Yesterday, IP and I attended the Wedding of the Century. A detailed account follows.

I arrived at IP’s at around 2:15pm after having spent the half-hour before I left my house desperately searching for a pair of shoes that went with my dress. I finally found a decent pair thanks to my mom, but in the end, it’s not like anyone noticed my shoes. Anyway, I was looking pretty good with my strapless black dress, teardrop necklace, and open-toe shoes when I arrived at IP’s. And he was looking good in a pair of nice slacks, a blue shirt, great jacket, and a nice tie. I swear, IP looks so good in a suit. When I first saw him in a suit at his defense, I would have jumped him if we had been alone. And he wasn’t defending in the next ten minutes.

(I’ve gotten used to seeing IP in a suit, but he still looks damn good. And I still maintain that I would’ve had my way with him back on December 17, 2002, if he hadn’t been on his way to becoming Dr. IP that day.)

Once at IP’s (a wonderful apartment he shared with an absentee roommate), he signed B’s card, we packed up what we needed, jumped into my mom’s Explorer, and off we went to Dexter and the wedding. We arrived at the church with about fifteen minutes left until the ceremony started. IP couldn’t help observing how many pick-up trucks were in the parking lot. Gives you a sense of the crowd, huh? As we watched people arrive from out last-pew vantage point within the church, IP and I talked about various things, including the salaries of faculty and staff at the University of Michigan. IP was pissed that a snooty postdoc makes $36,000 (Note to IP: Remember when that seemed like an faraway sum?) when all she does is read all day and leave at 5pm. It’s a cushy, three-year postdoc for a woman who’s never even published one paper or been to a conference. We’re guessing people from Harvard don’t have to publish or attend conferences.

Anyway, I saw High School Friend K arrive and said hi to her, saw High School Friend L arrive, but didn’t get to say hi to her. Then the ceremony began at about 3:10p,—Michigan time, according to IP (Note: U of M classes start at :10 past the hour or half-hour). It was a very short ceremony, but there was a lot of crap about having to submit to your husband, hellfire for divorcing, and all that wonderful Baptist thunder. The responsibility of B’s husband is to love her, but her obligation is to submit to and obey him. I gagged. Good thing IP and I decided to sit in the last pew, so no one saw my stern look of disapproval. Well, maybe IP did, but he should be used to it by now. After the word “submit,” I listened half-heartedly, amazed that B would ever agree to a ceremony like this. She’s religious, but she’s bossy as hell and wants her way all the time. She usually gets her way with her new husband, too—he’s not what you call assertive or self-assured. IP and I were both more into observing the crowd around us; instead of bowing our heads in prayer, we looked curiously about us and watched people mutter a prayer. IP and I had no reason to bow our heads—he was raised Jewish, I was raised Catholic.

Once the ceremony was over, we waited until B and her husband dismissed us, with B’s husband telling me that he thought I wasn’t going to come (I sent in my freaking RSVP, didn’t I?), and B thanking IP for coming before bursting out, “Oh, I shouldn’t call you just IP, right?” I didn’t hear that, though–IP told me later what she had said. (IP has this thing, then and now, that he didn’t go to graduate school for seven years to be called Mr. IP. I once told B about it.) IP and I headed outside, met up with K, L, and their husbands, saw the newlyweds off as they clambered into a “Michigan Historical Car” to get their pictures taken, then the rest of us headed to the reception hall.

It didn’t take long to get to the reception hall. (If I recall correctly, I ripped out of the church parking lot, startling IP; by the way, the reception was held at a union hall, typical of Michigan weddings.) By 4:05pm we were there, sitting at a table near the head table. K, L, and their husbands caught up with us, sat at our table, and we began talking. The guys got beer, the women got Diet Pepsi (K barely drinks, L didn’t want to, and I had a race today [the day I wrote this, obviously, not April 7, 2007.]), we had some small snacks, and we started talking. IP of course started to get into trouble right away with L’s husband. K’s husband joined in, and before we knew it, K, L, and I had three obnoxious significant others sitting at our table, bugging the hell out of us. After a while, we started to notice how long the bridal party was taking, and next thing you know, it’s been an hour and a half since the ceremony ended. (It was at this point that I decided to share with everyone that B had told me she was going to sex up her new husband on the way to the reception—they had been saving themselves for marriage. I grossed everyone out with that thought.) Everyone at the table started getting ornery, everyone was hungry, and discussion of the ceremony was not kind (at least from the women [the men seemed content with it]). Finally, at 5:45pm, the bridal party showed up to begin the reception. (The bride and groom showed up to the tune of “Rock and Roll [Part II]“—by contrast, I envision my new husband and I entering the reception—at the Michigan Theater or the Michigan League—to the tune of “The Masked Ball” from the Much Ado About Nothing soundtrack. But that’s just me.)

