How to Pick Up Chicks (As Told By Same)

I'm going to make a brief foray into service journalism (ahem, after a fashion).

As a young lady who occasionally wears cute outfits and smells nice, applies lip gloss, and attends gatherings wherein there is consumption of alcoholic beverages, I have had a fair amount of exposure to the romantic or lascivious overtures of men.

Over time, it has become clearer to me, gentlemen, that there are some of you out there who know what you're doing in the talking-to-women department, some of you who blunder into success, some of you who strike out swinging for the fences, and some of you who should probably be medically castrated. I have gathered a fair bit of anecdotal intelligence in these matters. This, combined with my greatest qualification (I am a girl, so I know how girls think....this is what makes us invaluable resources to you, the hapless male) and my propensity for grueling social analysis should, I hope, shed some light on that most shot-in-the-dark event: The Pick-Up.

First off, since we're all friends here, let me just say that this advice likely does not apply to unsavory women (read: sluts). I don't advocate pursuit of such females. Nor do I think they really warrant the extra effort. If you wish to pursue the lesser woman, by all means... offer to buy her a Bacardi and Coke, gesture at your clever t-shirt slogan and raise your eyebrow suggestively. Just be sure to hit the condom machine in the men's room before you drag her drunk ass home, mmkay? No, what you'll read here will help you in the wooing of actual women.* Ones with brains in their heads and beer in their refrigerators.

The Subtle Art of Chatting Someone Up

1. Assume that she is not stupid. Give us a bit of credit, gents. It's likely that our social wherewithal is more finely tuned than yours. Gather your wits about you and assume she has all of hers, that'll make the conversation livelier. And speaking of your wits about you.....

2. You should probably not be drunker than she is. That can only end poorly. Of course, we all know that the sauce lubricates these situations considerably, so I'd shoot for 1.5 beer's worth of buzz (adjust to accomodate your body mass and tolerance). This way there's something in your hand, you have a beverage that will eventually need refreshing (bonus tip: you're so in if she offers to buy you one, and it's pretty awesome to offer to get her one as well), but you are lucid and attentive (to more than just her breasts. The stare-at-the-chest thing is overdone. Which handily brings us to.....).

3. Do not be obvious. You are not a bear. She is not a bunny. Seriously, the times I have been successfully "picked up" are those in which I did not realize it was happening right away. I'm not suggesting a spy games level of subterfuge here, but rather, behaving like an adult who wishes to converse with another adult. We are all aware of the undercurrent at bars and parties where there are people of both sexes, so there's really no need to saunter up and try your best line. Lines are gross. Sauntering is gross (while were at it, you shouldn't sidle either).

This is where I admit that matters get sticky. It is difficult to not be obvious when you're trying to chat someone up. However, it is possible. Based on my experience, not being obvious was a happy accident for the gentlemen in question. However, I think it is completely possible to manufacture this comfortable and natural way of approaching strangers into whose pants you could see yourself trying to get. (Side note on directness, an approach favored by some: I agree that the "I'm cute, you're cute, let's hook up" approach has its devoted practitioners and its efficacy has been shown in controlled laboratory environments. Warning: You have to be really good in order to pull it off without seeming like a dick. Either you do it serviceably well and may therefore be assumed a troublesome player-type or you're blundering into "Oh, that's sad, he thinks he's picking me up in a 'direct, cut-the-bullshit manner' that he really cannot pull off"-territory. You have to look like George Clooney or have the kind of overwhelming charm that could make you an accomplished scab salesman. No joke. Utter frankness is an advanced maneuver, which, when performed in a ham-fisted manner, can come off creepy and cocky as hell. No semi-sober intelligent lady wants to date or sleep with an arrogant bastard or an unrepentant womanizer. Unless he looks like George Clooney.)

My best suggestion would be to avoid situations where you're going in as if to a suicide mission in the Mekong Delta. Consider the players. You, her. Who does she have around her? Friends? New acquaintances? Are they women or men? This is where your own women friends become invaluable (I hope you're reading carefully, Idiot Brigade). We are much better at sussing out the vital details of the people in a room than you are. We can perform quiet and effective recon, help you to weed out the taken, the psychotic, the slutty. Not only that, but our mere presence makes it obvious to young ladies you may desire that you are not a creep. Your wing woman may well be your best asset. You and your wing man look like a couple of dudes on the make. And while we all enjoy flirtation and sexual intrigue, two men winging for one another is... say it with me now... obvious. And that is not what you want to be. Furthermore, your wing woman adds an element of intrigue that may pique your paramour's curiosity. "Who is that girl? Is she with him? Well, dammit, pay attention to me! I'm cuter than she is!" And she'll get a little thrill of victory when the wing woman makes herself scarce so you can focus on her. See? The ladies engage in a bit of healthy competition now and then, no reason you can't indulge it.

