Oh Baumkuchen, O Baumkuchen

Christmas is a time of family tradition, and my family Christmas is not short of them. On my mom's side, we have the tradition of eating ham and deviled eggs while we all open our gifts at the same time in a frenzy. There was one year that my mom tried to establish some order to the holiday by having each person open one gift at a time, but this quickly degenerated into the usual haphazard shredding of holiday paper while thank-yous were shouted across the room. I guess you can't change tradition.
The tradition on my dad's side is completely different and very one-dimensional. Christmases with Oma completely revolve around the fact that we are German. My dad is only half German, which leaves my brother and I at a quarter German, but this doesn't hinder our feast of spaetzel and saurkraut. Every year, my mom hides a picle ornament in the tree, promising a special present for the first child who finds it. After much pushing and shoving between my brother and I, someone finds the pickle and Mom backs out of the present reward because she never had one in the first place.
When I was very little, my Christmas outfit was not the traditional red satin and white lace dress that most little girls wore. I wore a durndel, and Oma had a matching one. Somehow, my brother escaped wearing leiderhosen, but that might be because by the time he was born, Oma could no longer fit into her durndel, so traditional German garb was no longer required. Once I got older and learned to play the piano, the most dreaded German tradition was started--as I fumbled around Oma's untuned piano, searching for a key that wouldn't cause everyone's voices to crack, the rest of my family stood around the piano to sing Silent Night in German. Well, really, Oma would sing, Dad would mumble, Mom would turn the pages of the sheet music for me, and Alex would giggle. I'm sure our rendition of Still Nacht leaves the neighborhood dogs howling, but we can't hear them over Oma's strained soprano and Dad's attempt at remembering his high school German.
Though our Christmas seems as German-filled as the Haufbrauhaus, it has toned down since my dad's childhood, when every pastry and every toy ended in an unpronounceable suffix. My father does not miss most of the old tradition, but one thing that he has mentioned every Christmas is Baumkuchen--tree cake. For years, my mother has searched every bakery and website for Baumkuchen in order to reignite my father's childhood memories. No one except Dad and Oma knew what a Baumkuchen was, so the search was especially difficult. This year, however, my mom was finally successful in her German pastry quest. She called me and said, "You'll never believe what I found for dad!" I knew right away that it was baumkuchen, not because I'm really good at guessing, but because she told me she had found it at the German market in downtown Akron. Unless she was planning on getting my dad another pickle ornament, it had to be a baumkuchen. However, as fate would have it, this was also the year that my dad would occasionally spend half his work days surfing the internet. And of course, he stumbled upon a bakery in Toronto that sold baumkuchen. He brought one home to surprise my mom, who put on an award-winning performance, acting shocked that he had found this endangered German cake. It was a like the Gift of the Maji story, except with cake and less irony.
When Oma came over a couple days before Christmas, Dad said he had a surprise for her, "Something that will bring back some memories." "Is it a baumkuchen?" Oma said, hopefully. She guessed what it was so quickly, I began to think that maybe this cake was more central to their holidays of past than I had previously thought. I imagined everyone in leidherhosen and durndels, dancing around the baumkuchen to tuba and accordion music. This probably didn't happen, but I'll keep it in mind for a potential new tradition.
Dad took the cake out of a gold box. It was not shaped like a Christmas tree, like I had expected, and it was not very colorful or particularly tasty looking either. "I wonder if it will have that almond flavor that I remember," Oma said, a twinkling Star of David in her eye. "Well let's have some and find out!" Dad said, cutting a ring off this magical German tree cake. We each took a small piece--it was very thick and pretty good, but not legendary. After a few moments of silence while we all tasted the baumkuchen, Oma said, "Well, it's more about the tradition and the memories than it is the taste." Dad agreed, saying, "Yeah, this is a good memory."

The Thanksgiving Pimp

Thanksgiving at my house is always a great day of family togetherness. My brother and I are the only kids, as we have no first cousins, so everyone else aside from my parents is kind of old. The ages range from 17 to 93, and the food shows it. Each year, the food gets a little mushier, the dinner starts a little earlier, and it's only a matter of time before half of the dinner guests are enjoying their Thanksgiving feast intravenously. I'm thankful to be able to celebrate Thanksgiving with all my family members, but just like any family, they are a bit quirky.
My only job on Thanksgiving is to make the cranberry sauce. It takes about 5 minutes and the directions are right on the bag, so it's the only job at my level of cooking. I thought everyone enjoyed having real cranberry sauce, but I found out this year that I have basically been the only one eating it and that all the other family members prefer the canned crap. This just means more cranberry sauce for me, which I don't mind.
The Thanksgiving hijinks started before the grandparents even got there, when my brother came downstairs dressed as the Thanksgiving Pimp. The Thanksgiving Pimp is a character beloved by all. His job is to usher in the "ho ho hos" for the Christmas season. It entails my brother wearing an undershirt, his suit jacket, and a black fedora until my dad and I make fun of him enough that he changes into normal clothes. This is a new tradition starting this year. I don't know if it will make it to 2009, since Oma didn't really appreciate me calling my brother a "suburban pimp".
The day's festivities continued when all the old folks started showing up. As soon as Oma walked in the door, she approached my diabetic grandfather with a brand new blood sugar meter. She wanted to know how to use it (and was shocked that she would actually have to draw blood) and the two of them sat in the living room trying to figure the piece of equipment out for 2 hours before even glancing at the instructions.
The food was delicious as usual. At the end of the meal, Oma wanted a family photo. She spent about 15 minutes trying to chase down the dog to get him in the picture, but since he is also old and basically deaf, he refused to participate in the photo session. Instead, unbeknownst to anyone, the dog ate an entire plate of chocolate truffles. This is how we found out a great way to get rid of relatives on a holiday--have your dog puke all over the house. Once people had to watch their step for fear of treading in something unpleasant, it was time for everyone to go and the holiday was over. Another way to get rid of relatives (well, really just Oma) is to put in a movie. She hates the talkies.
My favorite part of Thanksgiving this year was the stuffing and the Thanksgiving Pimp. I hope both make a reappearance for Christmas

Classroom Rules

With the hectic class schedule that some Notre Dame students undertake, I can understand not having time to have a meal in between classes. While snacking is perfectly acceptable, there are certain foods that people should refrain from eating in a classroom setting.
Here is an incomplete list of acceptable classroom foods:
Bagel
Coffee
Any drink from a vending machine
Gummy candy
Crackers
Most baked goods*
Small sandwiches

*coffee cake or any other particularly messy and crumbly baked good is not acceptable

This list may not provide the healthiest food options, but it's not all that good for you to be eating on the run, either, and eating the above listed foods is a lot better than eating the follow:

Unacceptable classroom foods, most of which I have actually seen people eating in class:
Banana
Baked potato
2 liter bottle of Mountain Dew
Popsicle
Salisbury steak
Pop Rocks
Celery, apples, or any other very crunchy food
Pizza

Maybe I'm being picky, but loud foods or food items that require multiple utensils are really distracting and kind of disgusting to sit next to.

While we're on the subject of classroom pet peeves...
To those who bring computers to class--please be mindful of your desktop image. If you have a laptop, I will definitely look at it because your game of solitaire and/or your AIM conversation is much more interesting than the lecture going on. However, it's a little strange to gaze upon an image of a half-naked lady or an official Hanson brothers fan club photo sitting right there on your computer for all to see. Obviously, you have chosen this photo because you like to look at it a lot. You see your desktop several times a day, so it only follows that you really like to look at pictures of the Olsen twins as often as possible. But to those sitting around you, your desktop is an unsolicited peek into your personal life. I didn't really care to know that you were into busty blondes or that you have a special affinity for babies dressed as vegetables. So to all the laptop carriers out there, please be kind to your classmates and maybe choose one of the default desktops, or at least something we can all enjoy, like a picture of George Clooney or some puppies in a basket.

Do Helicopters Eat Their Young?

This year, I returned to the world of boxing. I have fought my final boxing match (after fighting with recsports...a story too long and frustrating for this blog) and am now a retired boxer. This is probably a good thing considering I couldn't handle simple EMT checks after sparring rounds.