They cut the cake, they were calling out the names of couple who signed the registry to kiss (IP and I signed on separate lines [and this was well before we canoodled at weddings]), they called tables up to the buffet with TV trivia (guess the 80s TV theme song), dinner was a riot (fried chicken, salad, mashed potatoes, and sandwich fixings including Wonder bread—you can imagine I didn’t eat much), then the dancing started. B pulled me out for the bridal toss (I didn’t even attempt to catch the bouquet), IP went out for the garter toss but made no effort, either. We didn’t dance, even though K tried to make us dance (they asked all married couples to dance, and K told us we should dance since we were married—IP and I promptly looked at one another and asked when this had happened). We spent any time alone at the table talking about Colorado, Kenya, what to do this summer, and dishing out hypotheticals (“Well, if I ever get married, this is what I’ll do. . .”). While the bride and groom danced, we made plans with everyone at our table to get together. At least I got to catch up with K and L. B, though, didn’t even come over to our table to thank us for coming. Her husband did, but he seemed pretty embarrassed to do so—after all, he barely knows any of us. How’d he end up having to deal with us? Poor guy.

(B’s husband is shy and doesn’t really speak up at all. He muttered a few words to us, but I was sitting away from where he was standing and heard nothing. IP, though, heard what is now considered a classic wedding line: “Drink more, guys—they’re raping us on the pop.” Oh, he’s classy!)

Anyway, all in all, it was an okay wedding. B had a beautiful dress on, I’ll give her props for that. I started to get very bored, and pretty annoyed at the antics of IP and L’s husband (K’s husband wasn’t that bad at all, really). L’s husband kept on taking pictures of me when I wasn’t looking, and IP kept on encouraging him. (I avoid getting those two together, which isn’t hard anymore.) By the time 8:30pm rolled around, all of us were ready to go, and when we saw B break away from the dancing during “YMCA,” we ran over and said our goodbyes. B insisted on a picture before we left, so all three of us dropped our purses into our guys’ hands to join B in front of the camera. While they took our picture, the three guys linked arms and danced to “YMCA.” I didn’t see it, but apparently it happened. (But really, you aren’t supposed to link arms and do Rockette kicks during “YMCA”—you’re supposed to use your arms, dorks.) IP had a bit of fun, so I don’t feel so bad for him having to endure it.

(Deleted part about what happened after the wedding. There might be minors reading.)

However, all of this decided me. If I don’t elope, I’m having a very small wedding if I get married.

©2012 Sonnet 87. All Rights Reserved. Originally published by WordNerd for Sonnet87.com. This post cannot be republished without express written permission.

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Ranting on.

Well, today it starts.  Yesterday was set-up, but today is the first full day of the event.  It’ll last for four days, until Saturday afternoon, and then they’ll be gone for another year.  Another year in which they’ll bombard front desks with requests for accommodation, declaring snottily that they’re artisans and deserve an accommodation.  Another year in which to forget how crowded the streets can get, to forget the sickening smells that permeate the air during four days in July.  Another year in which I can actually park in the parking structure. Another year in which to not live in fear.

