Oreos for Barack

My parents sat in Joe Biden's section at Saturday's Jefferson/Jackson Dinner in Des Moines.
They got Raspberry Cheesecaked by a staffer. I visited Kirsten in Knoxville, we watched CSPAN's coverage on YouTube and electronically sat in Barack's section. We got Oreoed by ourselves.

I told them that our Jefferson/Jackson dessert effort was completely grassroots (and therefore morally superior) because nobody's campaign donation was directed at our excessive consumption of sugar. My mother said the equivalent of "Big deal, snobby offspring! You may be your own neo-hippie, but we were there taking part in history and you weren't." Then she swooned over John Edwards, mentioned seeing Tom Harkin buy beer, and reported that she mailed some confetti she swiped from the floor of Veterans Memorial Auditorium to my sister.

My parents have a relationship to the caucus reminescent of the way I felt about Justin Timberlake in '99. Sure, JT lived on, and we're all thankful, but I'm still partial to the days of N*SYNC.

I warned her about that. All 6 leading candidates can't have big parties in DM forever. She's got to live each of these moments like a crazed teenager. She must listen to "(God Must Have Spent) A Little More Time on You" on repeat. She must eat every last bite of her cheesecake and enjoy the autumn-themed floral arrangement the Biden team sent to the house. She sighed wistfully, as good as any Disney Princess. "Don't I know, Jo. Don't I know."

Just want you in my Caddy

Last weekend, there was a shooting at “The Icehouse” (the B-team version of “The Mill”, the establishment at which I work). An estranged boyfriend of an Icehouse waitress entered the bar area and opened fire, killing an IU student home for fall break, and critically injuring his friend. This is the same place where, 3 weeks ago to the day, my best friend Kirsten, visiting on her fall break, sat with me. We cheerily enjoyed our huge mugs of beer and watched the man with the mullet set up his karaokee machine for “Icehouse Trivia Nite”.

Today my run was perfect. The weather was cool, and I was making good, efficient strides - - until I wasn’t. Hoping to find a better rhythm, I skipped a few steps, shuffled sideways a bit and then realized that what would really break my icky stride would be to bust out dancing to “HEY YA!”, which was playing on my ipod.

Embarrased to perform near the hospital (fairly populated at 9 am), I wished for a running partner who would do this with me. In my dillusional state of aerobic activity, I crossed my fingers for a combination running buddy / soulmate. My dream man would make “dance breaks” a regular happening in all joint-jogging expeditions. The pragmatics of this were slow to come – we can’t both dance to “HEY YA!” at the same time, unless we had a splitter. And all of those cords would be limiting and obnoxious while running. Maybe we could sing “HEY YA!” outloud while he rocked the Andre 3000 keyboard-playing dance. How about programming the ipods to the same playlist and then pushing play at the exact same time?

Then I realized that more than having a “Mandatory Dance Break Enforcer” I wanted someone to give me a hug and kiss my forehead and tell me that tragedies happen, kids mistakenly die at bars as they merely reunite with a friend. In that moment this morning, I deeply, sorely, didn’t want to be in this place anymore, lonely and scared. I wanted someone to pull my hair, make fun of my dorky mom-gifted frog socks that I haven’t changed for days (eww, gross, I know…), someone to punch in jest (Papa doesn’t respond well to that), a reason to shave my legs, someone to tell me that I shouldn’t be afraid to put ipod earphones in – that it’s broad daylight, and I’m running responsibly in populated areas. Someone who would reassure me that certainly, I would hear an insane man with a riffle approaching and could out run him, and dammit, if I couldn’t, then my running buddy would be there to take the bullet. Unless, of course, we were too busy jamming to “HEY YA!”.

There’d be worse ways to go than during a dance break with someone who loved you and your neon green frog socks.

Halloween 2007

Gina and Andrea hit up the LES parade as pirates.

Jilianne went par for the course in the Concordia Choir contest as a tree.

My Aunt Barbara dressed as a witch. (A good one, naturally, with lots of glitter.)



I thought about the two easiest costumes at my disposal. The option I didn't take: A frozen hiker. Cool as that could've been, I knew I would look disgusting as a dead Jon Krakauer character. That had the potential to disable appetites at the restaurant. I wouldn't want eat anything served by someone with simulated frost and blood painted across her face.



So I visited the closet in the next room for inspiration -
I went as Grannie Annie.

Chivalry ≠ Dead

I’ve been keeping my running routes different, for variety is the spice of life. Also because Marion freaks me out. I’m convinced if you’re going to be stalked and killed by a crazy person, it WILL happen here. Brooklyn: not scary. Harlem: Good kids. Cambodia: probably won’t be scared there either. Marion: Occasionally terrified of being by myself.

Last Thursday, I was inventing what I thought was going to end up being a five mile jaunt. After about an hour, I realized that I had absolutely no clue where I was. Seeing what appeared to be a public park (clues: big brown sign with yellow pant, playground equipment) I shrugged and decided to run what I interpreted as a trail.

After 60 paces, I realized I was in backwoods, Indiana. The mental image was as follows: “Ohmigod, the KKK is rallying here while guys with no teeth are fishing for crawdad in the river and wayward adolescents not bound for Indiana Wesleyan are making meth in this former spot of historic lynchings.”

As I snapped out of my internal dialogue, I looked up to a worsened reality. A giant Grant County Correctional Office van stopped my 7.5 mile an hour pace. 30 male prisoners were standing around as a cop talked on his cell phone. Panting, I froze, unsure of my next step. Turn around? Run past them? Ironically, Gwen was telling me (via iPod) that if “I could escape/ invent a place that’s my own world/ and I would be your favorite girl…”.

“Ah, Crap,” I thought. This was the day I chose the running shorts with “Concordia” printed in huge maroon letters across the ass. Jeering, leering and cheering – I received a warm welcome to exercise hour, and a gleeful salute to my alma mater. Unwilling to take another step, the cop stepped forward as I gestured him to come talk to me.

Attempting to help me back to Keal Avenue, the cop stuttered, unsure. A booming voice commanded my next move from the abandoned three-legged picnic table hosting at least seven tattooed offenders. “Babycakes. You want to take the trail back outta here. Left on boots. Right on Washington…” He continued to give me instructions and as soon as I possibly could, I plugged Gwen back in.

“Thanks!” I squealed in my nervous politeness before my sarcastic side finally showed up. “Stay out of trouble, guys!” I ordered, a la Doris Day playing a WWII nurse or something. Except this was no Bing Crosby musical; these were convicted felons. “Ah, Crap,” I thought as I sprinted out of the park.