Jim and Ang

You could smell their place from the hallway. It was a mix of the oils Angela used in her freelance massaging and cooking smells, most specifically of garlic and olive oil. It was a lovely smell, guiding you down the garish pink hallway to their door.

The place itself was tiny. Open the door and there’s a small hallway with a bathroom off to the left. Keep walking (just a few steps) and to the left you’d see the pass-through to the 6’ x 6’ square kitchen with cupboards that went almost up to the ceiling. To the right was the living room. Since they were on a corner, two of the living room walls were tall windows, letting the big sky and sun in. Their bedroom, large enough to fit their double bed and a dresser, was behind the living room wall that was not windows. Of all the time I spent in that apartment, I had only seen the bedroom once or twice, even though there was no door. This proved the mastery Jim and Angela possessed with their space; it was both a gathering place and a sanctuary, a true nest.

Angela made the most amazing salads, fixed with greens and an odd cheese she’d picked up while working at the co-op, dried cranberries and oranges. I still regret not asking her at the time what dressing she used, as it was light and wonderful and I’m sure she wouldn’t know now if I asked. Jim spoke of rhetoric and the lighting in a film as if it were the most important thing in the world, which it was as it was his art. Angela had plastic spread over one of the walls, canvases splayed out, brushes and paints in various glasses on the floor. She had ceramic dishes that she made herself; I am lucky to own a glass of hers that is in frequent rotation, that I sometimes hold in both hands to channel their spirits from across the ocean.

One of the first times I was there, Jim pulled a green bottle with a yellow label out of the freezer and filled a small ceramic container in the shape of an elongated tea kettle, the spout reaching down to the bottom and arching out, no more than four inches tall. He handed it to me, telling me to sip from the spout, allowing the liquor to play out on my tongue and to breathe in, letting the air cool back into my throat. This was my first experience with Becherovka, a Czech liquor Jim had become fond of while in the mist of an overseas teaching stint. I only buy around a bottle a year (it lasts me that long), but I have not been without one since.

When the Cheneys came to town to give a speech at Cabela’s, we gathered at Jim and Ang’s to compare signs and write protest slogans on t-shirts before marching across the bridge to wait for the Cheney limo to start yelling. When we wanted to see the premiere of a locally-made film at the Empire (a film that included the infamous line, “I love her! But I hate her. But I love her!!), we met at Jim and Ang’s for dinner, an organic roasted chicken. Before we went to the drag show we met at Jim and Ang’s to have a few drinks and turn the music up; their stereo was old, but the acoustics were perfect and the night sky was so close through their windows. When it was time for them to travel away from us, as happens in this life, we met at their place, their small amount of stuff packed up, where we took pictures and hugged. They left, my friend Adam left, and I left, and the words “¡Viva la revolución!”, said over coffee in a small town, still ring in my ears.

Left Alone

My ears strained. It wasn’t completely dark in my room; a nightlight shone through a wicker chair, creating a spider web shadow on my yellow walls. I rolled over on my back and opened my eyes, watching the spider web and listening.

It was always so quiet, and my room was in the top corner of the house, far away from the possibility of noise filtering up the stairway. My hand drifted up to my mouth, forming a loose fist and thumb sticking out, not to suck, but to chew. I found a hangnail on the side and began working, slowly pulling a small ribbon of skin away, still listening, the house still silent. I spit out the skin and started again on the millimeter ridge left by the previous tear.

What would happen if I went to sleep and when I woke up, everyone in the world had disappeared? I pulled my thumb away from my teeth and bent it towards my palm, using the nails on the other fingers to pick away. What would I eat? Who would take care of me? Would there still be water? I gripped my brown Pound Puppy closer to my body, and as the tears started to come, I put my thumb back to my mouth and tasted blood. Who would I talk to? Why would God do that to me? My chest tightened, and I understood the concept of personal hell as the tears slid down my face.