I speak, of course, of the Ann Arbor Art Fairs.  Cue deep shudder from me and a lot of sensible Ann Arbor residents.  Honestly, I don’t even know the proper name for this thing.  Ann Arbor Summer Art Fairs? Summer Arts Fairs of Ann Arbor? There are four participating art associations (two of them, the youngest and the oldest, each trying to claim the title of “Original”), four associations who swallow up a good deal of downtown Ann Arbor and Michigan’s central campus for the next four days.  I don’t know their official title, but when these four days roll around, the two most dreaded words in the English language become Art Fair

And oh yes, I avoid it like the plague.  When I lived in Ann Arbor during the summer, these were four days in which you’d find me locked up in my dorm room or find me at my parents’ house, hiding.  When I lived in downtown Ann Arbor, on State and East Washington, the intersection where they set up their band, I avoided going home until the Art Fair was over for the night, then scurrying back to get some shut-eye.  When I worked on Madison and had to walk down State (past all the tents) to get to work, my step would be quick and furious, anxious to avoid the crowds and the artisans.  When I met IP and we both discovered that we shared a mutual loathing of the Art Fair, we went on day trips and spent our time outside the Ann Arbor area, coming back into town until it was absolutely necessary.  Last night, during set-up, IP and I headed out of Ann Arbor again, eating at an outlying restaurant, not coming back into
town until we had to.

I hate it for multiple reasons (and these reasons, I’m sure, extend beyond me).  Here’s a list for your viewing pleasure.

The crowds:  Once again, Ann Arbor is flooded with people in the middle of the summer, a crowding matched only by the first few days of fall term. However, fall term crowding is limited to campus and can be readily dismissed.  Art Fair crowding extends from Church Street until Main Street, an area encompassing far too many square miles than is really necessary.  Each of the streets used are packed with white booths, artisans describing the inspiration for their overpriced works, and people wandering around trying to decide whether to buy the do-dad or stick to the obsidian sculpture of Lee Bollinger.  Both cost about $2,000.00, by the way.

The parking:  Parking in Ann Arbor is bad to begin with – meter maids follow you like a faithful pet and City Council has given the police force ample permission to write hefty tickets (the city needs funds) – and Art Fair only exacerbates the situation.  By using various streets (lots of streets in Ann Arbor’s downtown are one-way), the artisans effectively block access to some parking structures.  Luckily, I have a parking permit for a university lot courtesy my mother, so I’m not that affected (I just have to walk a bit more if I want to meet up with a friend).  I do pity the working persons who have to contend with Art Fair severing access to their favorite parking spots.

The smells: Ah, the sickly sweet smell of Art Fair.  Start with a 90 degree day, throw in a dash
of B.O., blend in fried foods, then add a dash of rainwater to stir up the smell of earth.  Ah.  Summer in Ann Arbor.

The artisans: These people rank second among Ann Arbor’s most annoying visitors, superseded only by alumni and running ahead of the yoga convention people. In terms of accommodation, I have had extensive experience with these people – even though they know accommodation is tight and reserved a year in advance, they still call all year trying to sneak themselves in somehow.  They’ll first deny that they’re artisans, a mistake because that throws them down even lower on the waitlist.  Then they’ll pick up their artisan credentials, claiming preference because of their status.  However, once the rooms are taken, they’re taken.  We’ll call you if we have a cancellation, ma’am.  The artisan will then call you incompetent, ask to speak to a supervisor, and then get the same answer.  She continues to call, hoping to
get another person on the line gullible enough to sneak her into a room.  It never works.  And the fact that we’re always completely pleasant ticks them off to no end.

Before anyone accuses me of being sexist towards my own gender by labeling the artisan as a “she” halfway down the paragraph and ruining my pronoun usage, I speak from experience: The majority of the artisans are women and they are really mean. In fact, women attending any kind of conference tend to be meaner than the men. I don’t know if they’re trying to assert
themselves as women in control or they just like pushing people around, but I hate working conferences where the majority of the participants are women because they can be evil with a capital E.  It’s really disturbing to be yelled at by a social worker at a conference on infant mental health just because they ordered a beef dish and decided they’d rather go with the veggie dish and the veggie dishes are gone.  Quite.  Disturbing.

It’s all easy to avoid if you decide to get away from Ann Arbor.  However, when people tell me to stay away if I don’t like it, I get furious.  I can whine and groan and bitch about it as much as I want:  My personal space and delicate sensibilities are being impinged upon, and I’ll be damned if I’m not going to complain.

Because complaining is one of the things I do best.

©2012 Sonnet 87. All Rights Reserved. Originally published by WordNerd for Sonnet87.com. This post cannot be republished without express written permission.

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I was reading my latest assignment (Sexing the Cherry), and happened to look up and out of my window.  My window faces the east end of campus, and I get a spectacular view of the red neon sign from Sutton Place.  However, the ‘u’ was missing tonight.

