not as I do”).
Love someone who mirrors your soul.
Buy clothes that fit the first day; don’t promise yourself you’ll lose weight, grow into them or get them hemmed, because they end up in a pile in the closet.
Drugs are for bored people; find another recreation.
Help make your family a good one.
Never mix your alcohol; if you do, B-12’s your cure.
Be smart when you’re handed a backstage pass and keep your head about you on the tour bus; if you’re my kid, it’ll be a given.
Eat a pack of sugar when you’re feeling bitter; it also works for hiccups.
Don’t let anyone criticize you for being an English major; the same goes for art.
New shoes really do make the world go ‘round.
The hungriest wolves often wear the prettiest wool; keep a cotton jacket in your car, just in case.
Never ask a dog to watch your plate of food.
One hour of television a day is forty-five minutes too many.
Realize the difference between extraordinary and extra ordinary: choose your life wisely.
And if you’re a middle child, speak up and smell the coffee.
Middle Child Syndrome
Jill Brooks, INtake columnist
Birth order is fascinating. I grew up as a middle child, and for those of you “middle children” out there, you know what that means: time alone.
My parents did a great job of parenting even when they weren’t trying, but stereotypically middle children often get lost in the shuffle.
Known for seeking friendships, or anyone who will communicate, outside the family, we are usually the ones parents don’t worry about, the self-sufficient keepers of the peace.
In an article by Robert Needlman, MD., he says that “unlike first children, who often define success by their ability to meet their parents' expectations, middle children are more prone to rebel against the status quo.” That’s because no one is watching us.
I never intentionally rebelled against the status quo; I simply had my own ideas of how the world should work. My parents spent a lot of time allowing my siblings and I to figure out our own lives, and we thank them for that, but I have a few words of wisdom I might impart to a daughter, if ever I had one:
Stop thinking the lost match to your sock will reappear: it’s gone forever so move on with a new pair. Boyfriends generally work the same way.
Angrily speeding around someone will only get you to the red light faster (followed by “do as I say, not as I do”).
Love someone who mirrors your soul.
Buy clothes that fit the first day; don’t promise yourself you’ll lose weight, grow into them or get them hemmed, because they end up in a pile in the closet.
Drugs are for bored people; find another recreation.
Help make your family a good one.
Never mix your alcohol; if you do, B-12’s your cure.
Be smart when you’re handed a backstage pass and keep your head about you on the tour bus; if you’re my kid, it’ll be a given.
Eat a pack of sugar when you’re feeling bitter; it also works for hiccups.
Don’t let anyone criticize you for being an English major; the same goes for art.
New shoes really do make the world go ‘round.
The hungriest wolves often wear the prettiest wool; keep a cotton jacket in your car, just in case.
Never ask a dog to watch your plate of food.
One hour of television a day is forty-five minutes too many.
Realize the difference between extraordinary and extra ordinary: choose your life wisely.
And if you’re a middle child, speak up and smell the coffee.
October 27, 2005
Sometimes I can’t wait to get out of Indiana. It’s especially bad when Old Man Winter celebrates another birthday and comes to make his rounds: the humdrum lackluster wears on me like a hot, itchy sweater. The bleak, cold days begin to play tricks on the mind, and I consider sitting in a dark room carving the alphabet into a bar of soap “entertaining.”
I bundled up for an early morning run over the weekend, and as the chilly air filled my lungs I repeated in the rhythm of my pace, “I gotta get out of this place…”
I returned home for my morning ritual of coffee and NPR, I caught the show “Michael Feldman’s Whad’ya Know?” which was being broadcasted from the Pike Performing Arts Center here in Indy (ok, Zionsville).
I attended Garrison Keillor’s Prairie Home Companion at the state fair grounds two years ago, and I remember the collective shudder and disappointed moan that spread over the crowd when one of our locals used bad grammar. It was a colloquial mistake anyone could have made, but still, it’s what “wordly” people might have expected from a Hoosier, and they got it live on radio.
I listened to Whad’ya Know with my shoulders tight and ready to shudder, but like a bee that somehow pulls itself out of your beer and flies away, the contestants were amazing. What poured from the radio waves were effervescent personalities and bright, shining intellects from not only the good “people of Indianapolis” (the official term we call ourselves, according to the show), but from all over the State as well.
This was our moment, and it was live on radio.
There was a great interview with Matthew Tully from The Indianapolis Star, and many erudite call-in guests who’d actually studied their Indiana history. I felt like everyone was winning at Final Jeopardy!
The most impressive interview, however, was with author Susan Neville. I once took a writing class at the Indianapolis Writer’s Center, where Susan was lecturing. She talked about her life and writing experiences and then said, “Ok, now write something from the top of your head…”
I was so inspired and in awe of her that I couldn’t form a single sentence. Everyone wrote and I doodled, “I want to be like Susan” in curly script for thirty minutes.
Listening to Mr. Feldman’s show made me proud to be a Hoosier, made me want to stay in this place.
Catch the show on Saturdays, or check out the website: www.notmuch.com
Winter Blues
Jill Brooks, INtake columnistSometimes I can’t wait to get out of Indiana. It’s especially bad when Old Man Winter celebrates another birthday and comes to make his rounds: the humdrum lackluster wears on me like a hot, itchy sweater. The bleak, cold days begin to play tricks on the mind, and I consider sitting in a dark room carving the alphabet into a bar of soap “entertaining.”
I bundled up for an early morning run over the weekend, and as the chilly air filled my lungs I repeated in the rhythm of my pace, “I gotta get out of this place…”
I returned home for my morning ritual of coffee and NPR, I caught the show “Michael Feldman’s Whad’ya Know?” which was being broadcasted from the Pike Performing Arts Center here in Indy (ok, Zionsville).
I attended Garrison Keillor’s Prairie Home Companion at the state fair grounds two years ago, and I remember the collective shudder and disappointed moan that spread over the crowd when one of our locals used bad grammar. It was a colloquial mistake anyone could have made, but still, it’s what “wordly” people might have expected from a Hoosier, and they got it live on radio.
I listened to Whad’ya Know with my shoulders tight and ready to shudder, but like a bee that somehow pulls itself out of your beer and flies away, the contestants were amazing. What poured from the radio waves were effervescent personalities and bright, shining intellects from not only the good “people of Indianapolis” (the official term we call ourselves, according to the show), but from all over the State as well.
This was our moment, and it was live on radio.
There was a great interview with Matthew Tully from The Indianapolis Star, and many erudite call-in guests who’d actually studied their Indiana history. I felt like everyone was winning at Final Jeopardy!
The most impressive interview, however, was with author Susan Neville. I once took a writing class at the Indianapolis Writer’s Center, where Susan was lecturing. She talked about her life and writing experiences and then said, “Ok, now write something from the top of your head…”
I was so inspired and in awe of her that I couldn’t form a single sentence. Everyone wrote and I doodled, “I want to be like Susan” in curly script for thirty minutes.
Listening to Mr. Feldman’s show made me proud to be a Hoosier, made me want to stay in this place.
Catch the show on Saturdays, or check out the website: www.notmuch.com
October 20, 2005
High School Reunion
Jill Brooks, INtake columnist
I attended my high school reunion this week. A nervous chill crept around my neck and down to sweat my palms as I stood in line waiting to register. The friends I attended with kept saying, “This is surreal; this is really weird,” so I suggested we go get sushi and forget the whole thing. I was overruled.
We grow high schools big here in Indianapolis, and mine was no exception: 1,000 students in my class. I remember sitting next to kids I’d never seen before at our graduation, and the most awful part of the reunion was trying to pretend that I wasn’t studying the nametags at which I was so obviously staring.
Education is wasted on youth, and I was never thrilled about high school. My school spirit retired when I left eighth grade, and when cheerleaders asked, “How ‘bout you?” I usually answered no.
I was a daydreamer. I wanted to be writing instead of learning the Table of Elements; wanted to be reading instead of memorizing math formulas; wanted to be hanging out with my boyfriend and skipping French class (wait – I did that as much as possible).
