I had to go down to where the cliffs meet the sea

Thursday was LMZ’s birthday, so she and Dora came to pick me up around 7:30 to head for Olive Garden.  OG is a great destination for birthdays, as the waitstaff comes out and reluctantly sings some trite birthday jingle before carrying on their merry ways.  So as soon as we were seated and our waitress came and introduced herself (“Hi, I’m Kathy!  I’ll be your server tonight!  What can we get you ladies to drink?”), Dora blurts out, “It’s Lindsay’s birthday!”  Then Kathy had to feign enthusiasm while LMZ rolled her eyes and I laughed out loud.

You see, LMZ is one of the most wonderfully cynical people I know.  She despises Albion and has been counting down the days to her graduation since the day she stepped into Wesley as a first-year.  Despite this countdown, she’s not even planning on going to her own graduation.  As soon as her last final is done, she’ll be peacing out, heading for bigger and apparently better things.  She cares a great deal about rectifying the wrongs in the world but has yet to learn that a smile will take you further when pursuing social justice than a snarl and eye-roll will. 

We get through our meal, Dora and LMZ sharing a plate of fettuccine alfredo much to Kathy’s chagrin, and me stealing bread-sticks and endless salad for an entree I never ordered.  For a Thursday night, there is a surprising number of guests at Olive Garden: a table of four, loud-mouthed teenage girls, no doubt celebrating a break-up; a family of five with three young children, a mother too exhausted to prepare dinner; an overweight couple speeding through endless salad and bread-sticks; and a cute elderly couple with a billfold stacked with $100 bills just behind us.  It’s snowing outside, and strands of lights hanging overhead add some sort of ambiance to this faux-Italian restaurant.  Kathy comes to fill our water glasses for the sixth time, and begins clearing our dishes.  She asks if we want any dessert tonight, any tiramisu.  We all shake our heads, utter no-thank-yous and she retreats to the kitchen.

I look over at LMZ, who looks undeniably and uncharacteristically depressed considering it’s her birthday.  “What are you so sad about, LMZ?”

She sighs with a roll of her eyes and says, “They just try so hard.”

“Who?”

LMZ looks around, taking in over-sized black and white photographs of the Italian countryside.  “Olive Garden.  They just try so hard, and it’s just so sad.”

Dora ridicules LMZ for a couple minutes, suggesting that despite her world-saving initiatives, LMZ’s suburban upbringing has brought about an undeniable snobbery that calls into question class issues at a nice-enough chain restaurant.  And as Dora continues justifying OG’s existence and LMZ continues looking around with sad eyes, the entire wait staff comes out from the kitchen and our dear Kathy at the front of the troop yells, “Attention everyone!  We want you all to know that today is Lindsay’s birthday!”  And as they whip into a singing frenzy, LMZ turns five shades of red and glowers at Dora.  We can’t help ourselves; I’m cracking up and Dora can hardly speak.  Finally, LMZ breaks and plasters on a fake grin and starts swinging her right arm, hoe-down style.  After they’re done singing and disperse around the restaurant, LMZ looks at each of us who can’t contain our laughter.  The elderly couple sitting behind us stands up, and as the old lady is putting on her coat, she leans down to LMZ and says, “Happy birthday, Lindsay!”

“It’s like we’re in a sitcom, and all of the unknown extras understand the running joke and deliver their lines on cue.”

Before I hear you complain that it never rains at all

let me stop and lock my top for fear of it falling down.  Oh, when it rains it’s sure to…snow?

 Oh, Michigan.  Great lakes, great times.  I woke up early this morning, and looking out my window at the unplowed streets and untrekked sidewalks, I got this eerie sense of stillness.  The tree’s limbs are heavy with thick, silty snow.  Telephone wires are frozen in place, weighted down by a layer of snow twice the wires’ width.  The hand-blown and dyed Easter eggs on the tree out front hang heavy on wavering branches.  The sun is shining, but the snow is as of yet unmelting.  And as I continue to absorb this surprising almost-April landscape, I expect to see people frozen in place, mid-stride on their way to campus; cars at a stand-still, covered with this heavy white substance; birds suspended, ready for take-off, on those thick wires.  Perhaps I’m insensitive, but it looks like Pompeii out there.  And then the snow-plow comes barrelling down the street and interrupts my reverie, as loud as an erupting volcano.  Metal scrapes on asphalt, sparking and dirty snow flies left and right as the plow pushes on through my perceived time lapse.  Later, the snow will melt, and at least the lake levels will be high.

