sarahb

Goodbye, Typepad

It's been great, really. It's not you, it's me. I'm just not at that point in my life, you know? Right now, I have to concentrate on me. It wouldn't be fair to you if we kept this relationship going.

Hello, friends. I hope you'll come on over for a drink with me over at Drunken Bee, my brand new, very own, beautiful baby of a website.

Please update your links if need be!

Peter Cetera, Eat Your Heart Out

I've been missing something lately, and I think it is the city of Chicago. I walked into class yesterday wearing my 1984 thrift store highwater Jordache jeans (sure they give me the 1980s long butt, but who cares! they're highwaters!), red high heels, a boy's v-neck sweater, and a jaunty scarf. Cute, right? So I walk into class and my students start making fun of my outfit. They ask me "Where d'ya get yer clothes Mrs. B.? You always are wearin' sumthin' funny."

Please, let me clarify the situation here. In this group of students are at least two boys who are wearing sweatsuits. As in matching sweat pants and sweat shirt. Three girls in pajama bottoms, and the rest wearing nearly identical "novelty tees" that say things like "Eat Lunch at Johnny's" on the front in a "vintage" font but have a store logo emblazoned across the back.

But this isn't a swipe at my students—well I guess it is, but it's a productive swipe, akin to when I called them "shitheads" for not doing ANY of the assigned reading for class. I'm no culture snob; I love to rock the American Eagle, I really do, and I'll tell it to you straight: Special Ed and I went to the Olive Garden for V-Day. And LOVED it.

What this is, though, is a dirge for the days when I could walk outside with a hat handcrafted of potato latkes and have some strung-out freak stop me in the street and compliment me on it. It's my way of paying tribute to the girl in a black turtleneck and cat-eye glasses and the boy in extra-small black trousers with white belt I used to see on every corner. It's my loving remembrance of those ludicrous Art Institute kids that crash every single twenty-something party on Chicago's northside.

It's a shout-out to Thai food on every corner, and taquerias in between. It's my way of tipping my hat to the four-o'clock crush at Marie's Riptide Lounge. A little love letter to the #66 bus line on Chicago Avenue, and the hard luck crowd that rides it. A tender chuckle over those weird hippies that practice Capoeira in Wicker Park, who are so very bad at it. I'm blowing a virtual kiss to the lovably violent gang bangers that inexplicably ruled the block I used to live on, giving the proverbial finger to the rapidly gentrifying rest of the neighborhood. I'm crying out to the cocaine-snorting yuppie chicks and dudes that took all the parking on my street every Friday and Saturday night as they jammed themselves into Bar Thirteen—I'm saying to them, "I'm sorry I took a superior cultural stance toward you! Look at what I've been reduced to! Taking a superior stance toward small town college students. It doesn't get lamer than that!"

So give me back those puddles of urine in the alley, the rats in the dumpster, annoying art rockers, and that feeling of panic on a winter morning when you look down expecting to see you've forgotten to put pants on because the wind is cutting to the bone. I'll take it all back, every single thing I've ever complained about. 'Cause my potato latke hat is starting to stink up my closet.

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Postscript: I'll be traveling to Chicago tomorrow and staying for a week. I'll let you know how it goes when I return.

Sans Sans Serif

I have this post-it note attached to the corner of my iBook that reads:

<i>italic</i>

This Post-It note, it makes me feel like my mom. God knows I love my moms, but I'll be the first to tell you, I'm not all that interested in having my husband set the alarm clock for me for the rest of my life because of my fear of buttons.

The last straw for me and my technological illiteracy was, however, the other day when Special Ed got out the keys and revved up his dinosaurial Hewlett Packard laptop. It sputtered and shimmied for a while, then settled on down to its steady idling mode: "whhhhhrrrrrrreeeeeewhhhhhhrrrrrrreeeee." (We took it to Midas once, trying to imitate to the mechanics the knocks and pings that thing makes, but they just said "Listen you two loons, how many times do we have to tell you, we don't fix computers here, we fix cars!" To which we replied, "But look at this thing! It's a sweet low-rider! They don't make 'em like this anymore. All we want is to be able to take a ride around the block in our ghetto cruiser! Can't you do something?") So Ed revs it up to show me this little formatting bug he always sees when he visits my site from work, on one of the federal government's PC lemons.