Most of my girlfriends joined social clubs in high school, training bras for sororities. They had to carry bags full of candy at all times, and a word was actually invented for this: pledge sack. My teenage angst was from having to keep a parking sticker in my car that told the world: high schooler.
I wanted to be older.
At the reunion there were several ‘expected’ surprises: geeky guys who turned handsome and cool; “loner” girls who now travel the world and run companies; and plenty of full-on flirting between all of us. I was happy to be soaking up details instead of writing; was thrilled to learn real life stories I’d missed between passing periods instead of reading fiction.
I wanted to be younger.
I missed the cold, gray walls of high school; the geometry teacher with the mismatched socks (sometimes shoes); Nutty Bars for lunch.
Seeing everyone again, there were no cliques, no pledge sacks, no competition. We were all friends, all equal.
In line for a cocktail (once forbidden circumstances amongst high school classmates), I turned to see the eyes of my high school boyfriend’s best friend smiling upon me. The former boyfriend was M.I.A., but tears filled my eyes as I hugged my friend for several minutes and he said, “Let’s never lose each other again.”
My heart filled with school spirit.
October 13, 2005
Super Shopping Frightens Me
Jill Brooks, INtake columnist
Whenever it’s time to “stock up” and venture out into the great, wide and always open super-sized store, I first mentally prepare by huddling with my purse and iPod for a moment of silence.
In many ways I am the anti-girl. I dread ‘shopping days,’ hate trying on clothes, don’t care to talk about nail polish colors, and the only good thing about errand running is practicing my soprano alongside Komeda or the New Pornographers; I’m not above using my voice in public, either, so consider yourself warned.
Having to shop in a super center is cruel and unusual, and they are always hyper-crowded. I often encounter two types of people there, both perplexing: the listless wanderer who stops suddenly before me, blocking an entire aisle to read a magazine or ponder life’s tricky meaning; and the competitive lunatic who beats a path to necessary items, highlighted dramatically in the frozen pizza section.
A funny thing happened on my way to the deli counter: a woman saw me eyeing the numbered-ticket machine (is there another name?) and slammed her cart into overdrive, charging full steam ahead and literally tossing me into the bread wall.
She sneered proudly, like she’d just secured the last spot in a Betty Crocker cook-off, and took her sweet time ordering 12 pounds of roast beef. I stood vexed and diminutive, and under my breath, so she couldn’t hear me, because I’m a chicken, said, “Don’t get your coupons in a bunch.”
After that encounter I headed to the post office, where two adorable (euphemism for pest) people held up the lunchtime crowd. One woman made the post office employee shuffle through every single stamp while she crossed them off her list of “collectables.”
Simultaneously, an elderly man was hoping to get his passport issued using a photo of himself circa WWII. The employee, patient and enduring, explained that the photo had to be current, and for 15 minutes they argued.
Do you ever feel like screaming in public?
I stood biting my finger between my teeth.
In my coffee shop the following morning, my sanctuary, I was approached by two smiling women. My immediate reaction was, “Oh, no, not a survey – can’t a girl find some peace?” but when one kindly asked the first question I said, “Wait a minute – aren’t you from INtake?”
She was indeed. Kimiko Martinez was out investigating stories before 9:00 a.m. Whoa: I was impressed.
She couldn’t use me for her story. No offense, but it was music to my ears.
Super Shopping Frightens Me
Jill Brooks, INtake columnist
Whenever it’s time to “stock up” and venture out into the great, wide and always open super-sized store, I first mentally prepare by huddling with my purse and iPod for a moment of silence.
In many ways I am the anti-girl. I dread ‘shopping days,’ hate trying on clothes, don’t care to talk about nail polish colors, and the only good thing about errand running is practicing my soprano alongside Komeda or the New Pornographers; I’m not above using my voice in public, either, so consider yourself warned.
Having to shop in a super center is cruel and unusual, and they are always hyper-crowded. I often encounter two types of people there, both perplexing: the listless wanderer who stops suddenly before me, blocking an entire aisle to read a magazine or ponder life’s tricky meaning; and the competitive lunatic who beats a path to necessary items, highlighted dramatically in the frozen pizza section.
A funny thing happened on my way to the deli counter: a woman saw me eyeing the numbered-ticket machine (is there another name?) and slammed her cart into overdrive, charging full steam ahead and literally tossing me into the bread wall.
She sneered proudly, like she’d just secured the last spot in a Betty Crocker cook-off, and took her sweet time ordering 12 pounds of roast beef. I stood vexed and diminutive, and under my breath, so she couldn’t hear me, because I’m a chicken, said, “Don’t get your coupons in a bunch.”
After that encounter I headed to the post office, where two adorable (euphemism for pest) people held up the lunchtime crowd. One woman made the post office employee shuffle through every single stamp while she crossed them off her list of “collectables.”
Simultaneously, an elderly man was hoping to get his passport issued using a photo of himself circa WWII. The employee, patient and enduring, explained that the photo had to be current, and for 15 minutes they argued.
Do you ever feel like screaming in public?
I stood biting my finger between my teeth.
In my coffee shop the following morning, my sanctuary, I was approached by two smiling women. My immediate reaction was, “Oh, no, not a survey – can’t a girl find some peace?” but when one kindly asked the first question I said, “Wait a minute – aren’t you from INtake?”
She was indeed. Kimiko Martinez was out investigating stories before 9:00 a.m. Whoa: I was impressed.
She couldn’t use me for her story. No offense, but it was music to my ears.
October 6, 2005
Supermarket romance
I flirted with my true love at the grocery.
Jill Brooks
INtake columnist
This week I saw my true love at O'Malia's Food Market. I don't know his name because I never met him, and I really can't remember what he looks like, but he was "the one," I'm pretty sure.
He was tall and handsome, and from the moment we sighted each other near the lettuce, to the time it took to wind around the frozen foods, love blossomed.
We kept bumping into each other in different aisles, both manufacturing flirtatious, "ha ha, excuse me; no excuse me" demeanor. He burned poetic holes through my eyes each time.
I stood in the checkout line designed for non-cooks who're in a hurry, allowing my true love time to fetch some ice cream then meet me there. He must have had difficulty choosing a flavor because it seemed to take him forever!
I held my yogurt and skim milk, thinking, "Don't buy a candy bar in front of him, Jill; do not throw true love to the wind."
I waited. He tarried. I craned my neck to the left a couple of times looking for him and pretended to inspect the fruity drinks in a cooler. No true love anywhere: He must really like ice cream.
Finally, it was my turn to pay. I lofted the milk onto the conveyor belt and turned full circle; my true love was right behind me.
I smiled and nailed a goofy giggle.
I was frozen in stupidity and couldn't speak. If I were really 12-years-old, like I was acting, I'd at least have had my locker upon which to faint.
He stood behind me burning more holes. My face reddened; the money shook in my hand. I know true love when I feel it.
Purchase made, I thought, "Do I turn around and say goodbye?" quickly responding to myself with, "Hell, no, you dork -- leave before the quicksand buries you further."
I made it out alive, speed walking to my car. He'll always be a memory, my grocery man.
I called my friend in Atlanta, confessing my fumble.
He's known me since I was 12, so he was familiar with the style. "I should have just bought the candy bar," I exclaimed.
He said not to feel bad.
The night before he'd sat talking to a cute girl and right before he asked for her phone number, she introduced him to her stepmom, who was 32. I asked, "Well, how old was she?" and he replied, like a dork, "16!"
I laughed a genuine "ha ha," the kind that comes when you're comfortable.
Supermarket romance
I flirted with my true love at the grocery.
Jill Brooks
INtake columnist
This week I saw my true love at O'Malia's Food Market. I don't know his name because I never met him, and I really can't remember what he looks like, but he was "the one," I'm pretty sure.
He was tall and handsome, and from the moment we sighted each other near the lettuce, to the time it took to wind around the frozen foods, love blossomed.
We kept bumping into each other in different aisles, both manufacturing flirtatious, "ha ha, excuse me; no excuse me" demeanor. He burned poetic holes through my eyes each time.
