Ink-Stained Wretch

The things girls carry around in their purses are varied, fascinating, and a testament to the life of the carrier. If you've ever played a friendly game of "empty your purse" at a bar with your best ladyfriends, you're bound to turn up much weirder detritous than hairbrushes, lipgloass, credit cards and breath mints, especially in a city where you often will go for 16-hour stretches (which could encompass everything from the gym to work to volunteer trash-picking to the opera all in one day) without returning home. My bags tend to be tangled messes of smelly gym shoes, climbing gear, marginal lunch items in tupperware, plastic blisters of Nicorette gum, notebooks, books, matches, discarded plastic forks, salt packets, ticket stubs, hair elastics, half-finished crossword puzzles, electronic gadgets, water bottles, and up to a million other useful or not-so-useful things. They're usually full of unidentified crumbles of crap and by the time I've hauled them around for a year are dirty, smelly, generally unfit for the general public to behold, and completely unsalvagable.

This time, I swore it would be different. After ruining my shoulders by hauling around numerous cheap bags of man-made fabrics which cut into my tendons and ripped under the weight of the loads I made them bear, I decided it was time to buy a Grown Up Lady Bag. Especially now that I worked at a fancy magazine where people's bags look like they cost upwards of two weeks of my take-home pay. So I went to Coach and found a nice, sturdy, gorgeous creamy white shoulder bag, which I promised to love and cherish and clean as frequently as my own face to keep it looking supple and new. It was expensive.

And I kept my promise. Each night I took out all the Nicorette bubbles. I scooped up any dirty quarters that had been handed to me during the day and plunked them in a change jar. I started carrying my smelly shoes in a different bag.

This morning, I opened my lovely bag and found that a black pen had exploded all over the inside, soaking not only the pretty cream satin lining but also my phone, various cosmetic items, IDs, and, when I pulled the offending item out, my hands.

I thought my days as an ink-stained wretch were behind me, but I was foolish to deny my roots.

Travel Tips From Your Friendly Midwestern Representative

I recently started working at a tony, glossy magazine, the type of place where people -- despite subsisting on entry-level publishing pay -- still manage (somehow!) to flaunt gorgeous designer clothes and summer at multimillion dollar mansions. A perfectly-manicured eyebrow or two may have been raised the day I showed up wearing rumpled Ann Taylor pants and an aw-shucks grin, but so far, so good. They all seem like nice enough folk who don't seem to mind the earnest Midwesterner in their midst.

Last week I sat in on a meeting wherein we planned travel stories. Some people based their pitches -- "A newly refurbished castle in Ireland where you can skeet shoot AND eat endangered-species omelettes for breakfast!" etc. -- on real-life travels, and I started to think about what would happen if I were to do the same. Don't get me wrong: this is a beautiful country and I've visited nearly all of its fine states and found something to like in each of them (with the possible exception of Indiana, where the highlight was getting a Subway sandwich handed to me from behind a wall of bulletproof glass). But of the states I've RESIDED in, it would be a tough case to make a decent story pitch. I, a South Dakota native, like to say that I've lived in all the places other people would never want to. I've done stints in the Dakotas, Iowa, Nebraska, Michigan, Washington state (OK, that one was lovely), and most unfabulously, Arkansas. Not exactly a gold-mine of luxury travel ideas to mine for the Ladies Who Lunch. But I thought I'd try to make a list anyway. Here goes:

1) "Corn Cobs on the Road: The Versatile Veggie Used for Sustenance AND Hygiene."
2) "Crees & Craps: Top Indian Casinos of the Pacific Northwest"
3) "Your Visit to Toad Suck Days: Buying Baby's First Cammo Bib"
4) "Penis of the Prairie: A Look at Nebraska's Phallic Capitol"
5) "The Hawkeye State's Cleanest Slaughtering Houses: An Insider's Guide"
6) "Show Me the Hand: Touring Cherry-Wine Makers on the Left Pinky of Michigan"
7) "Front-Porch Rocking and Chaw: Experience Arkansas Like the Natives"
8) "Grits, Grits, Grits"
9) "Tornadoes: Storm Chasing The Plains in a Pickup"
10) "36 Hours at: Waffle House"

Jerry's At the Great Gay Pride Parade in the Sky

I have this magnet on my fridge at home. It says "All bigots will be reincarnated as gay, homeless people of color."

I thought of it today when Jerry Falwell kicked off. Can't imagine why.

One of my pastors once said something interesting during a sermon. He was talking about how he often gets asked, by believers and non- alike, who will get into heaven. Being that neither he, nor any of us, can really know for sure, his answer is always thus: "I think there will be a lot of surprises in heaven."