Before we fight in an actual match, we have to spar, which is like a match, but not scored and more controlled. The EMT's are present for all sparring matches to attend to each bloody nose and black eye. Their main job is to check each fighter for brain damage immediately after sparring. Even though I've done this plenty of times before, I forgot the standard procedure.
After my first sparring match, I was brought over to a young EMT guy. As he sprayed my gloves with disinfectant and I wiped sweat off my forehead with my ponytail, he asked, "Do you know what today is?" Anyone else would automatically realize that this question was aimed at gauging my brain capacity. I, however, took it as Mr. EMT trying to be coy. I never pass up the opportunity for coyness, so I replied "I dunno, Canadian Thanksgiving?" Mr. EMT was not charmed. "No, I mean today's date." Immediately, I realize my mistake. I could have easily overcome this by giving the man the date, but I was flustered and could not for the life of me even recall the season. "Just the day of the week will do," he said, checking to see if my pupils were dialated. "Tuesday! It's Tuesday!" I finally managed to spit out. "Ok, I'm going to have to ask you another question." I could tell Mr. EMT was a bit concerned. I was pretty sure I didn't have brain damage, but I guess it wouldn't hurt to ask another question. He went with this one: "Do helicopters eat their young?" Well this was easy! I knew the answer to this one! "No! Hamsters do!" Turns out you don't get bonus points in the concussion check for giving out fun facts. Mr. EMT chuckled, handed me my gear, and sent me on my way. I like to think that I managed to insert my coy charm in the end of that exchange. Mr. EMT probably likes to think that its ok sending a potentially concussed young woman back into the boxing training room. It's a win-win situation.


There is one more anecdote that is completely unrelated to the above, but I feel needs to be told. I risk telling a "you just needed to be there" story, but I think I'll take that chance.
At dinner with some friends tonight, I told Emma that I had been to my latest boy's house and met his two Siamese cats. Emma immediately responded with "Oh my God, they're attached!?" immediately after which, her face dropped as she realized what she had just said. It was a great moment in cat breed/human condition confusion history.

Text From: Dad Cell

I'm always impressed when someone's parents know how to text. I've tried to teach mine, but have only been successful with my dad. My mom decided she needed to learn to text after hearing a news story where a girl who had been kidnapped or something let her parents know where she was via text message. After unsuccessfully sending some blank texts, my mom decided that I was too old to get kidnapped anyway and gave up on the whole text message thing. My dad, on the other hand, has joined modern times and, with lots of practiced, has mastered texting. At first, his messages were a little jumbled since he couldn't find any punctuation or backspace keys. This caused me to get messages like:
"Mom and Janet are at Beechywood mall oh no shopping loveljoo"
My dad's text messaging skills have much improved since then, but the content of the messages is still kind of strange. To fully understand this, you must first know a couple things about my father:
1) He loves trashy reality TV Nevermind that networks such as E! and VH1 target audiences of women and gay men, my dad can't get enough of Rock of Love or Dr. 90210. After watching the season finale of Tila Tequila by myself, I needed to talk to someone about how crazy it was. Naturally, I called my dad, who answered the phone with "Did you just WATCH that??? How GREAT was that?! Tila is SUCH wreck!" Comparing notes on The Girls Next Door may seem like a strange father-daughter activity, but we are really just arguing about who really loves Heff and who is just in it for the money (we have come to the agreement that Holly really does care about Heff and Kendra is just a tramp). At family dinners, it is pretty nice to have someone with whom to discuss the girls of Flavor of Love. There are some shows that I don't even watch that my dad enthusiastically fills me in on, like Gene Simmon's Family Jewels. Now that you understand (or at least are aware of) my dad's love of trash TV, you might expect that I get some trash TV themed text messages. The other day, while doing homework, I received this one from him:
"Did you see the season premiere of Dr. 90210?"
I had not seen it, but after calling him, he recounted the tales of Dr. Rey and his wife to me, insisting that I watch the episode sometime. You would think that would be the end of the Dr. 90210 texts for a bit, but the texts seemed to take on a plastic surgery theme.
Dad: "am playing golf and almost just got hit"
Me: "be careful!"
Dad: "No kidding. If I am disfigured I will have to call Dr. Rey"
Fortunately, no reality TV show doctors needed to be called, though I'm sure my dad would have been thrilled to meet the real Dr. Rey

2) My dad tells really corny jokes. Everyone's dad tell really corny jokes. When these "dad jokes" are condensed into text messages, they become that much more ridiculous. Here is the most recent text conversation between my dad and me:
Me: I got my first boxing bloody nose of the season
Dad: Great. What did the other girl look like?
Me: Bloody mouth
Dad: Awesome. I will have a piece of apple pie in your honor
Me: You were going to have pie anyway
Dad: You are right but now I will have two pieces.
I don't really know what eating apple pie has to do with a family member's athleticism, but I think my dad really needed an excuse to eat pie.

3) My dad is sometimes really inappropriate, hence this text:
"I am eating pizza at stumpys with the geezers and stumpy is our waiter"
Stumpys is a pizza joint in Port Clinton and that's not actually its name. Stumpy is the owner of the pizza place, and that is not actually the man's name. My dad refers to him as Stumpy because he has one arm. He is surprisingly agile with his incomplete arm when it comes to carrying pizzas. "Geezers" is what my dad affectionately calls his friends.

Texting is a wonderful thing, especially when it comes to communicating with my dad. It condenses all his strange characteristics into compact little messages. At least I know that if I get kidnapped, I'll have a text message from my dad to make me smile.


*Note: After my dad read this, he sent me this text:
"I hope you know second semester isn't paid yet"
I didn't have to take this post down because the next text he sent was:
"I liked it. you are still in my will. love, dad"

America's Favorite Cookie

Many would say that the Oreo is the most American cookie. The blue packaging boasts in big white bubble letters that the Oreo is “America’s Favorite Cookie.” The commercials for the cream and chocolate sandwiches show families delighting in dunking the cookies in a tall glass of milk. Older ad-campaigns gave the cookies magical qualities, spreading the mystique that those who got the half of the Oreo with the most cream could get a wish granted. The treat has even garnered its own song, “The White Stuff”, in the form of a parody of a New Kids on the Block song. Nothing could be more wholesome, more white, more American, than an Oreo cookie.
My family is big into Oreos. They are always in the car on road trips, are a staple of summer picnics, have a place on the table for holiday parties, and can be found stashed away in the most unusual corners of the house. Oreos are always on hand, so I suppose it was always assumed that everyone in my family enjoyed the treat. I don’t know why my mother never noticed that I hadn’t been eating the Oreos from the kitchen cupboard. My brother was two young to be eating solids and I had no other siblings or cousins. I guess having kids comes with the same excuse perks as having a dog. You can blame bad smells on dogs, and you can blame the disappearance of sweets on children.
I don’t know what it is about the Oreo, but other cookies have always been much higher on my list. The fake, flakey cream with the processed chocolate wafer doesn’t satisfy my craving for baked goods (probably because the Oreo is neither baked nor good). I’d much prefer an old-fashion chocolate chip cookie, but perhaps my love of the French Nestle is what made my mother call me unpatriotic.
One day, when having a picnic with my mother in the backyard, she offered me an Oreo. My 3-year-old self decided this was the as good an opportunity as any to tell my mom that the Oreo-loving gene had not been passed on to me. I refused the Oreo and said “I don’t like Oreos.” There, it was out. Now she could stop shoving that chocolate-flavored cardboard down my throat and buy me some Chips Ahoy. However, my declaration of Oreo-independence did not go over as smoothly as I had hoped.
“You know,” she said calmly, separating the cookie halves of her Oreo and inspecting which side had more cream, “Oreos are American. If they find out that you don’t like Oreos, they can kick you out of America.”
Much like an Oreo disintegrating in milk, my world crumbled around me. Kicked out of America? Where would I go? What would I do without my family? I don’t know anyone who’s not in America! I believe this whole experience was my first memory. Ironically, it was also my first time feeling impending abandonment.
Of course, my mom was just being sarcastic. However, my 3-year-old brain could not really process the subtleties of sarcasm yet, so imbedded in my subconscious to this day is a strong link between patriotism and Oreos. I’ve always recognized my dislike for Oreos, but it took until I was in college to recognize that I still eat them whenever they are offered. I guess I still have this fear of someone finding out that I do not like “America’s Favorite Cookie” and subsequently being deported. Looking back, at every road trip, picnic, school function, sleepover, First Communion, and school lunch, Oreos have been present and I have disdainfully, but patriotically, eaten them.
My neurotic eating of Oreos has subsided partly because I now realize that I will not lose citizenship because of my cookie preference, but mostly because the slogan for Oreo has changed to “World’s Favorite Cookie.” They can’t very well kick me out of the world. However, if they ever get that community on the moon up and running, I will be back to publicly eating Oreos and secretly despising them. But knowing my family, when we travel in our spaceship to the moon, Oreos will be in the cargo space right along with the moon-shoes and spacesuits.