I started to speculate as to when they would fix it, and why they hadn’t done so already.  Did it just burn out tonight?  Or has it been like that for a while, and I’ve only noticed now?  Having been gone for nearly two weeks, it’s not impossible to imagine that it’s been burnt out for quite a bit of time.

Contemplating the ‘u’ in Sutton Place led me to think of other views I’ve had over the years.  The church across the street from my apartment in Ann Arbor; as I slept in on Sunday mornings, I could hear children screeching "I don’t wanna!" and I would feel their pain.  I didn’t wanna, either.  Or the medical fraternity across from my old dorm; my friends and I could hear their whoops of delight (yuk it up, med guys) and their music playing at all hours of the night.  What about the view of Observatory Lodge, with it’s weird architecture, housing astronomy students?

The most classic view I can remember from recent years was the open field behind my parents’ house before our neighbor sold all his land and a subdivision was developed.  Slowly but surely, our view has devolved from spotting multiple deer and other animals to houses popping up, kids playing, cars screeching.  Currently, a house is being built right outside our kitchen window.  While at home, I’d stop and look at the workers, wondering how they survived the cold, wondering who the hell dared build behind us, wondering if we’d get along with these people.*  The backs of our houses are to each other, so we might never see them.

The view from upstairs (I have a two-level apartment) is almost the same, but there is one aspect of the upstairs view that always grabs my attention.  Curiously enough, Sutton Place never does.  Instead, it is the sight of two chairs on a fraternity’s roof, one facing Robarts Library, the other facing God knows whatever building.  If there were people up there at one point (there had to have been, right?), then they were never facing one another if properly seated.  It’s as if one person was facing east while the other person sat his chair south, and their respective gazes never met – nor did their voices.  A third chair is between them, but it is collapsed, folded up on itself.  It’s a very desolate scene, and I’ve actually taken a picture of it so my sister can render it into eternity with paints.  My roommate and I have contemplated it many a morning, and it feels so lonesome and depressing that we’re actually saddened.  I’d love to go up to the frat house and speak to whoever placed the chairs in those positions, but I’m afraid of being sexually harassed and invited in for an orgy (in which case, I’ll have to smack the pretentious undergrad).

The views out of our windows.  In considering how we interpret them, how much do they say about the views of our lives?
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*The house was just recently inhabited, two years later.  There were apparently legal wrangles and what not.  I think the builder is living there, and seeing as how my father hates the builder, I don’t think we’ll get along.  But they have a baby!  A baby girl!  I want to babysit the baby girl!  Babies are so cute!

©2012 Sonnet 87. All Rights Reserved. Originally published by WordNerd for Sonnet87.com. This post cannot be republished without express written permission.

For the past few weeks, a war has been fought between my sister, my mother, and me. My sister and I are on the same side of this war, facing a formidable mother of four who will stop at nothing to have her will obeyed. The war is currently in a forced truce, given that the woman is far away in the land of her birth. That fact, though, hasn’t stopped my sister and I from striking when necessary. Yesterday, we found it necessary.

A few months ago, my least favorite cousin gave birth to her first child. She immediately sent pictures out to the entire family (a practice I find financially wasteful if you’re sending them to family members whom you don’t care for [and they don’t care for you!]) including our household. I took one look at the picture, declared the kid ugly (poor child, he’s pretty unsightly), and got on with my life. Mom pointed out that it was a picture of the child immediately after birth, so it wasn’t going to be the most charming picture ever. I pointed out that, red as he was, little brother M was cutie from the start. My mother spat out that since I don’t like my cousin, it’s natural that I would immediately label her child as such. My sister promptly backed me up by saying, “Well, I have nothing against G, but the kid is pretty icky, Mom.” Mother pursed her lips, flared her nostrils, and placed the picture in the middle of the dining table for all to see. War had been declared, but my sister and I weren’t engaging her just yet. We had to get annoyed first.