I hope the the esteemed Mr. Falwell is finding that out right now. If indeed his hardened old heart made it there at all.

Excuse my Absence

Sorry things have been a bit scant around these parts lately. I recently started a new job at as editor of the soon-to-be-launched website of a big glossy travel magazine at big fancy magazine company. Things are going well so far, or at least as well as they can considering that as of day two I have absolutely no idea what I am doing just yet, although I assume once I am up to speed on meeting with all the right people and learning how things work around here that that will change. Until then, I will feast at the lovely corporate cafeteria, stare agog at the view from my office -- which encompasses all of Central Park in its glorious summer green-ness, and try my best to get up to speed. The job, especially until launch, will be a huge challenge and undertaking, so I apologize in advance if I'm not here to regale you with tales of life in New York.

The Secret Door From Alabama

I'll admit it -- I'm kind of particular and demanding when it comes to boyfriends. One of my primary requirements for any boyfriend, if he wants to stick around, is versatility. If you enjoy wearing a tuxedo, attending the opera and drinking champagne, but find yourself at a loss when I ask you to live in a dirty tent with me for a couple weeks while I climb some big crumbly rock wall, I'll probably give you the boot. If you charm the pants off my parents but fall flat with the friends, you'll likely have to go. I inhabit a lot of different -- and sometimes dichotomous -- worlds, and I need someone who can thrive in any of them. One-trick ponies need not apply.

So I *guess* I should have been thrilled last night when boyfriend (whom for blogging purposes I will from now on refer to as "Clark Kent," for reasons I shall for the moment gloss over) showed some versatility in choosing a restaraunt. Normally we have lovely dinners of oysters or steaks or sushi or try out a recently reviewed place or order from an old-school standby like Lombardi's (unless I cook, of course). So I was a little taken aback when I arrived last night and, exhibiting some previously-hidden taste for lowbrow, chain-style knockoff barbecue, Clark said to me: "Why don't we go across the street to the barbecue place and drink some massive margaritas, and get dinner later?" To which of course I said, "Um, isn't DALLAS BARBECUE the place across the street?" Clark says, "Yeah, so what?" And I say, "You do realize we're WHITE, yes?"

He accused me of racial profiling, I laughed, and figured if nothing else I was in for a new experience and could drown the lousy 'cue in a bucketful of tequila if necessary. We crossed the street.

Upon entering DBBQ I was surprised to learn that Clark had special knowledge of a "back room" -- meaning, this was a place he FREQUENTED! Clark said to me: "If you ever tell anyone I took you here on a date, I'll kill you," thus ensuring I would immediately publish a short essay about the experience for all the world to see.

Secretly vowing to someday take him on a roadtrip of the South so he could experience barbecue as it was meant to be, I peeked around the room after we were seated. The man to my left -- and I am not making this up -- was MISSING HIS TWO FRONT TEETH. The woman to my right, weighing in at a solid 250 pounds, wearing frosted jeans, and sporting a permed mullet, was drinking beer out of a glass the size of a fishbowl WITH A STRAW.

These were not your typical East Village patrons. I posited a theory that the reason you never see these folks on the street is because there's a secret door that opens directly into Dallas Barbecue, and on the other side of that door is a Wal-Mart in Alabama. Clark wasn't done with the surprises yet: after he told me he thought that someday he'd like to name his daughter "Amber," I realized he might fit in with the diners here more than I initially suspected. After all, the only locales suitable for a woman named "Amber" are trailers and porn videos.

And so, to counteract the effect of the surreal cast of characters who surrounded me, I ordered a "Texas size" margarita on the rocks. Was it good? Well, I wouldn't go that far. It was as sweet as liquified Sweetarts and I'm 100% sure there wasn't an assembly line of folks in the kitchen squeezing fresh limes. But it was one thing: large. Huge. Enormous. And all that sugar did a good job of ferrying the booze straight into my brain.

Though we had initially planned to restore our cred by hitting up Crif Dogs for dinner after our drinks, we ended up succumbing to the scent of fried chicken wafting over from Mr. Toothless's plate, and ordered up some sticky chicken tenders and crispy shrimp.

And as much as I hate to admit it, It was pretty good. And DBBQ, with the right date, is loads of fun.

There, I said it. Clark, you win again.

Hole You

OK, OK, I'm posting, now can everyone from here to kingdom come (or at least My Lai) please stop hassling me?! Thank you!

