When we first started talking about getting married, I said that I loved the idea of being married to him, but I just I didn't have it in me to do a wedding: I have enough stress with work that I didn't want to plan anything, especially anything major. Plus, the families are all over the place, and that's a pain to deal with.
So we would elope.
The next question was where. Vegas is cliche. Going down the street to the local courthouse seemed so boring. On a beach somewhere warm and tropical? Yes, please.
Then it became a question of when -- and the answer was that we didn't want to rush into it. But then, the perfect scenario presented itself: I had an upcoming work trip to the Caribbean, and he could take off a few days to go with me. Hmmm . . . .
We read the requirements for getting married down there. It seemed easy enough. We rushed around to fill out and send out forms and certified checks, to find an officiant, to get a dress and a suit and rings. And then the preparing was over.
We flew down to the islands. We picked up our license the next morning, and then I went to work. The next morning, Saturday, the officiant came to the hotel, picked us up, drove us to a beach, married us in between rain showers, took some photos, and drove us back to the hotel. He sent our paperwork back to the courthouse for certification.
I spent the rest of the weekend divided between work and touristy pursuits. On Monday, a full day of work.
Tuesday, we picked up the certified copy of our marriage license, and caught a plane back home. And here we are. Married.
Just before Thanksgiving, I was sitting in the atrium of the National Building Museum having lunch with a friend of mine from high school. We were discussing our plans for the holidays, when I mentioned that I would probably be spending my New Year's Eve with my best friend from high school, having a party at her house, in Pittsburgh. My friend thought it sounded like fun, and started thinking that if he had nothing better to do, he might join us. And then suggested that we invite a third friend, who didn't live too far away from Pittsburgh.
When I told my best friend, she thought it was a great idea, but cautioned that our third friend would probably not be able to join us. I sent him a message anyway.
Ultimately, that friend did join us, and after a long New Year's weekend of drinking -- and subsequent crazy, random happenstance -- he is now the best boyfriend I've ever had. More than that, really -- he's the best boyfriend I could even imagine. And so, every day since then, I am thankful that I decided to go back out to the living room to check on him. And I am equally thankful that he decided that he wanted to kiss me when I held out my margarita glass for him to refill while saying, "I'm an excellent drinker." Mostly, though, I am so exceptionally thankful that he decided to move here and give this crazy thing a shot.
Now, you should also know that I grew up watching very little television -- until we moved to Florida when I was almost thirteen, all the television I ever watched was:
Saturday morning cartoons;
Shows on Friday or Saturday nights when we had a babysitter;
Growing Pains (because my mom thought Kirk Cameron looked like my brother);
Nickelodeon;
General Hospital;
reruns of The Brady Bunch and Gilligan's Island when I was home sick;
various game shows, also when I was home sick;
Romper Room, Sesame Street, and the Electric Company; and
whatever I was able to watch at my friends' houses.
I was forbidden from MTV, and a whole lot of other stuff. So, while I know about shows like "Joanie loves Chachi" and "Charles in Charge," I can honestly say that I might not have ever seen an entire episode of either. Pretty much all of my pop culture comes from books and movies.
So, of all the 80's teen heartthrobs in the world (query: is Scott Baio an 80's heartthrob? Do I even have the years right? Did I miss it because I am too young?), Scott Baio was not even on my radar.
I do, however, think it's pretty great that he responds to stuff on Twitter. It was funny and awesome and totally made my day.
On Facebook, one of my friends said that it was a family tradition to tell the story of your best birthday memory. I, however, don't really have a best birthday memory of my own: I mostly remember the bad birthdays, the ones involving sickness. I also remember the canceled 16th birthday, when my mother was angry with me. And I remember the funny ones, like when my dad bought me mousetraps.
I think my memory deficit is because, growing up, my birthdays were pretty much always the same -- family, Thanksgiving, gifts. One year, there was the infamous Bert and Ernie cake. Sometimes, when my birthday fell on Monday through Wednesday, there were cupcakes or munchkins in school. And then there were the birthday parties, sometimes jointly with my sister, in places like Roy Rogers and Friendly's. But I can't really distinguish any of them as the best -- they were all pretty much universally good. I had a pretty good childhood.
