Twister!

If you watch or read any kind of news, you will hear that a tornado hit downtown Iowa City last night.

www.cnn.com

It missed our apartment by about two blocks. The Chezik Honda dealership on the corner of Highway 6 and Mormon Trek is a mess. Cars are flipped over, the building is ripped apart. Downtown is a disaster. I could only suppress my curiosity until 6 a.m. this morning when I drove downtown to look around. The ped mall is strewn with trash and a lot of buildings are missing roofs. Most of the stoplights fell down.

As your official Iowa blogger, I have images for you.

I took these bottom two images along Riverside Drive.

The photo with the CLOSED sign shows what's left of the old Dairy Queen on Riverside.

Iowa-tastic

I like to provide tid-bits of interesting Iowa news.
For your enjoyment: Fairfield Ledger story

Famous Cheese

Blue cheese is, essentially, moldy cheese. In America, the best blue mold happens to grow in Newton, Iowa, where Maytag Dairy Farms has been turning out Maytag Blue Cheese since Duke Ellington's "Daydream" was a hit on the radio.

In 1941, the first wheels of Maytag Blue aged in underground caves. Cheesemakers produced the cheese by hand, stirring big vats of curds and testing the curd firmness with their fingers.
Little has changed, except now the cheesemakers wear hairnets.

I got to wear a hairnet myself when I toured the cheese factory to write an article about it for my master's project. You gotta love a master's program where there's no thesis and instead you can write quaint stories about cheesemaking in small town Iowa. Ahhh, graduate school.

Surprisingly, to me at least, not many Iowans know about Maytag Blue Cheese. Come on people! It's been in Oprah's magazine. It's been on the Emeril show. Maybe Iowan's don't even know about O magazine and Emeril. Don't you people get cable? I've decided Iowan's don't watch enough TV. It's one of our few outlets to civilization--we need to up the tube-time!

Workers still cut and wrap all the cheese by hand. The work rooms looked like something out of Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. All the workers in white coats and hairnets would move quickly, not saying a word. The cheesemakers stirred big stainless steel vats of goo. I kept watching for Oompa Loompas.

If you've had blue cheese salad dressing you have no idea what actual blue cheese tastes like. That's what I discovered when I tasted a hunk of the huge wheel I felt I had to buy to reciprocate for them being so nice and letting me see the curds and whey in the vats. For the first couple of chews it was delicious--cheesy and tangy and creamy. But after swallowing I was left with an aftertaste of cement basement floor. That's mold for you.

Trouble in River City

I am such a pansy.

Really, I am. I've never smoked weed. I've never blacked out from drinking too much. I've never worn shirts cut too low to be decent. I am, overall, a master of self-control. I like my life clean, simple and healthy. I am too sane for my own good.

I've always wanted to do what was right. In elementary school the teachers instilled a holy fear of drugs into me, and I vowed to "just say no" when the moment came. They assured me the moment would come. I pictured myself in a parking lot surrounded by kids with long hair. One greasy hoodlum would hold a joint in my face and antagonize me, but I would walk away with my nose in the air. Alas, that moment never came. In small-town Iowa, no one ever offered me drugs. Sure, people took them. But my friends didn't, and no one would have been stupid enough to offer me drugs anyway. They knew I was too straight.

I went to college in clean-thinking, God-fearing Pella, Iowa. No one offered me drugs there, either. I knew people who did them, even saw them doing them, but no one solicited my participation. I would have said no, but it's still nice to be asked.

Spring is near. My yearly case of spring-fever is starting early, and I want to rebel. Along with most people, I sometimes want to do something out of character. I want to dance on tabletops. I want to get a tattoo. I don't want to do drugs--my holy fear of them is still intact. But I want to do something. I smoked a cigarette for the first time a couple days ago. Well, not really smoked--I didn't inhale. I'm still a clean and healthy pansy at heart.

