The past, Hitler, and Rome, according to my mother.

"Hey! That's where my car froze solid one winter and I was stuck here for a week!" I exclaimed, arm outstretched, pointing to a multicolored leaf-strewn residential road on the outskirts of my old college town. My mom and I were driving through it last weekend on the way to our family cabin, which we were traveling to winterize. And I was in the midst of an ongoing flashback, nostalgic and thrilled by the rapid-fire memories I could hardly verbalize before they were overcome with another more powerful one.

"And that's my old house! Oh God, the fondue parties we used to throw..."
"I had my very first class in that building... and there is where I learned how to throw a football... and there's where we used to sled in the winter and mudslide in the summers... and that's where I'd always go to skip class... and that's where I met--"

I stopped short for a moment, torn between enjoying the memory for what it was and mourning its presence at that moment.

Undecided, I turned towards my mom in the car.

"Isn't it weird how strongly attached certain places and things are to people from your past? Even when you don't want them to be," I moaned, "they just can't be untangled."

"Oh honey," my mom scoffed, half-laughing, half-scolding, "tell me about it. I've got 30 years worth of those places and things!"

My mom is recently divorced. From my dad. Her first marraige "failed", if that's the word, after 30 years. And she's doing incredibly well - looks better than ever, smiles all the time -- it was a good thing ultimately, as breakups almost always are.

But the truth remained: she has more memories painfully tied to my father, a compulsive and abusive cheater and liar, than I have of my entire existance.

"Oh yeah," I said. "Does that make you angry? I mean, aren't those memories prone to just barging in unwelcomed?"

"Eh," she shrugged, "At first, I guess. But after a while you realize that all those memories are true, and really happened, and are a part of your past. What are you going to do?"

"I dunno, brainsurgery?" I quipped. "Have you ever seen Eternal Sunshine?"

"Well, there's a lobotomy, or there's recognizing that where you've been before defines you, regargless of if it was as graceful or as spotless as you wish it were. The fact remains that you are who you are today thanks to where you were yesterday."

I nodded. .

"It's like Hitler," she said. "He killed a bunch of people. Mostly Jews. It's horrible, you can't pretend it isn't, but in the end, is what it is. A real part of the real past. You can't undo it."

I nearly broke my neck I whipped my head towards her so fast. Searching her face for a hint of sarcasm while failing to hold back a torrent of horrified laughter, I managed to get out a punishing "MOM!" and then "You realize you just compared your ex-marriage to the Holocaust, right? Don't you think that's a bit much?!"

"Well," she said, eyes dancing with health and humor and a bit of that gypsy mystery she has about her, "Maybe, but when in Rome..."

"Mom, I don't think that's the right context for..." I stopped, smiled and shook my head. "Oh, nevermind."

Airlines are the devil. Now gimme my window seat!

I had a conference and a couple business meetings to attend lastweek in Texas, for which I bought plane tickets weeks ago. I was over zealous when buying the tickets, and decided I could tough out a redeye flight, which would save me a night in a hotel, but also get me to my destination city early enough to not feel rushed and deal with anything that went majorly awry before it was, as they say, "showtime".

BAD MOVE.

The night before the flight, at about 10 p.m., I got my handy-dandy Orbitz flight alert with that perky lady who proceeded to tell me my flight, scheduled to take off in 2 hours, was delayed. Yes, a red eye flight, delayed. So I called the airlines in an attempt to catch a later flight out -- like one when, I dunno, the sun was up.

And do you know what the nice lady with the southern accent told me? There was a flight at 11 the next morning which I could get on, but I would have to call back at exactly 11 p.m. to claim the ticket, as there was some sort of 12 hour rule. And there was no amount of convincing I could do to get some leniency on this rule, I discovered.

Well, shit. That meant I had to get in the car and start driving to the airport while calling the airlines at precisely 11 to hopefully snag the last ticket on that flight. So i did. And 20 minutes later, guess what I discovered? No ticket left. But there WAS, I was informed, a flight at 12:30 the next afternoon, and if I wanted to wait until 12:30 a.m. -- or 3:30 a.m. for the 3:30 pm flight, I could do that.

What the fuck? This is a bullshit rule. I was ON THE PHONE, with my CREDIT CARD IN HAND, dying to buy a ticket, and they told me that on a technicality I'd have to skip my flight, cross my fingers, turn around in a circle, and stay awake until 3 in the morning to MAYBE buy a plane ticket for 3 in the afternoon!

This made no sense to me. So I hung up and continued to the airport, where my flight was further delayed. By almost 1 a.m. I was finally boarding, looking forward to my window seat, when I discovered seating had been rearranged, and I was now on an aisle.

BAD. VERY BAD.