As for adult birthdays, I have a particularly fond memory of my eighteenth birthday. It was my first Florida State-Florida game. I had a friend buy me tickets to the Nirvana concert (and a bottle of Jack Daniels to pregame with). Other friends bought me my first lotto ticket, which won me $6.50. And then there was the engagement ring, but that's a story for another day.
But ultimately, my favorite birthday memory is not from my birthday -- it's from my mother's birthday. A few years before she died, I surprised her by showing up in Florida unannounced. I had spent weeks laying the groundwork -- work was really busy and I'd be seeing her for Thanksgiving anyway -- and then worked out the secret details with my father and my grandparents. Nana and Pop took mom out for lunch and I walked into the restaurant. I got to the table and my mom saw me and did a double take. She was so extraordinarily happy.
This evening, I came out on the winning side of a negotiation with a ticket scalper. And, in retrospect, I think that almost all of my negotiations with scalpers turn out well. So, I've decided to pass my wisdom on to everyone here.
Here goes:
To win in a negotiation you have to have alternatives. If you are desperate to buy or sell your tickets, YOU WILL LOSE.
Here's an example. I was in Pittsburgh several years ago, and wanted to go to a Pirates game. It was about 7:15, 10 minutes after the game started. I was walking across the Roberto Clemente bridge, on my way up to the stadium ticket office, and the scalpers started trying to sell to me. They weren't giving me any kind of deal, so I kept walking. One finally asked me what I wanted. I said, "The game's already started. I can buy a ticket from you, or I can buy a ticket from the gate. You can't get a refund on the tickets you're holding. So it's your choice whether you want to deal with me." I got the ticket, lower deck behind home plate, about 1/3 of the way down, for $10.
Tonight was no different. At work, I told one of my coworkers that it would be my goal to trade my two decent upper-deck seats for one good seat in the lower deck.
So, when I got out of Metro this evening, I turned to the first scalper who asked me if I had extra tickets and told him I had a pair. He asked me what I wanted. I said "Face value." He said he couldn't give me that, the best he could do was half. I started walking. He then offered me an extra $10. I told him no and kept on walking. This exact same scenario played out a couple of times.
Finally, the last scalper decided to have a conversation with me. I told him that I had a pair of tickets, and would part with one or both of them, but not for less than face value -- and that I knew that there were plenty of Red Sox fans willing to pay. At first he protested. He explained that he couldn't pay me face value because then he wouldn't have any room to negotiate with the buyers.
Since this guy took the time to explain his predicament, rather than walking away, I explained my position: I wanted to go to the game, but I had alternatives. I could sell both tickets, at a premium, and try to buy a single ticket. I could use one ticket and sell the other, probably for less, but still for a fair amount. Or I could use one ticket and trade in the unused one for a different game -- which means I'd get full value for it.
In other words, I had alternatives, all of which were more palatable than selling him my pair of tickets for less than face value. If he wanted my pair of tickets, he'd have to give me what I wanted.
So finally, he offered a trade. One ticket in the lower deck, on the first base side, about halfway down, on the aisle. A $40 ticket for my pair of $20 tickets.
I took him up on the offer. I got exactly what I wanted.
I went to my first hockey game of the season tonight -- my first game since last season's playoffs -- the debacle that was Game 7. But that's besides the point. Fresh off a horrible baseball season, and in the middle of a football season that I'm not too excited about, I started thinking about why it took me so long to really appreciate hockey.
So I started making a list comparing my favorite sport, baseball, against hockey.
The players: Baseball -- Southerners, Latin Americans, and the Japanese. Hockey -- Canadians, Eastern Europeans, and the occasional kid from New England or the upper Midwest.
The fans: Baseball -- People with crewcuts and old Jewish men. Hockey -- People with mullets.