Wheels Go Round and Round

Yesterday it finally hit me that I'm graduating in two months and have no job. This fact didn't hit me as a wave of pure panic, just as a fact that hadn't yet occurred to me. I think I should be more nervous about it, but I'm pretty serene. I don't know why. I think about how I've freaked out so many times in the past and it's always turned out fine, so why worry this time? Something will turn up. I am not merely a leaf being blown in the wind.

That said, I did take some time yesterday to think about what I should do when they kick me out of the University of Iowa. I thought about it on the bus, where I do most of my good thinking. The bus is fun. I can watch people, and the same people usually get off and on, so I can watch them over time. I know when the lady who smells funny is going to get on, so I try not to sit near where she will sit.

While thinking on the bus, I decided that if I can't get a job, I might move to Des Moines and try to be a freelancer for a year. I would of course be trying to get a job at the same time. And I could work some crap job too, I suppose. I don't want to live anywhere smaller than Des Moines, for now at least. If you want things to happen, you have to go where things are happening. Not that all that much happens in Des Moines, but it's the whole big fish small pond idea.

Not that I'm a big fish. But I could be a lot bigger fish in Des Moines than I could in Chicago. My sister wants to own Des Moines. She wants to go into commercial real estate and fight her way to the top. I want to go into journalism and fight my way to the top. Maybe we can own Des Moines together. Or at least rent a two bedroom for a year.

That's what I thought on the bus.

Narnia Rap

This is really old news, but it's still crazy-funny. If you haven't yet seen it, check out the Narnia Rap.

Sweet Lips

Celebrate Valentine's Day by reading this article on the history of the kiss.

XOXO!

One of the best stories I know

Disclaimer: I can never do justice to this story, but I will try anyway.

My sophomore year was the most exciting year of high school because it was the year of the Cat Killings. You might have heard about it--it was on the national news and Dateline and crap like that. Four senior hooligans--you know the type--got liquored up, broke into a local animal shelter and bludgeoned about twenty cats with baseball bats. It was not pretty. Uproar followed and animal rights activists and television crews invaded our town. However, the Cat Killers got off pretty easy in the end, and I'm not sure what happened to them in the long run. They are probably working at K-Marts or selling cars. The only Cat Killer's name I can remember is Lamansky, because it pertains to this story.

As I recall, the Cat Killings happened in the summer, and that fall we had this new English teacher named Mr. Volmecke (VOL-meck-y). He was straight out of college and used to wrestle and was in fact a wrestling coach at our high school. This is the only time I have heard of an English teacher doubling as a wrestling coach. He had black hair and big shoulders and thought he was Cab Calloway. He was always saying, "That guy was one cool cat," and other jive talk that sounded ridiculous. Needless to say, I didn't like him and mocked him at every opportunity. I mean, this was the guy teaching us Julius Caesar.

He didn't like me either but I don't blame him. He could sense my loathing. But don't blame me because I was just a smart-ass sixteen-year-old who had my own problems. I had skinny legs.

So it's homecoming. There's a big pep rally on Friday afternoon in the gym that we're all forced to attend. Mr. Volmecke has been asked to speak and is doing so, insanely. He's in full jive-talk mode, saying the football team was going to be riffin' on those yard-dogs and whatnot. He waved his arms and his eyes burned with hysteria. The crowd was into it and yelling and stamping. Volmecke screamed, "And I want you guys to cheer like crazy when Lamansky takes some cat's head off!"

Silence.

People sat down, slowly. Volmecke, unaware of the Cat Killings, had used his hep-talk to describe a player, another student named Lamansky, not the Cat Killer, making a great tackle. It was an unfortunate choice of words because hardly anyone had had Volmecke in class and most people thought he was indeed referring to the notorious Cat Killer. Gradually, titters of laughter burst out around the gym, and Volmekce got off quick. He only stayed at our school that one year. But people still tell the story of the Cat Killers and how Mr. Volmecke put his foot in his mouth in the most glorious fashion.

If you want to know that I didn't make this up, click here.

Some days I feel like the only thing I'm good at is looking cute.