Adendum to the last post

It’s snowing, substantially.

i hear the drizzle of the rain

Things I like about today:

 -snuggling up under blankets warm out of the dryer
-listening to the rain’s staccato against the sidewalk and saturated grass
-feeling the cool breeze from a resistant spring waft through the open window
-finding out I got offered a great job for next school year
-signing all of the paperwork to confirm my internship for this summer
-confirming that I and nine of my best friends and sisters will be living in the most gorgeous house available next school year
-enjoying an early bird lunch with my parents
-sharing a smoke with one of my housemates in the rain
-talkin’ poetry
-loving Thursday

and to my RT: be still.

We’d like to learn a little bit about you for our files,

we’d like to help you learn to help yourself.

My dad knows every word to every Simon and Garfunkel song.  He also knows how to play all of their songs on guitar.  This makes me extremely happy, and warrants my seemingly inherent knowledge of their music and lyrics.  Anyway, when my parents and I were driving to meet my sister for dinner a couple weeks ago,  I put disc 2 of S&G’s “Old Friends Tour” CD in.  As the first chords of Mrs. Robinsonfilled the over-sized SUV, we all began to sing along.  I missed out on the family musical genes, but each of my parents were able to pick a part, my mom as Art and my dad as Paul, and I filled in somewhere in between.

Music flooded the car, and I was happy.  Just plain happy, and it was a beautiful thing.  As the crowd on the CD clapped, my mom made sure to remind me of how she could play all of their songs on a 12-string guitar. As Slip, Sliding Away came on, we reminisced about our unintentional off-road adventure a few years ago.  I went off the road and when we finally got back onto southbound 127, I put my mp3 player on shuffle all, and this song came up.  It was a nice reminder of God’s sense of humor.

I’ve come a long way from my angsty high-school days, and I really do appreciate my parents and am learning to let them appreciate me.  “Sail on, silver girl.”

My favorite Uncle Fred

So my dad has an identical twin brother, my favorite Uncle Fred.  He’s a pretty funny guy, quick-witted and has a sick sense of humor that only a VdP could appreciate.  Aside from the usual tom-foolery where he’ll publicly announce that I am his “favorite youngest niece” (a compliment hardly negated by the superlative), one of the most memorable of his antics occurred back in my soccer playing days.  Because he looks just like my dad–to most people, anyway–he would show up at my Saturday morning soccer games and grab a seat along the sidelines with the other parents.  The best days were the ones when my own parents weren’t at the game, and my uncle would be my best cheerleader.  He would pace the sidelines yelling, “Come on, Katy!  Run harder, ya slow-poke!”  or “Too bad you’re not actually good at soccer!”  Of course I can’t remember all of the insults that he hurled onto the field, but I certainly remember the looks of horror on the other parents’ faces, thinking that this critical man was my dad.  And that subverted humor is great.

Another thing that he provided me with is a heightened awareness of the abuses of everyone’s favorite pronoun: myself.  Most people like to interchange “myself” with “me” or “I.”  However, despite its pronoun label, “myself” (along with yourself, himself, herself, ourselves, themselves) is only ever to be used as either an emphatic or reflexive pronoun, never as a stand-alone pronoun.  For whatever reason, this nuisance has crept its way into our vernacular, perhaps for fear of formality.  Somehow saying “Please contact [so-and-so] or myself” sounds more formal than the correct “Please contact [so-and-so] or me.”

So, emphatic or reflexive?  Yes and yes.  To use “myself” emphatically means (you guessed it!) to add emphasis, as in, “I, myself, made all of those brownies!”  To use “myself” reflexively means to act as the direct object of the pronoun, as in “I gave the brownies to myself!”  And reflexively, the ”self”-ish pronoun has to match the pronoun of the sentence.

 Anyway, off my high-horse and on to the schoolwork that needs doing.  Oh, and about six more hours of America’s Next Top Model.  Whoa, second reference in a week!  Shout-out to Tyra! 

“The meatballs were literally the size of a baby’s head!” No, they weren’t.