I stood in the checkout line designed for non-cooks who're in a hurry, allowing my true love time to fetch some ice cream then meet me there. He must have had difficulty choosing a flavor because it seemed to take him forever!
I held my yogurt and skim milk, thinking, "Don't buy a candy bar in front of him, Jill; do not throw true love to the wind."
I waited. He tarried. I craned my neck to the left a couple of times looking for him and pretended to inspect the fruity drinks in a cooler. No true love anywhere: He must really like ice cream.
Finally, it was my turn to pay. I lofted the milk onto the conveyor belt and turned full circle; my true love was right behind me.
I smiled and nailed a goofy giggle.
I was frozen in stupidity and couldn't speak. If I were really 12-years-old, like I was acting, I'd at least have had my locker upon which to faint.
He stood behind me burning more holes. My face reddened; the money shook in my hand. I know true love when I feel it.
Purchase made, I thought, "Do I turn around and say goodbye?" quickly responding to myself with, "Hell, no, you dork -- leave before the quicksand buries you further."
I made it out alive, speed walking to my car. He'll always be a memory, my grocery man.
I called my friend in Atlanta, confessing my fumble.
He's known me since I was 12, so he was familiar with the style. "I should have just bought the candy bar," I exclaimed.
He said not to feel bad.
The night before he'd sat talking to a cute girl and right before he asked for her phone number, she introduced him to her stepmom, who was 32. I asked, "Well, how old was she?" and he replied, like a dork, "16!"
I laughed a genuine "ha ha," the kind that comes when you're comfortable.
September 29, 2005
Dressing Up at IRT
Jill Brooks, INtake columnist
My mom and I had a date this week. She requested we stroll “Mass Ave” (it’s cute when parents are being hip), grab dinner, and then see Inherit the Wind at IRT (Bertram Cates, how I love thee). It’s always a culture quest with mom.
My mom is young at heart, but graduated cum laude from the “old school.” She is a Category 5 lady. Since I’ve known her, which has been several years now, she’s never owned a pair of jeans; she has perfect posture and drinks without her poised pinky ever touching the glass. She and Virginia Wolfe’s Mrs. Dalloway would have been best friends.
Sometimes when I visit, she hugs me hello, and with the same breath says, “You need lipstick.”
My older sister was the tea party kind of kid, but I grew up as a tomboy with tangled hair, and I generally fibbed about washing behind my ears.
My childhood sometimes tortured mom.
These days, I work in a creative every-day-is-casual-day atmosphere. When I met my mom after work for our date, she greeted me saying, “You’re going to change clothes before the play, aren’t you?”
Me: *Whimper*
The “dressing down” of America is a foreign concept to my mom, and although I enjoy being comfortable at work, I agree that casual days may be gaining uncontrollable strength.
Going out to, say, the symphony or a play, is an opportunity, not a requirement, to dress up. When we arrived at IRT, I was surprised by how casually (some haphazardly) many people dressed. Shorts, un-tucked shirts and – quick, mom, look away – jeans were everywhere. I never thought I’d feel over-dressed wearing a skirt and high heels to a play, but I did.
Being part of the generation that fell prostrate to the wisdom of the Brady, Huxtable and Simpson trilogy, it’s easy to mix life lessons, but have we lost our ability to show respect? Didn’t we all suffer through the childhood pledge class given by actives of the old school?
Humorist David Sedaris, an expatriate living in Paris, commented that American tourists show up there looking like they’re ready to mow the lawns.
I was walking down the Champs Elysées with a group of American friends once. Because it was hot, one of the men in our group took his shirt off. Shocked by his reckless abandon toward their culture, I said, “Have you lost your mind? Put your shirt back on!”
I heard my mom in my voice; the old school had gained another alumnus.
Dressing Up at IRT
Jill Brooks, INtake columnist
My mom and I had a date this week. She requested we stroll “Mass Ave” (it’s cute when parents are being hip), grab dinner, and then see Inherit the Wind at IRT (Bertram Cates, how I love thee). It’s always a culture quest with mom.
My mom is young at heart, but graduated cum laude from the “old school.” She is a Category 5 lady. Since I’ve known her, which has been several years now, she’s never owned a pair of jeans; she has perfect posture and drinks without her poised pinky ever touching the glass. She and Virginia Wolfe’s Mrs. Dalloway would have been best friends.
Sometimes when I visit, she hugs me hello, and with the same breath says, “You need lipstick.”
My older sister was the tea party kind of kid, but I grew up as a tomboy with tangled hair, and I generally fibbed about washing behind my ears.
My childhood sometimes tortured mom.
These days, I work in a creative every-day-is-casual-day atmosphere. When I met my mom after work for our date, she greeted me saying, “You’re going to change clothes before the play, aren’t you?”
Me: *Whimper*
The “dressing down” of America is a foreign concept to my mom, and although I enjoy being comfortable at work, I agree that casual days may be gaining uncontrollable strength.
Going out to, say, the symphony or a play, is an opportunity, not a requirement, to dress up. When we arrived at IRT, I was surprised by how casually (some haphazardly) many people dressed. Shorts, un-tucked shirts and – quick, mom, look away – jeans were everywhere. I never thought I’d feel over-dressed wearing a skirt and high heels to a play, but I did.
Being part of the generation that fell prostrate to the wisdom of the Brady, Huxtable and Simpson trilogy, it’s easy to mix life lessons, but have we lost our ability to show respect? Didn’t we all suffer through the childhood pledge class given by actives of the old school?
Humorist David Sedaris, an expatriate living in Paris, commented that American tourists show up there looking like they’re ready to mow the lawns.
I was walking down the Champs Elysées with a group of American friends once. Because it was hot, one of the men in our group took his shirt off. Shocked by his reckless abandon toward their culture, I said, “Have you lost your mind? Put your shirt back on!”
I heard my mom in my voice; the old school had gained another alumnus.
September 23, 2005
The Little Cook Who Could
Jill Brooks, INtake columnist
Living alone, my daily sustenance usually involves a marriage (can’t believe I used that word) of quick ingredients: cheese and crackers; hummus and carrots; or yogurt and fruit. I eat while standing in the kitchen, and preparation and eating times combined total about 15 minutes. Why confuse things?
Yes, I’ll drink out of the milk carton and, yes, I usually pepper the entire container of cottage cheese. It’s my party, after all.
Several of my married girlfriends cook dinner every night for their husbands and/or families. Even the ones who work full-time say this is practically in all prenuptial agreements: women typically do the cooking.
When they tell me this I violently shake my head back and forth, like a Labrador just exiting a pool, uttering this: Say what?
In my dating history I’ve been lucky enough to find several men who enjoyed cooking, and cooking together was always part of the program.
One boyfriend was vegetarian, so around him so was I. Another boyfriend was a gourmet (though he usually burned the brisket) and with him my sessions at the gym needed lengthening.
Does marriage take the fun out of togetherness? I want the Big Chill family dinner: food-filled conversations and wine-glazed desserts, followed by dancing around the kitchen bumping hips to powerful music while romantically being dipped into the dishwasher.
Still, marriage is far less predictable than the word “casserole” is, and as long as quiche doesn’t count, I’ve yet to create one of those.
But in a latterly example of unprecedented leaven and spice, I cooked dinner for a date.
I wrote down a few recipes, but when arriving at the grocery to retrieve the items, I realized I’d left my notes at home, right next to the book “Driven To Distraction.” Having a sieve-like brain comes in handy in the kitchen, saving counter space, and all.
My mom and step-mom are familiar with my calls from O’Malia’s asking how to make this, or what goes well with that. It concerns me that each call ends with them saying, with sorrowfully empathetic undertones, “Good luck…”
Derailing all the non-believers, my dinner was a success, and what I lacked in my over-cooked chicken, I quickly made up for with homemade peach pie and a bottle of 1997 Zinfandel (the red kind; the only kind).