I hate aisle seats. I hate them because I can't ever fully relax in them (relaxing is imperative on a redeye flight, as you simply cannot be the one asshole with the reading light on in a pitch dark plane for 4 hours). I can't relax in them because I'm always afraid someone in the middle or window seat is going to need to pee and I'm going to have to get up so they can get out, because if I'm asleep when they have to go they might feel uncomfortable waking me up.

Now, I'm the ideal window passenger because I'm like a camel -- I get on planes and no matter how long that flight is, I NEVER have to get up to pee, or primp, or puke. No sir. I am asleep in a window seat before takeoff, ipod in place, and wake up right about when the plan touches down, sometimes slightly after.

So maybe that actually makes me more like a sloth or hibernating bear than a camel.

No matter, you get the point:

1. Redeyes suck
2. Airlines are the devil (albeit with very friendly voices in customer service)
3. If you're the person who has to pee once an hour on cross-country flights, you might remember me. I'm the person in the aisle who politely lets you out and then sticks her foot out to trip you on your way to the tiny cube potty -- for the THIRD TIME. Nice to meet you.

Actual virtual conversation

Pat: Can animals join al-Qaeda? I'm just curious if they'll take anyone, or some poor saps get turned away...and/or animals.

Me: As long as they hate modern clothing and the baby Jesus.

Pat: Why am I in a predicament that involves me needing scissors to open scissors? Terroristic animals are the least of my worries now!

Me: This morning, I almost had to pull over and ask the construction workers to assist me, using power tools, with the opening of an Advil + Sinus pill blister pack. Fucking technology. In other news, I'm throwing a karaoke-housewarming party and I wish wish wish you didn't live in god forsaken TEXAS.

Pat: I rocked Montell Jordan the other night at karaoke like nobody's business. I'm talking standing ovation type shit. Texas, particularly San Antonio, blows. What a great representation of this fine state! It smells like Antonio Banderas, which I think is who it's named after.

Me: Well, THAT was random.
---

Happy Friday!

The sound of September

Fall is always a good time for music for me -- I am restrained by the weather to hours inside on weekends, which means I'm looking for tunes to drive to, clean to, read to, nap to... Music becomes my little pet project.

September's soundtrack:

1. Paolo Nutini.
He's a 19 year old Scottish singer/songwriter, but for all the cliche that is in that description, he's relatively memorable, in a "these songs were totally written for motion picture soundtracks" kinda way. His song "Last Request" reminds me of the pointless romances we've all endured (and endured is the right word). It's pathetic and sad and really wonderful up loud on a rainy day in the car. Almost everything he sings is melancholy, with the exception of "New Shoes", which is a happy little ditty that warms up the corners of your your brain, sticks in your molars like white bread and makes me smile like an idiot.

2. Muse.
I'm hooked. The song "Starlight" is kickass, as is "Invincible". To give them a listen, click here.

3. Sara Bareilles.
This is the perfect "telling me to love you doesn't make me love you, you smothering asshole" song, only it's so damn sweet you'd never know it.

Sara BareillesLove Song

Music Videos And Lyrics On Demand

4. Citizen Cope.
Hello, you. He's been in the music game for a while, but I recently rediscovered Cope, and can only say that if you're not already a big fan of his go-go/funk/rock/soul sound (and his... um... hotness), one listen to "Sideways" and "Bullet and a Target" (and a lookie loo at his videos, ladies) will make you a believer.

5. Regina Spektor.
Fidelity is rapidly becoming a "most played" song on the iTunes, but she's interesting across the board. Looks like Tori Amos, has a unique Bjork-reminiscent sound -- she's one of the few singers (another? Imogen Heap.)who's voice wavers between sounding human and sounding purely instrumental.

Hello, little Chuckie!

This is the scariest thing I've ever seen on the Internet (and I've seen Britney Spears' crotch)... thank you, Perez Hilton.

It is also (along with Britney Spears' kids) a reasonably valid argument against having children.

For more retro demonic kid ads, plus the fun bonus of deeply disturbing cuisine ads, go here. Whatever these ads were selling, I'm not buying. I'm a particularly big fan of the devilied eggs layed on top of day-glo mac and cheese and surrounded by halved tomatoes and the creampuffs full of peas.

Good God. Thanks, Plan59!)

"It's a race... and I'm WINNING!"

This image has literally nothing to do with the post that will follow, except it has the word "race" in it and the quote with which this post is titled is from the movie "Rat Race". (That was like a free association exercise, and I apologize, but now that it's there I'm not taking it back because if you're reading this you clearly don't have shit to do, anyway.)

I believe we've discussed here before that I am at the very least unpredictable, and at most the human embodiment of the word "contradiction". Totally put together on the outside, while secretly stupidly scattered. Great at taking care of other people, almost genetically unable to care for myself. Great at parking, terrible at driving. Torn between city and country, summer and fall, passivity and aggression. Super flirty but impossibly prude.