So, you're slightly buzzed, you have a lady friend with you, now what? Mingle! Engage the target-lady's group as a group. See? We're all just people talking. Make eye contact with her and smile, but don't make a beeline right away (see notes on sauntering and sidling). Be confident. Even if you think you're punching above your weight, don't act like it. Forget that defeatist attitude! If you engage her first as an intelligent human being (contrary to some reports, girls are people too), she'll take notice and think "This guy's pretty cool. I enjoy talking to him. I find intellectual stimulation to be sexually stimulating." and then she'll be willing to find a corner booth or spot at the edge of the crowd to engage in a tête-à-tête.

4. Ok. You've got her alone (high five!). Don't get too drunk and don't get creepy (See #3. And remember #1. Still stands). If you have followed my advice and engaged her as a person first, this should go smoothly. You're making eye contact. You're listening. You're remembering that she is not stupid, so you're not talking down to her (I have been spoken to as if I were a silly girl in a pinafore more often than I'd care to remember.... needless to say, those dudes saw the back of me but quick). You're not behaving like a sycophant (almost as irritating as condescension because... it's an obvious ploy to get into my favor. See #3).

Here, I'd like to offer some tips on female behavior. It is true that a girl who is not interested or is taken will seem to flirt or whatever and then pleads "being friendly." This happens. I do not understand it. I, for one, being apprised of the "being friendly" conundrum, do my best to avoid engaging a guy one-on-one for very long if I am not interested in him at all (if I'm not sure, I'll stick around and see what happens). I'll incorporate someone else into the conversation or excuse myself. Your female friends may be able to help determine whether it's a friendly or flirty situation, but sometimes the distinction exists only in the lady's head. Yeah, sorry 'bout that (Ladies: I know, we ought to be able to talk to a guy without him thinking we're going to sleep with him, but knowing how their minds work, shouldn't we just put in the extra effort to make sure our intentions are clear?)

That said, there are some good signs: if she touches you or leans into you, basically breaks the personal space barrier, you should feel relatively confident that you're in business (or, you know, bidness). If she offers to buy you a drink or accepts a drink from you, also a good sign. She wants you a bit drunker! Sweet! If she ignores her friends or neglects to do further mingling she doesn't want to abandon you to the crowd. Also, if she wanders away but comes back to you, you're in good shape. It's safe to say that if she's interested in you, she will make herself as available as possible for you to seal the deal (get a number, make plans, what have you).

On sealing the deal (or, why put a stamp on the letter and never mail it?): If you just want to sleep with someone that night, you should not get a number and make vague allusions to getting together at a later date if she has bowed out of going home with you. That is lame. If you make your intentions relatively plain (you've been talking to her for the duration of the party, you're physically close and flirting and whatnot, it's obvious you either want to see her again or take her home.), she'll either concur ("yes, let's hang out, here's my number," OR "yes let's get out of here and make with the love") or bow out because her intentions weren't synch with yours... though I don't suppose there's a man on this earth who wouldn't adjust his intentions tout suite if the young lady just wanted to take him home.

Basically, we're aware of when the ball is in our court... it's just very important for you to actually hit it to us. You dig?

Here's your cut-and-keep recap:

1. She is not stupid.
2. Don't be drunker than she is.
3. Don't be obvious. Treat her like a person (see #1) first. Intellectual stimulation is SEXY!
4. Once you've laid the groundwork, don't get creepy. Slurring out compliments of her décolletage is not advisable, nor is it classy. A little of the touchy is good, especially if she touches you first, but don't molest.
5. Do make your intentions clear. We'll try to do the same. Unless we don't (sorry... a woman can be a mysterious creature, and I cannot speak for all of them, sadly.).
6. We will make it easy for you to seal the deal. So seal the deal, jackass.


I turn the discussion over to you, good people. Most appalling attempted pick-up ever? Best practices?

__________
*This is true based on highly unscientific research among a handful of my women friends, so ladies please feel free to chime in. Because, if much of this is just how one should approach me, well, what's the point?

