Channeling Fred and holy cow, a real live felon!

We used to have this Shih Tzu named Fred.

Also, you know how I'm always saying things like I'm going to stab Nick? But you know I would never actually do it. I just kind of verbally over-react to things sometimes or always.

Just a reminder.

Plus, did you know that if you're a felon, you can't serve on a jury? I asked Nick if they ask for proof and he told me that he didn't know but in any case nobody would believe me.

Because how did he know that was where I was going with it?

Much like whether or not I would make a good lesbian, I get all bothered when people tell me I can't do something. So I was all, I could too seem like a felon. Don't you think?

He says no.

So Fred.

When Fred got annoyed, he would make these little huffing FFFFFFFFFFT hissing noises PSSSSSSSSSSSSSHT and bend his front legs and put his chin on the ground and stomp his furry little back feet one by one. Sort of like he was kicking sand backwards one foot at a time.

FFFFFT FFFFT FFFFT

And when I am annoyed, I have this feeling I do something very similar. At least internally.

So yesterday I was all in a tizzy, because I'd just realized that my previously postponed jury duty (legitimate excuse: breastfeeding) was July 8! Which was suddenly tomorrow! Aaagh!

FFFFFT FFFFFFFFFT! PSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSHHT! Stomp stomp kick kick!

So I hustled myself to jury duty this morning all hissy and stompy and OF COURSE I had demagnetized my metro card because I have demagnetized every fucking metro card I have ever bought and do you know how large a stash of useless metro cards I have that I need to send in?

FFFFFFFFFFFFFFT PSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSHHHHT! Fucking secret magnets!

I was late and sweaty and hissy and stompy as I ran back and got myself another metro card and then clop-clop-clopped in my ugly but oh-so-practical Dansko commuting clogs down to the train.

All this fretty hurrying was for naught, because the check-in line was long.

FFFFFFT FFFFFFFFT PSSSSSSSSSSHHHHT drip drip sweat sweat.

So I sweated in line for a while answering work email and fretting about all this annoying crap work that I need to get done today and then when I got close to the counter it was apparent that this one woman had been taking up two of the clerks' time for quite a while.

FFFFFFT FFFFFFFT PSSSSSSSSSHHHHHHHT come on!

Because, it turned out, she had a felony record.

FFFffNow this is interesting...

So she was waving this piece of paper and saying it was wrong, and they told her that they couldn't do anything about it, and in order to fix the record she needed to go to an office upstairs.

They pointed to a line on the paper and said, "This right here is the problem. It says here you pled guilty."

"Oh, I don't have my glasses."

"It says guilty."

"I don't think so. I don't remember that."

"You don't remember?"

"Uh uh. I'm pretty sure I didn't plead guilty."

"Well, it says you did. So we are going to have to excuse you."

(And there I was thinking, that looks easy. And whatever they think she did, I'd like to know!)

"Oh! You know what! I remember! I did plead guilty! Because my lawyer said to. But they let me off."

"Well, we have to go by what this piece of paper says. You need to go upstairs to see about getting the record changed."

There was more back and forth, and then she left. And both clerks said, "Next!"

And then the senior clerk called across to the other, "You have to go by what the record says. You can't listen to what they tell you."

"Yes, I was."

The senior clerk pointed in the direction of the woman. "But don't even listen to their stories. I mean, that one? Murder."

Oh.

Memories, boobs, old friends, new friends, and painful pauses

This is something I'd forgotten until Kelli, Russ and I were sitting on the floor of our kitchen at 1 am, talking about her boobs.

The ones she didn't have in high school. The ones she paid good money for. The ones I asked to feel at the last reunion - thus causing a number of guy friends to make the same request, although mine was clinical curiosity.

But then I had to feel those of another friend - at the time more of an acquaintance, really - just to be polite.

This story is actually about the other friend, who is older than us and left Delhi before either of us arrived. But who I'd met in childhood, as she's the daughter of friends of my parents. I'll call her Adrienne.

So I felt Adrienne's new boobs at the last reunion and then we didn't keep in touch, since we didn't actually know each other and were in very different places in life.

Four years went by, and as you know, last summer my dad passed away.

As happens, there was a continuous stream of old friends coming over to my parents' house bearing food, flowers, condolences. They came, sat with us, had drinks, swapped Mike stories, mourned.

Among the first were Adrienne's parents. Who hadn't seen me since I was in junior high, at the oldest.

