An Inelegant Griffonage

I spent years collecting words. Beautiful expressive words, words that sing and dance and tell the story down to the most minute detail, all with the perfect shades and highlighting of meaning and innuendo and crescendo.

And yet, when ever I sit down to write a note, I feel inadequate to the task. (Yes, I send hand written notes, on stationery, through the mail; I know it is a dying custom, but one I just can't seem to let go. In spite of stamps going up to 42 cents.) The note lacks a certain something. The words are great, just what I want to say to make a friend or loved one laugh, feel better, or just know how much I love them. It is how they are written that bothers me.

My handwriting is atrocious. I know this, and have known this since the third grade. Palmer cursive, god help me, was my undoing. I hated it. The grip on the pen felt unnatural, uncomfortable. My teacher was a taskmistress. I stayed at my desk after school so many hours copying line after loopy, senseless line, that I think my behind wore a groove in the seat. But no matter how many times I was harangued by teacher, mother and grandmother, the cursive just would not come.

Finally, obedience gave way to natural stubbornness, and cursive went right out the window. I turned in every paper, answered perfectly, in scribbly, shaky print, and refused to loop another letter as long as I lived. Substance over form, my soul demanded. Who cares what it looks like, as long as it is right.

So my teachers gave way, I got a dispensation to do my work in print, and all was right with the world. My journalism teacher in high school once remarked that I had the handwriting of a serial killer. Maybe, I thought, but when my eloquent articles were getting top billing in the features section of our paper, who cares? Besides, by then, everything met its final form as pixels on a screen and bytes on a floppy. Who cares if it started out as an illegible scrawl on crumpled sheets of college rule?

Woe betide me now. I have composed birthday greetings, get well notes, humorous little detours for the working day mind, and loving hellos. I invest in fine paper, Crane notes, and Hallmark cards by the basketful. And even though I never fail to get a heartfelt thanks from anyone on the receiving end of a little mailbox surprise, I know in my heart that the sentiment would be just that much more beautiful in the fine looping hand that I worked so hard to eschew.

griffonage

News of the day. I have moved. Yay!

Out the Window

I dropped off my car this morning at my neighborhood mechanic, about 3 or so miles away from the house. The last time I did this, the man I was dating at the time refused to pick me up and drive me home, so I had to hoof it. This time, however, I came prepared. I threw my trusty bike on the rack and rode back home.

I zip around my every day in my car, running to the market, running to the drugstore, running up to the park, ironically, to go running. My neighborhood flies past me out my car window every single day. I never realized how little I knew about where I live until today, when I biked through it. I had always gotten a brief glimpse of the sign for the Ranch House restaurant. It looked cool enough in passing, one of those divey little diners that reminds you of Mel's, of Arnold's, of every local hash house we watched on TV as we swilled McDonald's when we were kids. But only today was I close enough to smell the home cooking, the wafting scent of hash browns and really good coffee, and go in to try a bite. Before today I had a vague impression of a few Latin markets in the area, as I whipped by on my way to the Publix supermarket. But only today did I see that the cheap, fresh green tomatillos I have been in search of forever were right around the corner. Along with a santeria shop, in case I ever want to cook up a side order of revenge.

I saw the church on the corner letting out the morning mass, disgorging an array of peaceful looking business suit types, mixed in with the local abuelas in black dresses and walking sneakers. (That guilt thump in the back of head was a reminder that I haven't been to mass in while.) The crossing guard at the corner of the nearby middle school is Tom, friendly and very concerned about public safety. After making sure that I wasn't supposed to be in school myself, he chastised me about riding my bike across the intersection instead of walking it. I am "old enough to know better."

It is amazing the little things we miss by being a car culture. Especially in this town, where public transportation is the ultimate oxymoron, as the public can barely get anywhere it needs to in any good time with our wretched bus system and no trains to rely on. But now that I have had a taste of mini exploration, I don't think I will be so quick to just jump in the car when all I need is a quart of milk from the market on the corner.

Speaking of tastes, I gained another interesting piece of information on my sojourn today. The sushi bar up the street has started opening for lunch. I think five blocks of pedal power definitely entitles me to a few California rolls. YUM!

What a Doll!

My friend Alison has introduced me to my new favorite way to waste time. Quizilla has sucked me in completely with all the crazy tests. In the last two days, I have learned so much about myself. For instance, if I were an old time Nickelodeon show, I'd be Wild and Crazy Kids, that precursor to Fear Factor with less scary challenges, and the gross foodstuffs ending up on your outside as opposed to your inside. I have also discovered that I belong in the movie Alladin. Although, I hope I'm Jasmine and not the parrot or the rug.

But the most fascinating and important piece of self-knowledge I have gained so far is that in the "Messed-Up Barbie" category, I am most definitely a "Barbie Got Back!" doll. Eye-opening and truly unexpected.

By the way, did you know that Ken and Barbie have broken up? Well, it was bound to happen sooner or later. Barbie is over 40, and have you seen the outfits that those new Bratz girls are wearing? Scandalous!

Alison has a very cool blog, and you should check it out. Often.


Barbie Got Back! Go you! You're the closest thing
ever to a true black Barbie. Shake that fat
a** of yours.


If You Were A Barbie, Which Messed Up Version Would You Be?
brought to you by Quizilla

Pop Goes the Culture

In yet another triumph of trivia over substance, today's major discussion had to do with the relative ubiquitousness of pop music and the power of nostalgia. Or, in the teenage vernacular, "Like, who did you think was hot when you were a kid?"

After I got done with the hysterical laughter produced by these wet-behind-the-ears, 14-17 year olds referring to their pasts as 'when we were kids', I listened to the discussion. The names being thrown around were a blast from my past, as well. Hanson, Spice Girls, Alanis Morissette, Electric Slide, the Macarena....with a few exceptions, the list was mostly a paean to mediocrity. Soon, N'Sync and the Backstreet Boys was thrown into the mix, along with a few references to SNL sketches like the old David Spade-Adam Sandler chestnut, the Gap girls, and the Tri Delta sorority sister played by Melanie Hutsell.

The discussion took a heated turn when they began to debate whose pop culture touchstone was the coolest. Susan announced a class poll, and on the board wrote "Hanson" and "Spice Girls". "Okay, " she announced. "I need a show of hands...which of these do you think is the coolest?"

Which, to me, is tantamount to asking which level of Dante's hell one would like to occupy for all eternity.

So I put the question to you, my peers and betters. "Like, who did you think was hot when you were a kid?" From the sublime to the ridiculous, I want to know. Email me.