Remember Cupcake?

I don't know if she stops by here very often, but I saw this while drooling over Williams Sonoma's website and I thought "Hot damn this is made for Ms. Cupcake."

You see, it's a cupcake that looks like an ice cream cone!

For thirty bucks the pan can be yours. Also, they have a very pretty lavender KitchenAid Professional mixer.

You can't fool me.

I'm on to Them. Whomever They are.

They thought they could get us to overlook an idiot spelling choice because Will Smith is in this movie with his very cute son and sometimes people (myself included) enjoy subpar movies (um... Bad Boys II) wherein Mr. Smith runs around. The three-piece suit in this picture tells me that there won't be any running around to speak of. And while the cockles of my heart are heated to a faint glow by watching the misters Smith onscreen together in the trailer, I will not be swayed. No sir.


I don't know why. Probably the same reason that there is (or was, God willing) a tv show called "Numb3rs" or a that someone got away with the second L in "Lucky Number Slevin" being written as an upside-down 7.

And the reason for those things happening? I'm not sure, but it could be head trauma or heavy drug use. It's difficult to believe these people are allowed to operate cars or vote.

Close encounter

This morning, I was forced to come to grips with this truth: my headphones and book do not make me invisible.

Ok, so I knew this back when one of those spa certificate canvassers tried to engage me near Madison Sq. Park in spite of obvious asocial accoutrements like headphones and sunglasses. At that point, the last evasive maneuver (yelling "No no no no no!") had to be taken.

But this morning, I was on the Uptown 6, blinking in the general direction of my book and listening to music. I felt a tap on my arm, and a woman asks me what time I have. Or rather, that's what she seems to ask me (I have those wonderful ear-plugging headphones). I take out one earbud, to be polite, while I show her my watch (it was 8:50am and I'm too sleepy–thanks West Coast baseball!–to speak or read an analog watch).

As we examine the face of my watch together I realize that I know this woman. I have overheard her commiserating on the N train in a non-indoors voice. Upon looking for the source of this voice a few weeks ago, I had noted her big hair, her drawn-outside-of-the-lines lipstick in watermelon pink. Oh yes. This lady has intruded upon my morning reverie before, though never quite as directly.

She clutches her heart. "Oh thank gawd I'm not going to be late."

I smile and go to reinsert the earbud as the doors close and we lurch out of 14th St.

"They're terrible at this job. They mark you down if you are one minute late. But you know me, I need my money from this job. I haven't been there that long."
"Really? Wow." She is standing so close to me, is speaking with such familiarity, that in my morning haze, it takes me a minute or two to realize hey wait no I don't.

"I have to help my mother pay for the airconditioning bill. It's so hot you know I can't sleep without the AC. I looked at the bill last month and it was $280. So we're splitting it three ways, me, my mother, and the tenants upstairs (gestures upwards, to indicate said tenants occupy the higher region of the subway car). She said 'Give me $80,' my mother says. She's so good to me. Really takes care of me, you know? I'm divorced."

I stare. We're not even at 23rd Street.

She then goes to tell me about how terrible her bosses are (they don't care she has to commute from Brooklyn, whether fellow workers are pregnant–by the way, she worked up until she was 8 months pregnant... her son is now 23), how a good man is hard to find (women's lib spoiled them all).

When we arrive at my stop, I know more about her than I do some of my close friends. Also, she has touched me (twice) and called me ma'am (thrice).

I kept my composure and did not pound on the subway door, begging for escape.

And listen, I'm not a mean person, really. It's just that early morning commiseration should be short and ideally wordless, unless you are an attractive man. Though, even then, wordless might be best. Nothing spoils your idea of the attractive man (or woman) on the subway quicker than coversing with them.

Bored? Read this.

Notes on "Sweet Child O' Mine," as Delivered to Axl Rose by His Editor.

via McSweeney's.

Desperately Yours

Slate's cover stories today are all about summer camp. My favorite bit in Timothy Noah's You Are How You Camped:

People (like myself) who didn't enjoy camp tend to have a problem engaging in organized activities of all kinds. Later in life we often become criminals or sociopaths. The more respectable among us often become journalists. If we're extremely bright or creative (or aspire to be), we may become writers or scholars or artists.

Shocking as this may be, I fall into that category. I did not like summer camp. I was a nervous child, so being surrounded with unfamiliar normal children plunged me into my own personal Lord of the Flies hell.