The music: Baseball -- A lot of country, with a little rap and salsa thrown in. Hockey -- Rock N' Roll.
The weather: Baseball -- Ideally, warm and sunny on a Sunday afternoon, but mostly hot and humid on a weekday night. And then there are rain delays . . . . Hockey -- Cold. Earmuffs would have been nice. The pace: Baseball -- Leisurely. Hockey -- Frenetic.
The resolution of a tie game: Baseball -- Extra innings. Hockey -- 4-on-4 overtime, and if that doesn't work, a dramatic shootout.
DSL asked -- well, sort-of asked -- "I would ask if you've ever had jeans hemmed, but you live in VA".
I fail to see why living in Virginia would make me more or less likely to have had jeans hemmed. But this I do know: When getting jeans hemmed, you should have them take off the cuffs and then reattach them so they look right.
DSL also asked, "Why did you never tell me what you thought of contra dancing?"
Partly because you posted it as a comment on the other blog, the one I haven't updated in weeks. But mostly because you didn't really ask me. Not in person, anyway.
Violindan asked, "Dara, what do you think DSL's random, forgotten question was?"
Miss Scarlet asked three questions: (1) What would be your perfect vacation? (2) Do you like pickles? olives? onions? (3) Do you agree that fall is awesome?
(1) I thought that driving up the California coast was a pretty amazing vacation, close to perfect. But I love to go to new places. Right now, I think I'd love to take a tour of Italy or Australia or go to Japan, Thailand/Cambodia, or China, or go to Argentina and drink a lot of Malbec.
(2) I love pickles. Especially half-sours. I like some olives, especially in martinis. As for onions, I generally only like them when they're cooked, but I do love the pearl onions that they put into martinis.
(3) Fall is awesome: Not only was I born in the fall, but I love fall colors. But, to be honest, I spent way too much of my life living in Florida to be that keenly excited about the colder weather. As long as the daytime temperature stays between 70-80, I'm fine.
Sara asked, "What is you all time favorite comfort food and will you share the recipe?"
In all honesty, my favorite comfort food is mac and cheese, and when I make it it's out of the blue box. I do love Noodles & Company's take on it, though -- and eat it way too much.
As for things that I make, the closest thing that I have that is not a cookie is my Nana's recipe for Tuna Noodle Casserole -- and it's the easiest thing in the world. One bag of egg noodles, two cans of tuna in oil, two cans of cream of mushroom soup, one can of peas (drained) and some breadcrumbs and butter. Boil the noodles, and mix everything together in a casserole dish, then sprinkle the breadcrumbs on top and dot with the butter. Bake in the oven at 350 for 30 minutes or so, or until it is browned on top but not too crispy.
TINGB asked "Which is the worst of the "Viva Viagra!" commercials I'm forced to endure during every commercial break of the baseball playoffs?"
All of them, my dear, all of them. Any time they show any commercial about anything to do with erectile dysfunction, I cringe. For me and for society in general.
Peter wrote to me via Facebook: "Dear Ask Dara: Tonight should I watch the Vice Presidential debate or my Forgetting Sarah Marshall DVD from Netflix? On the one hand, even though I've heard that the movie is hilarious, the debate might be funnier (I enjoy dark comedy). But, if I don't watch my Netflix DVD and return it immediately, I will not be getting the most value for my money out of Netflix."
Peter, If you are really limited to one or the other, I'd flip a coin -- heads debate, tails movie. The debate is likely to be scary funny, and it is very important, but it lacks plot. The movie is very very funny, but it isn't THAT important to trade in your movies right away (this from someone who has had the same movie since August).
Of course, the better answer is a compromise: stay up late and watch Forgetting Sarah Marshall after the debate.
But whatever you do, just make sure the kids are asleep before you start the movie.
Then Anna wrote: "Dear Dara, Should I give in to my husband's demands that I stay up late for the ten cents savings of watching all Netflix DVDs immediately? Besides I hate Sarah Marshall."