And here I was, grown up and married and all pregnant!

So I said hello, and asked how they were, and inquired as to Adrienne's well-being.

At which point Betty turned and said, "Lisa felt Adrienne's boobs at the Delhi reunion!"

I felt like one of those squirrels frozen in panic, unsure what to do with the approaching car.

Her father looked at me. I looked at him. Her mother looked at me. I looked at her. I tried to smile. But then I thought smiling might make me seem creepy. So I stopped.

There was this terrible pause. It went on and on.

Finally I said, "Well. This is awkward. Would you like some cheese?"

And that's all we said about that.

Blogger keeps eating comments and the Chinese spammers make me mad and I totally think we should hug it out

First things first: Blogger seems to be eating comments. I thought it ate some of mine.

But they seem to be turning up hours later.

Actually, it might not entirely be Blogger's fault. I suspect the Chinese spammers who leave me daily comments are likely heavily involved.

They probably steal my comments in my sleep and when I'm actually working on work work and replace them with things like, "Heavenly breezes, rough seas and small boats, so cheap Viagra!"

You think it's a haiku - oh, someone is leaving me poetry! - but then you remember that that's a Japanese art form. And I doubt real poets get involved in other people's erections.

Although truthfully, what do I know about the confluence of poetry and erections?

And WHAT is my point? I think all the endorphins from the weekend have temporarily created a void in my brain.

Ah, the point.

That if you have commented and you think it's gone nowhere, and you're all, this is the first and LAST time I comment on Lisa's blog because she just throws them away! Because WHERE is my comment?

I don't know where it is! Maybe in a Chinese Viagra warehouse?

But I jump up and down with excitement whenever I get comments, particularly from old friends, and I love having them on the blog, because that way I keep them forever and ever.

So just know that it might appear tomorrow. But they do wind up in my in-box and I read them and adore them. So please don't stop just because they seem to have gone into a vacuum.

I was about to be all, "Fucking Blogger! Fucking Chinese spammers!" but I've decided to try and be more Zen.

Don't think I didn't hear you snorting loudly at your keyboards.

Also, the hugging.

Nick, he comes from non-huggy people. They might hug hello when you arrive for a long visit. And they might hug goodbye. Or they might just say "Bye!" from across the room.

Whereas me, I hug. I hug you hello. I hug you goodbye. Even if I'm going to see you a couple hours later. At which point I will hug you hello again.

"You're leaving? Oh, you're just going to the bathroom? Well, let me hug you in case I don't see you when you come back."

I exaggerate, but not by much.

And so Nick, he gets over-hugged by my people.

At the end of our wedding weekend, he turned to me and said, "What's with the hugging strangers? I've never been hugged so much by so many people in my life. Two of them even kissed me on the lips!"

This happens. Some of the overseas friends are lip kissers. I knew exactly who he was talking about.

I shrugged, "It's good for you."

Nick thinks it's weird, all the hugging. I think, how can you be over-hugged? Tell me it doesn't feel good.

Unless, of course, someone creepy and molesty is trying to hug you. Eeeee! Run away! But in that situation, I know Nick could hold his own.

That sounds sketchy in itself. But you know what I mean.

So I knew that reunion weekend would be similar. I didn't warn him, because it's good to keep him on his big ole toes.

HUGS! HUGS to all of you! I hug you from afar!

Except you, Chinese spammers. You're pissing me off. I'm not hugging you. And not just because you're probably all walking around with perpetual erections.

AND ALSO! OPEN THE GODDAMN WAREHOUSE AND GIVE ME BACK MY COMMENTS!

Reunion weekend: Nick gets over-hugged by people he's just met and I wish time would stand absolutely still

I've lost my front door key. I can't find my phone. I still have random sparkles stuck to myself. I'm exhausted and a little teary.

I bet this is how it feels to come down from a three-day cocaine binge.

I'm guessing, because drugs are one of those things - like tons of casual sex or maybe threesomes - that I feel like I ought to have done in my twenties.

I have never been seize-the-day-y enough.

Not, of course, that people were offering me drugs or threesomes on streetcorners or anything. It's not like I was non-seizing left and right.

So.

So Kelli and Russ arrived early Thursday evening, and honestly, I didn't stop laughing until I dropped Kel at the airport this afternoon.

I've long felt that people don't really change as they age - they just become more so. You distill, I suppose.

