Chilling Effect

It's about 12:30 a.m. in Iowa City, and it's the first cold snap. When I ventured out this morning the wind hit me, shot straight through my coat and sucked the moisture out of my skin. The steering wheel of my car was so cold it hurt my hands to touch it. Seasons don't creep up on you in Iowa--they burst through your door like noisy relatives whose very presence sends the cat diving under the sofa.

Journalism school finals are over, the final papers handed in and the office keys returned. I'm one semester closer to my master's degree. I still feel woefully inadequate. And yet, I'm undeterred, perhaps because there's really nothing else I could do. I cannot be a teacher or an accountant or a therapist or a lawyer. So, I will continue to try to be a journalist even if I am bad at it. For me, being bad at journalism is more fun than being good at something else. As Babs sings in "Funny Girl": "I'd rather be blue thinking of you than be happy with somebody else."

It's about 12:45 a.m. in Iowa City, and it's the first cold snap. Everybody says you have to have a thick skin to do journalism. I have a pretty thick one. I think I take criticism well. Or at least I can appear to, which is the important thing. In journalism, being told you suck is part of the experience. Don't worry--nobody's told me I suck, yet. But in this business, there's really no use for anything less than stellar. So I guess I'll get stellar. Slowly.

It's about 12:50 a.m. in Iowa City, and it's the first cold snap. So make some hot chocolate already and get over it.

You Can't Always Get What You Want . . .(sing along now)

So I was reading this article about male/female relationships on the Christianity Today website. The author wondered if women have become so independent we no longer have room for men in our lives. Some men wrote in as well. Their letters seemed to come out in favor of independent women, but I sensed their unease bubbling under the surface. The men said they want to feel needed.

So I pose this question to men: What does that mean? Do you want to be the one to change the lightbulbs? Do you want us to call you if we can't open a jam jar? Would you like to do the dusting? I need someone to do that.

I have to admit this wanting to feel needed business makes my blood a little warm. I've spent a good part of my life wishing for a boyfriend, needing one, but finding none available or willing. So, I did the only thing possible: I learned to not need a boyfriend. And I don't need one. Not really. I can open jam jars and change light bulbs and program the VCR (finally). I know how to deal with a lonely Saturday night. I've learned to have fun by myself watching a movie while trying out a new recipe for spicy mixed nuts. I've also been known to put on a Jimmy Eat World CD and dance around my apartment doing ballet/cheerleading moves.

The author of that article was right. I've lived for one for so long that I don't know if I could learn to live for two. How would I deal with a sudden invasion of my space?

I tried to think of the things I'd need a man for. I'll skip the obvious.

I need someone to compliment me.
I need someone to compliment.
I need someone to make dinner for (but not every night).
I need someone to talk to.
I need someone who likes TV so they will watch with me.
I need someone to laugh with.
I need someone to make me laugh.
I need someone to go on dates with.
I need someone to drive me home.
I need someone who can be a man whether I need him to or not.

I've decided that men who find me or my friends intimidating are shoveling horse****.
They are not the men for us. They obviously aren't used to being around strong women. I NEED someone who can be as strong as me. Which isn't all that strong. Don't worry, boys. We are independent because we have to be. That doesn't mean we don't need you. On the contrary, we need you to be stronger than ever and not be afraid of us. We hate it if you are afraid of us--that's the worst thing.

I'll tell you what we are afraid of. We are afraid that you aren't interested in us. We are afraid of competing with ESPN and Playstation and the Sports Illustrated swimsuit issue. We are afraid you love our bodies and faces more than you love us. I know it's not fair to you. But there you have it--women's deepest fear laid out for you to ponder.

So, boys and girls, any comments? What shall we do about this lack of communication between the sexes? I leave the forum open . . .