I've found that I have much less to post when there's nothing to bitch about, and lately I've been just as happy as a clam, so it's a bit harder to mine material. I suppose I could spout off about various family problems, but my cousin's wife (hi Cathy!) sort of inadvertently spilled the beans to my mom that I'm posting again, so I don't want dear Mum turning me up through Google only to find my innermost thoughts about the machinations of our little nuclear unit online for all the world (meaning, my four anonymous readers) to see.

Meanwhile, I don't want to be one of those people who posts only to say "I'm not posting, and here's why." Therefore, I'm just going to have to subject you to what's been going on in my life lately which is, hanging out with a two-year-old. (And no, I'm not talking about the boyfriend I recently snatched from the cradle. He's acts at LEAST nine times two; on a good day, 10 times two!).

But back to the real two-year-old in my life: my niece Stella, with whom I just spent a nice five-day weekend in Minnesota, along with the rest of our family. She is why I'm going to go all "Dooce" on you. Dooce does it so much better, but I shall try.

All of this might come as old hat to anyone who's ever had a toddler, but I found her to be just a fascinating little character, and hilarious to boot. As my brother said every time she started wailing about something (which was often) -- "Life is tough when you're two." INDEED, there's a lot to wail about, I found out last weekend. Maybe your zipper fell down. It's time for tears. Maybe your sippy cup is getting low on expensive organic milk. Definitely calls for a good cry. Pooped your pants? Let out a yowl and someone's sure to come running to empty them. It's kind of like being 90 if you're demented and incontinent, only you're cute and cuddly and smell good and haven't pissed anyone off yet, so no one seems to mind as much attending to whatever it is you're screaming about at the moment.

With that said, here are some cute things I witnessed my two-year-old niece do this weekend.

"Hole you."

"Hole you" is what my niece would say whenever she wanted to be picked up. It's a version of "Hold you," and is derived, I'm quite sure, from her mother asking her, "Do you want me to hold you?" She's an independent little bugger, but occasionally her pudgy little legs would get tired or she'd feel a little needy, and all she'd have to do is say "Hole you" to the nearest adult, and she'd be swept up into a flurry of hugs and kisses and not have to walk under her own power for however long she wanted. If only it were that easy for the rest of us. "Hole you" are two words that will probably forever melt this auntie's heart. I don't think I ever understood why people wanted to have kids until my brother and sister had them, and when I hear those two words, it makes my whole being ache for every orphan out there who doesn't have anyone to say them to. We don't look happy in this picture, I guess, but I assure you we were right in the midst of a very sweet "hole you." And I finally figured out what my pleasantly curvy Norweigan peasant hips are specifically designed for: holding a toddler on.

"Poopy!"

My niece is ready to be potty-trained but her parents aren't ready to tackle that project until they get back to their normal routine lives in Germany. Being ready means she doesn't like the feeling of goop in her pants any more than you or I do, and I think she's getting to the point where she's nearly as embarassed of it. This led to lots of incidents -- sometimes in restaurants, sometimes in parks, but always around amused or horrified onlookers -- where she'd start squealing "POOPPPIIIIEEEEE!" at the top of her lungs and crying in ernest whenever her diaper needed to be changed (or if she farted, or if she was constipated, or if she thought she might poop....). Note to self: Teach own child to scream "Flowers" or "Unicorns" whenever she has to hit the head.

"Buffo."

Niece collects these little German plastic animals that are very realistic looking, and I'm sure by the time she's four she'll have every available species. This year I bought her a frog, a meerkat, a dog that looks like her family's dog (which is an Australian cattle dog, and is the best dog in the land), and my favorite -- a bison. I did a big (award winning!) project on the resurgence of buffalo on the Great Plains when I was in college and have had a fondness for the animals ever since. Stella, naturally, has never seen a buffalo, since they are indigenous only to North America, and had little idea what to call it once she unwrapped it during her birthday party at a zoo in St. Paul. I told her it was a Buffalo and we moved onto the next packages. Imagine my surprise when forty minutes later we ran across a pair of Bison bison in the flesh, laying down in their pen, and she looked at me and said "Buffo sleep!" She's a smart one!

Nighttime

The nicest niece time I had all weekend was on Saturday when she let me read her a book and put her to bed. We read "Blueberries for Sal" and she sat farting quietly in my lap while she cuddled against my chest. I never thought I'd be happy to have someone snuggle up to me and fart quietly into my lap for half an hour, but it was a really sweet time. Speaking of this, I've found that people with babies or young children spend far more time talking about bodily functions than any of the rest of us do. I got used to it. I think.

"Nurse!"

The last interaction I had with my niece was her poking her little index finger into my padded bra and shouting "Nurse!" Uh, that was a little weird.

Babies. I tell ya.