Babel On And On

There’s a sadness in George Bush’s eyes; with the lowest approval rating ever, no laudable plan in sight, and no brain to speak of, it’s gotta be tough getting out of bed in the morning. We watched his State of the Union address last week, and for the folks out there who’re still holding on for dear life thinking that speech (which, of course, he didn’t pen) was anywhere near sorting through “a drawer full of diamonds” (puuulease) … well, your cold day in hell is coming.

Bush, you do understand the term “babel?” We don’t understand you.

I actually feel kind of sorry for him – I never make fun of the mentally handicapped. But I can’t look at him. I spent most of my time watching Nancy Polosi blinking and slyly trying to work a seed out of her tooth with her tongue.

And the gallery of heroes, come on. “Zoom in on that highly decorated fella (Bush’s words, no doubt) … no, not that one … the one with the scar on his face. Make the public see his suffering and how I’ve brought him here to exploit him!”

And the subway hero: cute. Blowing kisses. Did a good thing. 15 minutes pass slowly when you can't survive poverty. Enjoy it.

I didn’t write home about Democrat Jim Webb’s rebuttal speech, either. He would have seemed more comfortable, more believable, wearing a turquoise silk smoking jacket. And I didn’t really care about his father’s picture – I have better pictures of my dad in Vietnam. That was your one chance, dumbass. Give us more!

I’m not on a bandwagon here: I’ve backed Obama for years. As I shake my head, I am hopeful.

Mazel Tov

Matt and I attended our first Bat Mitzvah over the weekend for the daughter of his boss. I have always been known as Jill, friend of the Jews, but it was my first glimpse into the rite of passage for thirteen-year-old Jewish kids.

The event was beyond extravagant, and Matt and I figured they dropped well over $50k. They made us work for our dinner, though: a 2 hour service in the morning (we didn’t understand a damn thing), tons of prayers, speeches, videos and “the chain” (that stupid dance thing they do at these types of things) before dinner. We were starving.

Thirteen-year-olds have come a long way. When I was thirteen I certainly didn’t own an evening gown. The little girls all looked high school aged, and while I was waiting in line for the bathroom, a young boy walked by and said, “What’s cookin’ good lookin’?” I was absolutely stunned. Matt said, “Honey, you’ve still got it!”

I felt a mixture of flattery and fear.

Doing My Part For Victory

I’ve learned over the years that I’m a sports team jinx, especially during playoffs. It's because of my upbringing, and my fair-weathered-fanaticism. Peyton Manning’s losing streak was no accident – it was due to my watching. Matt and I went to our local pub last night and watched the first half of the AFC Championship game. Shut up, I know: 21 to 6 at the half, because of me. I told Matt that all we needed to do was high-tail it out of there, go home and lock me in a closet.

So we went home and locked me in the bedroom where I suffered through yet another bad Netflix choice – Memoirs of a Geisha. Complete rotter. I’d turn down the volume from time to time, listening for Matt’s cheers or yelling. With about 6 minutes to go I tiptoed into the living room. The game was tied. Matt said, “We’ll see how this play goes before I determine if you can stay or not.”

Massive sack; back to the Geishas.

I finally heard Matt screaming, “We won…we actually won!” I ran to the living room to watch the last 10 seconds of glory – it was fantastic!

After the win, Matt was outside smoking his victory smoke and one of the neighbors, also outside, held out a huge firework and asked Matt to light it. I said, “Um, um…that’s the kind that you’re supposed to put down on the ground.” He was a large African American guy. I continued, "Hee hee... I think..."

With my logical advice, he threw it. It began shooting extremely loud blasts of flames and sparks all over the courtyard, hitting people’s windows and doors, and undoubtedly waking the neighborhood. Matt and I stood there, our mouths agape saying Matt’s favorite phrase: Oh My God. Laughing our asses off, we went inside, turned out the lights and watched the angry neighbors peering from their windows. Classic.

I don’t know what’s happened to me, but I get football now, and I rather like it. My first thought this morning was “We’re going to the Super Bowl,” which is crazy talk coming from me. Even my sister, less of a sports fan than I, called me from Florida saying, “I really don’t care, but it is so exciting!”

Our dad watched somewhere in the neighborhood of zero football games when we were growing up. He would fill us with Johnny Cash and Willie Nelson then present a lecture on Harper Lee, Martin Luther, or maybe Constantine – any literature or history he could get his hands on.

It’s a wonder I come up with anything at the water cooler.