My date, on cue, beamed, “Wow, I’m impressed,” and I sat soaking up the compliment with a piece of baguette. Teeming with sarcasm, I said, “Shucks, I do this all the time…”
The Little Cook Who Could
Jill Brooks, INtake columnist
Living alone, my daily sustenance usually involves a marriage (can’t believe I used that word) of quick ingredients: cheese and crackers; hummus and carrots; or yogurt and fruit. I eat while standing in the kitchen, and preparation and eating times combined total about 15 minutes. Why confuse things?
Yes, I’ll drink out of the milk carton and, yes, I usually pepper the entire container of cottage cheese. It’s my party, after all.
Several of my married girlfriends cook dinner every night for their husbands and/or families. Even the ones who work full-time say this is practically in all prenuptial agreements: women typically do the cooking.
When they tell me this I violently shake my head back and forth, like a Labrador just exiting a pool, uttering this: Say what?
In my dating history I’ve been lucky enough to find several men who enjoyed cooking, and cooking together was always part of the program.
One boyfriend was vegetarian, so around him so was I. Another boyfriend was a gourmet (though he usually burned the brisket) and with him my sessions at the gym needed lengthening.
Does marriage take the fun out of togetherness? I want the Big Chill family dinner: food-filled conversations and wine-glazed desserts, followed by dancing around the kitchen bumping hips to powerful music while romantically being dipped into the dishwasher.
Still, marriage is far less predictable than the word “casserole” is, and as long as quiche doesn’t count, I’ve yet to create one of those.
But in a latterly example of unprecedented leaven and spice, I cooked dinner for a date.
I wrote down a few recipes, but when arriving at the grocery to retrieve the items, I realized I’d left my notes at home, right next to the book “Driven To Distraction.” Having a sieve-like brain comes in handy in the kitchen, saving counter space, and all.
My mom and step-mom are familiar with my calls from O’Malia’s asking how to make this, or what goes well with that. It concerns me that each call ends with them saying, with sorrowfully empathetic undertones, “Good luck…”
Derailing all the non-believers, my dinner was a success, and what I lacked in my over-cooked chicken, I quickly made up for with homemade peach pie and a bottle of 1997 Zinfandel (the red kind; the only kind).
My date, on cue, beamed, “Wow, I’m impressed,” and I sat soaking up the compliment with a piece of baguette. Teeming with sarcasm, I said, “Shucks, I do this all the time…”
September 16, 2005
Living With Fear
Jill Brooks, INtake columnist
Women’s magazines of late compile smatterings of articles related to “fearless living,” a theme as trendy as those fat-hiding lingerie-type blouses that are well beyond their fifteenth minute of fame.
There are many how-to books on living fearlessly, but those usually come with self-help workbooks; I have a grave fear of self-help workbooks. Deep down we all know our fears; learning to live with fear itself assures that there is nothing to fear (read closely…there’s a cliché in there somewhere).
I recently read an article that featured a woman’s experiment to conquer her fears by ridding herself of redundant routines in Suburbia.
Included in her many victories was cooking live lobster for lunch, taking a jaunt on an airplane, and sitting with a complete stranger’s dog that was being put to sleep. I began questioning my own fears, and plotted a similar experiment to conquer them thusly.
Ironically, making the top of my list was, in fact, living in Suburbia. Everyone I know says to enjoy being single for as long as possible (I’ve unwittingly tested this theory for years). No one ever says, “Settle down—it may be your last chance at Suburbia.”
With baby steps and no shackles of commitment (another fear), I decided that visiting Suburbia was my first course of action. In the time it took me to tour Clay Terrace, I conquered my fear of senseless traffic congestion and shopping for over-priced clothing.
Next up was my fear of heights. I’m not afraid of flying, but I sure don’t care to jump from a plane. I’ve never actually tried it, but I’m okay with this. Give me fear itself and I’ll lead a fulfilled life without ever parachuting to safety.
I scratched that one off the list.
I am not afraid of being alone; in fact, many things are much better done alone, such as shopping and traveling. I can’t, however, sit in a bar by myself for fear of looking like an idiot.
The chance that I may end up shredding a napkin while sipping rum & Coke from a hollow swizzle stick stings like the turning point of a bad Melanie Griffith movie.
Continuing my scientific experiment and realizing I must rid myself of this ridiculous fear, I stopped at MacNiven’s after work, alone, for a beer.
Will I stop at nothing to define courage?
I sat and drank an entire beer; no one laughed at me or pointed fingers; the walls didn’t cave in.
I’m so fearless I scare myself.
Living With Fear
Jill Brooks, INtake columnist
Women’s magazines of late compile smatterings of articles related to “fearless living,” a theme as trendy as those fat-hiding lingerie-type blouses that are well beyond their fifteenth minute of fame.
There are many how-to books on living fearlessly, but those usually come with self-help workbooks; I have a grave fear of self-help workbooks. Deep down we all know our fears; learning to live with fear itself assures that there is nothing to fear (read closely…there’s a cliché in there somewhere).
I recently read an article that featured a woman’s experiment to conquer her fears by ridding herself of redundant routines in Suburbia.
Included in her many victories was cooking live lobster for lunch, taking a jaunt on an airplane, and sitting with a complete stranger’s dog that was being put to sleep. I began questioning my own fears, and plotted a similar experiment to conquer them thusly.
Ironically, making the top of my list was, in fact, living in Suburbia. Everyone I know says to enjoy being single for as long as possible (I’ve unwittingly tested this theory for years). No one ever says, “Settle down—it may be your last chance at Suburbia.”
With baby steps and no shackles of commitment (another fear), I decided that visiting Suburbia was my first course of action. In the time it took me to tour Clay Terrace, I conquered my fear of senseless traffic congestion and shopping for over-priced clothing.
Next up was my fear of heights. I’m not afraid of flying, but I sure don’t care to jump from a plane. I’ve never actually tried it, but I’m okay with this. Give me fear itself and I’ll lead a fulfilled life without ever parachuting to safety.
I scratched that one off the list.
I am not afraid of being alone; in fact, many things are much better done alone, such as shopping and traveling. I can’t, however, sit in a bar by myself for fear of looking like an idiot.
The chance that I may end up shredding a napkin while sipping rum & Coke from a hollow swizzle stick stings like the turning point of a bad Melanie Griffith movie.
Continuing my scientific experiment and realizing I must rid myself of this ridiculous fear, I stopped at MacNiven’s after work, alone, for a beer.
Will I stop at nothing to define courage?
I sat and drank an entire beer; no one laughed at me or pointed fingers; the walls didn’t cave in.
I’m so fearless I scare myself.
September 9, 2005
My First Round of Sleeping Pills
Jill Brooks, INtake columnist
We live in busy times, and nothing says “You’re an adult now” like your first prescription of sleeping pills. For two straight weeks I’ve woken with the moon, unable to shut down my brain. I keep a notepad bedside for emergency thoughts, but this only invites new thoughts to the awakening and I’m up all night. I finally fall back to sleep around the time I need to get up for work.
Like millions of Americans, I am a hyperactive, inordinately social, over-scheduled zombie living in an epidemic of insomnia. With heavy heart and eyelids, I investigated my sleep alternatives.
I tried sleepy-formula herbal teas, warm milk and Herman Melville, but nothing seemed to work. The “www” informational highway suggested wiggling my toes (no such luck), sleeping with my head facing north (whatever), or visualizing something peaceful, which in my case was sleep itself. My soccer-mom friends told me to just “join the club” (promising advice, indeed).
Finally, I remembered my physician: when in doubt, get a script. Family doctors are special people—there should always be the best table reserved for them somewhere. Forced to listen to fifteen-minute presentations on what ails you, they nod and take a lot of notes.
I speak to mine in “first-person persuasive,” as if I’m there to solve a crime or justify the Theory of Relativity. I research symptoms before arriving, which helps save time by explaining exactly what is wrong and how he can help.
My doctor looks forward to seeing me.
With three hours of sleep under my belt from a night of added worry for humanity, I showed up at his office the day following Hurricane Katrina. My own “hurricane hair” from the bluster and rain, along with the dark circles under my eyes, helped denote my sleep deprivation and stress.