Sucky Charms

The day I moved out of Vail to head back to Ohio, I was, as usual, running late. Oscar was getting into the Denver airport at 2:00 to help me drive back and my plan to leave Vail at noon fell through when I decided that I needed one last slice of high altitude pizza. I ended up not starting out on the 2 hour drive to the Denver airport until 1:30 and was in such a rush that I forgot my drivers license in the washing machine (my usual storage place for important documents). I sped down Matterhorn Rd., leaving my neighborhood fondly known as “Matterhood”, past the Gore Creek, onto route 70, and drove away with the mountains at my back. After I had passed all those familiar exits and reached cruising speed on my way over Vail pass, I finally relaxed from my hectic exit. I took a deep breath, took one last look at the mountain range through my rearview mirror, and it finally hit me—I had escaped Vail. What in May seemed like an impossible summer at a blasé company in a hippy town where I would be expected to camp turned out to be a fairly fun summer with some crazy kids at a hard-working company where I would learn a lot. Nonetheless, I was thrilled to be going home. I yelled out a “woohoo!”, blew those mountains a Hollywood kiss, and sped off for Denver. About 5 seconds after this I hit a rain pocket, slowing all driving to a near crawl. The “goodbye, mountains” gesture would have been a lot cooler if I could have actually sped away.

There are a few things about Vail that I get a bit nostalgic about, because I know I will not experience them anywhere else. The intern house, for instance, is probably/hopefully the closest I will come to living as an actual peasant. I suppose the problems with the house were part of its charm. It was kind of fun, grabbing a piece of foil from the kitchen to stick in the door of the dryer so it would work and then crossing your fingers that your clothes would actually come out dry. Since the dishwasher flooded the kitchen with soapy water every time it ran, it also served as a convenient floor cleaner. This feature especially came in handy during parties. During the last intern house party, someone spilled a beer on the kitchen floor. Instead of grabbing some paper towels, my roommate Chris pointed at the dishwasher and shouted “Run that thang!” I wasn’t really in the mood for a foam party, so I opted for the paper towels, but the running the dishwasher to clean up a spill was definitely a viable option. The only problem is that the water made the floor expand, causing the tiles to crack and pop out of the floor. Instead of picking them up and throwing them away, we all found it better to play a never-ending game of soccer with these tile pieces. The bugs in the house also gave it some character. It made the house feel like a cabin or a garbage can. Tiny flies gathered all over the kitchen and then would stick to the wall to die. There was a whole tiny fly graveyard on the wall above the sink. I’m sure they chose that spot as their final resting place because of the beautiful views of piles of unwashed dishes coated in various Mexican dishes from weeks before.

The house could have been a lot worse, and I guess it was. Soon after I arrived there, the oven door, which had been shattered, was replaced. The heat, which never shut off, was also fixed during my stay. And right before I got there, the crazy neighbors were evicted for stabbing each other with a lamp. I really should be thankful for the pit I lived in. Considering the location, its probably the world’s most expensive junk heap.

Another thing that Vail has that is really lacking in the rest of the country is hitchhikers. I didn’t realize that people still did this, especially with all the urban legends you hear warning you against it. But Vail is a town stuck in the past—they love the old West, Native Americans, and hitchhikers. I saw about 2-3 hitchhikers a week. Vail has a pretty good free public transportation system, so I really don’t know why hitching is so popular, but I guess it is a bit more intimately social than taking the bus. I really only became aware of the popularity of hitchhiking when a coworker, Drew, brought it to my attention. One of the many perks of living in the intern house not knowing who will be sleeping on your couch that morning. As I groggily trudged downstairs to grab a breakfast shake before heading to work at 7 am, I noticed that Drew was just waking up from his night on the thrift-store couch. I offered him a ride to his house, but he refused, saying he would just hitchhike back. I thought he was kidding, but he assured me that it was a reasonable transportation option and that people around Vail were nice enough to pick people up. Sure enough, he got a ride back, and I started noticing hitchhikers everywhere. There was a teenager with a skateboard begging a ride at the front of my neighborhood. A businessman in a suit stood at the entrance of the highway with his thumb out. I never picked up one of these strangers. Vail residents might be nice enough to give these people a ride to the next town, but I’m from Ohio and I know that any one of them could be a serial killer.

Vail is a great place to go if you aspire to be an alcoholic or if you are looking to live in a community for alcoholism is accepted. As you drive into Vail on the highway, you start to notice bright orange signs advising against drinking and driving. When you are officially in Vail, these signs occur about every mile. I don’t doubt that Vail residents play a drinking game while driving on the highway where each person in the car takes a shot upon spotting one of these anti-drinking signs. Though there is a lot to do in Vail during the day if you’re into extreme physical exertion, there’s not much to do at night. There is one movie theater about 15 miles away and no bowling alley, but there are plenty of bars. Each night has a different “it bar” to go to. For example, Sunday and Monday are devoted to open-mic nights, White Trash Wednesday is a local fave at Sandbar, and on Fridays, you can go to the top of the mountain, where all there is a trampoline and drink specials. Vail obviously has a drinking problem. The rest of Colorado needs to stage an intervention. Maybe the alcoholism is part of its charm. If everyone was sober, maybe they would leave Vail, too.

Despite all the “charms” of Vail and the my bleak outlook at the beginning of the summer, my internship experience turned out to be pretty good. I absolutely loved the work and know now more than ever that television production is my career of choice. I also know more than ever that I never want to live in a mountain town. It’s very pretty and a great place to vacation, but I think the lack of oxygen makes people a little crazy. Plus, I’m not really outdoorsy beyond eating al fresco. I did learn a lot, met some great people, and came away with some good stories. So goodbye, Vail! Consider this my second attempt at a dramatic speeding off.

The Mountains Are Alive With the Sound of Music

Vail is a very musical place in the summer. The concerts range from classy philharmonic orchestras, where the summer-home owners dress in “Colorado formal” (good walking shoes and khakis) and enjoy their picnic baskets of wine and cheese to the free modern music concerts that serve as a venue for the entire town of Vail to get drunk in the same place. I have experienced both ends of the spectrum and each has its good qualities. However, my favorite music experiences in Vail have nothing to do with the typical performances going on in the Valley.

Ethan, one of the other interns, and I were scheduled to get some interviews from attendants at the free concert that’s held every Tuesday at the For Amphitheater. We grabbed a tripod and camera and headed out to our shoot, but were stopped at the door leading out of the studio by Jack Sparrow dressed as an 80s rocker. The lanky man had big black hair tied back with a bandana, skinny jeans with a leopard scarf and handcuffs on the belt loop, a tight white muscle t-shirt, and enough eyeliner to put Good Charlotte to shame. He was beautiful. He met us at the door, saying in a thick British accent, “Are you here to take my picture? Is this the interview? You have to meet my band. Come now, you’re going to take our picture.” Before Ethan and I could protest, this rock god had his arms around our shoulders and led us to where four more of him were standing in front of a van. I quickly set up the camera and handed them the mic and let the magic happen. Looking back, I should have asked better questions instead of just letting them babble into the mic for 8 minutes, but the result was still glorious. The band’s name is Gypsy Pistoleros (and if you check out their myspace, you will find their great cover of Ricky Martin’s “Livin’ La Vida Loca”). Vail was simply a pit stop on their way to the Whiskey A-Go-Go in L.A. as part of their U.S. tour. I hope they made it there, because they kept going on about how much they loved being in Vegas until I reminded them that they were in Vail, not Vegas. They quickly changed their tune to how much they loved the mountains. At the end of the “interview” Ethan asked them to give a shout-out to the TV station. One of the lanky, big-haired rockers took this to mean holding the microphone to his crotch and giving the “rock-on” symbol with his other hand. It’ll be tough convincing my boss to let me use that shot.

As the rockers got back in their van to find Vegas or L.A. or Ricky Martin cover fame, the man who originally wrangled us into the interview kissed my hand and said, “My, you’re cute. Are you sure you don’t want to hop in the van and come to California?” It was tough to say no, but I had a shoot to get to and no desire to become a groupie.

My week transferred from U.K. rock to Swedish disco. I’ve seen Mamma Mia onstage several times, I saw the movie version on its opening night, and now my ABBA trifecta is complete with the ABBA cover-band “Arrival’s” concert. When I heard that Arrival was coming to Beaver Creek, I was worried that no one would want to go with me. But Shauna, always up for the off-beat and potentially un-cool, brought up the concert before I had a chance to ask her. We dressed up in our most disco-gear and headed to the Vilar Center to be dancing queens. We were the youngest people there, but not the only ones dressed up. Though most were in Colorado formal, some donned boas and big hats and white pants. Our enthusiasm for the concert did not match our seating. The tickets were free, so I guess we should have expected the absolute last row in the balcony. Once the show started, however, someone was kind enough to give us tickets on the floor, dead center, about 8 rows back from the stage. Mamma mia, these were great seats! We didn’t stay in them for long, however, since the dance floor that had been cleared out directly below the stage was calling our names. We joined the plastic soccer moms and geriatric gay men for some fun disco at the base of the stage. The band itself was great, especially the costumes. The women in the group did not seem to be big fans of wearing pants, and the men were rockin’ their white platform shoes. All were incredibly Scandinavian looking.

The concert was fantastic, even amid the drunken shouting of a particularly plastic woman on the dance floor, but that actually added to the experience. Though the philharmonic is nice, and the free Tuesday concerts have their inebriated charm, give me fake-ABBA any day.

