Something happens to me on Saturday. On other days I am a mild-mannered wife and mother. I'm a bookish type who listens to NPR and watches History Channel. I teach Voice and sing opera. But not on Saturday. On Saturday I become a screaming, snarling, crazed fanatic. Football.
So what's a sci-fi-loving, Italian-art-song-singing, trivia-spouting nerd like me doing watching football? I blame my dad. He took me to my first game, a high school game, when I was a kid and I fell in love with football. I started watching televised games with my dad, and over time learned the ins and outs of the game. Unfortunately, my dad and I are no longer allowed to watch football together at my parents' house. My mom seems to think we get too rowdy.
Now, when I say that I love football I don't mean that I watch with mild interest. I mean that I watch on the edge of my seat while screaming orders to players, coaches, and refs as if they can hear me. I don't know what happens to me. It's like I have some kind of Jekyll and Hyde transformation. I go from non-confrontational choir girl to rabid, blood-thirsty super fan. While I normally don't have the heart to smush a spider, on Saturdays I find myself screaming things like, "Crush his skull!" at my teams players. I cackle with glee when an opposing team's player goes down. I delight in the tears of grown men after a heartbreaking loss.
What is it about this game that makes me turn into such a ruthless maniac? Perhaps it's just the raw violence involved. I mean, huge grown men are out on the field plowing each other down in order to get a little ball to the opposite end of the field. They are smashing and crushing and knocking and dragging and pulling and pushing and beating each other senseless. That's not something I would normally be into. I do not advocate violence. I don't like vicious maulings.
Except on Saturday. On Saturday vicious maulings are awesome.
*RTR!*
Saturday, September 25, 2010
Saturday, September 18, 2010
Thanks for the Memories...and the Asbestos
My old dorm, Pfeiffer Hall, was torn down earlier this week, and it's made me a bit nostalgic. I have a lot of good memories connected with that building. It was the first place I ever lived completely on my own. The first space that was ever truly just mine.
That space was a tiny room on the second floor of Pfeiffer. My window looked out over the sprawling front lawn that was covered with magnolias and large pine trees. The building itself was old and musty. The stairs creaked and groaned, and it was dark and a bit drafty. Pfeiffer Hall was the only dorm on the tiny campus, so it housed both the guys and the girls. It was divided into two sections with the girls' hall to the left and the boys' hall to the right.. A large sitting area with chairs, couches, and a television was in the middle.
I remember my first night in Pfeiffer Hall. My parents helped me lug my belongings up the rickety staircase, and then I went back out to the parking lot to tell them goodbye. After hugs and well-wishes, I returned to my room to discover I had locked myself out. The Dorm Mother unlocked my door for me, but the next morning as I was leaving for my first day of classes my doorknob fell off in my hand. There was no way for me to open the door and I was locked in my room. To further complicate matters, I had no way of letting anyone know I needed help. I had no room phone, or pager, or cell phone. So I started yelling. One of the other girls on the hall heard my panicked cries for help and came and let me out. I got a new doorknob later that day. That evening I called my parents to let them know how I was doing and tell them about my adventures so far. Now, let me explain the phone situation. Since I had no personal phone I used the dorm phone which was a pay phone in a closet on the main hall. I finished my call to my parents and tried to open the door to leave the phone "booth" but it wouldn't budge. The door was stuck. Again I started yelling, and again the girl from down the hall came to my rescue. I was more careful after that, but I had already become known as "the girl who gets locked in places."
My two years in Pfeiffer Hall were filled with plenty of other adventures. I was appointed Dorm Monitor my second year and was given the job of locking and unlocking all the doors. Ironic, isn't it? I had to yell, "Girl on the hall!" whenever I went to to the boys' side to lock the doors. It never failed that some genius guy would try to shock me by walking out into the hall in his undies.
As Dorm Monitor I had keys to everything but the Dorm Mother's apartment and the attic. There was a small hole in the attic door that allowed me to peek at what was inside, and I could see that the attic was filled with all sorts of cool old stuff. My friend Sheri and I tried several times to break in, but we never had any luck.