Stolen

I’m a sentimental little thing. Two years ago today I was sitting amidst a group of attorneys at a bar (I’m also a creature of habit), pretty much bored out of my mind. Yeeeawn. It was the going-away party for the guy I was dating, who was moving to the Big Apple. He was like a giant cupcake iced with caffeine and bourbon: yummy, but bad for me.

Matt had been invited to the party too, and walked in late (also a creature of habit). My heart jumped the first moment I laid eyes on him. He and my “boyfriend” were co-workers. Oops. For the first half hour I was too afraid to make eye contact with him, and for the last hour we couldn’t take our eyes off of each other. He slipped me his business card on his way out.

I e-mailed him the following Monday morning and he wrote back: “I’m glad you wrote!” We met for lunch soon after that (Valentine’s Day, to be exact), and within months he stole me away completely. Swwwwwipe! Through the many peaks and few valleys, and even when I've wanted to kill him, it’s been amazing.

We were out last night and a bartender recognized me from my column – always a little fun for the ego. Matt gets a kick out of this phenomenon (the whole 4 times it’s happened), and I love telling people, “This is Love Interest!” Their reaction is usually "Oh."

Immortalized between the pages of INtake – what more could a man want? Ok, a lot more, and maybe I became a bit unidimensional in my subject matter. Worth it! I’m too a romantic little thing…

When people ask how we met, we usually reply with, "Oh, at a work function..."

Bookish

My book club is divided into two groups: the girly-girls who choose clever chick lit (sugary dating stories, mostly), and those of us who enjoy a darker, biting read. Lit noir, how I love thee.

United, we all just read The Glass Castle by Jeannette Walls and, collectively, loved it. It’s more of a chick book than not, a memoir whose character is so strong, calm, blithe and alarmingly unaffected that she creeps into your consciousness like a true friend. Her childhood makes Running with Scissors read like nothing more than an insipid story on a cereal box.

She begins her tale cooking hotdogs over a stove, aged three, and her dress catches fire. From there the book is difficult to put down. Her parents let her and her 3 siblings raise themselves, basically, offering only cool shrugs for guidance.

She’s now a journalist and contributor for MSNBC and, at least in book club, she’s our hero. Her childhood was nothing but struggle and strife, and she never once complains. There is no “constant sorrow,” only lessons learned and picked-up boot straps.

Currently I’m reading Herzog by Saul Bellow, a Canuck (I swear I didn’t know!) and master of winding redemption. Herzog is self-tortured, Nabokovian, deep and dark…just the way I like my read (but not the way I like my men – okay, maybe just a little).

I love book suggestions so please feel free to e-mail me yours. Keep it dark, will ya? My friend Anne (talk about a struggling life: a cool pad in Fiona Apple’s backyard, daily walks in Venice, yoga and a new boyfriend, “Dexter,” a true Showtime original; poor Anne) and I have traded books since high school, and if I had a nickel…

I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.

No More Contacts!

I had Lasik surgery performed on Friday, and today I have 20/20 vision in one eye, and 20/15 in the other. Matt took off work Friday afternoon and went with me. I was a brave soul about the procedure and only grimaced once when I sensed them cutting my first cornea. Matt watched the procedure and told me later that the instrument looked like a meat slicer. The laser gas smelled like burning flesh, and I was afraid they’d laser out all the blue. Other than that it was just great.

There was a woman waiting to go after me, who completely panicked about the surgery (I actually moved up into her spot in line due to her screams and frantic shivering, the poor thing). Matt watched via a TV screen, which they provided in the lounge/waiting area. Bad idea. A few times during the surgery, he said, “Oh, God – eeeee – ooh! ouch!” When I came out of the operating room he grabbed my hand and whispered, “I don’t think that lady is going through with it because I freaked her out so much.”

The entire process took less than 10 minutes. Matt’s been religiously putting drops in my eyes, and the first night he even washed my face for me (amusing, because he didn’t trust that I wouldn’t accidentally swipe my eye).

Last night we drank a fantastic bottle of Bollinger since we stayed clear of the champagne on New Year’s Eve, and toasted my new eyes.

Waking Up In Reno

We had a wonderful trip to Tahoe, but if I never visit Reno, Nevada again it will be too soon. Casinos, in general, are not my thing: too noisy, and too full of depressing (depressed?) people. It’s true, I’d never stepped foot inside a casino before this trip, but I already knew, like knowing I wouldn’t like Hamburger Helper without having tried it. I witnessed several down-on-their-luck folks spending their Christmas bonuses or last dimes on Earth, and it made me shudder. I’m sure I’d like Vegas a bit more than Reno (a bit), but when I have vacation time, Europe, San Fran or NYC appears on my radar…not Vegas. The American Airlines Magazine said that Vegas is the #1 vacation spot in America: also terrifying, and another good reason not to go there. I think a lot of buffets serve Hamburger Helper.