I went to the dentist over break.  It blows my mind that the hygienist, who hasn’t seen me in a good six months, manages to ask me how specific classes are and if I’m still doing relief work in New Orleans.  This woman would be really good during Formal Recruitment, knowing random specific conversation starters and all.  Which brings me to my next point:  I don’t go to the dentist to have conversations.  I appreciate the family-feel of the office, where I have been going since I first sprouted teeth, but I don’t view the dentist as a social venue.  The sound of metal instruments scraping against my teeth and amplified inside of my head really doesn’t whip me into a verbal frenzy.

Without fail, when the dentist comes in to check my teeth after the hygienist is done, he breathes his smokey breath on me.  It makes me feel less guilty about checking “no” on the medical survey inquiry about my smoking habits.  Dr. Stuckey remembers that I go to Albion, and tells me for the seventh time about his daughter’s orientation at Albion years ago.  As it goes, the tour guide told them not to bother bringing white bedsheets because they would be orange by the time she graduated.  I chuckle at this and let him know it’s really not that bad.  He goes on to tell me about their plans to bottle Albion water from the tap and call it [in a poor French accent] “Al-bee-yon!“

In unrelated news, as I sit here drinking my orange juice and waiting for the first Advils of the day to kick in, I have to listen to this lady on the Today Show boast about how she “literally” did this and that.  This is one of my biggest pet peeves; if you did something, I already trust that it literally happened like that.  If you’re using a figure of speech, then what you’re saying is figurative, and by saying “literally,” you negate the figurative qualities of the description.  I know this figurative faux-pas really isn’t that distracting to everyone, but come on, folks!  It just sounds silly.

According to Patricia T. O’Conner, author of Woe Is I, The Grammarphobe’s Guide to Better English in Plain English, “literally.  This means actually or to the letter.  (Martha sprayed a dried bouquet with metallic paint, literally gilding the lily.)  Literally is often confused with figuratively, which means  metaphorically or imaginatively.  No one says figuratively, of course, because it doesn’t have enough oomph.  I am reminded of a news story, early in my editing career in Iowa, about a Pioneer Days celebration, complete with covered wagons and costumed “settlers.”  Our reporter proposed to say that spectators ‘were literally turned inside out and shot backwards in time.’  Gee, we should have sent a photographer along.”

 Oh, and toward, backward, forward, et cetera?  They never have an “s” on the end, unless you’re in England.  So when Tyra says, “Congratulations.  You’re still in the running towards becoming America’s Top Model,” it makes me feel like licking the beaters while the mixer is still on.  Literally!*

*just kidding, I would never do that.  That would hurt really badly!

Once we hit the top there’s just no stopping us

I’ve known my little Benny boy since the day he was born.  His family lived right next door to me, and I had the distinct pleasure of being able to babysit both him and his older sister, Zoe.  I’ve become somewhat of a staple in their lives, blurring the line between babysitter and family.  When Zoe was little, she used to ask me if I was her sister, her cousin, her what?  Today is Zoe’s sixth birthday, and Ben turned four back in November.  These kids have been the light of my life for a while, now.  It is so refreshing to show up at their front door when i’m home in GP and have two, giant bear-hugs waiting for me.  A nice show of unconditional love.

Anyway, here is one of my favourite interactions with Ben.

Ben:  ”Katy…will you be here when I wake up?”
Me: ”No, sorry little man.  I’ve gotta go home and sleep in my own bed tonight.”
Ben:  ”Okay…. but can you come back tomorrow and play with my larble tower and me, please?”
Me: ”Of course, dude!  Can I crank the marbles up?”
Ben:  ”Not marbles.  Larbles.”
Me: ”Oh, right.  But can I?”
Ben: ”Sure!”
Me: ”Okay, good night my Benny boy.  I love you.”
Ben: ”I love you, Katy.”

I just hope that when he’s a cool kid years from now he’ll still greet me with one of his famous giant bear hugs. 

When will we ride into Jerusalem?

Life on the home-front: entertaining, to say the least.  I was fortunate enough to have been treated to Jesus Christ Superstar today.  Strangely enough, Ted Neely, the rock opera enthusiast from Ranger, Texas (where my dad’s whole side of the family is from), played the starring roll of Jesus Christ.  I had some trouble wrapping my mind around this one.  Why, you might ask.  Well, simply because Neely played the starring roll of Christ in the 1970s cinematic production of the musical.  Now, I’m not too great at math and all, but the 70s were about 40 years ago.  Work with me on this one: Christ was supposedly in his 30s when he was crucified, and here we have a 60-something-year-old Neely rocking out as the JC.