While eating at the table, I become increasingly irritated at having to move the baby’s picture around in order to arrange whatever book, magazine, or newspaper I had to read while indulging in a culinary delight. When cleaning the table, I constantly had to move around the kid’s mug so the damn thing wouldn’t get wet. I would catch my sister staring at it, fascinated, marveling at the degree of uncuteness this child was displaying. When we complained that the picture was in the way, my mother again accused me (and only me) of being prejudiced towards the kid to begin with and insisted that the picture stay put. I finally burst out that I doubted any of my children would receive that kind of treatment (V and M concurred, citing that pictures of their children would be hidden away in the closet), took the picture, and tossed it into the bill cupboard. It’s now lost in there, wandering in a pile of papers only the bravest are capable of tackling.

However, our cousin sent another picture.

Little B, two months old, decked out in GAP and Ralph Lauren Polo. Shoot me if I ever buy anything for my kid by Ralph Lauren Polo. Anyway. Several pictures were sent, some of them for my aunt (the baby’s grandmother) and one for my mother. While flipping through them, my mother’s exact words were . . .

“Oh, how cu- oh, he doesn’t look too cute there, does he?” My younger siblings and I promptly burst into laughter. Unfortunately, the picture that my cousin gave to my mother was a ‘cute’ one, so we have a picture of a two-month-old in addition to a newborn floating around the house. My mom knew she wouldn’t get away with placing the picture in the dining room, so here’s what she did:

1) Attempted to place the picture on top of the framed photo of two of my parents’ friends. The husband in the picture is deceased, and it’s his picture that was covered up when little B was placed there. While working at the computer last week, I heard my father say, offended, “Why the hell are you covering up Andy?”

2) Placed the picture of the kid on top of the framed photo of us kids at ages 5, 10, 17, and 20. The picture of the kid covers up my little brother M and little sister V. Thanks, Mom. My sister, highly affronted, leaned the picture of the kid on a small figurine nearby. I, more than highly affronted, took the picture and placed it behind a pair of Father’s Day cards still hanging around. You can’t see him as of yesterday.

See, I really wouldn’t mind if my mother had just let it drop instead of subjecting us to the picture of the kid day after day. I don’t know what her purpose was in forcing us to dine with the kid, but it ultimately led to us wanting to banish the child from our house for all eternity. I really have nothing against the kid; I might dislike his mother, but the kid in particular doesn’t bother me. I actually feel sorry that poor Ben has to be raised by someone as irresponsible and as childlike as my cousin. The only reason I can give to my mom’s actions is this: simply put, she wants to annoy the hell out of me. She wants to force me to admit that the kid is cute when my instinct tells me the kid isn’t. He might be the sweetest baby in the world – I’d gladly baby-sit him to see if he was a sweetheart (just because I don’t like his mom doesn’t mean I can’t like the kid). Doesn’t make him the Gerber baby. And you’re talking to a woman whose heart skips six or seven beats whenever exposed to an adorable baby.

Hell, my other cousin’s (sister to the cousin above) kids are super cute. P’s are cute, G’s kid . . . well, isn’t.

What it came down to was the old battle between my mother and me in regards to my preferment of living in Michigan than in California. I like being independent from my cousins (I can’t imagine being forced to hang out with the lot of them). It also comes down to the age-old battle of why I should love <I>all</I> my cousins because they’re my cousins, even if I’ve never exchanged two words with them. I’ve exchanged one too many words with this particular cousin, but who cares about my opinion? She’s family!

We’re waiting for the next chapter in the war over the pictures. Will Mom even notice after all this time away? Doubt it.

(Ed. Note: My mother never noticed. The kid’s looks have not improved. However, his cousin is absolutely adorable.)

©2012 Sonnet 87. All Rights Reserved. Originally published by WordNerd for Sonnet87.com. This post cannot be republished without express written permission.

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“You awesomely vain, intensely self-focused, narcissistic, panderous, insult-loving, poetry-naive, literary ignorant, wishing you were Brendan Shanahan, really like Brett Hull boy!”

“You good for nothing, mirror-loving, vanity-set-owning, constant-hair-combing, pretty-boy-like-Fedorov baby!”

“Presumptuous, ego-inflated, cocky, Keith Tkachuk wannabe!”

“You pain-inflicting, heart-stabbing, take-no-prisoners, insincere charm-spreading, false flattery-dispensing, Blackhawks-praising, rejection-happy Matt Higgins pretender!”