He asked how often I planned on taking the pills, which—hello—I knew was a trick question. Giving him an answer in the form of a question, I replied, “Rarely?”
Bingo.
I raced to the drug store, then quickly drove home, glowing orange bottle of pills in my hand. I lay on my bed, relaxed and preparing to take one. Sleep waited for me at the end of the tunnel, dangling a carrot-shaped lantern.
I read three chapters of “Everything is Illuminated,” and just before I took a pill—get this—I fell asleep.
Nine hours later, light from yonder window breaking, I awoke, full bottle of sleep aids untouched; now, just knowing they’re there helps me rest.
My First Round of Sleeping Pills
Jill Brooks, INtake columnist
We live in busy times, and nothing says “You’re an adult now” like your first prescription of sleeping pills. For two straight weeks I’ve woken with the moon, unable to shut down my brain. I keep a notepad bedside for emergency thoughts, but this only invites new thoughts to the awakening and I’m up all night. I finally fall back to sleep around the time I need to get up for work.
Like millions of Americans, I am a hyperactive, inordinately social, over-scheduled zombie living in an epidemic of insomnia. With heavy heart and eyelids, I investigated my sleep alternatives.
I tried sleepy-formula herbal teas, warm milk and Herman Melville, but nothing seemed to work. The “www” informational highway suggested wiggling my toes (no such luck), sleeping with my head facing north (whatever), or visualizing something peaceful, which in my case was sleep itself. My soccer-mom friends told me to just “join the club” (promising advice, indeed).
Finally, I remembered my physician: when in doubt, get a script. Family doctors are special people—there should always be the best table reserved for them somewhere. Forced to listen to fifteen-minute presentations on what ails you, they nod and take a lot of notes.
I speak to mine in “first-person persuasive,” as if I’m there to solve a crime or justify the Theory of Relativity. I research symptoms before arriving, which helps save time by explaining exactly what is wrong and how he can help.
My doctor looks forward to seeing me.
With three hours of sleep under my belt from a night of added worry for humanity, I showed up at his office the day following Hurricane Katrina. My own “hurricane hair” from the bluster and rain, along with the dark circles under my eyes, helped denote my sleep deprivation and stress.
He asked how often I planned on taking the pills, which—hello—I knew was a trick question. Giving him an answer in the form of a question, I replied, “Rarely?”
Bingo.
I raced to the drug store, then quickly drove home, glowing orange bottle of pills in my hand. I lay on my bed, relaxed and preparing to take one. Sleep waited for me at the end of the tunnel, dangling a carrot-shaped lantern.
I read three chapters of “Everything is Illuminated,” and just before I took a pill—get this—I fell asleep.
Nine hours later, light from yonder window breaking, I awoke, full bottle of sleep aids untouched; now, just knowing they’re there helps me rest.
September 2, 2005
Blind Leading the Blind
Jill Brooks, INtake columnist
I don’t mind blind dates but, then again, I enjoy ironing, weeding, and driving on 86th Street. Tedium is fun for me.
Being single, my friends are always looking out for me, just as I look after my single friends; but I’ve stopped setting people up because I’m a horrible matchmaker.
I set two of my friends up once and the results were disastrous. The guy asked what on earth I thought they’d like about each other. All I could come up with was, “Well, you’re a guy…she’s a girl; sorry, I thought it would work.”
Since I’m from Indy, I usually already know something about the “mystery man.” If not, yeah, I Google him.
Half the fun of a blind date is sharing the information later with your friends. My girlfriend in LA recently had a date with a guy who nervously flexed his arms and talked about “Muscle Beach” for two hours. All those dollars he spent at GNC really gave us a good chuckle.
Another girlfriend went out with a conceited (insecure) guy and knew within 14 seconds that she couldn’t stand him. They each had one beer, and when the bill came she insisted on paying for hers. Her date told her to take her twenty-dollar bill home and frame it, as a memory of her first date with him.
After she stopped puking, maybe she did just that.
Women are just as flakey. A guy friend of mine had dinner with a girl and liked her. They had a second date, a third. Dropping her off after the fourth date, he was invited in. She should have forgone the nickel tour, because when my friend saw her bedroom—a tribute to Barbie dolls everywhere—the fat lady sang.
Commonality is important. I was recently set up with a nice guy with whom I had nothing in common. He asked, “What kind of music do you like?” which is a perfectly good first-date question, and one I hate.
I explained the 8,000 songs on my laptop, noting that I fly all over the country “following” the band The Tragically Hip.
His favorite band was the Manhattan Transfer. With this tidbit, there was really no need to order an appetizer.
Thirty minutes into chatting, I mentally broke up with him. I couldn’t stop envisioning our first fight on a car trip, me throwing “The Boy from New York City” out the window.
He was probably more a “books on tape” kind of guy, anyway.
Blind Leading the Blind
Jill Brooks, INtake columnist
I don’t mind blind dates but, then again, I enjoy ironing, weeding, and driving on 86th Street. Tedium is fun for me.
Being single, my friends are always looking out for me, just as I look after my single friends; but I’ve stopped setting people up because I’m a horrible matchmaker.
I set two of my friends up once and the results were disastrous. The guy asked what on earth I thought they’d like about each other. All I could come up with was, “Well, you’re a guy…she’s a girl; sorry, I thought it would work.”
Since I’m from Indy, I usually already know something about the “mystery man.” If not, yeah, I Google him.
Half the fun of a blind date is sharing the information later with your friends. My girlfriend in LA recently had a date with a guy who nervously flexed his arms and talked about “Muscle Beach” for two hours. All those dollars he spent at GNC really gave us a good chuckle.
Another girlfriend went out with a conceited (insecure) guy and knew within 14 seconds that she couldn’t stand him. They each had one beer, and when the bill came she insisted on paying for hers. Her date told her to take her twenty-dollar bill home and frame it, as a memory of her first date with him.
After she stopped puking, maybe she did just that.
Women are just as flakey. A guy friend of mine had dinner with a girl and liked her. They had a second date, a third. Dropping her off after the fourth date, he was invited in. She should have forgone the nickel tour, because when my friend saw her bedroom—a tribute to Barbie dolls everywhere—the fat lady sang.
Commonality is important. I was recently set up with a nice guy with whom I had nothing in common. He asked, “What kind of music do you like?” which is a perfectly good first-date question, and one I hate.
I explained the 8,000 songs on my laptop, noting that I fly all over the country “following” the band The Tragically Hip.
His favorite band was the Manhattan Transfer. With this tidbit, there was really no need to order an appetizer.
Thirty minutes into chatting, I mentally broke up with him. I couldn’t stop envisioning our first fight on a car trip, me throwing “The Boy from New York City” out the window.
He was probably more a “books on tape” kind of guy, anyway.
August 25, 2005
Spoken like a gentleman
While girl talk is just great, my guy pals shoot me straight.
By Jill Brooks
INtake columnist
I admit it: I'm a guy's girl. I have wonderful women friends, but most of them are married, dating (we all know women aren't free when they're dating) or living in another city.
Typically, this finds me hanging out with "the boys."
With guys, conversations are rarely about Angelina Jolie vs. Jennifer Aniston, skin care products or bodily functions gone awry. I leave those topics for limited engagements in "lady talk."
My girlfriends who are pregnant or already have had children are comfortably heedless in their investigative reporting about their own bodies. They "tell it like it is," covering the realms of vomiting, giving birth and many things having to do with needles or surgery.
I, hypersensitive to all things disgusting, usually sit with a green face and a stomach qualm until someone notices that I'm about to faint.
When this happens, my girlfriends quickly turn the conversation to literature, on my behalf.
My girlfriends and I share gossip with undivided attention, and we tend to gently sugarcoat one another's misfortunes, saying things like, "He didn't deserve you" or "That was a stupid job anyway -- you'll find another."
A girlfriend worth her salt would never blatantly tell me that my butt looked big in jeans, either; instead she'd invite me shopping.