And oh god! Horror of Horrors! The site looks awful! Did you even know there was a place on the internet where they still used Serif fonts? I had to avert my eyes from all those sharp little feet shooting into space off the ends of my beautiful babies, Arial, Geneva, and Verdana. I felt just like Mischa Barton did when she left her cushy life up in the hills of Orange County to go to Chino with Benjamin MacKenzie. Except this time, it was me living the privileged life on Apple Hill and poor Special Ed was left duking it out with the toughs— who probably don't even know what sans serif means—down in the valley of Internet Explorer 4 for PCs. Chino is grim, my friends; in Chino you just aren't shielded from the cold, hard facts of how profoundly unattractively-designed this world that we live in is.

This whole terror-filled affair really brought me to realize that I don't even like how things look in Orange County/Apple Hill. This site looks so clunky and spread out to me, even from my perch above all the rest. I want more from life, I decided. I felt like Alannis Morissette after her trip to Tibet. You oughta know, my eyes are now open.

But isn't it ironic? because here I arrive at yet another confession. Not only am I completely technologically illiterate, I can't design for shit. Sure I have a talent for appreciating good design—sort of like the way Mischa Barton probably appreciates her Marc Jacobs wardrobe. But I think it's safe to say, Mischa Barton isn't hand-crafting those cute, oversized plastic buttons for her shrunken, puff-sleeved blazers.

Against all these odds, however, I decided to buy a book. About HTML and CSS. And it's currently MAKING ME A CRAZY PERSON. When I move from a standing position to a sitting position, I mentally envision a <p> or <br />. When I ask Special Ed to move over on the couch cuz mama wants to stretch out, I'm wondering "how many pixels should he shift over?" When I decide to wear the pink top, as I'm pulling it over my head I'm thinking {shirt-color: #FEEDEA}.

So I'm not sure exactly how much better off I am than I was with the pathetic little Post-It notes. But, god willing, in a few weeks, I will have something that in a way, kind of looks the way I sort of want it to. Almost. And also, god willing, I will never again use Mischa Barton to illustrate my emotional life.

Correspondence

I've gotten a little bit behind on my correspondence lately, so I thought I'd use this space to catch up. Hope you don't mind.

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Dear Thirtysomething Couple on a Blind Date at Enoch's Pub, Monroe, LA, Saturday, February 7, 2004, midnight,

It was great to see you last night! You both look like you are doing pretty well. I especially like how the goatee is working for you, Mr. Male Part of the Couple. I just wanted to drop you a line, though, to let you know that it's ok if you didn't exactly hit it off last night. There's no law that says you have to stay out until midnight on a blind date. I think everyone involved would have been better off if you all had just called it quits after you, Mr. Male Part, leaned back from the table, patted your ample belly, and then, reaching for the check, joked, "Let's see what the damage is." Really, it would have been fine to finish the evening there. Because, well, I just think that would have been better than proceeding on to Enoch's where you would spend that precious last hour of February 7, 2004 discussing your relative ACT scores.

Hope this letter finds you both well!
Sarah.

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Dear "You/Her,"

I'm so sorry that it is still six months after I married into your family and I still haven't dealt with the issue of what to call you, you. I'm sorry that when I call you to chat, I have to come up with schticky openers like "Hello, there! It's your new daughter-in-law!" instead of just saying "Hello, Mom" or "Hello, Lucy." I'm sorry that even when I'm under your own roof I have to preface any questions I have with "Hey, you there!" It's unacceptable, I know. I'm going to try to get better on this issue very soon.