Colorado Mountain Expressed

One of the first things I learned about Vail when I moved there is that it is best to take the Colorado Mountain Express from the Denver International Airport rather than the Greyhound bus. My boss informed me of this with of an air of disgust upon even mentioning the Greyhound. Since Vail is a resort town with a hefty price tag, I pictured the CME as a luxury vehicle that catered to the wealthy and beautiful. As it turns out, it is nothing more than a glorified taxi.

The CME is a large white van driven by a foreigner and packed to the gills with ski bums and rich housewives. As long as it gets me from point A to point B, I really have no problem with it, but the two hours of silence while being squished between a cashmere covered woman and a grizzly looking man is not ideal.

When I arrived from Orange County into Denver, I hopped on the CME and happily secured a window seat. Everyone else in the van seemed typical enough, but it seemed we were missing one passenger. Donna stumbled towards the white van, her loose fitting top falling off, her drawn-on eyebrows melting in the mile-high city heat. She had bleach-blonde hair and lips filled with collagen to the point of bursting. I could tell right away that she would be disappointed by her travel arrangements. As soon as she got to the door, she announced that she got terrible car sickness and needed to sit in the front. An elderly man named Norman was already sitting in the front seat and barely paid this woman attention. Donna proceeded to get graphic with her insistence that she would vomit on everyone in the van if she were not allowed to sit up front. The only available seat left was next to me, so it was more probable that most of her predicted projectile vomit would end up on me, so this didn’t really seem to bother the other passengers. The van full of Vail-goers stared at this frantic and drunk woman as she tried to get us on her team. “This man won’t give me his seat!” she whined, pouting her inflated lips to the point of making her look cartoonish. “I get really car sick and I will probably vomit, so I’m sorry if I puke all over you, but because of this dickhead up front, that’s just going to happen. I’ll pay for your dry cleaning bill.” I was starting to get nervous because no one seemed to care about this forecasted vomit storm and I really hate barf. No amount of free dry cleaning could make up for 2 hours of sitting next to a carsick stranger. Fortunately, when Donna saw that no one was budging (and when the van driver realized just how hammered she was), she decided to stay the night in Denver. “I have a really hot guy in Denver. He’s really hot. Look how cute he is.” Donna provided everyone a glimpse at her good man fortune by showing a cell phone picture of her Denver hottie. I guess she thought this would make us jealous that we weren’t staying in Denver with a hot guy, but it would take more than that to make Norman budge from his seat.

Before she left, a woman in the van asked her if she had a blue piece of luggage. Apparently this woman had seen Donna earlier when Donna had asked a stranger to watch her luggage and then disappeared. Tired of waiting for Donna to return from the bar, the stranger turned the piece of abandoned luggage into the Hertz counter. The woman in the van kindly informed Donna of this, and Donna explained that she “just got a divorce.” I’m not sure how that justifies leaving luggage with strangers, but then again, I have never been divorced, so who am I to judge?

After Donna’s remaining luggage was pulled of the van, the CME hit the road for an awkward 2 hours of silence, save for the Queen CD that was tepidly playing on the van’s stereo. About an hour in, I decided to make some light conversation with the woman whose liver-spotted arm was squashed against mine. This woman turned out to be the worst conversationalist in history. I happily listened to her talk about her recent trip to Dublin, her 9-month old terrier, and her second home in Vail. She failed to ask one question about me. I don’t need conversations to be all about me, but asking simple questions about the other person’s background is conversation 101. If I were this woman, I would want to know at least a little bit about the person I was describing my business trips, education, and extended family to. I gave her plenty of jumping off points. I connectedly threw in how I spent a semester in Rome, that I was from Ohio, and that I was only living in Vail for the summer. She seemed disinterested at best in these personal factoids. Even when I would respond to her stories with the occasional “That’s great!” and “How lovely!” she gave me a side glare that seemed to suggest that I best stop interrupting her with the formalities of human interaction. This conversation was all take and no give on her part. My last futile attempt to change her monologue to dialogue was when she said “This coffee is great.” I responded casually with “Yeah, I should have gotten a grande. This tall just isn’t cutting it.” She looked at me as if I had rained on her latte parade. I was quiet from then on and she found a new, less vocally responsive audience.

I arrived back in Vail, glad to get off the CME, but not so glad to be back in the valley. My vacation was officially over and in less than 12 hours, it was back to work. But I was happy to get back to the Vail Transportation Center vomit free.

Tee'd Off

Golf and me have never really gotten along, though I do have a respect for the sport and a sense of nostalgia for it. My dad is an avid golfer. Some of my earliest memories of him involve listening to the dulcet tones of a TV golf announcer mixed with the jarring sounds of his snoring on a Saturday afternoon. Maybe that’s why I’ve never been a golfer myself—I’ve always equated it with naps in reclining chairs. That, combined with my fear of golf carts and my inability to hit the ball off the tee in the first 6 swings, makes my attitude towards golf very lukewarm. However, I do like golfers. There’s something about a polo shirt and a country club membership that just gets me. I’m usually not a fan of the prepster, but I can’t resist an argyle sweater vest or two-toned shoes.

The TV station that I work for has a daily morning show that includes guests from local businesses. One morning, a golf pro came on the show to discuss the activities going on at the Vail Golf Club. He had blond, curly hair, a strong jaw line, and looked to be about 17. He had to be older, since he claimed to have graduated from both high school and golf school. I had no intention of going any further than ogling him, but the producer of the show had other plans. She eyed him up, decided he wasn’t her type, turned to me and said, “Ohmygod you should totally go for him! He’s a total cutie and golfers are really hot.” I asked this love guru how I should go about “totally going for him” and she suggested that I just casually ask for some golf lessons. I ended up not getting the chance to make my ridiculous request because golf guy dashed out of the studio after his interview as if he could sense the female plotting going on. He ran out so quickly, in fact, that he left his fleece. The producer decided that the forgotten fleece was tangible destiny—a sign that golf guy and I were meant to be together. I just saw it as some more intern tasks to get done for the day. I called golf guy’s work number and cell number and sent him an email, informing him that I had his fleece of fate.

I finally got a hold him after undoubtedly freaking him out with my fervent concern about his outerwear. He said he would pick it up the next day. Sadly, I would not be at work the next day. But not to worry! The producer had a brilliant resolution! I could just leave my number in the pocket of golf guy’s fleece! Well, the jacket had no pockets, but I had just enough confidence to scrawl “Call me sometime if you want to hang out” on a piece of notebook paper with my name and number and stuff it in the fleece. Golf guy picked up his fleece 5 weeks ago. I have not heard from him. This might have something to do with the 80 degree weather we’ve been having. In the fall, when the weather is fleece appropriate, and golf guy slips his arm into his jacket and finds my number, I hope he calls. Then at least I won’t feel really stupid.

Another experience I had with the Vail Golf Club occurred at the actual golf course. I was assigned to shoot a 30 second commercial for an upcoming golfing event. The commercial had already been written, actors had already been provided. I was basically just a rented out body with camera so that the organizers of this event could shoot their commercial. I showed up to the driving range to find my crew: Bobby would be playing Bink, a clueless 70s news anchor (audiences should be able to deduce this from his ugly sport coat and one cartoonishly delivered line). Barbie would be the deliverer of information, annoyed at Bink for his earlier mistakes. Kirk was the director and creative input for this piece of art. Kirk had brought his own cables, microphone, and headphones, and insisted on using his instead of the one’s I had brought. He also insisted on calling Barbie his “mate”—not his wife, not his girlfriend, not even his significant other—his mate, as if they were actually two penguins who had exchanged pebbles. I could tell Kirk would be trouble when he asked me what my official title was. I daftly told him I was an intern, which apparently gave him permission to check all of my shots and only allow me to hit record. Kirk has no idea what a good shot is. When I would suggest ways to improve the composition of the shot or ways to simplify later editing, he would reply that this shoot simply did not allow for such artistic moves. If what I was suggesting was art, then it was minimalism.

The commercial started out with Bink saying “There’s a tick shot clinc going on!” Barbie then interrupts him with, “No, Bink, it’s a trick shot clinic!” and then continues on with the details of the event. When I first heard the script (and then heard it repeated 700 subsequent times), I had to restrain myself from offering to rewrite it to not sound like man’s first attempt at comedy. At the end of the ad, Bink gets his comeuppance for his earlier faux-pas when he gets hit in the head by a golf ball that flies in from off screen. I realize local commercials are usually not the greatest, but this has to be one of the worst attempts.

What made it even more excruciating was Barbie’s inability to master her lines combined with Kirk’s devotion to the execution of his “vision.” Barbie did not deliver her lines with enough excitement, or enough correctness, so she had to redo each line 1200 times, each time no better than the last. A particularly difficult line for Barbie started with “the beautiful Vail golf course”, which she kept saying as, “the Vail beautiful golf course.” She made this mistake at least 30 times in a row, frustrating both Kirk and those who had spent years teaching Barbie to deal with her dyslexia.