Guy friends shoot it straight; verily, they cast rhetorical stones, telling me what's wrong with my picture. They're not afraid of stepping on my woes or correcting my behavior.
A particular male friend and I went to dinner last weekend at the Jazz Kitchen. We have never dated and have been friends for 15 years.
We generally talk about social issues, politics or the housing market, and he doesn't pout when, eyes wandering around the bar, I say, "Wow, that guy is cute" followed by, "I'm sorry, you were saying . . . ."
I do the same for him when the women folk pass by. We can have non-disgusting, intellectual conversations without constantly needing to look at each other. This is a great trick I've learned from men.
Over jazz music, my guy pal asked me about my latest relationship. Controlling my aspersions, I replied, "Advancing issues led declines."
With stoic retort, he summarized the problem: "You obviously put the toilet paper roll on incorrectly. It should roll out from underneath -- women always get this wrong."
He didn't feel the need to gush, "Oh, sweetie, you'll find someone else soon."
Instead, he blithely asked, "So, you dating yet?"
I affirmed, shrugging casually, like a guy would, "You bet."
Spoken like a gentleman
While girl talk is just great, my guy pals shoot me straight.
By Jill Brooks
INtake columnist
I admit it: I'm a guy's girl. I have wonderful women friends, but most of them are married, dating (we all know women aren't free when they're dating) or living in another city.
Typically, this finds me hanging out with "the boys."
With guys, conversations are rarely about Angelina Jolie vs. Jennifer Aniston, skin care products or bodily functions gone awry. I leave those topics for limited engagements in "lady talk."
My girlfriends who are pregnant or already have had children are comfortably heedless in their investigative reporting about their own bodies. They "tell it like it is," covering the realms of vomiting, giving birth and many things having to do with needles or surgery.
I, hypersensitive to all things disgusting, usually sit with a green face and a stomach qualm until someone notices that I'm about to faint.
When this happens, my girlfriends quickly turn the conversation to literature, on my behalf.
My girlfriends and I share gossip with undivided attention, and we tend to gently sugarcoat one another's misfortunes, saying things like, "He didn't deserve you" or "That was a stupid job anyway -- you'll find another."
A girlfriend worth her salt would never blatantly tell me that my butt looked big in jeans, either; instead she'd invite me shopping.
Guy friends shoot it straight; verily, they cast rhetorical stones, telling me what's wrong with my picture. They're not afraid of stepping on my woes or correcting my behavior.
A particular male friend and I went to dinner last weekend at the Jazz Kitchen. We have never dated and have been friends for 15 years.
We generally talk about social issues, politics or the housing market, and he doesn't pout when, eyes wandering around the bar, I say, "Wow, that guy is cute" followed by, "I'm sorry, you were saying . . . ."
I do the same for him when the women folk pass by. We can have non-disgusting, intellectual conversations without constantly needing to look at each other. This is a great trick I've learned from men.
Over jazz music, my guy pal asked me about my latest relationship. Controlling my aspersions, I replied, "Advancing issues led declines."
With stoic retort, he summarized the problem: "You obviously put the toilet paper roll on incorrectly. It should roll out from underneath -- women always get this wrong."
He didn't feel the need to gush, "Oh, sweetie, you'll find someone else soon."
Instead, he blithely asked, "So, you dating yet?"
I affirmed, shrugging casually, like a guy would, "You bet."
August 18, 2005
Plant Killer
Jill Brooks, INtake columnist
Domesticity should be based on a sliding scale. I am good in house cleaning departments, but cannot keep plants alive. I’ve been particularly horrified after killing the species everyone brands “indestructible.”
I was forced to give up ownership when, after many attempts, I saw how plants suffered in my presence. Currently, there is very little oxygen where I live.
Houseplants always looked thirsty and cold to me, and though I never abandoned them (okay, maybe a few times when I went on vacation), I tended to over-water them just before sticking them in direct sunlight.
I nurtured plants, but within weeks of being under my care their withered little leaves (the ones remaining) looked like they’d been dipped in rusty ink. I’d say, “I didn’t mean to kill you” while carrying them to their final resting place, the dumpster.
My slam dunk shot at responsibility was my “lucky” bamboo plant. I purchased it in Chinatown in Los Angeles two years ago, and carried it home on the plane. I kept it safe in a bag at my feet, a bag that would never be stowed in an overhead compartment, or stuffed in the space in front of me. Watchfully, I checked on it several times, as if I were carrying home a butterfly.
A girlfriend came over a few days after my return. When I showed off my new purchase, my California “find,” she said, “You carried that all the way from L.A.? You can buy them at a kiosk at Castleton Mall.”
Hmm, live and learn.
Gently, I cared for it like an egg in a tossing contest. It even gulped down the excessive water.
But as good luck waved its fond farewell, the bamboo’s leaves began turning brown too. One day I came home to a dead, empty stalk. I wondered how I could ever possibly care for children; I wondered how bamboo tasted dipped in hummus.
I decided to give luck one more chance in my life. I searched all over town (two places, actually) for a new bamboo plant, finding one at Lowe’s. It was too thick and heavy for my existing planter, so I cut it in half with a butter knife.
The top part, the pretty part with leaves, had to be discarded (dumpster revisited); the bottom part, the important part with roots, I stuck in the planter.
Now again, I have an empty, characterless stalk soaking in water.
I am unworthy of horticulture, hereby relinquishing anything living (or dead) and green.
Plant Killer
Jill Brooks, INtake columnist
Domesticity should be based on a sliding scale. I am good in house cleaning departments, but cannot keep plants alive. I’ve been particularly horrified after killing the species everyone brands “indestructible.”
I was forced to give up ownership when, after many attempts, I saw how plants suffered in my presence. Currently, there is very little oxygen where I live.
Houseplants always looked thirsty and cold to me, and though I never abandoned them (okay, maybe a few times when I went on vacation), I tended to over-water them just before sticking them in direct sunlight.
I nurtured plants, but within weeks of being under my care their withered little leaves (the ones remaining) looked like they’d been dipped in rusty ink. I’d say, “I didn’t mean to kill you” while carrying them to their final resting place, the dumpster.
My slam dunk shot at responsibility was my “lucky” bamboo plant. I purchased it in Chinatown in Los Angeles two years ago, and carried it home on the plane. I kept it safe in a bag at my feet, a bag that would never be stowed in an overhead compartment, or stuffed in the space in front of me. Watchfully, I checked on it several times, as if I were carrying home a butterfly.
A girlfriend came over a few days after my return. When I showed off my new purchase, my California “find,” she said, “You carried that all the way from L.A.? You can buy them at a kiosk at Castleton Mall.”
Hmm, live and learn.
Gently, I cared for it like an egg in a tossing contest. It even gulped down the excessive water.
But as good luck waved its fond farewell, the bamboo’s leaves began turning brown too. One day I came home to a dead, empty stalk. I wondered how I could ever possibly care for children; I wondered how bamboo tasted dipped in hummus.
I decided to give luck one more chance in my life. I searched all over town (two places, actually) for a new bamboo plant, finding one at Lowe’s. It was too thick and heavy for my existing planter, so I cut it in half with a butter knife.
The top part, the pretty part with leaves, had to be discarded (dumpster revisited); the bottom part, the important part with roots, I stuck in the planter.
Now again, I have an empty, characterless stalk soaking in water.
I am unworthy of horticulture, hereby relinquishing anything living (or dead) and green.
August 11, 2005
Carpal Tunnel Hell
Jill Brooks, INtake columnist
The first time I heard someone complain about carpal tunnel pain I thought, “Surely you jest.” It seemed only hypochondriacs deprived of attention or company drama queens could muster such grousing.
But the first time I felt a very specific pain surge from my wrist to my shoulder, stopping my mouse mid-click, I joined the office thespian troop.
We’re the lucky few wearing unattractive, beige wrist guards and molding therapy putty between our fingers throughout the day.
People in the office stop to say, “Hey, are you bowling later” and let me tell you, it’s real darn funny.
My carpal tunnel problem has paused in “hypertension” while it awaits graduation to a “syndrome.” For now, I just call it “office hand.”