Anna, Forgetting Sarah Marshall is a very funny movie. It's worth it. But in general, I'm with you on the Netflix thing. One extra day ain't gonna break the budget.
(Ed. Note: Then Anna wrote "Um, Actually I just learned Sarah Marshall and Sarah Silverman are different people." So I think it made her decision easier.)
If Biden: • refers to John McCain as "a friend" or someone he respects just before trashing him. • tries in any way to justify the complete failure that is Amtrak. • has to explain what his son did for a living after law school. • says any of the following: "climate change," "biofuels," "green," "ethanol," "drilling," "Big Oil," or "Bridge to Nowhere." • refers to Palin's recent interview with Katie Couric. • exceeds his time limit. • mentions the number of years of experience he has. • makes any allusions to the pregnancy of Palin's daughter Bristol. • displays righteous anger. • suggests a title for Larry Flynt's Sarah Palin-themed adult film.
If Palin: • invokes McCain's POW history • mentions her husband or any of her children by name (make it a double if she says "Track in Iraq"). • says any of the following: "pitbull," "lipstick," "hockey mom," "Joe Six-Pack," "maverick," "barracuda," "glass ceiling," or "plagiarism." • says "gosh," "gee," "golly," "darn," "heck" or any other homespun curse euphemism. • evades answering a question. • cries poverty. • is actually carrying a firearm. • cites Russia's proximity to Alaska or talks about her great love for the state of Israel in response to a question about foreign policy (been there, done that!). • mentions by name any animal species native to her home state. • is wearing a suit that costs more than her plane.
If either candidate: • says any of the following: "change," "God," "hope," "Beltway," "insider," "lobbyist," "energy," or "Bush." • says "Delaware" or "Alaska" in a funny accent to sound folksy. • invokes the specter of Hillary Clinton's presidential campaign. • actually curses. • says "Wall Street" and "Main Street" in the same sentence. • uses hyperbole to talk about the current financial crisis. • says, "Let me finish." • mispronounces the name of a world leader. • milks the crowd for applause. • mentions Tina Fey.
I am sure that I will have one heck of a headache tomorrow.
I went to my last baseball game of the season tonight. It was a crappy game -- the Nats lost to the Marlins big time, and almost none of the big name players, to the extent there are any, even took the field. And it was cold.
I left early.
This is unusual for me: I almost always stay until the end of the game -- regardless of score or weather or a dearth of stars. But tonight, in addition to the crappy game, I was annoyed by two things -- people actually -- and just wanted to get the heck out of Dodge.
First of all, our seats are right near this guy that I refer to as "Baseball Wesley Willis." For the uninformed, Wesley Willis was a 300 pound schizophrenic dude who wrote these crazy little songs performed on a Casio keyboard. He is probably most famous for "I Wupped Batman's Ass" -- which is quite possibly the best song of all time.
Okay, I kid. But it's pretty friggin' hilarious. And awesome.
Anyway, Baseball Wesley Willis does his own version of performance art. He stands up, holds either a beer bottle or a pen in front of his mouth as if it were a microphone, and shouts "Can I have your attention please?" and announces each and every pitching change or pinch hitter, and then either (1) makes a joke about their name; (2) comments on the weather or the stadium concessions; or (3) says something unintelligible that sounds like "Oulet creuset boulet boulet."
He apparently started doing this at the old stadium, where the loudspeakers weren't so good. But in the new stadium, where people can actually hear the announcer and read the scoreboard, he is just, well, annoying and loud.
This is even more so since he has taken to doing this while standing right in front of me.
I try to ignore him, thinking maybe he'll go away or stand somewhere else. But the asinine people around me seem to think it's a novelty act, and applaud him -- and he keeps doing it.
Grrrr.
But it gets worse. Today, in addition to Baseball Wesley Willis, there was a girl sitting right behind us who shreiked, approximately once per inning, at the very top of her lungs.