I thought the shoot would only last a half hour, an hour tops. It took 2 and half. After finally being released, Barbie offered to buy me a drink to make up the extra time the shoot took. A drink, even with these crazy folks, sounded better than going back to the office. I wanted a refreshing Tom Collins, but everyone else ordered beer and I didn’t want to be the only one to order hard alcohol at 3 in the afternoon.

I spent the next 2 hours, sipping Stella and listening to Kirk talk about his suggestions for local TV. Kirk has a problem with advertising on television, which is strange considering he claimed to have been working in advertising “since childhood.” His hope for the station I work with is that it avoids giving into the man and selling out. “I just want to see what your manager does when some really boring company comes to that station with a ton of money,” Kirk said. “Say I’m the Nazi party and I call up your manager and I say ‘Hey I’ll pay you $300,000 to run my ad. It’s a free country!’ Those corporate people in New York will tell the manager to take the money, but if he’s a real man, he will refuse it and be true to what that station really is. So I’ll be interested to see what he does when the Nazis come.” I nodded in agreement, because I truly would be interested to see what my boss does if the Nazis ever ask to advertise on Vail local TV, though my concern doesn’t have to do so much with selling out.

The conversation switched from local TV to the growth of the Vail Valley to horseback riding. I told Kirk my death-defying horse accident. He responded with a lukewarm, “Yeah, that’ll happen.” No, that will not just happen. Falling off, yeah that’ll happen. Getting kicked in the head, now that’s a stunner. But nothing could impress Kirk. I didn’t really even have the chance to try because I couldn’t get a word in edgewise. When he finally reached a pause in the conversation/stopped to take a breath, I said I had to get back to the office. Kirk invited me to film the actual golf event next week. I said I would be happy to. I’ll do anything to spend more time with people I can’t stand.

Where the (Undesirable) Boys Are

The ratio of men to women in Vail, Colorado is four to one. These seem like favorable odds. However, this town is not the flirtation fairy tale one would imagine. Allow me to break down the men of Vail:

15%: In Relationships
25%: Ski Bums who, after college, decided that skiing and bartending would be the best use of their philosophy degrees
30%: Ski Bums who, after high school, decided that skiing and bartending would be the best way
to continue smoking pot with their friends in the 7/11 parking lot.
20%: Old people
5%: My roommates/coworkers
4.99%: Educated, steady job, fairly normal
0.01%: Educated, steady job, fairly normal, sarcastic
100%: In love with Vail


I think you can see where the problem is. I'm surrounded by men 24/7, and maybe I'm being picky, but I'm just not interested in a guy when he suggests we go white water rafting for a date. Though this is more adventurous and unique than your typical dinner or movie, I feel that rafting would be quite literally moving too fast for a first date.
Even the task of simply meeting men is difficult. At Notre Dame, it is guaranteed that there will be at least a sprinkling of eligible bachelors any given night at any given bar and, by virtue of attending the same school, you are guaranteed to have at least one thing in common with all of them. I suppose living in Vail (which isn't exactly the "real world" but is a step outside the ND bubble) is a taste of what the social world outside of college will be like. It's not so easy. Public places contain more than just my peers. Since I don't climb mountains and am not in love with Vail, it's difficult to find common ground with anyone. However, I did manage to meet a guy the other night. I was at a Johnny Cash cover band concert (that's right--and it was awesome) when this 40-something Gary Busey look-alike tried to coerce me to dance. Since the ol' "I have a wooden leg, like Heather Mills, so I can't dance" line doesn't work anymore since Ms. Mills stunt stint on Dancing with the Stars, the only defense I had was a series of "umms" and uninterested looks. Gary Busey eventually went away and then this less crazy, decent looking guy commiserated with my misfortune of attracting lunatics. At first, we didn't really say much, but casually stood next to each other while watching fake Johnny Cash walk the line. Then after some small talk, we found common ground, or rather, rival ground. He graduated from Boston College in 2006. I did the usual rattling off of every Notre Dame football player and statistic I knew to make it look like I'm a football expert. Even though it only takes about a minute to say Zibikowski, Quinn, Clauson, Weiss, and rebuilding year, we managed to chat until fake June Carter left the stage. This guy seemed alright, and given my surroundings, he seemed great. I could even get past the fact that he wants to get the Vail Valley logo tattooed on his calf. I mean, how many well-educated, Catholic, decent-looking, finance majors are there out there? (I'm talking outside Notre Dame, which is the hub of such a gentleman). Fake Johnny Cash and his crew left for the train for Folsom Prison and I left for the car back to the intern house. I told BC guy I was leaving, and he gave me a simple "Ok, bye!" then disappeared. Never was there mention of getting my number. There wasn't even so much as a handshake. Too bad for him, as I was just desperate willing enough to give him my number. I may have found him on facebook the next day, but I didn't want to be a creeper. Plus, if he didn't have the guts or smarts to ask for my number, then I've severely overestimated him.
As much as I balk about the men of Notre Dame, it seems that those are the type I'm seeking outside of the dome. Maybe Notre Dame trains us for that. The Irish ladies set their standards to a type, the only type available for four years of their relationship formative years, and then are doomed to search outside the bubble post-graduation for the kind of guy they once deemed a tool. I'm beginning to understand the "ring by spring" phenomena--I'm not subscribing to it or supporting it, but I do see how it is preventative of real word shock. As great as the Notre Dame guy sounds, it seems that prospects are not looking good in the South Bend front. Caitlin is spending her summer in South Bend and, in response to my desire to return to the campus to find "not stupid boys", she reported this
"Everyone in this town is icky or practically married (or both usually). Where are all the eligible SB bachelors i was excited about?"
It's true. It seems that all the Notre Dame fellows who aren't hopelessly nerdy or accounting majors have been snagged up by ugly girls (this sounds cruel, but I swear that the ugliest girls get the guys. However, it is a mystery as to what came first--the ugly or the boy). What I am most perplexed about is this generational penchant for long-term relationships. At what point did all the attractive, intelligent, not crazy men decide that they all wanted long term girlfriends? They are really missing out on potential pimphood.
Despite all this "woe is me" single girl talk, I'm really not desperate. I was just looking for a distraction for the summer and a reason to play "Summer Lovin'" on my iPod. I'm still holding out hope for single girls under the dome for Fall 2008. Until then, I'll just continue to be surrounded by unavailable, undesirable guys.

Cool Guy in Colorado

This is my fourth week in Vail. Though I still don’t love it, it is growing on me, or rather, I’m finding ways to tolerate it. Through work, I got a free gym membership, so lots of my free time is spent there. But don’t be tricked into thinking I’m going to come back from Colorado buff and trim. Lots of other free time is spent searching for great ice cream. Work is finally picking up and I really do love the work I’m doing. I get to be around cameras and editing software every day, so that makes me happy. When the Teva Mountain Games were in Vail, I got to film and edit a piece on bouldering (which I found out was wall climbing without harnesses). The other day, I got to interview an author about his experiences on an eco-pirate ship (they attack whaling ships—fo realz!).

I’m also starting to bond better with the people here. Though I still don’t fit in (and likely never will) I’m finding common ground with the Coloradans. I’m trying out some of the outdoorsy stuff, which more often than not ultimately proves my original conviction that I suck at most athletics, but I’m always glad I at least tried it.

For example, I went hiking the other day thinking, “I hike in Ohio. This is something I can do! It’s basically just walking in the woods!” False. Hiking in Ohio may mean a stroll through a park, but hiking in Colorado means a steep incline in increasingly thinner air along narrow, cliff-side paths with patches of snow. We hiked up to a waterfall and the scenery was beautiful, but there were some rough parts. It was pretty surreal to be sweating in 75 degree weather but to be standing in snow. This state seems to be in another dimension where snow doesn’t melt and people need less oxygen.

Another attempt at outdoorsyness was horseback riding. Shauna, a coworker whom I’ve been hanging out with, knows a guy who takes care of horses for some wealthy dude who’s never around. She got me the riding hookup and she and I headed out to Eagle to do some trail riding. I hadn’t ridden in 5 years and didn’t realize how much I missed it until I got around horses. When I had horses, I never wore a helmet, but I decided to forego my already miniscule cool factor and wear my bike helmet while riding. Thank goodness I did. There were only two horses, so Victor (Shauna’s friend) rode one, I rode one, and Shauna ran alongside (since she’s a Coloradan, she has the power to run alongside horses). Shauna went ahead on the trail to take a picture of the horses as they ran past. The horses started running in a full gallop, but when my horse saw Shauna, he spooked and started zig-zagging. I fell to one side of him, but was still holding on. I tried to hoist myself back up as the horse kept running, but given my lack of upper body strength and the horse’s speed, I fell off. While this was happening, the horse behind me lost his rider. After falling to the ground, the last thing I saw before temporarily blacking out was the other horse sans rider running towards me. He ran over me and kicked me in the head, breaking the helmet. After the dust cleared, Shauna ran over to me to see if I was ok. I had a headache, some scratches and bruises, but I stood up and was fine. No concussion, no bleeding. Thank God I was wearing a helmet! I got back on the horse and cautiously rode back to the barn. I’ll be riding again next week. I've fallen off before, broken my arm, got clothes-lined by a tree branch, but this was a first for being kicked in the head. Hopefully that was my only near-death experience this summer.