We're all still who we were in high school - just more. More candid. Funnier. Smarter. Kinder. More experienced and wiser.

More cognizant of the fact that what we had in each other was rare, and the fact that we still have it is precious.

High school for us was a place without cliques, where everyone was accepted, embraced. It was a small school, and a small ex-pat community. You played sports, did theatre, were in the band, the science club, ran track - you did several or all of those things at once.

After high school, most of us went off to our own countries - the countries we were supposedly "from." I learned this weekend how lost so many of us were. We didn't know how to fit in where we were supposed to.

Eventually, we all figured out how to fit, more or less, and how to feel comfortable.

Quite a number of years have passed at this point.

We've been to college, gotten married, divorced, remarried, moved, had kids, bought houses, quit smoking, begun and ended careers, started businesses, lost hair, lost friends, lost parents.

We've grown up. But not apart, astoundingly enough.

Because in our hearts and souls, we are the same.

I always thought it was India that I longed for when I ached to be home, although I wasn't from India. And once my parents left, Delhi wasn't home.

And what I realized this weekend was, it was these people. They were my sense of place and belonging.

This past weekend, I was so very home.

Surprise quicksand in the shallow end

I know this is Frivolous Week, but I got all heavy in my head, and to mitigate that for you, I thought I'd share a very sketchy fashion choice from my 80s.

Sooo. As you know, I've been posting all these dress options, and you've so kindly given me your opinions, and for me it's been like playing a game. With clothing! And shoes!

I love thinking about clothing, fabric, color. It's more fun than almost anything else I think about on a daily basis. I write all the time for my job. But not about anything I find compelling.

And why didn't I go into fashion? Why was I too insecure to do anything I actually liked?

(Yes, I know the answer to that. I've spent a boatload of cash answering those kinds of questions.)

So yesterday I learned that more of my high school friends have read my blog than I might expect - at least the last two posts about reunion outfits. Because we are all leaving excited messages on Facebook about seeing everyone this weekend.

And one of them left a teasing comment about the T-shirt he'll be wearing and suggesting I coordinate.

I immediately thought, "Oh, God. I seem so narcissistic and shallow. What if they think I'm an idiot? What if I wear one of those dresses and everyone who read the posts smirks?"

So we beat on, boats against the current, no?

And then I stopped myself and thought, "Well, but these are old friends! People who know me!"

Well, sort of. They knew me in high school.

When I was wildly insecure. When I spent so much stupid time lamenting how fat I was, when I couldn't be skinny or pretty enough, because being enough of either of those would make me enough. Would make me worthwhile.

When I was so uncomfortable with myself. When I was flailing about for an anchor, and desperate for approval.

When, most of all, we didn't acknowledge The Crazy in my family. Because that might hurt Dad's Career.

When I walked around believing the family party line, "We're fine! We're normal and fine!"

HAHAHAHAHAHA.

Maybe this is true for everyone, but I've grown so immensely in the intervening years. For me, probably mostly within the last several, really. With, you know, a lot of help.

On the outside, I don't look all that different. Maybe 10 or so pounds heavier, and with more wrinkles and more freckles. And I no longer have a Cyndi Lauper criss-cross shaved into my hair.

I'm still very much about what I'm wearing and "Ooh! I love your hair/purse/jeans!" and "Look! prettyshinysparkly!" and "Does my butt look big in this? No? How about if I bend over this way? Now does it? Well, no, I don't know why anyone would bend that way, but does it?"

But inside, I'm three lifetimes older and wiser. I feel like my dad's suicide attempts over the years and then taking his own life last spring were tantamount to living through war. We survived, and we're stronger, but the scars are deep.

I've developed an immense capacity for understanding some astounding things. My tolerance for unkindness and bullshit is remarkably low. I have much more of a poker face than I used to. But I'm much more likely to speak candidly - not unkindly, but candidly.

I can be really intense. In fact, I have this feeling that even when I'm being totally frivolous, it's with a great deal of intensity.

Can you be intensely frivolous?

So I talk about remarkably shallow things like clothing and jewelry and lip gloss and sparkles. Because Christ, the world is plenty heavy. I could talk about BP and McChrystal and Michelle Rhee and DC schools and overturned gun bans and carbon exchange.

But honestly?

I don't want to.

Also, I think I'm going to wear the Abortion Ring with one of the BDs and the S&M shoes one night. And maybe tomorrow's post will be all about jewelry.

La la la la la! Splishy splashy!