His age was apparent today.  I can’t deny that I was a bit star-struck, sitting in the Fox Theatre and gazing adoringly at this lesser-known icon on stage.  The first words he belted out in his strong falsetto sounded just like the Jesus I know and love from the movie.  But as the musical progressed, it became quite obvious that Neely is, in fact, an old man.  I don’t know if they had him wearing a wig or not, but his hair was definitely quite thin and stringy.  I suppose I just need my Jesus to be consistent.  Give him tangled, stringy-looking desert hair but only if you make him 30.  Or let him rock out on an air guitar, but only if Judas is dressed like Steven Tyler.  Anyway, the show was lovely and the music was just fine, but I was expecting a lot more.  The last time they toured and I saw it at the Masonic Temple Theatre was far more entertaining.  I was impressed with Caiaphus’ imposing stature; Jesus’ reaction to the whippings; Judas’ hanging; and King Herod’s ability to actually perform a show-stopper.  Perhaps Neely should throw in the towel, and Andrew Lloyd Weber should be more eager to showcase his more recent musical miracles.

 Aside from my self-righteous and rather untimely (given the season– happy Palm Sunday!) review of JC Superstar, I’m pretty pleased to say that my dad drove into a Detroit city bus today and judged Mike Illitch based on poorly operating elevators in the Fox parking garage.  And now, we’re off to dinner, the entire VdP clan because we all happen to be in the Metro-Detroit area on the same day.

“Come oooooon, come out to dinner with us!  We weren’t even together for Christmas!  I miss you!  We’re totally in the Christmas spirit; we just saw the crucifixion!”

 That’s the buzz.  That’s what’s a-happenin’.

Home to me is reality, and all I need is something real

Without fail, when I need to feel grounded and renewed, I find a body of water.  Namely, I find Lake St. Claire.  This lake has long been a representation of reality for me.  Located about two miles from my house, I like knowing that the world ends somewhere so close.  Okay, it’s not that the world ends.  Obviously the great wonders of Ontario are on the other side.  But the lake has always appeared to go on into oblivion for me, even when I can see the sparkling lights of Windsor flickering across the water on a still, clear night.

Before I turned 16 and could acquire my own transportational freedom, I used to ride shot-gun for many a cruise up and down Lakeshore.  We would fly up and down the stretch of pavement, circling around in a median when the lake right outside the open windows gave way to million-dollar mansions and key-coded gates.  Then we would head back the other direction, long hair whipping wildly in the rush of wind and the music blaring loud enough so we couldn’t hear our own voices singing along.  In those days, we believed our mix tapes and strategic radio dialings were the soundtrack of our lives, the backdrop of some unwritten epic tale of our lives.  We were self-centered and compassionate, wholly devoted and completely unaware.  It’s a wonder we never once got pulled over for speeding, or violating noise ordinances.

As I grew older and acquired my own driver’s license, I would make solo trips up and down Lakeshore.  I would leave church on Sundays and turn right instead of left, transitioning from the stained-glass sanctuary to the beauty of a summer lake, bright blue with sunshine bouncing around on its surface.  I would leave work after closing on a school night and drift back and forth along the lake in my car, playing a CD with the words “for the moments I feel faint” scrawled across it.  It was in those quiet moments at the end of an especially long and hard day that I would open the windows, letting out the terrible smell of stale coffee and spilled syrups, and let the lyrics wash over me.  Tears would blur down my face and the lights off the lake would refract in all different directions, but I always knew the curves of the road and the timing of traffic lights.

The lake brings me back to earth, exists as a place where I am forced to slow down.  I know that I can only go so far before I can’t make it any further.  The lake stops me dead in my tracks and forces me to be still.  I get antsy when I’ve been away from the lake for too long, and I find it hard to deny my need for its reality check.  The Kalamazoo River is no good substitution for Lake St. Claire.

And so, as I am home this week I find myself being pulled to the lake daily.  I revel in the frozen white caps that have built upon each other, creating mini mountain ranges of ice just off shore.  I squint my eyes when the sun bounces off of the massive layer of white that stretches out almost to the freighter channel.  I remember the times I’ve sat by the waters with good friends, nearly exhausting ourselves of hours of conversation while we watch the sun rise.  I remember that I am not lost in the middle of nowhere with a million different directions I could pursue; I know where my limits are and I so appreciate this place I will always call home.