The last time I wrote, I only had one housemate. Now I have three. Andy shares the upstairs with me and shares my disdain for Colorado (though I’m pretty sure his is not as strong as mine). Chris is the marketing intern who somehow ended up doing production stuff for the morning show. Hearing his frustration and complaints about having to learn about cameras and editing makes me happy to be a television and marketing major. Cam is…well…eccentric. First of all, Cam Fell is probably the worst name for a camera person (or any person who might one day be around other people). Secondly, upon first meeting him, he proved to me that he would be the strangest member of the house by providing sound bites such as “I like to read. I’ve read all of Michael Jordan’s books” and “What was the food like in Italy? Are you good at math?” and “You’re good at school and you’re Catholic, so you don’t go out much, right?” Yes, this dogtag wearing, rap writing, basement dweller is quite the character. However, his entertaining antics quickly turned into daily annoyances. Fortunately, I don’t actually encounter him too often since he usually hides out in his basement. However, we had a run-in in the kitchen the other evening where we discovered our mutual love of Cap’n Crunch and where I learned that Cam despises grocery shopping and child abuse (yes, this was revealed in the same sentence).

Being the only girl in the house is actually not too much of a problem anymore now that I am talking to the other girls in the office. I thought that all this time around boys would give me insight into the opposite sex, but it seems to be converting me to their ways. Don’t worry, my hygiene is still up to code and I am not wearing baggy pants with baseball caps. But in a conversation with Andy the other night he said with the best of intentions, “You’re not really like a girl. I mean, I know you’re a girl, but you’re kind of cool like a guy.” Thanks? Here I thought that this summer was teaching just how girly I am, but it turns out that I’m just a dude in a dress.

There’s nothing else that new to report. Between the gym, work, and housemates, I’m finding distractions to keep me busy. In July, I will be going to LA to visit Emma, so that should break up the summer nicely. Until then, I’ll just be proving to the fine state of Colorado my non-athleticism and my “cool guy” ways.

Bringin' Tom Collins Back

Life in Vail is starting to improve slightly. I still have a lot of adjusting to do, but I’m getting there. In the past few days, I’ve gotten to play tennis with some Plum people, went to a party, and went to a bar. So there is life in Vail, its just kind of…strange.

The party was hosted by one of my coworkers in East Vail (I live in West Vail). Apparently, his place is in the same apartment complex as the old intern house. I really wish we were still in East Vail, since the apartment was gorgeous. I guess the house in West Vail has a more college feel to it…

Anyway, the party was pretty good. The boy to girl ratio really showed itself at the party, as it was basically a late 20s, mountain sausage fest. Andy and I were the only ones still in college, and it was a little strange to be at a party with an older crowd. There was still drinking games, awkward dancing, and copious amounts of booze, but the overall vibe was very different. I was the designated driver, so I played Jenga. Despite the unfamiliar vibe, the party was fun and everyone is so supremely friendly. There were a few girls there, and I really do want to try to meet and befriend some other girls, but it’s a little hard to pick up chicks at a party when you are an openly straight chick. I’m considering just approaching women on the street and persuading them to go see Sex and the City with me and be my friend. It’s not that the boys aren’t nice and Andy is a fantastic housemate, but I need some girlfriends.

It was about 11:00 on Friday night when Andy and I got tired of sitting in our rooms and reading and decided to go find fun in Vail. The dive bar across the street seemed like the perfect place. Well, I don’t know if we found fun in Vail, but we certainly found the characters. The bar wasn’t exactly hopping. There were about 15-20 people, calmly sipping mixed drinks with classic rock playing in the background. Andy and I decided to stay for one drink, and if that didn’t work out, we would just get McFlurrys and watch Juno. Feeling inspired by the wonderful Caitlin Conway and wanting to relive a piece of the Backer, I ordered my usual Tom Collins. Let me explain something here first. Caitlin had the magnificent idea of reclaiming gin for the young, since rum and vodka aren’t that enjoyable. We started with gin and tonics, but then Caitlin made the most fantastic discovery: Tom Collins—gin, sour mix, tonic, and whatever fruit piece you want (I prefer cherries). I realize the Tom Collins drink might be a bit....classic for my age, but it is delicious and I’m determined to make it happen. So, back the bar. I ordered a Tom Collins and got the weirdest look from the bar tender. “I haven’t made one of those in 8 years!!!” he exclaimed, continuing to look at me as if I had ordered a skunk’s pelt on a platter doused in maraschino cherry juice. “You’re the youngest person to order that! What’s even in that???” Every time I order a Tom Collins, I have to explain what’s in it. Due to Caitlin, Emma, and my frequenting the Backer, the bartenders in South Bend seem to know it pretty well by now. But now, I have to conquer Colorado with the magnificent drink. I think I will order an obscure drink every time I go to that bar, just to get that bartender’s reaction.

Once Andy and I got our drinks, we realized we were out of things to do at the bar, so we played pool. During our game, some red-headed guy in a poet laurite looking shirt dame up to me trying to pick a fight or something. He was all up in my grill, but when I agreed to fight him, warning him that I did have a pool cue in my hand, he backed off. His sketchy buddy sitting in the corner downing the rum and cokes found this a good time to ask where we were from. It turns out he is from Cleveland and went to St. Ignatius. Of course, since he’s from St. Ignatius, he knows everyone who ever went there (including Shawn…) and is still reliving his high school days. For the next 45 minutes, I could not get a word in edgewise. My new friend Chuck rambled on and on about all the famous people from Ohio and all the people he played against in high school football. He kept name dropping, and it was really difficult to figure out which names I was supposed to be familiar with and which I was supposed to ask about. He was quite a character. I looked up some of the names he was dropping, and it seems his story might be exaggerated. His uncle’s friend is not, in fact, the CEO of Clear Channel radio. Chuck gave us his number and took Andy’s and promised to get us in touch with his brother, who is some sort of sports anchor in Boston. This bar will obviously be a regular hang out if it can promise people like Chuck each time.

The job (the reason I'm here in the first place) should pick up soon, and the other roomies will be moving in this week, so there are more stories to come.

Breathless

Vail takes your breath away. Literally. It’s at elevation 8,150 feet. I’ve been here for 5 days and I still get winded walking up stairs. This does not bode well, considering that the main activity in Vail is physical activity. Everyone wants to go kayaking, hiking, camping, mountain biking, etc. I’m kind of a city girl. Sure, I like taking a walk and a leisurely bike ride is nice, but I am not hard core outdoorsy and all. I don’t think I really fit in here. I wear Rainbows, Coloradans wear Tevas. I work out on an elliptical, Coloradans work out on a mountain. I hate snow, they love snow. I eat whatever, they eat organic. In general, the people here are much more earthy.

My dad and I left on Friday and got to Vail on Monday. I thought the road trip would be boring and horribly long, but it was actually a really good time. Kansas wasn’t even dull. Sure, it was long and flat and there were lots of cows, but we dodged a tornado—that and it was the state with the best billboards. My favorite one was the sign advertising the “world’s largest prairie dog” and a “6-legged steer.” We decided to stop at the exit for this natural miracle and we did indeed see “Prairie Dog Land” but it was a trailer with a bunch of cars from Arkansas in front. Across the street was the truck stop/steakhouse “Colonial Steaks.” We decided to stay in the car and get back on the highway. I like sketch, but I don’t like being kidnapped in a trailer with a giant prairie dog.

My first impression of Vail was not all that fantastic. Sure, the mountains are beautiful and its very scenic, but I got kind of sick the first few days, the town is empty, and the house is very…lived in. Of course, I eventually will get better, more people will show up in June, and the house can…well, that’s kind of unfixable. The house is constantly being lived in, though by different people as the interns are cycled out each semester. There are pots on the stove with crusty food left in them, furniture duct taped together, and sparse kitchen supplies (as in meat tenderizer, but no salt and five skillets but no colander). I was excited to get the queen sized bed, but then I realized that it’s not actually a bed, but 2 mattresses piled on the floor. I went to Wal-Mart and bought some sheets today since all I was provided was a questionable comforter.