Granted, I do remember two semi-positive camp experiences. I went to Girl Scout Camp in New Hampshire with a friend of mine from home. The week went by quickly, and though I didn't love such forced group activities as swimming lessons on a cold and cloudy day, we had a pretty good time. The following summer, we were signed up to go to another camp together, this time on the Seacoast, but she bailed on me at the last minute, and I had to go alone.

Now, that was one hellacious camp experience. I was surrounded by strange children, adult counselors who didn't seem to like children in the first place, and very bad camp food. Especially offensive to my culinary sensibilities were the boxed mashed potatoes. The idea. There were no cool rustic cabins with bunks (my first camp had that... I liked that, reminded me of the movies). Just a big carpeted conference room where we slept as a group (though I just stared at the ceiling and counted the minutes until I didn't have to be surrounded by strangers who were not as offended by powdered mashed potatoes as I was.

We were dragged from pillar to post for all manner of group activities. The least pleasant of which was a boat ride out to and hike on one of the Isles of Shoals (Star Island, I believe). The exhaustion and windburn resulting from this jaunt inspired me to write a pathetic missive (closed with the phrase in the subject heading... yeah, that's right) to my parents, asking (nay, begging) to be collected immediately (the aforementioned child-hating adults would not let me use the phone). The letter did not reach my parents until I was already safe at home. Funnily enough, it was in the mailbox along with a letter I'd written before the hated boat trip, saying that things were fine. Naturally, they held onto it and occasionally quote tracts from it during family gatherings (not even two trans-Atlantic moves have parted it from them... lucky me). I imagine it'll comprise a wedding toast or two one day.

After that, I no longer told myself or my parents that I liked camp. There was a conservation retreat with my 6th grade class, but that hardly counts as I knew everyone, my teachers were there, and the counselors were from such exotic places as Australia. Also, we got to climb a ropes course.

I've long thought that there should be a camp for people like me. We could just hang out with our friends and siblings, not be forced to do anything. In my ideal camp I could alternate playing with my sister and reading.

Really, my ideal camp is just staying home. No money spent. No sleeping bags, no mean girls. More frequent showers, no latrines. No boxed mashed potatoes or swimming in crappy weather with uncomfortable color-coded swim caps. No gimp lanyards.

Of course, I still like summer camp movies (especially Wet Hot American Summer...if it counts, being a parody... I'd totally go back to summer camp if Michael Showalter was there). They allow me to imagine what it's like to not be intimidated by other kids or annoyed by organized activities.

Garlic: It's what's for dinner.

Well, it's been too hot lately to eat, much less cook, but a slight break in the heatwave yesterday allowed an intrepid group of Brooklynites to enjoy the fruits of the Union Square Greenmarket.

I tied on my Küchenchef apron, and with the very capable sous-chef Mr. Chris, I produced this:


The dark romantical lighting doesn't really do justice to the colors, but it was a rather tasty Free-Form Polenta lasagna with broiled vegetables (I got the idea from a Food Network recipe, though I didn't really, you know, follow it).

The most exciting thing, to me, was the tomato sauce. I found some gorgeous vine-ripened tomatoes (they actually taste of tomato... it's quite remarkable) at the Greenmarket, and broiled them with some garlic scapes (just the bulbs... it seems as though you can use the stalks for things, but I'm a little nervous about it... they seem really woody), salt and pepper and a bit of olive oil. Then into the blender for a really nice sauce that works at all temperatures.

The garlicky flavor of that sauce combined with a garlicky pa amb tomàquet starter and we had the stuff leaking out of our pores (basically, we were creating my father's personal hell) by the time we moved to the movie portion of the evening.

The feature was Black Orpheus, which was good, though I fell asleep about halfway through. Luckily, I was awake for the impromptu Carnivale-style dance party around Seth's apartment.

In spite of a shower, vigorous toothbrushing and listerine-ing, I was still feeling steeped in garlic this morning. Awesome.

But dinner was a success (many thanks to Claire for taking the cameraphone picture). There's something to be said for vegetables straight from the farm, even if they are a little pricey when you add it all up.

Next time, I'll roast peppers myself (couldn't find any and had to go for the jar...), and try out more layers with some fontina cheese. Also I'd make way less polenta (we're now drowning in the stuff... and a full pot of boiling polenta could result in injury, like a drop soaring out of the pot and hitting your foot and causing you to dance around the kitchen cursing.. not that I'd know about that). Also a eensy bit less garlic. Hoo-boy.