I couldn’t stand it anymore, so I sat up, quietly got out of bed and crept down the hall and down the first couple of stairs. I knelt down, peeking into the living room. Nothing. The light was on but the T.V. wasn’t, and the tears drying on my face were cold. I strained my neck, quietly panicking, to see down the hall and into the kitchen. Nothing… but then, there! Dad walked through, heading back to the basement. He didn’t see me, or he’d want to know why wasn’t in bed. Relief washed over me; for that night, anyway, I was safe.

Teeth

My aunt had all of her teeth pulled out except for her front top four. She had to have them pulled because she has throat cancer, and apparently it can cause a great deal of dental problems when someone is getting chemo and radiation in the mouth and there are teeth in the way. She had all of her teeth pulled out a couple of weeks before she started her chemo and radiation, which she calls rat poison and sun tanning, to give her gums time to heal. She’s like 65, but she had all of her original teeth.

I wonder what I would say or think if I had to have all of my teeth pulled out, teeth that had been with me for so long and had nothing wrong with them. I think about the holes that would be left, and the stuffing that would fill those holes, and the nerves that would have to be subdued, and the diet that would consist of liquid or near liquid foods for the next year, because that’s how long it will take before she can get dentures.

I think about going into the dentist, sitting in the waiting room, running my tongue along my teeth, loving my teeth, feeling every contour. Going into the dentist’s chair, making sure that they give me laughing gas and Novocain, and plenty of both, to keep me loopy and not caring what was happening with my teeth. Coming out of it and not looking at what was left. Can I keep the teeth? What the hell do I want them for? Thinking about the big picture: they didn’t remove all of my teeth to be cruel, they’re helping me live. The big picture would have to be the focus; thinking about the day-to-day living would create insanity. No teeth, save the front four. No teeth.

When I think about that, I go upstairs and load up my toothbrush and brush quietly, thoughtfully, thoroughly. I concentrate on all surfaces of my teeth, brush up and down, sideways, and in circles. I make sure I hit the wisdom teeth that are quietly and slowly emerging in the back of my mouth, make sure I get the back of my bottom front teeth. I scrub gently. I spit and keep scrubbing, and rinse. I thoughtfully floss, making sure to really scrape each side of the tooth, rather than my usual hurried dip into the gum bed and onto the next set. I use mouthwash, and Listerine, no less. I swirl for a long time, a minute or more, and my eyes are running and my tongue shrinks onto itself, and when I spit and inspect, the teeth glow and my pink gums, the ones that my last dentist called “so lovely,” which was about the best compliment I had gotten in a long time, gripped onto my teeth, mooring them in place. Brushing never seemed like an act of respect until now.

A Sovereign Nation

This past spring and summer I had the pleasure of spending my time with a real hottie. He had gorgeous dark eyes and a shaved head, and we had a good time. I swore to myself that if I couldn’t make a go of it with him, I needed a break from relationships.

Listen. I have a lot of stuff figured out in my life, but romantic love is not one of them. It’s amazingly easy to accomplish goals: create a set of steps and work your ass off until you get what you want. Applying that simple rule to another person, however, is proving far more difficult.

My lack of relationship is not for lack of trying, nor is it for lack of variety. My mother has consistently said she has been stunned by my ability to pick all kinds of guys. I’ve dated older guys and younger guys. Republicans and democrats. Never been married and divorcees. Guys with kids. Guys who ARE kids. One guy lived halfway across the country. Two guys are now gay. Fat and tall, short and small. Relationships have lasted anywhere from a couple of months to three years. Some are now friends. Some are, essentially, dead to me.

The fact is, though, I’ve never purposely taken time off from the dudes. So when the shit (inevitably) hit the fan with the most recent guy, I made myself a promise: No relationships until 2007. This was the middle of the summer; I figured six months was enough time to clear my head and focus in on what I really want.

The problem, however, is that I’m four months into my Sovereign Nation status and I still have no idea what I want. I’m starting to think that the reality is that there is no, cliché as it sounds, Mr. Perfecto. As a matter of fact, I’m SURE he doesn’t exist, and that my general rule for goal accomplishment would, indeed, work for relationships. It’s simply a matter of finding a guy for whom I am willing to work my ass off.