©2012 Sonnet 87. All Rights Reserved. Originally published by WordNerd for Sonnet87.com. This post cannot be republished without express written permission.

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Hell, it’s been a great week for hockey. Let’s see. Tuesday, the Mighty Ducks of Anaheim were served a big piece of humble pie by the New Jersey Devils. Wednesday, Patrick Roy retired. And Thursday, the Devils once again showed the Ducks how the big boys truly play.

Let’s start with Roy retiring. It’s actually a shame to see him go. As much as I hate him as a rival on-ice (and he doesn’t seem like an affable, easygoing person off-ice), I’d be lying if I said he didn’t provide some interesting times in hockey, especially for my team. There’s no doubt in my mind that he retires as the best, at the top of his game (despite a Game 7 loss to Minnesota in the first round of the playoffs). Despite the many disappointments Roy has tossed the Red Wings’ way (1996, 1999, 2000), it’s impossible for me to say that he didn’t earn all of his victories (Claude Lemieux, on the other hand . . .). It was quite satisfying, however, to see Roy perform the all-time blunder which – I feel – definitely cost the Avs the Western Conference Finals last year: The Statue of Liberty Gaffe.

As much as I love seeing that play over and over again, I think back to Game 1 of the Western Conference Finals in 1997 just to see his brilliance on display. Like I said, it’ll be a shame to see him go – 1997 and 2002 were special because, not only did the Wings win the Cup, but they dethroned Colorado and Roy to get to the Cup. That was sweet if only because we knew our team got past a tough, smart, and talented competitor.

Hate ya, Patty. But I think we’ll miss ya. Have a nice retirement.

As for the Stanley Cup Finals. Finally! Finally all of the bandwaggoners are seeing what I’ve seen during the entire playoff run for the Mighty Ducks of Anaheim. They’re just not that good. I have long maintained to my father, brother, and boyfriend that once the Ducks hit the Finals and met up with an Eastern team, they’d be demolished. They were winning on the merits of one man alone, Jean-Sebastien Gigeure. I’ll admit that he’s done an excellent job and should be considered the top candidate for the Conn Smythe, but the rest of his team never did anything that made me think this team was a Stanley Cup team. Their play was poor at best, Giguere kept them in the game, and they got lucky.

Once Game 7 was decided between New Jersey and Ottawa, I knew that New Jersey would, if not win the Finals, definitely gives the Ducks a run for their money. I’d like to clarify that I’m not predicting a Stanley Cup winner, just glad to see the Ducks in an 0-2 hole. Anyway, back to the topic at hand. As I said to my brother A before anything was decided, the Ducks would definitely feel some growing pains if they ran into New Jersey at the end. He promptly asked why Detroit wasn’t able to do it – how could the Ducks figure out the West yet stall against the East? “Hubris,” I answered. “Detroit and the rest of the West think they’ve got the Ducks figured out, hence they’re easy to beat. The West is collectively saying ‘The Ducks?’ in an incredulous voice and snickering. Plus, the Ducks are getting lucky, and the West’s luck runs out when the Devils are around. The Devils won’t smirk. They’ll just play tough.”

And it’s happening. The Ducks are so far getting demolished. And I for one love it. I love that the Devils are dispensing their usual disregard for the hype and just doing their jobs. I love that the Ducks are getting exposed. I love that people are seeing it’s all Giguere, and that’s not good in a team sport. The Ducks are not a team. They’re one great goalie, Paul Kariya, and a collective heads of knuckle that are (were?) getting L-U-C-K-Y.

As soon as Detroit and St. Louis were eliminated, I was rooting hard for the New Jersey Devils. I completely respect the Devils. Back in 1995, they too served up a plate of humble pie for the Detroit Red Wings in four games during the Stanley Cup Finals, and they did it all without being arrogant about it (paging Colorado . . . yes, I realize Lemieux was a Devil back then). New Jersey has always seemed to be a hard-working, talented team that works for each of its victories, puts in the necessary effort plus 100% more, and is constantly deserving of the praise thrown their way. I like New Jersey, quite honestly. Don’t love ‘em. But I like them.

It’s been a great week for hockey. Let’s hope it continues into the weekend.

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So what happened? The Devils won the Cup in 2003. The Ducks didn’t even make the playoffs this year. I love being right.