Narcissus

Since this blog is about whatever I want, I decided to write a post about me. If you’re not interested, don’t read it. –The Management

I am the type of person who will check ads in the paper and go to two different grocery stores to get the cheapest can of tuna, but I’ll spend eighty dollars on a sweater. I’m the type of person who puts as much thought into choosing a brand of toilet cleaner as I would into choosing a diamond necklace. In both cases, the time I’d spend is more than it’s worth. I am extremely picky about the food I buy at the store, but I’ll eat anything at a restaurant. Every morning when I get up I cross off yesterday on my calendar with a black marker. I fold my underwear.

I’ve never given much thought to what type of wedding dress I’d like someday. But every time I drive down the gravel road to my grandparents’ farm, I imagine bringing my boyfriend or fiancé there for Thanksgiving dinner. He’d have to be someone who wouldn’t mind sitting around the table for an hour afterward listening to stories about people he’d never met. The stories would be about the time Grandpa hired some Amish men to move a small house off the property, and their trucks couldn’t pull hard enough so Grandpa helped out with his tractor, which tipped back on two tires from the strain. There’d be a story about the woman from church who everyone thinks steals the tablespoons from the church kitchen.

If we’re not going to have a real conversation, I’d rather not talk to you.

I want to be the best at things, and I’ll work the hardest if I think somebody else might beat me. This is a character flaw, because sometimes I even feel a little happy for minute when other people do poorly at something. I am scared of doing poorly, so it’s a relief to realize other people sometimes screw up too.

I love cooking for people. But only if I have plenty of time to prepare. I hate being rushed at anything, especially at getting ready in the mornings. If I’m rushed in the morning, I might be annoyed all day.

If people are willing to listen to me, I’ll talk as long as I have encouragement. If they don’t seem willing, I won’t bother to say anything. I’ve found that my fellow journalism students are very willing to listen to people talk, and I have a hard time shutting up. I tend to spill my guts if people seem at all interested. But I can also listen for quite a long time.

I’m a romantic, though I’ve tried to cure it. But it’s in my DNA.

I’m an idealist, and I haven’t tried to cure it.

I’m a skeptic, which my professors say is good. I believe hardly anything I’m told by anyone without testing the person on it. Sorry if I’ve done this to you.

My favorite book is All Creatures Great and Small by James Herriot. It’s been my favorite since about fifth grade and it will be forever because it is the best.

Sporadic Soapbox

"I have learned this at least by my experiment; that if one advances confidently in the direction of his dreams, and endeavors to live the life which he had imagined, he will meet with a success unexpected in common hours." -- Henry David Thoreau

Walden is one of those books everybody ought to read. You might think it's a lot of fluff, and yes, some of it's dull as forest peat moss, but there is also wisdom. I think I'd have liked Henry David--stubborn enough to live in a hut by a pond for two years and two months, yet ingenuous enough to write quite a few paragraphs describing the hooting of owls. Very passionate. He seems like such a sexy fellow.

"Time is but the stream I go a-fishing in. I drink at it; but while I drink I see the sandy bottom and detect how shallow it is. Its thin current slides away, but eternity remains. I would drink deeper; fish in the sky, whose bottom is pebbly with stars." --H.D.T.

I'll go fishing with you, Henry. I looked up some portraits of him on the internet. Some of the younger ones aren't bad. But looks aren't everything. Thoreau was able to channel the throbbing pulse of generations of humanity who, living lives of"quiet desperation," yearned to bathe naked in the river and fill their mouths with young green shoots.

He was a large fellow, wasn't he?

Pilgrimage

My friend Stephanie and I graduated from college on Sunday, and Wednesday morning we hopped a plane to London. For me, it would be a week of firsts—my first trip out of the United States, my first train ride, my first bus ride (not counting school buses), my first castle, my first taste of whiskey. In a way, my first real gulp of independence after sipping it through four years of liberal arts education at a college in the middle of Iowa corn. As English majors, Steph and I had read Shakespeare—now we’d kick around in his dust.