And, above all, at once graceful and incredibly accident-prone, both at all the wrong times.

Which is where this story comes in.

I recently went with Jim out to lunch. We met in my office, and as we walked towards the elevators, we were joking and laughing about God knows what. It's important to note that the long hallway leading towards the elevators is set up as follows. On the right: wall. On the floor: carpet. On the left: an expanse of windows that looks in to the engineering department at my company (in other words, a bunch of computer nerds staring at their screens, iPods on, facing the window.

"Hey!" Jim said, stopping in the middle of our banter, "I have an idea!"

"What?" I was intruiged as I saw his eyes light up. Whatever it was, it was going to be fun.

"Let's race---"

At the word "race", I knew it was on. In an attempt to get a head start to the elevator, I leapt immediately, yelling "GOOOOO!" AND swinging my heel-clad right foot forward violently -- the first step in my inevitable sprint to victory.

But instead of catapaulting triumphantly forward, I was shocked to discover myself instead flailing violently, unable to get my right foot on the ground. My right heel, on a clear path to glory just a moment before, had firmly snagged in my wide-cuffed kick-ass herringbone trousers just before making contact with the ground, resulting in a "hog-tied" affect -- both my feet together, neither able to move independently.

This, combined with the enthusiasm with which I thrust my body forward behind my first step, resulted in a sort of fishlike wiggling and then a very dramatic faceplant, barely involving my arms, onto the carpeted hallway.

It was horribly quite "Free Willy" -- I sorta dove/slid on my belly down the hall a few feet before coming to a complete stop directly in front of the window looking into the office, and right in front of the baffled, mortified Jim.

"Please," he said, his face a mixture of 80 percent humiliation and 20 percent amusement, "PLEASE tell me you meant to do that."

Unhooking my foot and rolling onto my back, I burst into laugher -- again, right there on the floor in front of the window and in my office hallway. I had, of course, not meant to do that. Jim's great white hope that I had intended that contortionist act of physical comedy made the situation that much funnier. Combined with the look on the face of one engineer dierctly in front of the window, who removed an iPod earbud and was staring, agape, and I couldn't stop laughing.

Realizing the Great Floor Flop of 2007 was unintentional, Jim's face fell. "Oh, God," he said as he swiftly walked away from me and to the elevator, pushing the "down" button rapid-fire, "Get up."

Apparently Jim got his sense of humor back the second he wasn't being associated with me in a publicly mortifying situation, because this is the story that's been told nonstop for the last few days, while the fact that I did the splits and two back handsprings when I got up goes completely unreported.

Either way, I swear to God I would have won that race if not for the disqualification. I'm presently negotiating for a rematch. In a less dangerous outfit, of course.

Goodminton

"You know, we should be nicer to each other," Jim said. We were setting up badminton set in my backyard, while drinking red wine and sweating after work one day recently.

"Yeah? Nicer, huh?" I was focused on untying a knot. Things weren't going particularly well with the badminton set -- stuff was tangled, the ground was too soft, then too hard, the net was crooked.

With Jim and I, things were going smashingly, except both he and I have acerbic wits, sharp tongues, and a wide sarcastic streak. Before we dated, these traits were fun. Once we started hanging out, these traits served as flirty little conversation crutches. But lately, once in a pretty solid relationship, our barbs have started to occasionally stick, which means we've each spent a little more time than we should every week nursing unnecessary wounds and pouting at each other.

"Yeah, nicer," he continued. "I think our communication could be a little better lately, don't you?"

I just about threw down the badminton set and ran to the nearest gas station to buy a lottery ticket. Was I getting a talk about communication? From a man? Who I am dating?

Who is, then and therefore, not gay?

It was a minor miracle.

In an attempt to not overreact to the awesomeness of the moment, I played it cool.

"Yeah, I think you're probably right. Less sarcasm would be good. Deal."

(That was a lie. I did not play it cool. I launched into a 4 minute psychological dissection of why our normally entertaining and sarcastic conversations were starting to drive us both nuts. Standard communication-happy emo-girl stuff.)

Then, as quickly as we'd started talking about it, the conversation was over. A solution was in place. We agreed to take it easier on each other. More love, less war. At the same time, my knot was untied. The net was up. We each stepped back and picked up our rackets, looking over our handiwork.

"There. Look how much we accomplished in a few minutes!" Jim grinned at me from across the net.

"Yeah," I said, admiring the net with my own broad smile. "It looks awesome!"

Then, a moment of silence, which I noted a tad awkward. I looked over at Jim, who had his head tilted quizzically at me.

"What?" I said.

"Um, I was talking about our relationship... but the net looks good, too," he laughed, shaking his head.

Holy shit. Either I'm totally out of my element, or I've met my match.