©2012 Sonnet 87. All Rights Reserved. Originally published by WordNerd for Sonnet87.com. This post cannot be republished without express written permission.

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. . . Ten more pages to go, including this one. I probably will finish this before the 25th. Too much has happened to not write. If I sit down and reread this, I’m sure I’ll see bits of wisdom in my words. It’s been a long, trying month, filled with some difficulties I had hoped to never encounter again. Here we are on the second flight, heading towards Detroit. Thank God, it’s getting closer and closer, our home state. I am so grateful to be on this plane, I can’t even begin to describe it. I wonder what’s expecting me in Michigan. What the hell has happened in the world of hockey, what’s happened with my friends and the front desk, what has developed in regards to life overall. Listening to music and writing should hurry time along. Really though, what a curious thing it is I’m doing. After all, I’m writing down my thoughts, giving them a sub-physical and sub-tangible existence! What drives people like me to apply ourselves and put to paper our innermost feelings about events, others, ourselves? What is this need that we feel to document (for ourselves or posterity) what is happening in the present moment? Or is it even the present moment, since I thought of this sentence a good deal of time before I could jot it down. Already it’s lost some of its flavor, having been the past as soon as my moves onto the next word and the ink spills upon the page. Is it vanity or the true desire to leave behind something that others can use to deduce what exactly it was like, flying in an American Airlines plane on July 20, 2000, at 7:53pm? Interesting quandry, this seems to be. What compels me to write? Well, for one, I adore seeing how ink bleeds onto a piece of paper, thick and permanent for all the world to read if I so desire. Second, I enjoy playing with word tremendously. Ubi sunts, alliteration, rhyme, anapests, etc . . . I love these devices that allow me to spin words into patterns that make your voice dance and skip. Third, writing gives me power – voice and authority. In this moment, on this paper, and with these words, I am the most right person in the world. I am giving birth to my reason, logic, hope, dreams, fears and happiness. And there is no human being alive who can question or vehemently contradict my feelings and emotions. Fourth and final reason – I love language. It’s fundamental communication, even though only I am reading this. What it boils down to is how writing further inspires me to reach towards other people and (most importantly) my inner self. Why this treatise on my writing? Dunno. This journal, and finishing the last, has inspired me to write with heart and introspection again. My last journal was a task – I did not want to write anymore in that volume of lost dreams and futile hopes. But determination pushed me and the journal – those dreams and hopes that were impossible encouraged me to explore other venues of happiness that I had not considered in the past. By finishing those pages, I learned that overcoming even the most heartwrenching obstacle is possible. This journal was akin to a surprise dropping out of the sky – how to avoid entrapment into that pit of annoyance, pain and despair. I successfully battled that task, it was an amazing and awesome feeling to know I was stronger than the one who fought to bring me down again. This journal has allowed for an insight into my strength that I had only imagined in my “literary snob” dreams. This whole day of writing (well, at least since 7:53pm) has been one of mulling over my literary abilities.

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It’s weird, but thinking about those Summer 2000 days fill me with two things: The hope I had then, and the sense of utter defeat I had when the last day of classes rolled around that April. I remember being happy (there was a lot of fun had that summer), but also being so sad that I went to sleep crying every night (and I hate to cry). It’s one of those times in your life when you remember it perfectly – every taste, sound, person, event. This journal in particular (dated from June 25, 2000 to July 25, 2000) seems to have a sort of presence and tone that makes me remember everything. There was something about that summer, and I can’t quite put my finger on it, that changed me radically. I periodically go through times of extreme change (1997 was another year) where I can look back and know that I was changed, but I’m not sure what did it. I guess that’s why I love to write in journals. They allow me to go back and rediscover who I was (and can never be again). Of course I can never point to something and say, “Yup, that did it.” But it helps bring back those times. The WordNerd of 2000 was just . . . different.

Finding this entry made me remember what it was like to write with something akin to conviction. I hope to rediscover it, too.

©2012 Sonnet 87. All Rights Reserved. Originally published by WordNerd for Sonnet87.com. This post cannot be republished without express written permission.

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I’m wandering around Briarwood Shopping Mall, looking for anything that remotely resembles a hiking shoe. I wander and wander, and must’ve racked up about a mile in walking distance. Final score for the night?