Ok, you, I need to get going. I'll tell your son to give his lovely mother a call.

Yours truly,
Your New Daughter-in-Law!

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Dear Hamilton Leithouser, Lead Singer for The Walkmen,

It's not that I'm not into you anymore. You're still pretty damn cute, with your indie rock v-neck sweaters. It's just that, see, I'm 28 now, and after 9/11 and all I can't justify listening to 40 minutes of your wailing anymore. You know what I mean? So I guess this is goodbye. Don't feel bad, I had to say goodbye to Unwound, too.

I was also wondering, has anyone ever told you that Jonathan Fire*eater was a seriously epic band? Too bad you missed out on that shit.

Kisses and Hugs,
Sarah.

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Dear The Academy,

I'm simply outraged! How could you have overlooked a performance so subtle, so nubile, so very MOVING?! How could you have possibly neglected to nominate Scarlett Johansson's ass for its work in Lost in Translation? Have you ever seen an ass express so much about the fragility of the human condition? Have you ever felt such profound, existential loneliness at the thought of never being able to be part of that ass's life? THAT, my friends, is acting. And if you can't recognize it, well then I feel a deep sadness for you.

Most definitely not thanking the academy at this moment,
Sarah.

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Dear Special Ed,

Hi honey! As usual, I've been thinking about butts lately. And you already know that I think yours is pretty much the cat's pajamas. If I could, I'd look at your adorable behind all day long. I wish I could have a Butt Cam streaming video so I could see how cute your tookus is at work while you write all those sexy legal briefs. But, sweetie? It'd probably be a good idea if you didn't sit down in EXACTLY THE SAME PLACE on the couch every single day. Your butt print on our couch is beginning to take on some sort of religious significance, like the Virgin Mary appearing in a tortilla.

Thanks, pal!
Your loving wife.

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Dear Grammy Producers,

Just a quick note to say thanks for reminding me to not do drugs. Just the other day I was thinking "Dude, I could really use some of that chronic." But then I sat through the most effective "just say no" advertisement I've ever seen, the Church of Funk Funkadelic Extravaganza you put together for tonight's Grammy awards. And I said to myself, "Dude, if you smoke that chronic you were jonesing for, you might end up like that old white geezer dressed like a wizard, jamming to "We Got the Funk."

So thanks!
Sarah.

How Not To Do Yoga

Rodney Yee? you can just go ahead and bite me right now. Yeah, I’m talking to you, Rodney, with your virile ponytail and luridly bulging hot pants. When you tell me to stand on my head and sniff my fucking armpit, I do it. Even when I forgot my deodorant that morning. Half fucking Moon pose? Yeah, I can’t do that one for shit. But do I take a Ben & Jerry’s break when you tell me to do it? No, Rodney, I do not. No, Rodney, because I’ve moved my freaking brain into my heart like you told me to, and so have no brain with which to resist your evil. Rodney, you might be enjoying the shit out of your practice, but you know what? You’re on a fucking mountaintop in Hawaii. I’m stuck here trying not to break my freakishly-long arms on my furniture when you tell me to swan dive forward forty-fucking-three times in a row. And also, the paper mill downwind is really starting to stink the joint up right now so excuse me if I can’t focus enough to turn, turn, and then turn even more. But really, Rodney? all of this is small potatoes compared to when you tell me to move my pubis away from my buttocks flesh. And then you say it again. Pubis. Buttocks Flesh. Flesh of Buttocks with a side of Pubis. So even though I’m a drooling brainless yoga zombie right now, when you keep saying those words, you are only hurting yourself. As we speak, my medulla oblongata is doing a little stretching itself, folding in half and reaching on down into my heart to rip that goddamned party guy cerebellum from whatever mindless orgy’s going on down there. And the more often you say it, Mr. Pubis Buttocks Fleshman, III, the more likely it is that I’m gonna come on over there, Rodney, and kick you in your unnaturally rounded BUTTOCKS FLESH.

Namaste this, bitch.