I’m too practical for gambling because, deep down, I hate parting with money. I’m an investor—gambling with common sense. I did have fun with Matt, though, and losing $25, my limit. Matt played blackjack several times; it was fun watching him, but I experienced sympathy pains when he lost even $10. I played video poker and slots: an “I Dream of Jeanie” version as a joke, which kept saying, “Yes, master…yes, yes!” I was horrified, and decided to surrender my last $2.50 and walk away.

After smoking, gambling is about the only thing Matt and I don’t have in common; still, I’m “game” for anything. I told him that our next vacation will be of the Jill variety, getting drunk in Sonoma or traipsing through the warrens of Barcelona. I think I heard Matt say, “Yes, master…yes!”

We were in Reno for a day and a half, which, even Matt said felt like six weeks. His brother and dad picked us up and we headed to our rented villa in Tahoe, where the power was out due to a snow storm. We celebrated family Christmas beside the tranquility of candlelight.

We all went to bed the first night shivering in our long underwear, but the house regained power in the middle of the night. Matt and I awoke melting, realizing we had the room quite literally as hot as hell. We slept every night with the window open…and our view? Heavenly.

No, really. We skied Heavenly Mountain, which was exhilarating and so incredibly beautiful. We stood at the top and took tons of photos of the lake/mountain juxtaposition (I carried my digital while skiing and managed not to smash it). Matt is a far better skier than I (I don’t do “black,” only “blue”), but I kept up with him and we laughed and soared. His young nephew had a meltdown on the mountain unfriendly to riders because of cat tracks, but Matt tucked him in between his skis and steadied him down our last stretch of terrain. My heart pitter-patted.

Snowboarders drive me crazy, his nephew notwithstanding. Riders do not yield to traffic because they have NO control. I will never board.

We ice skated one day in town, and here I finally got to use my moves. Matt was actually very good for a beginner, so we’re going to start skating at the Indiana State Fair Grounds (he said he would but, come to think of it, he was a little drunk).

Evenings, his dad made hot buttered rum (hot buttered YUM), and we’d all play poker (I like poker), or go into town and do the casino thing again (ding ding ding ding ding ding ad nauseam). We’d end the days by piling into the hot tub set on a wooded hill, and stare out over the mountains and lake. I sneaked away to read only twice. His parents spoiled us—I mean, really. I had only been to Tahoe in the summertime, but it’s a sight for dismal Indiana winters.

Matt and I left the bunch on New Year’s Eve, "heading back to Indy" because we wanted a little alone time to call our own. Little did we know we’d be spending that quality time at the Reno Airport Best Western.

Our flight to Chicago was delayed almost 3 hours, so what do you think we did? (My dad guessed this in about 2 seconds) We went to a bar. The bloody marys were going down so deliciously as we kept our eye on the arrival/departure screen which, I guess, was stuck on “Delayed,” because we missed our freakin’ flight!

Matt and I were both utterly stunned when we walked to gate C-10 and found no one there. There were no more flights out, and the ticket agents felt so horribly that they comped us a “suite” *coughcough* and $20 (Matt let me order anything off the menu) for dinner at the Best Western. He and I stood hugging, kissing, and trying not to cry in the middle of the airport. Matt’s eyes gazed off into the distance for a minute. I snapped my fingers saying, “Honey…honey…come back.” Eventually, he said, “Sorry, I went to my happy place.”

What we thought was going to be the worst night of our lives—more Reno, for God’s sake—turned out to be one fantastic and romantic evening. We had no luggage. We ate in the gross hotel restaurant (we asked to be seated in the “way back,” and we were, next to a table full of the next day’s supply of butter, jellies and coffee mugs). “Surf & Turf” was sirloin and thawed shrimp. We drank in the smoky lounge with the locals. We played video poker. We couldn’t help but to keep smiling. It was the best New Year’s I’ve ever had.

At 11:57 Indiana time, we returned to the room and watched Anderson Cooper countdown on CNN. At midnight, Matt said, “I fell under a lucky star.” Pitter-pat all over again.

We caught a standby flight at 6:15a.m., and I’ve never been so happy to be back in Indianapolis.

Last night, while sitting on the couch, we both kept asking, “What’s that sound?” The pine needles were falling off the Christmas tree in droves. I quickly removed the ornaments before they too fell to the floor, and we sneaked the tree outside to the dumpster. There were 64 needles left.

Old Man Winter has yet to tap on our window with a vengeance, but I fear he’s drawing near.