How do you say "sexy beast" in German?

So, my jet-set (though not yet the "old Chevrolet set") sister Hayley is in Sardinia to visit a friend. We don't have to explore the jealousy that comes with writing that statement.

Anyway, she left me a (very calm, under the circumstances, if you ask me) message on the cell phone.

Apparently, she saw Michael Ballack, Germany's captain and midfielder, coming out of a restaurant or a club or something.

Point is, my sister saw him. And she said he's super-tall and gorgeous and everything she thought he could be.

Sadly, she did not walk up to him and talk to him in German about being a big fan (which would have been adorable), nor did she attack him with a chloroform-soaked rag and stuff him into her suitcase to bring home as a souvenir for her loving oldest sister (which would have been optimal).

Pity, that.

Choose life, choose a car, etc.

Hot enough for ya?

Gawker described the weather as a "motherchristing heat wave," which I find appropriate. Toby has reported that the heat in N. Tobylina is "fucking prehistoric." It's unbearable in New Hampshire, the family claims. It pretty much sucks everywhere. Except Helsinki, it would seem. Perhaps it's time for a group trip to Scandinavia? A tour of North Sea ports? A little organ music? Tattoos? Cloudberries?

Oh, wait, that's right. This is 'Murrica and we don't take long vacations. Instead, many curses and a lot of creative blaspheming are required to describe the heat as we schlep into our delightfully frigid offices each day, sun bearing down on us like some scary bearing-down thing.

Last night I broke down and we installed my air conditioner. I had been managing well enough with the cold-shower-and-window-fan system, and the nights have been cool enough to make the apartment tolerable when we get home from work.

But a delayed hangover (necessitating a long day spent prone on the couch) yesterday made it abundantly clear to me that summer is actually here and I might roast alive (though I suppose it's better than being caught in the Spider Revolution). I think this, July 17th (since the AC was put into the window at 12:30am... thanks Claire!), is a personal best since I've been in New York (not counting the first summer, when we had no air conditioning at all).

I tell you, when I turned the thing on and that musty, stored-in-a-closet air conditioner smell filled my little bedroom, I trembled with pleasant anticipation.

And as I crawled under the covers, my room now chilly and dark, I daresay I allowed a "Oh sweet Jesus... YES" escape my lips. When I awoke this morning, all memory of my life before had vanished. How did I get on without this beautiful machine?

Breathe your sweet Freon breath upon me, O wonderous contraption!

And like that, I was hooked.

Granted, we watched Trainspotting over the weekend so I have addiction on the brain, but oh man. I emphatically choose AC! I hate myself for it. I am going to liberal hell, but it can't be helped. It's just too wonderful. I tried to get by with popsicles and thinking cool thoughts. Yesterday I distracted myself with many many episodes of The Office on the DVR (Toby... are those two kids going to work it out? If not, will Jim/John Krasinksi marry me please?).

One day, when I have a summer home somewhere in northern Maine near the coast, I'll just open the windows and eat lots of gazpacho during any brief hot spells.

Until then, put it in my veins. We seem to be in for the long haul now, kids. It's beer, popsicle, and gazpacho season.

Jesus my back hurts.*

Let's take our mind off it by remembering the weekend of Toby (who documented the antics rather well, I think... as did Josh.).

A highlight for me was our afters gathering, at which time I (in spite of having consumed many beers beforehand) wielded a blender and skillet quite handily to produce life-restoring crêpes. Now, I'm not given to bragging about too many things (driving instructor ability is one), but I make some damn fine Frenchy pancakes. I think it's the Québécoise ancestry (while the Irish ancestry allowed me to soldier forth to make said crêpes without being hampered by alcohol). Granted, my flipping could use some work, but they still taste pretty great.

This is an amusing photo, taken by Toby, of the chef enjoying the fruits of her 3:30am labors:

Lest there's any confusion, we did not set out a chair for Gus. Rather, he stole it from Deirdre after she was lured away by Obie's feline charms (or possibly the crêpes... either way). Of course, I find it a bit creepy that he and I are displaying the same rapt attention in the same direction. Either someone was talking to us, or there was a giant piece of packing tape stuck to the wall (Gussy loves his packing tape... it's his favorite snack to barf up on my floor at 5am).