I have so many other great memories of life at Pfeiffer Hall. There were the nights when everyone chipped in and rented a movie (usually Twister) to watch in the main TV room. We would all bring out whatever snacks we had, and then we'd camp out in from of the television and nosh on stale Doritos and melted globs of gummy bears.
We had water battles in the hall and snowball fights on the front lawn. We (even the guys!) watched soap operas together, and we were all there the day Stephano and Kristen's evil plan was uncovered on Days of Our Lives.
I think the one thing about Pfeiffer Hall that sticks out the most in my mind is the Flushing Ritual. The pipes and plumbing in that old building had seen better days, and that caused some awkward moments in the communal bathrooms. There were instructions taped to the doors of all the bathroom stalls that read something like If someone is in the shower, please yell FLUSHING before you flush! This was done to ensure that you didn't scald the scalp off whoever was in the shower. When you needed to flush you yelled, "Flushing!" When the person in the shower stepped back and yelled "Okay," you were clear to flush the toilet. Occasionally someone forgot, and if you didn't jump back quickly enough you were showered with water heated by the fires of Mount Doom.
I miss Pfeiffer Hall, my first home away from home. I miss afternoons studying Music Theory under the pines. I miss singing French art songs in front of my window. I even miss the communal microwave that always smelled like burnt popcorn.
Farewell, Pfeiffer Hall. You were the starting point of my journey to adulthood, and the birthplace of my independence. You will be missed.
*Thank you to Johnny Brewer for posting the above photo.
That space was a tiny room on the second floor of Pfeiffer. My window looked out over the sprawling front lawn that was covered with magnolias and large pine trees. The building itself was old and musty. The stairs creaked and groaned, and it was dark and a bit drafty. Pfeiffer Hall was the only dorm on the tiny campus, so it housed both the guys and the girls. It was divided into two sections with the girls' hall to the left and the boys' hall to the right.. A large sitting area with chairs, couches, and a television was in the middle.
I remember my first night in Pfeiffer Hall. My parents helped me lug my belongings up the rickety staircase, and then I went back out to the parking lot to tell them goodbye. After hugs and well-wishes, I returned to my room to discover I had locked myself out. The Dorm Mother unlocked my door for me, but the next morning as I was leaving for my first day of classes my doorknob fell off in my hand. There was no way for me to open the door and I was locked in my room. To further complicate matters, I had no way of letting anyone know I needed help. I had no room phone, or pager, or cell phone. So I started yelling. One of the other girls on the hall heard my panicked cries for help and came and let me out. I got a new doorknob later that day. That evening I called my parents to let them know how I was doing and tell them about my adventures so far. Now, let me explain the phone situation. Since I had no personal phone I used the dorm phone which was a pay phone in a closet on the main hall. I finished my call to my parents and tried to open the door to leave the phone "booth" but it wouldn't budge. The door was stuck. Again I started yelling, and again the girl from down the hall came to my rescue. I was more careful after that, but I had already become known as "the girl who gets locked in places."
My two years in Pfeiffer Hall were filled with plenty of other adventures. I was appointed Dorm Monitor my second year and was given the job of locking and unlocking all the doors. Ironic, isn't it? I had to yell, "Girl on the hall!" whenever I went to to the boys' side to lock the doors. It never failed that some genius guy would try to shock me by walking out into the hall in his undies.
As Dorm Monitor I had keys to everything but the Dorm Mother's apartment and the attic. There was a small hole in the attic door that allowed me to peek at what was inside, and I could see that the attic was filled with all sorts of cool old stuff. My friend Sheri and I tried several times to break in, but we never had any luck.
I have so many other great memories of life at Pfeiffer Hall. There were the nights when everyone chipped in and rented a movie (usually Twister) to watch in the main TV room. We would all bring out whatever snacks we had, and then we'd camp out in from of the television and nosh on stale Doritos and melted globs of gummy bears.
We had water battles in the hall and snowball fights on the front lawn. We (even the guys!) watched soap operas together, and we were all there the day Stephano and Kristen's evil plan was uncovered on Days of Our Lives.