The work is fine. The station I work for is in its off-season as well, so I don’t really have a set schedule or job. I just kind of show up at 10 and work until whenever they run out of stuff for me to do. Today, I drove to another town to pick up a tiny sample of felt from a sign design store. I’ve gotten to do some more filmy and editing type stuff as well, but so far nothing has been new. The station reminds me of NDtv times 2—it’s bigger, but still loose in organization and casual. I guess that’s good, but hopefully things will be more professional once they start their regular season.

Vail is kind of tough to adjust to. I know, you probably don’t believe me or think I am a total pansy for not being able to adjust to a “mountain paradise.” But it is pretty lonely and I feel kind of like I’ve been banished to Siberia for the summer. There are 4 boys to every girl in Vail. These sound like favorable odds, but I miss hanging out with girls. I have no one to go see the Sex and the City movie with and I’ve been banished to my room since the boys are playing video games and watching sports downstairs. I could try to be that outdoorsy, granola, sports-loving, alphabet-belching, video-gaming kind of girl, but that’s just not me. We’ll see how this goes…

Here is a song that describes my experiences and emotions in Vail thus far:

http://youtube.com/watch?v=Icv6DgZ-9O4

The Lemonade Was Clutch

In late April, a glorious event occurred at the University of Notre Dame--BJ Novak, of The Office fame, came to Notre Dame to do stand-up. Before I heard that this was going to happen, I was a casual fan of The Office and, by extension, Novak. However, once I heard that this beautiful and talented man would be gracing my campus with his presence, I became a super-fan. I may have gone a little overboard with the internet stalking/researching him, but it was all for the betterment of my career (and because I'm, like, totally in love with him omgzzz!!!). You see, my plan was to get an interview with BJ Novak for NDtv and then convince him to give me a job on The Office and then date me. How was I going to do this? Well, my buddy Pat works in SUB (student union board) and is in charge of scheduling comedians, hence he gets to take BJ Novak to dinner and make sure he is cozy and awesome. However, Pat failed in his own awesomeness and refused/wasn't able to get me an interview with BJ Novak. Actually, Novak refused any interviews with any students. After trying to figure out various other ways to meet BJ Novak, the only thing I ended up with was an imaginary interview. Here's how it went:

Elise sneaks backstage of Washington Hall through the vents from the NDtv studio to mainstage. The front door probably would have been easier, but literally dropping in on BJ Novak is much more impressive. Novak is shocked, but Elise offers him a lemonade Vitamin Water, which the thirsty Novak graciously accepts.

Novak: This lemonade is great! I was about to kick you out or yell for security, but I can see that you are both helpful and attractive and you look as if you might be intelligent as well, so I will allow you to stay.
Elise: Why thank you Mr. Novak
Novak: Please, call me BJ. And what is your name, fair maiden?
Elise: Elise
Novak: Cool name.
Elise: Thanks, I got it from my mamma
awkward silence at failed pun...
Elise: Anyway, I was hoping I could ask you a few questions before your show
Novak: Well the show is about to start...aww what the heck, I know I said no interviews before but that's just so I don't have to deal with ugly people.
Elise: That's very understandable. I was just wondering how you got started with the Office. I know that you went to Harvard and then went on to do stand up in LA and worked on Punk'd and you also grew up with Jon Kracinski.
Novak: Wow, someone's done their homework
Elise: It's amazing what you can do with Wikipedia
both chuckle
Novak: Yeah, it was really just a matter of being at the right place at the right time. Follow your dreams!
Elise: Cool. What do you think is the future of the sitcom? Some say its dying, with the 3 camera format being antiquated and shows like The Office and 30 Rock developing a new style and sense of humor.
Novak: I think the future of the sitcom is a question of the future of television itself. Television used to be a bunch of executives telling consumers what they want, but now, audiences are really starting to talk back to their televisions. Fandom is so much more interactive and a television show has to be so much more than just a weekly program. With The Office, for example, there are loads of fan made sites and the NBC site has a lot of interactive things for fans. I guess I'm kind of deviating from your original question, but I don't think that 3 camera sitcoms are dying. I mean, 2 and a half men is the number one show on television right now, and that's as basic as you get. It's shows like 30 Rock and The Office that struggle a bit at first and really only end up with a cult following rather than a mass audience.
Elise: Yeah I definitely see what your saying, especially the part about fandom. Fan participation is almost essential with television today. Fans need to do their research to keep up on all the little jokes within The Office that get carried from season to season and executives need to pay attention to forums and message boards to get more specific audience reactions aside from ratings.
Novak: Exactly. I was right about you being intelligent. What kind of career are you pursuing?
Elise: I'd like to work in television, not as an actor, but more like a producer or an editor or a writer.
Novak: Well, would you like a job with NBC this summer?
Elise: Would I!? Oh yes! I would love that!
Novak: Great! I will be sure to get you a job! A really great job! One that pays!
Elise: Goody!!!
Novak: Well, I'd better get on that stage now. Hey, what are you doing tonight?
Elise: You know, just hanging out, being cool.
Novak: Sweet, well, I'm going to need someone to show me the cool places in town tonight, so would you be my date?
Elise: YES!
Novak: Perfect, give me a call, here's my number.
Elise: Thanks! I can't wait! Break a leg!
Novak: I always do
BJ Novak walks out onto stage to roaring applause and begins his performance. Elise makes her way out into the audience and begins planning her night with BJ at the coolest bar in town--The Backer.

That is what would have happened had I been able to find the vent leading from the NDtv studio to backstage. The lemonade was really clutch in that situation. So I guess I'll just have to make it in this crazy world of television on my own, without the help of any sitcom stars. It turns out that BJ Novak went the cheerleader house that night. One of my friends was called to come over to join in the party, but his phone is old and dumb and did not get the call. Ah well, so it goes. I'm over that celebrity crush anyway. Now, I'm crushing on the guy who plays Dexter...

Boy Crazy

I did a lot of things this semester. I cut about 9 inches of my hair off, causing people to ask if I had donated to Locks of Love, which led to me to sheepishly shake my head and reveal my selfishness in not waiting 2 more months so I could have the required amount of hair. I also started as host of Late Night ND and successfully produced 8 episodes (this all went a lot better than I had hoped, thanks to the awesome writers). I guess I took some classes, too, and did normal college things like go to bars and hang out with friends. And I guess I dated some people, too, but of course, since this is me we're talking about, these were not normal or typical dates. I'll change the names to be nice and I'll leave out a few of the boys who, well, just weren't that interesting or were actually nice to me.
First, there was Bob. Back in Rome, I was going through my list of facebook friends, trying to decide who I would date next semester. I picked Bob, a guy I had a crush on back in spring semester 2007. Somehow, through facebook messaging and eventual phone calls, Bob and I ended up hanging out. Yeah, I'm that good (or that weird that I plan this so far in advance). My plan for 2008 was to date a nice, normal guy, since it seemed to be my trend to date weirdos and creepers. It seemed I had hit the normal jackpot with Bob. But too much of an ordinary thing is, well, ordinary. Poor Bob really was a nice guy. He was sweet, cute, normal, boring, bland, from Ohio. Yeah, this wasn't working out. After a particularly average date with Bob, we went back to his dorm room to hang out. I thought to myself, "Alright, you made it through a dinner composed of long awkward pauses, at least get something out of this. Maybe he's a good kisser." So we're sitting there, watching TV, making awkward conversation about nothing, hitting awkward pause after awkward pause, and he is not making a single move. I can't take it anymore, so I say "Hey, you know what I hate? Awkward pauses." "Yeah, me too," says Bob. "What do we do about those?" I respond, "Well, I figure we have 2 options. Either we can keep on stumbling through boring small talk, or you could just kiss me. Personally, I'd prefer the latter of the options, but if that's not what you're into, I can just leave." So the emasculated Bob leaned in for a kiss. Nope, bad kisser. After about 5 seconds of that nonsense, I suggested we watch some Office DVDs instead. I guess planning ahead doesn't always lead to success.
Then there was Paul. I met Paul at an SYR (a semi-formal dance for all you non-ND folk--yes, I know, it's kind of weird). Paul was the complete opposite of Bob--Paul was completely insane. After Bob I thought that maybe normal isn't what I need, maybe I do need the crazy, but the right kind. Paul was definitely some kind of crazy, I just didn't know if he was right. He was fun, and a little violent, since he literally threw me while dancing with me, but he was cute and really funny. Funny is clutch. After the dance, all our friends went home, and we stayed and talked for a couple hours. Paul walked me home and gave me a sweet kiss before running away. Goofy, but sweet. I had a good feeling about him.
Then the fun crazy started to turn into freakin' weird. I heard a rumor that Paul did not use shampoo. Ever. I figured this must be a rumor until Paul admitted this to me without my prompting. Apparently, its his signature, to not wash his hair. It turns out that its also his signature to not only throw girls whilst dancing, but to also trip them, pull their hair, push them, etc during any activity at any time of day. It quickly became clear to me that Paul was immediately charming and progressively obnoxious because he was five years old. And as for the "sweet, nice" kiss at the end of the night--this became a raspberry on my face before a good laugh and attempt at tripping me. That's right, he raspberried my face. Paul is certainly the wrong type of weird for me.
There were a couple repeats this semester, too. Shawn, the guy I dated fall 2006 who would call me 7 times a day, made a brief appearance. He's the bartender at the Backer (my favorite South Bend bar) and saw me one night and threw a lime at me. Charming. He texted me with "U look cute tonite...I know u aren't looking 4 a relationship, but if u ever want to hang out, give me a call..." He found me 5 minutes later to make sure I had gotten the text. Then his gal pal approached me in the bathroom to ask what I thought of him. Yikes, this guy hasn't changed a bit.
This isn't so much of a repeat, but crazy guy from my summer course at Kent State randomly wrote on my wall, saying "i think its too bad that our evaluations of the world are so different, otherwise I'd so be into you!" Darn it! Why can't I change my opinions of the world so that I see music in buildings on KSU's campus or so that I find "sexy giraffe" a valid self-description??? I responded to his post by saying that variety is the spice of life and left it at that.
There were some other boys from this semester, but they are either not worth talking about (i.e. Clayton, the law student from the Backer who asked me to go home with him after 5 minutes of conversation), are actually very mean and don't even deserve the time it takes to write about them (Roma ladies and PE chicks, you know), or are too nice to deface in this blog (even though you don't even read it). I know, I'm not living the crazy life. I don't exactly have the makings of a saucy Carrie Bradshaw column going on here. But keep in mind that I do go to Notre Dame, we do have parietals, and I'm not telling you everything. On the one hand, I hope to find a great guy who is that perfect balance of normal and crazy, but on the other hand, I hope to keep attracting the weirdos so I can tally up the experiences and relay the stories.