Anyway, it was a good night. I was only experiencing mild back pain then, whereas now I feel as if my right arm is being ratcheted up to my temple via the scapula. Unpleasant. Et tu, Aleve?

_____
* Also, I'm a hack.

Belatedly yours.

Some photos from Fourth of July in New Hampshire.

This is the view from the deck of my aunt and uncle's lake house. It's on an island in Lake Winnipasaukee, the largest lake in NH.


This is my cousin Corey and the well-traveled (and wildly popular among the cousins) Chihuahua, Carson. Carson enjoyed harassing Corey's family dog, Hazel (a Golden Retriever), frightening off a couple of Boxers, sitting in the bow of a motorboat, and being fussed over by the girls. He did not enjoy swimming quite so much.



After a lovely barbecue and some swimming and sunning, we were driven back to the mainland by my (other) aunt and uncle (who live on the lake year-round... pretty sweet). I took some pictures of the fam during the journey. This is my beautiful mother:



This is Bridget with the pater familias behind her.

The lake at dusk:


On the day of the 4th, we convened, along with other New Bostonians, at the Fourth of July Parade. The theme for the floats was "games." As usual, the Rev. "Woody" Woodland of the Presbyterian Church provided excellent commentary throughout the event.

This is my cousin Mil, her husband, and their adorable baby.




This is Hayley, striking a pose on the bridge in a very patriotic hat.


Pretty horses (they were pulling the Molly Stark cannon)


Some of the floats:





Some tractors (I think they were promoting a John Deere expo, if memory serves):




Only you can prevent forest fires.


This is a man in a banana suit. B-A-N-A-N-A-S.



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Give it a little shoe.

[Parental] revelation upon turning 25, #346:

I am legally able to take my youngest sister, Hayley, driving.

Hayley, whose fine soccer sock-purchasing work you may remember, is 17, repatriated, and not yet licensed to drive. When she left Zürich, she was used to legally purchasing beer, criss-crossing Europe on clean and punctual trains, and associating with teenage boys who know how to dress themselves. Needless to say, she's in for a little culture shock. Not the least of which is driving around the great state of New Hampshire.

Luckily, she had me to shepherd her through one such adventure. She hasn't had any driving practice since last summer, so we opted to take my dad's shiny new (to him) Volvo to the parking lot of our local elementary school. I drove there from the farm, and as we came into town, I put on the turning signal, which didn't light up or make any clicky noises. I remarked to Hayley that this would make it extremely difficult to remember to turn off the turning signal.

We got to the school and swapped places. This is Hayley tolerating my documentation of the event.


Then we took a little spin around the school. I instructed Hayley in the basics of driving, such as backing out of parking spots, letting the car pull you through a curve, dooring pedestrians, and menacing old ladies in crosswalks. Then I asked her to perform a left turn into the lot, and when she put on the turning signal... no clicky noises or lights. At this point, we agreed that perhaps we should investigate whether the turning signals were working at all. They were not. Hayley parked the car, opened the hood, and I fiddled with the fuses. This is me fiddling with the fuses:


I replaced a fuse, dropped an extra one into the wheel well (oops), and we tested the lights. They worked! I'm a genius!*

We got back into the car and drove around the school some more. Then I was bored with that and felt that Hayley offered sufficient proof of being able to distinguish the brake from the gas. So, I decided to make a tour of some of New Boston's pretty back roads.

This is where the adventure part came in. First off, we drove over a branch that subsequently got caught in the undercarriage. Alert driving instructor that I am, I had Hayley pull over and put on the hazard lights while I shimmied under the car to free it (note: this was after I thought that the noise was just a malfunctioning AC fan).

I have to say, I am a fantastic driving instructor. Calm, helpful, with lots of positive reinforcement. I also incorporated the best command ever uttered (by my godfather, John) during my practice driving experience: "Give it a little shoe." This suggestion is best made during one of the standard new-driver achingly slow turns. Similarly, "You're in the ditch" or "Get out of the bushes!" may be applied when the student is hugging the shoulder, for fear of getting nicked by oncoming traffic.


Anyway, on to our continuing adventures. After the branch incident, we had to avoid a doe standing in the middle of the road. Deer are honestly like mosquitoes these days... EVERYWHERE. I had to avoid three, all told, during my weekend at home.