I spent most of the three week trip trying to nail down why Great Britain is different from America. But there are no easy answers and countries aren’t definable. I merely offer this illustration: the Chelsea Flower Show. It gets as much press as the Super Bowl does in the US. It’s a gardening show, but these aren’t your grandma’s flower beds. The gardens have names like “Diarmuid Gavin Design: A Colourful Suburban Eden” and “Fleming's Nurseries: An Australian Inspiration.” The nightly news updates the populace on that day’s winners. Men and women take off work and ride the train to Chelsea. They gaze at bluebells and cow parsley and hope to get a peek at the queen.

I don’t think the United States could generate that much interest in flowers. I’m not sure why—we have Home and Garden Television. It’s just not our style. And it’s not that Britain is a bunch of pansies, no pun intended. Near Shakespeare’s birthplace we saw a boy clutching his bleeding head and yelling he’d been hit with a bottle. Except he said “bah-ul.” They’ll beat the crap out of each other there same as here. And Shakespeare invented the word “bloodstained,” so it all comes full-circle in the end.

A difference in style is as close as I can come when contrasting the US and Great Britain. Maybe it has to do with history and just having so much more of it there. Pilgrims have been coming to Canterbury Cathedral since 1170, and I took my first train ride when Steph and I made our own pilgrimage. After viewing Thomas à Becket’s shrine—an iron construction with jagged daggers pointing to the spot of his martyrdom—we forked over nine pounds for the Canterbury Tales Experience. Students have been reading the Canterbury Tales so long it has become a theme park. I’m not aware that the US has the Alamo Experience or the Boston Tea Party Experience. Reminiscent of Disney World, the Canterbury Tales Experience showcased life-size pilgrims that popped out at us as we wandered through rooms designed to reproduce scenes from Chaucer’s masterpiece—a true English major’s fantasy. The experience even went a bit further than Disney, with each room recreating the smells as well as sights and sounds. Stephanie and I couldn’t wait to leave the stable scene, which featured realistic horse urine.

Britain churned out “experiences” at every corner. We enjoyed the Secret Wartime Tunnels Experience at Dover Castle, complete with odors of camphor and dinner rations. The Eilean Donan Castle Experience scored points for realistic looking pies and meat hunks in the kitchen, but it lacked smells and only earned a B+. We rode the train to all the experiences. I liked the train, especially the people pushing the trolley up and down the aisle saying, “Cakes and drinks.” The food trolley is another thing at odds with US style. Eventually I began to feel seasoned and no longer jumped when the guard asked to see my ticket. Nor did I obsessively keep track of the stops lest we miss ours. No, that’s a lie. I always kept track of the stops.

As a rule, Brits weren’t chatty on the train. Steph and I were taken aback when a rowdy youth from down the carriage staggered over, plopped down across from us and drunkenly asked our names. “You’re not from around here,” he said. “Where you from? America?” He looked disgusted at the thought.

“I’m from Canada,” Steph said quickly. Long subjected to living in a land without proper esteem for hockey, she relished any occasion to dissociate herself from the US and cling to her homeland. I didn’t say anything.

“Yanks are all lunatics, aren’t they?” he said, going even redder in the face. “What a bunch of wankers. And Bush is the biggest wanker of them all.” He began a tirade against Bush, swearing with the novelty only a drunken Brit can achieve.

Stephanie, ever polite, asked where he was from.

“Liverpool, like The Beatles,” he said. “You know—“She loves you yeah, yeah, yeah! She loves you yeah, yeah, yeah!” He bellowed the song at top voice, pointing to Steph and me in turn. “You know who The Beatles are?”

Several of our fellow passengers tittered; some looked uncomfortable, shifting in their seats. There was the sense that we were all in this together, everyone involved in the disturbance. I avoided any eye contact with the young drunk, a key factor in getting rid of unwelcome persons. Stephanie stared at him happily. Earlier in London she’d given our names and hotel to the man collecting the money people paid to sit in chairs in Green Park. She only ventured into rudeness when he asked how to contact her in Canada when he needed a name to get into the country. “I’m not giving out my address,” she said.

The Liverpudlian finally tired of us and returned to his party down the train. The nearby passengers breathed a collective sigh of relief. A man in a suit sitting diagonally from us turned, looking pained, and said, “You know, not all Englishmen are like that.” He returned to his magazine.