I think the one thing about Pfeiffer Hall that sticks out the most in my mind is the Flushing Ritual. The pipes and plumbing in that old building had seen better days, and that caused some awkward moments in the communal bathrooms. There were instructions taped to the doors of all the bathroom stalls that read something like If someone is in the shower, please yell FLUSHING before you flush! This was done to ensure that you didn't scald the scalp off whoever was in the shower. When you needed to flush you yelled, "Flushing!" When the person in the shower stepped back and yelled "Okay," you were clear to flush the toilet. Occasionally someone forgot, and if you didn't jump back quickly enough you were showered with water heated by the fires of Mount Doom.
I miss Pfeiffer Hall, my first home away from home. I miss afternoons studying Music Theory under the pines. I miss singing French art songs in front of my window. I even miss the communal microwave that always smelled like burnt popcorn.
Farewell, Pfeiffer Hall. You were the starting point of my journey to adulthood, and the birthplace of my independence. You will be missed.
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
I'm Coming Out
Before anyone gets too excited, let me assure you all that I'm as hetero as ever. I am however choosing at this point in time to acknowledge a long closeted part of myself, and there is something rather "rainbowy" about that.
For the largest part of my life I have believed myself to be a singer. Just a singer. What did I want to be when I grew up? A singer. Oh, there was that flirtation with the idea of becoming a missionary to Australia. I think perhaps that was a subconscious desire to be near a certain opera house in a certain harbor.
In my teens I discovered Broadway, and I became convinced that was my destiny. I would be an actress/singer on stage! The only problem with that was the fact that I knew nothing about music and even less about acting. So, off I went to college to study music.
All the while, from the time I was old enough to hold a pencil and scribble letters with it, I had been writing. Stories and songs and poetry... I told myself that it was just a hobby. I was a singer. My teachers had other thoughts. I remember my 10th grade English teacher taking me aside at the end of the year and telling me, "I hope you keep writing. You're born to be a writer." I laughed her off. Sure, I enjoyed writing. But it was just something I did to blow off steam or work through emotions. I never considered it, in the words of Little Bill, "my thiiiiiing."
That has changed. Singing and music take a back seat to what has always been a passion of mine. I truly love to sing. I thank God that He chose to bless me with some musical ability. However, there is a special kind of satisfaction in writing. When I sing I'm just performing. I'm singing someone else's words. In writing, the voice and the words are my own. There's something so beautiful and fulfilling in that. I love to look at a sheet of paper or a computer screen and see it filled with my words. I appreciate the applause of the stage, but it can't really compare to a favorable review of something I've created.
I am finally choosing now to acknowledge myself as a writer. I think I was afraid before. Maybe a little intimidated. I mean, anyone who knows me knows that I'm hopelessly devoted and obsessed with a long-dead genius poet and the mark he left on the world. How could I ever compete with that? I think initially, instead of inspiring me, he scared me to death! I've come to terms with dear Eddy now, and I'm ready to embrace my own style and my own voice and my own ideas.
I'm letting go of the past and all the garbage I came up with as an angsty teenager. I'm letting go of all the times I was told to stop "wasting paper." I'm letting go of the fear of failure that ironically serves as a security blanket at times. If I fail, and I already have, I will try again. I have and will continue to learn from my mistakes. I will scribble furiously, type until I'm satisfied, delete, delete, delete, delete.
I am a writer.
Monday, August 09, 2010
After the Ball
Paulie starts school today, and most of my friends are aware that I'm having a hard time with that. I'm sure most moms think I'm completely crazy.
"You'll have the whole house to yourself!"
"You can do whatever you want!"
"You can have some Me time!"
I've tried to tell myself the same things, but for some reason, the thought of my last little bird leaving the nest fills me with dread. I couldn't really figure out why until today.
For the past 10 years or so, Motherhood has been my life. It's my job, my identity. With an empty house and time on my hands, I'm not quite sure what to do with myself. I feel like Eliza Doolittle after her triumph at the Embassy Ball. She found herself facing an uncertain future. She knew she couldn't go back to the life she'd had before, yet she couldn't begin to imagine a place for herself anywhere else.
That's where I am right now. I look into the empty hours ahead of me and think, like Eliza, 'What's to become of me?'