In general, older people like to warn you what you’re in for once hitting thirty, which is inevitably a complete degeneration of the body you once knew. Successfully, I’ve completely defied the onslaught of “falling apart” (albeit office hand does test my tolerance).
And then there was slip-n-slide.
My family gathers frequently, and this time it was for my father’s birthday. My brother brought slip-n-slide as a heat-wave gesture for the kids, and to keep them out of our hair for a while. The box said “Ages 2-12, or 120 pounds.” I figured I was close enough in each category, so I followed the yellow slick road.
On my first run, ahem, my only run, I decided to slide along on my knees instead of my belly. I began with a poised start, like I did in my diving days, and then threw myself forward down the path of much resistance.
As backyards go, the ground wasn’t level, and my left foot got trapped under my bent leg. When I stood up in the puddle of grassy water both knees ached, and my foot was scratched, bleeding and beginning to bruise.
The kids collectively cheered, “go again!” but I explained that Aunt Jill wasn’t the slider she once was.
I limped inside and scoured the freezer for the boo-boo bear-shaped ice pack that had been there for fourteen years. It was missing, but a large bag of frozen margarita mix, thankfully, had filled its shoes.
I took the package, my book and sunglasses, and pouted in a lounge chair, the frozen cocktail mix (strawberry, yum) numbing my embarrassment.
My brother teased, “You looked pretty good out there…what’s that on your knee?” I growled then said, “Let’s go drink my therapy.”
Carpal Tunnel Hell
Jill Brooks, INtake columnist
The first time I heard someone complain about carpal tunnel pain I thought, “Surely you jest.” It seemed only hypochondriacs deprived of attention or company drama queens could muster such grousing.
But the first time I felt a very specific pain surge from my wrist to my shoulder, stopping my mouse mid-click, I joined the office thespian troop.
We’re the lucky few wearing unattractive, beige wrist guards and molding therapy putty between our fingers throughout the day.
People in the office stop to say, “Hey, are you bowling later” and let me tell you, it’s real darn funny.
My carpal tunnel problem has paused in “hypertension” while it awaits graduation to a “syndrome.” For now, I just call it “office hand.”
In general, older people like to warn you what you’re in for once hitting thirty, which is inevitably a complete degeneration of the body you once knew. Successfully, I’ve completely defied the onslaught of “falling apart” (albeit office hand does test my tolerance).
And then there was slip-n-slide.
My family gathers frequently, and this time it was for my father’s birthday. My brother brought slip-n-slide as a heat-wave gesture for the kids, and to keep them out of our hair for a while. The box said “Ages 2-12, or 120 pounds.” I figured I was close enough in each category, so I followed the yellow slick road.
On my first run, ahem, my only run, I decided to slide along on my knees instead of my belly. I began with a poised start, like I did in my diving days, and then threw myself forward down the path of much resistance.
As backyards go, the ground wasn’t level, and my left foot got trapped under my bent leg. When I stood up in the puddle of grassy water both knees ached, and my foot was scratched, bleeding and beginning to bruise.
The kids collectively cheered, “go again!” but I explained that Aunt Jill wasn’t the slider she once was.
I limped inside and scoured the freezer for the boo-boo bear-shaped ice pack that had been there for fourteen years. It was missing, but a large bag of frozen margarita mix, thankfully, had filled its shoes.
I took the package, my book and sunglasses, and pouted in a lounge chair, the frozen cocktail mix (strawberry, yum) numbing my embarrassment.
My brother teased, “You looked pretty good out there…what’s that on your knee?” I growled then said, “Let’s go drink my therapy.”
August 4, 2005
Alone At Last
Jill Brooks, INtake columnist
I love living alone. It’s been well over 10 years since I had a roommate, and the cliché about getting stuck in my ways is relevant.
The last roommate I had, however, was a gem. I found her in the “classifieds,” and after interviewing two other frighteningly odd women, I chose correctly.
We met at her Broad Ripple rental; she was kind and bubbly and greeted me with two large, happy dogs trailing behind her. I wondered what on earth she thought of me wearing a thick headband, which partially covered my forehead.
The day before, feeling adventurous, and shirking responsibility in whatever sales job I had then, I stopped at a rinky-dink hair salon and said, “I have an hour to kill…highlight my bangs.” The woman who approached me, an octogenarian, should have been my first clue to run back to the office. When she asked me how to mix highlights I knew we were both in trouble.
She spot bleached the front of my hair white and I left in tears, looking something like Cruella DeVille.
My new roommate didn’t mind, however, and move in I did. We became great friends. We survived a few boyfriends together, and I was eventually in her wedding. Her dogs, i.e. her babies, were in the wedding party too.
Except for a former boyfriend who treated his cats wonderfully, I’d never witnessed a better pet owner than her. At least once a month she’d come flying in the house asking for my help catching a neighborhood stray: dogs, cats, dirty, flea-ridden, she never discriminated.
She once housed a lost Dalmatian puppy that couldn’t walk because he’d scratched his paws raw. She cried when the owners came for him (they didn’t even thank her). We had proper burials in the yard for dead birds she’d find, and she’d laugh at her own dogs, always by her side, like they were all involved in an inside joke.
I marveled at her joy and compassion, always putting animals first.
Her oldest dog died of cancer a few weeks ago. My friend and her husband took their dog on one last walk, letting her lie in the cool water of White River, her favorite place, then said their goodbyes under a tree.
Tragically, her second dog died three weeks later, of a broken heart.
Losing an animal is so difficult, but through their emptiness and grief, I am warmed knowing that two other stray dogs will soon be in for the home of their lives.
Alone At Last
Jill Brooks, INtake columnist
I love living alone. It’s been well over 10 years since I had a roommate, and the cliché about getting stuck in my ways is relevant.
The last roommate I had, however, was a gem. I found her in the “classifieds,” and after interviewing two other frighteningly odd women, I chose correctly.
We met at her Broad Ripple rental; she was kind and bubbly and greeted me with two large, happy dogs trailing behind her. I wondered what on earth she thought of me wearing a thick headband, which partially covered my forehead.
The day before, feeling adventurous, and shirking responsibility in whatever sales job I had then, I stopped at a rinky-dink hair salon and said, “I have an hour to kill…highlight my bangs.” The woman who approached me, an octogenarian, should have been my first clue to run back to the office. When she asked me how to mix highlights I knew we were both in trouble.
She spot bleached the front of my hair white and I left in tears, looking something like Cruella DeVille.
My new roommate didn’t mind, however, and move in I did. We became great friends. We survived a few boyfriends together, and I was eventually in her wedding. Her dogs, i.e. her babies, were in the wedding party too.
Except for a former boyfriend who treated his cats wonderfully, I’d never witnessed a better pet owner than her. At least once a month she’d come flying in the house asking for my help catching a neighborhood stray: dogs, cats, dirty, flea-ridden, she never discriminated.
She once housed a lost Dalmatian puppy that couldn’t walk because he’d scratched his paws raw. She cried when the owners came for him (they didn’t even thank her). We had proper burials in the yard for dead birds she’d find, and she’d laugh at her own dogs, always by her side, like they were all involved in an inside joke.
I marveled at her joy and compassion, always putting animals first.
Her oldest dog died of cancer a few weeks ago. My friend and her husband took their dog on one last walk, letting her lie in the cool water of White River, her favorite place, then said their goodbyes under a tree.
Tragically, her second dog died three weeks later, of a broken heart.
Losing an animal is so difficult, but through their emptiness and grief, I am warmed knowing that two other stray dogs will soon be in for the home of their lives.
July 28, 2005
Breaking Up Is Easier Than You Think
Jill Brooks, INtake columnist
Girl’s nights out, summer fun, and a fresh outlook on life: what could be better? I recently did a double back pike off the platform of my long distance relationship, into a euphemistic “break,” the moot court of love. Here, nothing ever really gets resolved.
My boyfriend and I were usually on the same page, but always in a different story. In the words of my aunt, who years ago labeled me a maverick, “Who needs it?”