Of course he was right. There are rude Englishmen and civil ones, crass ones and proper ones. But a crass Englishman is different from a crass American—as I’ve said, it’s about style. You know there’s something different about a country where signs read “Way Out” instead of “Exit.”

October Country

It's October 1, and the wind is lashing rain against my window. The low temperature tonight is 30 degrees. It's as if Nature woke up and decided, "They're gonna know it's October today." Yesterday I perspired walking up a hill in shirt-sleeves--today I shivered in a sweater. October likes to make an entrance.

Today I went to the Fin and Feather store. It sells sporting goods and sturdy clothing. I went mainly because I'd never been there. Hunters wearing boots walked around discussing guns. I looked at some nice North Face jackets and hats, but the jackets cost a hundred dollars and the hats cost twenty-five. Too much. So I went to Hollywood Video instead and bought three DVDs for twenty-five bucks. Much better deal.

The University of Iowa homecoming parade hit the streets today. The rain hit the streets as well. As far as parades go, it was pretty lame, but people lined the route anyway. They waited for the candy-tossers. The Vote for Kerry crowd made up the largest chunk of the parade--they kept coming forever. I liked the fraternity float with a guy wearing only bib overalls yelling, "Na na na na. LET'S GO IOWA! Na na na na. LET'S GO IOWA!" The rain smacked his face, but he just kept shouting. He was either very spirited or very drunk. Probably he was both.

October is my favorite month, possibly because my birthday is in it. But I like the beginning of fall. I like the rain and wind and leaves. I'm always ready for a dark and stormy night. There's nothing like the feeling of driving home in dark rain with the red glow of the stoplights shining in a puddle on the street. You pull into the garage, jump out of the car, open the door and you're home. You flick on all the lights and absorb the dry warmth, maybe have some chicken casserole. Or maybe that's just me. (But you should try it with Stove Top Stuffing.)

Begin My Iowa

Iowa is a state bordered by two rivers--the Missouri on the west and the Mississippi on the east. Iowa's nickname is The Hawkeye State, but most people think it's The Corn State. They think this because Iowa grows a lot of corn. Iowa is an Indian word, and I once read that it means "beautiful land." I hope that is true because it captures what Iowa is to me: beautiful land. I drove Interstate 80 last weekend as the corn dried out under the September sun. The beans were turning yellow and swelled like the ocean as the wind swept them. I turned off 80 onto a two-lane country highway that twisted around s-curves and plunged down hills. Red and green tractors appeared in the fields like enormous Christmas ornaments, and I knew that it would soon turn cold.

Fuzzy caterpillars crawled across the road in front of me. When I could, I tried not to smash them under my tires. I like fuzzy caterpillars, but I abhor any other kind. As a kid, I'd walk around the house looking for fuzzy caterpillars since they always crawled up the paneling. Most of them are brown with a black stripe down the center, but some are blond or black. They all have a round ball of a nose, and if you pick them up they will pee in your hand.

Iowa is my home. That's a fact not a choice. The place is in my blood, and no matter where I travel or live I'll always be an Iowan. My Iowa is a land crammed with beauty. On Friday nights in autumn listen for the sound of loudspeakers projecting over the local football game. Follow the noise to the emerald gleam of the field under lights. Beyond the stadium, the humid night pulses with the buzzing of cicadas. The next day, meander down a tree-lined street and watch the leaves fall. Pick up an orange one, tinted in red, and twirl the stem between your fingers. Smell it. It smells like earth and life and death. Yes, I sometimes run my car heater in the morning and the air conditioner by afternoon. I've hidden in the basement in tornado season and slid across the road after an ice storm. I've broken a sweat getting the mail on a 95 degree day when the humidity was 85 percent. The snot in my nose has frozen in February. But that first April day when the temperature breaks 45--that's a day of rejoicing. It's jackets instead of parkas for kids at recess. One thought beats in the minds of college students--soon we can wear flip-flops. And on that day, everyone's glad to be an Iowan.