I tell myself that there are lots of things I can do. I can volunteer with something or other. I can work on some projects that I've been longing to get busy on. And I can actually sit down and write. That's good, right?
The truth is, I want to be useful. I'm useful as a stay-at-home-mom. Now that both boys will be in school, I still want to do things of value. I don't want to sit and watch television (even though I'll finally be able to watch something other than "Yo Gabba Gabba!) I want to be busy. Industrious.
I know things will come along to fill my days. There's always plenty of laundry. Even beyond housework there is plenty to do. Besides, as long as I have full pens and empty pages, these hands will never be idle.
"You'll have the whole house to yourself!"
"You can do whatever you want!"
"You can have some Me time!"
I've tried to tell myself the same things, but for some reason, the thought of my last little bird leaving the nest fills me with dread. I couldn't really figure out why until today.
For the past 10 years or so, Motherhood has been my life. It's my job, my identity. With an empty house and time on my hands, I'm not quite sure what to do with myself. I feel like Eliza Doolittle after her triumph at the Embassy Ball. She found herself facing an uncertain future. She knew she couldn't go back to the life she'd had before, yet she couldn't begin to imagine a place for herself anywhere else.
That's where I am right now. I look into the empty hours ahead of me and think, like Eliza, 'What's to become of me?'
I tell myself that there are lots of things I can do. I can volunteer with something or other. I can work on some projects that I've been longing to get busy on. And I can actually sit down and write. That's good, right?
The truth is, I want to be useful. I'm useful as a stay-at-home-mom. Now that both boys will be in school, I still want to do things of value. I don't want to sit and watch television (even though I'll finally be able to watch something other than "Yo Gabba Gabba!) I want to be busy. Industrious.
I know things will come along to fill my days. There's always plenty of laundry. Even beyond housework there is plenty to do. Besides, as long as I have full pens and empty pages, these hands will never be idle.
Thursday, July 08, 2010
Conversations from the Back Seat
Timothy: When I grow up I want to be a soldier. Or a race car driver. Or maybe an Olympic fencer. What do you want to be when you grow up, Paul?
Paul: Hmmmm... a waterfall.
*********************************************************************************
Paul: Knock knock.
Timothy: Who's there?
Paul: Banana.
Timothy: Banana who?
Paul: Banana joke! Hahahahahah!
*********************************************************************************
Paul: Hey Timothy...
Timothy: What?
Paul: Everything is mine!
Timothy: Arggggg!
**********************************************************************************
Me: Oh my gosh! What is that horrible smell?
Timothy and Paul: *snicker*
**********************************************************************************
To Be Continued...
Paul: Hmmmm... a waterfall.
*********************************************************************************
Paul: Knock knock.
Timothy: Who's there?
Paul: Banana.
Timothy: Banana who?
Paul: Banana joke! Hahahahahah!
*********************************************************************************
Paul: Hey Timothy...
Timothy: What?
Paul: Everything is mine!
Timothy: Arggggg!
**********************************************************************************
Me: Oh my gosh! What is that horrible smell?
Timothy and Paul: *snicker*
**********************************************************************************
To Be Continued...
Sunday, June 27, 2010
Alejandro (or Sunday Afternoon at the Mexican Restaurant)
*No offense intended toward anyone of Mexican descent, or Lady Gaga for that matter.
I put my name down
With the host now
But he won't call it yet
Won't call it yet
I've got my heart set
On some fajitas
That tomorrow I'll regret
I will regret
You know that I'm hungry, chico
Clear that table, make it quick-o
Seat me anywhere you want
In the restaurant
Just call my name, just call my name
Alejandro
Don't want to wait, don't want to wait,
Fernando
Don't want to stand, I want to sit
Bring me tortilla chips and dip
Just call my name, just call my name
Roberto
Alejandro, Alejandro, Ale-ale-jandro, Ale-ale-jandro
Why is there pizza
On the menu
I don't think pizza is from Mexico
Can I still order
From the lunch list
'Cause it's like three bucks cheaper
I'm saving dough
You know that I'm hungry, boy
Ooh! Here comes my food. Rejoice!