You're Gonna Cry

I'm not going to apologize for not having a blog in a while because
a) I have already personally apologized for this to Metzger
b) I've been busy
c) Though I've been busy, I have not been all that interesting

However, I did just get my nose pierced. This event was supposed to be a part of a larger "hard core" day, involving sky diving and...well I guess that's the only other hard core thing, but sky diving is pretty intense. The weather did not permit skydiving, so I got my nose pierced instead. I went with Jess and Lora (who was getting her ears pierced for the first time). We got to the first place and everyone was leaving. A big burly man stopped us at the door and said they were closing. I had called earlier that day and they said they were open until 10, but apparently, they were all headed out to a concert. I asked the bear man where another piercing place might be and he said, "There's a joint in a strip mall down the road across from the Big Lots." Perfect.
We got back in our cars and drove all the way to Michigan (10 minutes down the road) to find the place. It was a little sketch ball, but what tattoo/piercing place isn't? We walk in and tell the guy chillin' out in the front that we need a nose piercing and an ear piercing. As we're waiting for things to be ready, Jess politely asks guy in front how many tattoos he has. He has over 50, and pulls down his lower lip to reveal the word "poop" tattooed on the inside. He says he got it to match the tattoo on his knuckles, which says "Turd" but when he puts his fist together it says "Basturd." This gentleman is obviously a classy fellow obsessed with excrement. I ask the young man about how long it takes for a nose piercing to heal and he replies, in a disgusted voice, "Well I don't know! Maybe some months or a couple weeks or whatever." Fantastic.
A hole-y man named Pedro invites us to the back of the shop where we will be pierced. Since it is near closing time, everyone in the place gathers around to watch the procedure. I decide to go first and ask Pedro how much this will hurt. He says, "Well, you're gonna cry." Ha! Pedro does not know how tough I am! "No really," Pedro says. "You automatically tear up because it hits your sinuses." Oh.
Pedro and his gang are a classy bunch and as he swabs the inside of my nose with a q-tip, he discusses an earlier even that day when a few young ladies came in asking to take photos of them giving the men of the shop blow jobs. Then the dude with the fresh tattoo (and a swollen arm around it) started telling me that I looked hot. I began to wonder about my chances of getting AIDS from this piercing, but before I knew it, there was a needle through my nose. It hurt for a second, then it was fine...or at least I thought it was fine. I couldn't tell, but apparently I was bleeding a lot. Pedro said, "Wow, I've never seen anyone bleed that much before. You should go into the bathroom and clean that off." I thought he was kidding. He wasn't. Pedro doesn't like the sight of blood, apparently, which is odd coming from a man with a giant spike coming out of his lip, but he sent me away anyway until the bleeding stopped.
Lora was up next to get a standard ear piercing. Pedro was confused and kept trying to convince Lora to get something more daring as her first piercing, but no, the lobes are just fine, thank you. Pedro explained to Lora that he did not like to use a piercing gun, but instead did it the old fashioned way with a needle and a cork. This way, instead of just pushing the flesh out of the way, a piece of flesh is actually removed. This did not make anyone except Pedro excited. Lora braved through the flesh removal, creepy arm tattoo man gave some parting words of weirdness, we paid for our new bling, and left. It was a pretty good day.
I only told my brother about my piercing, so when my parents came to pick me up for summer, this is what happened after the initial friendly greetings and hugs...
Mom: It's so great to see you! It's been so--wait a second. What is that? Noooooo. You didn't! WHAT IN THE HELL DID YOU DO??? Scott! Look at our daughter!
Dad: Oh yeah, I figured she did that
Mom: You DID???
Dad: Yeah, why are you so surprised? Didn't you go with her to get her hair cut short?
Mom: Not her HAIR!!! Look at her face!
Dad: Oh geez....mothers' day is going to be fun

Incidentally, none of the grandparents even noticed on mothers' day. Hooray!

I have a few more stories to tell from this past semester, and I'll hopefully have time to write about them in the next couple of weeks. Topics to look forward to:
Men of Spring Semester 2008
My Interview with BJ Novak
Internships
Post-Feminism
And so much more! (or maybe not...)

Best Birthday Ever

I've been back under the Dome for about a month now. It's cold. There's lots of work. I have responsibilities. Adjusting is a bit harder than I thought. I'm getting there, though, and having fun in the process.
Over winter break, I turned 21. It was the best birthday I've ever had because Jess, Caitlin C., and Caitlin I. all came to visit me in lil' ol' Stow, Ohio. I had no idea Caitlin I. was visiting and she surprised me by popping up from behind a chair in my family room. I was SHOCKED! It was a lot of fun getting to show my friends around my hometown. I took them to the fake-dome at Hoban High and to the Rhino and my dad's shop and to the "nice" mall (so not Chapel Hill). The night of my 21st, Shannon joined the 4 of us and we went to Lux, which used to be Poss. I was so excited to hand over my adult, horizontal I.D., but the bouncer didn't seem to take notice since he marked my hands with giant black X's before I could say anything. I have no idea why he marked me under, but it was a bit difficult to get a drink the rest of the night. Something like that was bound to happen on my 21st. I just have that kind of ironic luck.
Now that I'm back at ND, I've had the opportunity to sample the fine bars of South Bend. I went to Fever the first week of being back. So did everyone else, apparently, since I had to wait in line in the cold for 45 minutes before getting in. The crowd was all Notre Dame people--girls in slutty black tank tops, leggings, ugg boots and boys in button downs or polos with an ND baseball cap. We are a frumpy bunch. The Backer has quickly become my favorite place for its sheer griminess and ignorance of popular music. Finnigan's is not as fun, though I did do some great people watching there. The law students dancing there were very good and enacting every lyric of various Madonna songs.
When I'm not bar hopping around South Bend, I'm hosting Late Night ND (formerly known as The Mike Peterson Show). The first episode went pretty well, the second one was good, and the third one was even better. I say "umm" a lot and I need a better sign off than my last one of "I should go! Bye!" but I'm getting the hang of being host. If you want to check out the episodes, go to ndtv.net.
A slightly awkward situation arose the other day in conjunction with the show. My dorm had an SYR the other weekend, and instead of picking a date, Jess invited a bunch of her friends from the Australia program to share with me and some other girls. It was a fun night, but I seemed to especially click with one of the guys. Long after the last verse of piano man (the requisite final song to any SYR), this boy and I were still talking in Lafortune. He walked me back to my dorm and kissed me. All very sweet. The next day, I found out that he is rumored to have very poor hygiene (supposedly, he has a strong dislike of shampoo) and, since he is one of the student-body presidential candidates, I was to be interviewing him for that week's show. Excellent. I was a bit worried about potential awkwardness in the interview, but our brief history actually made the interview funnier. However, I recently received confirmation on the hygiene rumor, and though my friends tell me that I can teach him to be cleanly, I'm not too interested in dating a 4-year-old. Alas, perhaps I will find love at speed dating at Legends this Thursday. That's right. I'm going speed dating at the on-campus bar. Huzzah!