Then, Hayley had to drive around a turtle, who was strolling across the road with a cloud of flies around his head. Gross. Here's the turtle as we approached him:


And as we passed him:

All in all, the lesson went well. She's got a ways to go, but I think Hayley's going to be just fine after this crash course in driving alongside the flora and fauna of New Hampshire.

________
*As it turns out, I'm not actually a genius. Rather, the wonkiness of the turning signal and lights is caused by the key (one of those laser-cut jobbies) making a poor connection in the ignition. Now, if the lights don't work, you can just jiggle the key to make it work. My dad solved this after we fiddled with fuses together for a while.

You mean... the two hemispheres of my brain...are... competing against each other?

I suppose it's no secret that I make it my business to bake and cook tasty things so my friends and associates will put up with my pissing and moaning about violations of grammar, punctuation, and style. Sure, I'll annoy the bejesus out of you talking about apostrophes, but then I'll make a blueberry cake. It's easy to forgive my little idiosyncracies, right? RIGHT?

Ahem, anyway. Two recent attempts on my sanity include the movie title "A Scanner Darkly," and the Adidas tagline "Impossible is nothing."

A Scanner Darkly. I'm aware that it's based on a book of the same title by Philip K. Dick . And wikipedia has a nice explanation of the title's origins:

The "scanner" of the title is a holographic recorder/projector on which the main character views clips of his own life but doesn't recognize them. It is also a reference to a Biblical verse in 1 Corinthians 13 that includes "we see as through a mirror darkly", and thus refers to the main character's weak grasp on reality. Ingmar Bergman's 1961 film, Through a Glass Darkly, lifts its title from the same passage. Furthermore, the initials of Scanner Darkly are also the initials of Substance D.

...and yet. The lack of verb combined with the usage of an adverb really sticks in my craw. As in matters of Nair and playing basketball with an injured thumb, this is why I have a cell phone, people. Call me up and I'll dispel any confusion regarding a questionable course of action (and while you're at it, remind me to put on my goddamn sunblock). Granted, the book was written before I was born. But every time I see the movie poster, I have a little shudder of disgust. And, if Philip K. Dick thinks he's too good for verbs in titles, I become wary of reading his book. So there.

And on to the Adidas campaign. Sweet fancy Moses do I love these ads. But the tagline?

Impossible is nothing.

Barf barf barf.

What in the hell does that mean? OK, so in that meeting, they were thinking of going with "Nothing is impossible," a perfectly respectable tagline and sentiment. But then some chucklehead said "Oh, you know what would be edgy? If we switched that around and made it into not English!" And then the bossmanorlady was like "Oh, that's sounds cool (because he/she doesn't want to seem out of touch with the kids). Let's do that." And everyone agreed because they didn't want the bossmanorlady to think that they weren't edgy.

I hope to God that someone in that meeting died a little inside as they saw that getting finalized. Because, though I love (LOVE) the Impossible Team featured in the ads, they are sucking my will to live with the tagline. Go out and play soccer, kids! Nothing is impossible! Except for you being able to communicate effectively in writing one day, because your elders (who presumably passed English in school) don't care. Or fuck up the language on purpose (I'm looking at you, "Two Weeks Notice").


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I know that I'm not writing about punctuation violations here, but I wanted an excuse to bust out the photoshopped Victory. You missed her, admit it.

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Also, as a bonus, you should ask Claire to recite her imitation of Keanu doing the line that is the title of this post. It's not to be missed.

That's what I call a good old fashioned Irish fry-up.

So I'm back, parked at a computer, after a long weekend's sojourn in New Hampshire with my newly repatriated family.

I took many, many pictures of cousins and their adorable children, New Boston 4th of July parade floats, and of course, family canines.

The low point of the weekend was the major frying my skin sustained (in a ridiculous pattern, that shall remain undocumented here). As the Spring Greyskulls know, I am a sunscreen fanatic. I neglected to apply it on the 4th and now I'm paying for it. In my defense, I'd left my bottle of super awesome sunblock on my dresser in Brooklyn as I was hauling ass to Port Authority for the 8am bus on Saturday morning.

So, I'm carrying around a bottle of aloe gel with lidocaine in it. I can't tell you how much I enjoy putting the sticky Dep-like stuff all over my neck and feeling the subsequent cool numbness. It rules.

You should all learn from my mistake. Never forget your suncreen!

Photographs of verdant New Hampshire and Mohan and Bourque clans forthcoming.