While I’m currently going out on random dates, nothing serious is happening. Sovereign Nation status stands, but come 1/1/2007, the Great Wall is coming down, and I’m sure I’ll find another completely different guy to have fun with. Maybe I’ll let my parents choose the next one… until then, as my friend Mike says, “I believe in the power of one.”

The Hub

“Well, what we’re really talking about here is vagina dentada and penis elongata.”

I almost choked on my Amber Bock. Brian, his buffalo burger halfway to his lips, froze. Bjorn was mid-puff on his corn-cob pipe, and the smoke curled slowly towards the water-stained ceiling panels. He busted out laughing, slapping Kerry on the back.

“What?” said Kerry, feigning innocence. “That’s really all it comes down to.”

“I’m sorry,” I said, “Could you repeat that?”

“It all comes down to vagina dentada and penis elongata.”

I cracked up. It’s a typical Dead Cow night, and I’m surrounded by guys who are at least ten years my senior. Coworkers. The bar is downtown, or what is called the downtown. We’re not in some sprawling urban city, though; the reality is that this place has apparently become better after the flood (which is really hearsay; I wasn’t there for it), but it’s not great. Like Anyone in Anycity, America, I had found my few haunts: the co-op, where they cook up a mean curried beet stew; the coffee shop, where the coffee gave me indigestion but the location made it convenient, and this bar. I don’t know that I can say I was a real Regular there, because the bartenders didn’t know my name, but they definitely recognized me, which was, as far as I was concerned, good enough.

The bar was smallish, tables on one side, bar on the other with tables and a dart board in the front and tables, juke box, pool table, and bathrooms in the back. The menu was small but surprisingly diverse; I was surprised to see a Chef salad, quesadillas, and buffalo burgers all on the same menu. My favorite was the grilled chicken, though, with fries, cooked to the perfect tenderness. Top that off with a couple of Amber Bocks and you’ve got a gut bomb for sure, but well worth it.

These guys helped me keep my sanity in a city where I truly did not belong. It’s a place that you love because you were born there; you stay because you’ve married someone who doesn’t want to go, or you resolve to “stick around until…” and then you’re dead. I wasn’t born there, I had no family there, I was not married, but it contained my livelihood, a teaching job, as well as a school full of wonderful quirks, not the least of which were this group of dudes surrounding me now.

If you’ve never moved to a place that is completely foreign to you and where the people are strangers, I encourage you to have that experience. I don’t know where else I could discuss the virtues of Joseph Campbell, sub-zero winter camping, Norwegian language, and the newest weird student excuse within the same conversation. The commonality among us was certainly not our ages, genders, or even the school in which we all taught; it was, in its purest sense, the perfect mix of personalities. We argued, we laughed, we vented, and dammit, you don’t find that with just anyone. I love where I’m at right now. But I miss those guys and their pipe-smoking, beady-eyed vegetarian teasing, flannel shirt wearing, liberal-loving ways.

My True Feelings: Gay Marriage

I'm a huge fan of Minnesota Public Radio. Yeah, yeah, I know that it's a bit fluffy and CNN-esque, and I know that it has its journalistic issues, but since there are no subscribers to Pacifica radio (that I know of) in Minnesota, I blast MPR while I'm showering, while I'm getting ready, when I'm cleaning, when I'm in the car... I'm a little obsessed. I even contributed to the capital campaign they had last week, which is almost a miracle since I'm a thrifty gal.

Anyway, it was through MPR that I really started thinking about Morals. Of course, it is never so simple as morals themselves; often, the conversations on MPR that set me to a'ponderin' are those concerning the Conservatives, or, more specifically, the "Moral" Right (quotes intended to provide subtle snarkiness). The M.R. is convinced of their spiritual aptitude, which is usually (loosely) based on interpretations of Christianity that are probably pissing God himself right off.

Now, listen. I'm not going to get into some stupid rant about how they've got it all wrong about x, y, and z issues and how ironic it is that they call themselves the moral right even though they're not, yadda yadda. Instead, onwards to what has really got me thinking, most specifically about gay marriage: aren't they simply trying to slow down the inevitable?