More Coke Zero, por favor
Comamos ahora!
Just call my name, just call my name
Alejandro
Bring me my plate, bring me my plate
Fernando
I'll have fried ice cream for dessert
I'll tip you; you don't have to flirt
Just call my name, just call my name
Roberto
Alejandro, Alejandro, Ale-ale-jandro, Ale-ale-jandro
Repeat chorus a ga-zillion times
I put my name down
With the host now
But he won't call it yet
Won't call it yet
I've got my heart set
On some fajitas
That tomorrow I'll regret
I will regret
You know that I'm hungry, chico
Clear that table, make it quick-o
Seat me anywhere you want
In the restaurant
Just call my name, just call my name
Alejandro
Don't want to wait, don't want to wait,
Fernando
Don't want to stand, I want to sit
Bring me tortilla chips and dip
Just call my name, just call my name
Roberto
Alejandro, Alejandro, Ale-ale-jandro, Ale-ale-jandro
Why is there pizza
On the menu
I don't think pizza is from Mexico
Can I still order
From the lunch list
'Cause it's like three bucks cheaper
I'm saving dough
You know that I'm hungry, boy
Ooh! Here comes my food. Rejoice!
More Coke Zero, por favor
Comamos ahora!
Just call my name, just call my name
Alejandro
Bring me my plate, bring me my plate
Fernando
I'll have fried ice cream for dessert
I'll tip you; you don't have to flirt
Just call my name, just call my name
Roberto
Alejandro, Alejandro, Ale-ale-jandro, Ale-ale-jandro
Repeat chorus a ga-zillion times
Wednesday, June 09, 2010
I'm Not Old, I'm Just-- Hey! You Kids Get Off My Lawn!
I suppose it's time to face facts. I am officially an old fart. This isn't really a new realization; I've been wrestling with this for some time. I have embraced my impending "elderly-ness," mainly because I'm just too darn tired to fight it anymore, but also for many other reasons that have lately come to light.
For instance, I have vivid memories of my parents when they were my age, and they seemed really old. I suppose that's how my children see me now. I'm that old bore who's always saying things like, "Back in my day..." I always thought I would be the mom who seemed eternally young and hip. Then I realized that young, cool moms don't use words like "hip." Which reminds me, I need to go take my Calcium supplement.
I remember a time when I stayed out all night on crazy road trips and doughnut runs. I would get back in time to go to class, take a quick nap on a couch at the BCM, and then I was off again on another adventure. The other night I fell asleep in the chair in front of the television. Watching Cooking Channel. At nine o'clock. So many things about that just scream "OLD!"
The funny thing is that, while I complain a bit, I don't really mind growing older. It sure beats the alternative. And aging has it's advantages. It's the perfect excuse to take naps.
I hope that when I'm really old I can be what folks describe as "spry." I want to be the slightly crazy old lady who zips around town in a red sports car and has a purse full of butterscotch candy to give to any children I meet. I'll travel, and take salsa lessons, and create weird art.
Right now, I guess I'm just resting up for retirement.
For instance, I have vivid memories of my parents when they were my age, and they seemed really old. I suppose that's how my children see me now. I'm that old bore who's always saying things like, "Back in my day..." I always thought I would be the mom who seemed eternally young and hip. Then I realized that young, cool moms don't use words like "hip." Which reminds me, I need to go take my Calcium supplement.
I remember a time when I stayed out all night on crazy road trips and doughnut runs. I would get back in time to go to class, take a quick nap on a couch at the BCM, and then I was off again on another adventure. The other night I fell asleep in the chair in front of the television. Watching Cooking Channel. At nine o'clock. So many things about that just scream "OLD!"
The funny thing is that, while I complain a bit, I don't really mind growing older. It sure beats the alternative. And aging has it's advantages. It's the perfect excuse to take naps.
I hope that when I'm really old I can be what folks describe as "spry." I want to be the slightly crazy old lady who zips around town in a red sports car and has a purse full of butterscotch candy to give to any children I meet. I'll travel, and take salsa lessons, and create weird art.
Right now, I guess I'm just resting up for retirement.
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