This was not a particularly little girl -- I would guess that she was somewhere between 7 and 10, which means that she was old enough to know better. And her parents were sitting there right there next to her -- but NOT ONCE did either of them do anything to stop this.
In fact, they didn't seem to mind -- not even when people looked at her (and them) in sheer annoyance. If it were my kid, I'd have been mortified.
Anyway, I'd like to thank these people for letting their jackassery totally ruin my last baseball game of the season. But not all was lost: I came home tonight to an email from TINGB, forwarding this article:
Hot Dogs Force Evacuation At Citizens Bank Park
PHILADELPHIA (CBS 3) ― The discovery of several hot dogs in packages outside Citizens Bank Park brought the bomb squad out and forced the temporary evacuation of the stadium Wednesday evening.
According to police, Pattison Street between Darien and 11th Streets was shutdown as officials investigated the discovery of several suspicious packages near a ticket office.
Fans inside the stadium were evacuated, but players remained on the field during the incident.
Bomb squad members further investigated the packages and determined they were simply several hot dogs in foil wrappers. Sadly, the wieners were detonated as a precaution.
The stadium was reopened at about 5:20 p.m.
"It was clear from when we looked at it at first glance and when you looked at the debris afterwards, there was packaging and duct tape; I don't see many hot dogs sold here with duct tape," Phillies VP of Operations Michael Stiles said. "We just did what we felt was appropriate."
The Phillies take on the Atlanta Braves at 7:05 p.m. on Wednesday evening.
I guess my night could have been worse: No one had to detonate my hot dog.
I finally got to see The Dark Knight tonight. I really liked it -- I thought it was exactly what it was supposed to be -- Batman movies are supposed to be dark and serious. And the performances were quite good, especially considering the genre.
But I might have been in the minority: As soon as the credits started to roll, my friend said, "Thank God that's over." She then proceeded to tell me how it was not even close to as good as Iron Man.
Don't get me wrong -- I absolutely loved Iron Man -- but this analysis confounds me. Unless they're the same actors or part of a series, I have a hard time comparing two different movies in that way. I mean, I can say that I thought Brad Pitt was hilarious in Burn After Reading, but kind of lame in The Mexican (and omigod hot in Troy!), and there's a fair basis of comparison. I can also say that I loved the first Spiderman movie, but as the series goes on, I find them less and less compelling. (And don't get me started on Star Wars!) But that's comparing apples with apples and oranges with oranges.
I think Iron Man and Batman are the stereotypical apples and oranges. For a superhero genre movie, Iron Man was a light, fun and comedic character study. It didn't have the same gravitas as The Dark Knight -- nor was it supposed to. Batman, on the other hand, was a completely dark mood, tone, and texture -- which is fitting, considering it was a study of the nature of the criminal psyche. Iron Man was all about Robert Downey Jr.'s performance; Batman was all about the supporting cast -- and Christian Bale almost blended into the background in comparison.
The only thing the two movies have in common are that they're both based on comic book superheroes. Oh, and that I liked them both. A lot.
For the first time, this blog has proved itself useful in a way other than providing me an opportunity to vent or otherwise amuse myself. As you all can read, on Sunday, I blogged about my problem getting cable and internet.
When I called to reschedule my appointment with Comcast, I had asked to have a manager call me back, but none did.
But apparently, there are those within the company who are concerned about their customers. Mark C. from Comcast's headquarters found my posting and left me a comment with a contact email. I emailed him my number, and within hours, a representative called me.
I wound up with an appointment for this morning.
By lunchtime, I had cable and internet. This evening, I set up the wireless router. Right now, I am typing this while watching Project Runway.
So thank you, Comcast -- and especially Mark C. After Saturday's experience, this level of customer service was refreshing.
I left for Chicago right after my offer on the condo was accepted. As a result, I swore to everyone that would listen that I was going to be on a strict budget. There was budget for the hotel, and for food, and for activities -- but no budget for shopping.