When I think about all the progressive human rights issues that have been raised in the past centuries in our country, especially those issues that have "movement" attached to them, how many of those have NOT resulted in the group receiving the rights it has sought? I don't claim to be some huge history buff, but I'm hard pressed to think of movements that have not at the very least caused some sort of positive change in the lives of those affected. Let me be clear, though; the issue that my thinking is focused on is gay marriage, and for two reasons: it gets my blood boiling, and the GOP will be using it to drag out all the homophobes to the polls (was that a bit harsh?? Oops.).

So, despite popular resistance, GLBT folk have enjoyed more openness, acceptance, and quality of life than they have in the past, at least from my perspective. This is good. What I can't help but wonder, though, is if the GOP is trying to stop a wild horse (that'd be gay marriage) with a single twist-tie-- isn't it a bit late? Perhaps they will be successful in getting some Constitutional amendments banning gay marriage in some states, but do they actually think that would stop the momentum? It's possible that, twenty to thirty years from now, issues such as healthcare, the minimum wage, and retirement might be deemed slightly more important than limiting people's personal freedoms, and the Moral Right will look back and wonder why they wasted so much energy on an issue that would so quickly become moot anyway.

I remember during "Decision: 2004" when I was living in Grand Forks. One of the conservative senate candidates had an ad against gay marriage. It showed scenes of happy brides and grooms with a voiceover describing the sanctity of marriage. Then, the voice became lower and deeper, stating, "...but SOME people think that a marriage could be between people of the same sex...", and we see a picture of two smiling grooms (the horror!); the voice then goes on to say, "If this happens... who knows WHERE it would end!" and the last scene shows a picture of a goth bride, groom, and GOAT.

Needless to say, I was positively gobsmacked. More importantly, though, this example illustrates the ridiculousness of the Moral Right's argument. The reliance on logical fallacies such as the slippery slope and appeal to tradition does not an effective argument make, or, more to the point, the Moral Right is simply too late. The seed has been planted, and it might not happen today, it might not happen tomorrow, but some day, gay marriage will be no biggie, and instead of posting on my blog about it, I'll head out to the DQ and partake in a pumpkin pie blizzard. That'll be a great day: human rights AND ice cream.

(P.S. That's for you, Joel. Thanks.)

Trip to "Missourah"

I haven't been anywhere cool lately. I want to get that out of the way, right away. Any trips I have taken in the past year have been in the area or for conferences, which put me in the middle of Nebraska last year, and this year slapped me down in St. Charles, Missouri.

If you've never heard of St. Charles, don't fear. I hadn't heard of it, either. It's about twenty minutes outside of St. Louis, and if you didn't know that it's where Louis and Clark shoved off or that it was the first capital city of Missouri, well, now you do. Instead of waxing on about the conference, though, or my distaste of keynote speakers, I'd like to focus on a special aspect of St. Charles. It's called "Old Main Street." Sounds a little cliche, huh? Generally I would agree, but this Old Main Street is actually on the national register of historic places and was, true to its name, historic-y. (Yes, I made that word up.)

Old Main Street has several buildings that are original, e.g. from the 1700's, and the others are newer, but maintain the historic flavor. There are gas lights that line the street, and the road and sidewalk are an uneven brick. Stores and restaurants are housed in these buildings, and the Missouri River runs parallel to them, a block away.

Sounds ambient, right? Right, until you actually go in the stores. I was hoping that I could use words like "funky" and "eclectic" to describe them, but I am afraid that these stores had all manner of country kitsch. You know, lots of painted wood and raffia. Very distressing. There were a couple of decent places, though, and I managed to score some beads and a pair of socks before I had to wander back to the hotel.

More important than shopping, though, was that I got the chance to see a new place, and a place I would never think of visiting were it not for the conference. It helps convince me that there are plenty of great things to see right here in the good ol' U-S-of-A, which makes me feel better that I haven't gotten to Morocco yet, or even my newest desired vacation spot, St. John's, Newfoundland (that'll be another post).