And to think I tolerated hip hop music for eight months! Oh, how blind love is.
When it comes to sage advice, most women can dish it out but have a hard time taking it. A lot of women want to believe the fairy tale they’ve crafted around a so-so relationship (I sure do) rather than looking toward the light, where truth and the path to the next boyfriend lie.
In other words, women are complicated; moreover, women like complicating things (I sure do).
My girlfriends and I enjoy weekly chats about men. Although my friend in Chicago went and got herself married, she still demonstrates fiery-tempered, loyal involvement toward my plights, and every answer she has is the right answer.
But do I listen: No, for I am a maverick, and mavericks like following dust and tumbleweeds leading them nowhere in particular.
When you slam the door on a bad relationship, surely you’ve opened a window for a good one (I call this “Ode to Variations on “The Sound of Music””).
A local girlfriend, also on sabbatical from her boyfriend, and I decided to find out just how many windows have been opened in this dreadful summer heat. We needed consolation and a few gin and tonics; what better way to pack up your troubles, come on get happy, but than seeing live music.
We went to the Music Mill to see the band the Black Keys. Every young, local hipster seemed to be there, which didn’t include me. I stood waiting for my friend in the entryway and three young men walked in to purchase tickets to the show.
They looked like they were in high school and, horrified, I begged silently, “Please don’t let that be what “21” looks like now.”
It wasn’t: they were in high school, and although I felt bad that they weren’t allowed into the 21-and-over venue, I felt a lot better about myself.
My girlfriend and I danced on the front row all night: two teenaged girls in their thirties. Some people never grow up.
Breaking Up Is Easier Than You Think
Jill Brooks, INtake columnist
Girl’s nights out, summer fun, and a fresh outlook on life: what could be better? I recently did a double back pike off the platform of my long distance relationship, into a euphemistic “break,” the moot court of love. Here, nothing ever really gets resolved.
My boyfriend and I were usually on the same page, but always in a different story. In the words of my aunt, who years ago labeled me a maverick, “Who needs it?”
And to think I tolerated hip hop music for eight months! Oh, how blind love is.
When it comes to sage advice, most women can dish it out but have a hard time taking it. A lot of women want to believe the fairy tale they’ve crafted around a so-so relationship (I sure do) rather than looking toward the light, where truth and the path to the next boyfriend lie.
In other words, women are complicated; moreover, women like complicating things (I sure do).
My girlfriends and I enjoy weekly chats about men. Although my friend in Chicago went and got herself married, she still demonstrates fiery-tempered, loyal involvement toward my plights, and every answer she has is the right answer.
But do I listen: No, for I am a maverick, and mavericks like following dust and tumbleweeds leading them nowhere in particular.
When you slam the door on a bad relationship, surely you’ve opened a window for a good one (I call this “Ode to Variations on “The Sound of Music””).
A local girlfriend, also on sabbatical from her boyfriend, and I decided to find out just how many windows have been opened in this dreadful summer heat. We needed consolation and a few gin and tonics; what better way to pack up your troubles, come on get happy, but than seeing live music.
We went to the Music Mill to see the band the Black Keys. Every young, local hipster seemed to be there, which didn’t include me. I stood waiting for my friend in the entryway and three young men walked in to purchase tickets to the show.
They looked like they were in high school and, horrified, I begged silently, “Please don’t let that be what “21” looks like now.”
It wasn’t: they were in high school, and although I felt bad that they weren’t allowed into the 21-and-over venue, I felt a lot better about myself.
My girlfriend and I danced on the front row all night: two teenaged girls in their thirties. Some people never grow up.
July 21, 2005
Neighborhood Hangout
Jill Brooks, INtake columnist
Weekdays, I stop at the same coffee shop in my Downtown neighborhood, a non-corporate entity where routine customers patronize their favorite morning blend.
For two years I’d seen the same guy there almost daily, though we never spoke, only smiled or nodded. Donned in bicycle gear and usually reading Derrick Jensen, Herman Hesse or the like, I pegged him an erudite student who enjoyed skipping class, or an incredibly lucky and successful slacker.
I am sometimes plagued by shyness, but after pulling the cat from my tongue I finally asked him his what was his “deal.”
He explained that he’s a bicycle messenger, the only one in Indianapolis, to be exact. We talked for an hour and I was late to work (commonplace).
Over time, I grew fawning intrigue for his far-out lifestyle and each day pelted him with willy-nilly questions; Pulitzer prize-winning, profound questions like “Why” and “How.”
With little to nothing in common we’ve become friends; I waltz in with my fascination for life, and over a cup of coffee we discuss our passions: he, the freedom, experiences and risks involved in his work; me, unbridled fanaticism for music.
The other day he told me about a local bookstore, Paper Matches, with which he’s involved. I’d read an article about it once but, foiled by horrible long-term memory, had forgotten its narrative. He explained that it’s an alternative, not-for-profit store containing books on radical politics, glorifying responsible direct action.
Thoughtfully (you can’t rush these things), I posed this powerful question: Huh?
Explanation: He and his colleagues are peaceful anarchists expressing the kind of world they choose to live in, guided without authority or power.
My memory reverted to a high school party in a house with out-of-town parents. Everyone was drinking alcohol. I was the goodie-goodie not drinking because I carried the image of my father and his authority on my shoulder, his face both disappointed and angry that I might hurt myself, or someone else.
Sustaining such acute uncoolness, I admitted to my coffee shop friend that I’m not much of an anarchist, and that I usually obey authority, adding that I did sneak the car out once when I was 15.
I waited for his disgusted guffaw, but he said he didn’t mind; in fact, open-mindedness is his refrain.
The chorus in my head sang, “We can! We can all just get along!”
I told him I branching out with new friendships; he laughed and said, “Welcome, then.”
Visit Paper Matches at 40th and Boulevard.
Neighborhood Hangout
Jill Brooks, INtake columnist
Weekdays, I stop at the same coffee shop in my Downtown neighborhood, a non-corporate entity where routine customers patronize their favorite morning blend.
For two years I’d seen the same guy there almost daily, though we never spoke, only smiled or nodded. Donned in bicycle gear and usually reading Derrick Jensen, Herman Hesse or the like, I pegged him an erudite student who enjoyed skipping class, or an incredibly lucky and successful slacker.
I am sometimes plagued by shyness, but after pulling the cat from my tongue I finally asked him his what was his “deal.”
He explained that he’s a bicycle messenger, the only one in Indianapolis, to be exact. We talked for an hour and I was late to work (commonplace).
Over time, I grew fawning intrigue for his far-out lifestyle and each day pelted him with willy-nilly questions; Pulitzer prize-winning, profound questions like “Why” and “How.”
With little to nothing in common we’ve become friends; I waltz in with my fascination for life, and over a cup of coffee we discuss our passions: he, the freedom, experiences and risks involved in his work; me, unbridled fanaticism for music.
The other day he told me about a local bookstore, Paper Matches, with which he’s involved. I’d read an article about it once but, foiled by horrible long-term memory, had forgotten its narrative. He explained that it’s an alternative, not-for-profit store containing books on radical politics, glorifying responsible direct action.
Thoughtfully (you can’t rush these things), I posed this powerful question: Huh?
Explanation: He and his colleagues are peaceful anarchists expressing the kind of world they choose to live in, guided without authority or power.
My memory reverted to a high school party in a house with out-of-town parents. Everyone was drinking alcohol. I was the goodie-goodie not drinking because I carried the image of my father and his authority on my shoulder, his face both disappointed and angry that I might hurt myself, or someone else.
Sustaining such acute uncoolness, I admitted to my coffee shop friend that I’m not much of an anarchist, and that I usually obey authority, adding that I did sneak the car out once when I was 15.
I waited for his disgusted guffaw, but he said he didn’t mind; in fact, open-mindedness is his refrain.
The chorus in my head sang, “We can! We can all just get along!”
I told him I branching out with new friendships; he laughed and said, “Welcome, then.”
Visit Paper Matches at 40th and Boulevard.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)