Of course, my brother has a close friend who has a boutique in Wicker Park (or is it Bucktown?), and he thought I should go to her store. So off we went. What happened next is a blur. I tried on skirts and jeans and shirts and tops. Some things looked good -- others not so much -- but almost nothing ever fits me right because I am so short. But my brother's friend was not deterred, and kept bringing me new cute things to try. If this was what shopping with a personal shopper is like, then I totally understand why people do it.
Then she brought me a dress -- a simple sundress, spaghetti straps and a slightly empire waist leading into an A-line skirt, made out of a light blue cotton fabric with white polka dots, red roses, and green leaves. The dress was nothing I would have picked out for myself, seeing as I have a closet full of skirts and dresses that I hardly ever wear, telling myself that I am just not a dress person.
I put on the dress, zipped up the back, and stepped out into the store, where my brother sat on the couch, next to the mirror. He looked at me and his face changed. "That is your dress," he said. I knew it too -- and not just because my brother almost never says anything complimentary about the way I look. I knew it the second I pulled up the zipper. It was like the dress had been magically waiting there for me to find.
Of course, the dress was very expensive. There went the budget, before it had really been in effect. But the dress and I were meant to be. It was fate. Kismet.
This morning, after I heard the weather report, I decided to wear the dress to work with a white crocheted sweater -- mostly to cover up my tattoo, but also to protect my arms from the air conditioning. And all day, everyone kept commenting on the dress -- and I kept telling the same story: The dress found me.
We arrived in San Diego yesterday morning. After losing exactly one blackberry (not mine) and enduring an unbelievably long wait for a rental car, we were on our way.
First stop: La Jolla Cove. We wanted to see the beach. What we got were seals. Lots of seals.
Then, last night, we went to the Padres game. Here's a little video of the fireworks from the post-game.
After what was close to a 24-hour day, we went to sleep at our very posh hotel. This morning, we woke up and went to Coronado.
First the beach:
Then we chased some ducks through downtown:
Then we went out to Balboa Park and relaxed at the Koi pond by the Botanical Garden:
Personally, I never really thought that they went away. In fact, I still have my tape of Big Bam Boom that I got for my birthday in the 4th grade. I remember watching the Nickelodeon show where they played music videos (I wasn't allowed to watch MTV), hoping that they would play Out of Touch or Method of Modern Love. I still maintain that those songs are awesome. The '80s hair, not so much.
In an early short story, "The Fullness of Life," she wrote:
I have sometimes thought that a woman's nature is like a great house full of rooms: there is the hall, through which everyone passes in going in and out; the drawing room, where one receives formal visits; the sitting room, where members of the family come and go as they list; but beyond that, far beyond, are other rooms, the handle of whose doors perhaps are never turned, no one knows the way to them, no one knows whither they lead; and in the innermost room, the holy of holies, the soul sits alone and waits for a footstep that never comes.
So, the other day, on Metro, I saw a baby in little mini Chuck Taylors (navy blue hi-tops). Of course, this was right after I read the Washington Post article on the history of Converse. Then and there, I decided that if I ever have a kid, she's going to have black ones, because she's going to be a total punk rock baby.
So, when I was talking to my dad about my running shoes, the conversation somehow went to the awesome baby Converse, and then I noted that if I have a kid, not only will I get her these shoes, maybe she'll even have a mohawk.
Today I stumbled across 123 U. Pa. L. Rev. 1474, a law review article on "The Common Law Origins of the Infield Fly Rule."
The Infield Fly Rule is obviously not a core principle of baseball. Unlike the diamond itself or the concepts of “out” and “safe,” the Infield Fly Rule is not necessary to the game. Without the Infield Fly Rule, baseball does not degenerate into bladderball the way the collective bargaining process degenerates into economic warfare when good faith is absent. It is a technical rule, a legislative response to actions that were previously permissible, though contrary to the spirit of the sport.
123 U. Pa. L. Rev. 1474, 1476-77 (1975)(citations omitted).
What a great piece of legal writing. I can only hope that the author is a judge somewhere now.