Briarwood 1, Me 0

It’s amazingly frustrating that a mall the size of Briarwood doesn’t have one hiking shoe present. I know the mall isn’t exactly huge, but I’d like to think that they harbor some small corner for women’s athletics. Instead, the mall seems to cater to hip-hop gear and only hip-hop gear; I guess the dress of the clerks should’ve been my clue. However, not everyone dresses like Missy Eliot or goddamned Puff Daddy. Jesus H. Christ, how is one supposed to do anything remotely athletic in an oversized Pistons jersey and Timberlands that are fucking pink!?

It seems as if Briarwood believes that women don’t work out at all. I can count on one hand how many times I’ve purchased anything remotely related to running there: Once. That was before Lady Foot Locker went stupid and started selling chunky fashion sneakers instead of good old fashion running shoes – the pricey kind here, not goddamn cheapo Nikes. I bought one pair of Nike Converge Triax running shoes there; my favorite shoe in the entire world. Since discontinued, but they left Lady Foot Locker long before I even dreamed of Mizuno Wave Riders. I still remember the day I walked in there and the nice professional sales people who knew about running shoes had been replaced by two high schoolers and a bunch of weird Sketchers. What the hell!?

Back to my point: No decent workout gear of any kind. All workout apparel is made from cotton (what is this, the prehistoric era!?), the shoes are simply slapped-together pieces of fabric and plastic and the sales people don’t know squat about the mechanics of running, hiking, what have you. Granted, it’s sort of my fault for not being a good girl and visiting REI or Cabela’s, but do you know how expensive those places are? While I’m perfectly willing to invest any kind of amount in my running shoes, with the hiking boots I can spend a little less. I just wanted something sturdy, something that fit well, something that wouldn’t give me blisters and make my feet sweat at the Great Sand Dunes. Was that too much to ask?

It apparently was. I walked out of Briarwood, defeated and grouchy. I promptly ordered a pair of North Face trail shoes on sale at backcountry.com, and I hope upon hope that they work for me. If they don’t, I’ll have a fit. A crying fit.

Well, at least I won’t be hiking in purple suede monstrosities with no traction.

©2012 Sonnet 87. All Rights Reserved. Originally published by WordNerd for Sonnet87.com. This post cannot be republished without express written permission.

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Not because of their crappy connections and overbearing presence. Nope. I hate them because of that goddamned commercial airing that shows a couple getting an AOL CD, adding it to their wall art, and then getting lectured by Jerry Stiller. He makes a joke at the expense of a rapper (yes, I know it’s Snoop Dog), who promptly appears and says, “Wait just one minizzle.”

????

What the fuck is a minizzle?

Hmm, let’s look in the OED . . . not there. Hell, let’s look in the MED (Middle English Dictionary), maybe it’s an old form of “minute” . . . hmm, nothing there, either. Gee, maybe I can’t find it because . . .

The goddamned word doesn’t exist!!!!!

However, it’s in the Urban Dictionary. Like that counts for anything. Before anyone gets smart with me, it doesn’t. Why? Because the people making up these words and phrases probably have nil education in the development, structure, and change in the English language. Bastard that the language is, that doesn’t give anyone the right to slaughter it in the name of “culture.”

Bull. Bullshit. You learn it before you play with it, that’s my beef. If I find out that Snoop Dog has a PhD in linguistics and knows how to read Old English, I take it all back. Why in God’s name do you think I can tolerate J.R.R. Tolkien? That’s right, the man knew his stuff. Granted, I don’t enjoy his work, but I respect his work because he knew the background necessary to make it work.

AOL pisses me off for allowing the distribution of something so stupid on such a wide scale. Maybe, thanks to AOL, Jerry Stiller, and Snoop Dog, kids will be saying “minizzle” instead of sticking with the proper “minute.” Thanks, idiots.

You don’t just make up new words that have no etymological reasoning behind them. How do you make the leap from “minute” to “minizzle?” You don’t logically. You do if you’re just trying to be stupidly creative. Besides spelling variations, the basic word has always been “minute.” Gah!!!!

I hate that commercial.

©2012 Sonnet 87. All Rights Reserved. Originally published by WordNerd for Sonnet87.com. This post cannot be republished without express written permission.