Some days I feel like I suck at almost everything. My career goals seem the insane dreams of a megalomaniac. My interpersonal skills seem so lame I wonder how I managed to survive so long. My writing stinks. My cooking is terrible. Even my speaking voice seems low and scratchy.

I feel like one of those bimbos on Jay-Walking who is only good at looking cute. Maybe the energy I expend on clothes selection and hair is inversely proportional to how talented I can be in other areas. Something to think about. This whole scenario is of course based on the assumption that I do look cute. If you think otherwise, please don't let me know. If it's really the only thing I'm good at I'd hate to have that last shred snatched out from under me.

Wishing it were Summer

I wish it were summer in Iowa. I wish my fingers would burn when they touch the steering wheel of my car. I wish the heat would hit me like a wall when I step outside. I wish for warm hazy evenings when the sky is purple and pink at 9 p.m. and lightning bugs blink in the fields. I miss summer smells of mown grass and grilling burgers. I miss tank tops and my hair in a permanent ponytail. I wish for hot asphalt that shimmers and mornings so bright the grass looks electric.

Alert: Girl Talk. Don't Read if You Are Embarrassed by the Word Bra

The older I get the more I realize how problematic it is to judge other peoples' actions. We never know when we might be placed in a situation where hard choices have to be made. I bring this up because I've found myself thinking about doing something I never dreamed possible: getting a boob job.

I've always said I thought it was disgusting and unnatural and I'd never do anything like that. I acted as though people who got them were shallow and and ridiculous. How strange it is to find yourself considering something you once laughed at. Truth be told, I won't get one. I don't have that kind of cash. But I find myself wondering what I would do if I had buckets of money at my disposal.

You see, I am flat as a pancake. This fact strongly asserted itself in ballet class where we all wear leotards and and no bras. People say things like a flat chest bother you less as you get older, but I think it actually bothers me more. Maybe I've finally accepted that they won't grow any more on their own.

It's not really a major problem, and it only bothers me occasionally. Keira Knightley is flat, and she's accepted as a bombshell. They painted on her cleavage in Pirates of the Carribean, I was very happy to learn.

Still, I find myself imagining what life would be like if I had an, ahem, alteration. It doesn't seem too bad. And unless you are flat-chested yourself, you shouldn't say boob jobs are always disgusting. You never know who you might be insulting.

Only one semester left (EVER!)

I'm off to turn in my last final exam! The semester is finally over. Never again will I have to sit through a lecture about the courtly politics of the movie Titanic. What a waste. I'm heading home to eat cookies, watch movies and make people play board-games with me. Yay! See you back here in January.

A Letter to Snow

Dear Snow,

I've got to say, I've always thought we were friends. We played together when I was a child, and we had great times. Remember that winter when I made an igloo out of blocks of you? That was really special. Even as I've gotten older, I've looked forward to seeing you each year. I know that sometimes I pretended I didn't want you to visit, but that was just to impress my friends. Secretly, I loved watching you cover the ground with fluffy whiteness.

But, Snow, I have to be honest. Lately, you've kind of been overdoing it. Sure, I don't mind if you visit once, twice, even three times a month. But you don't know when to leave, and this Snow everyday thing is getting on everyone's nerves. Yes, other people are noticing too. My roommate made a comment today, something about "freaking snowing everyday." As a friend, I thought you should know.

Please don't take this the wrong way. It's just that I get tired of wearing boots everyday, and scraping my car is a real bitch. So Snow, this doesn't mean we're not friends anymore. On the contrary, I look forward to seeing you at Christmas. Just tone it down a little, and everything will be back to normal. Call me, we'll go sledding.

Laura

Why I Blog

Once, a couple years ago, I randomly looked at a bunch of blogs on blogspot. I wanted to get a feel for what people were writing about. It was interesting, because people were writing about everything, but mostly about themselves. In the isolation of post-modernism, we're all looking for a way to communicate. Each blog was a person trying to make sense of a self and trying to tell someone, anyone, about that self. Well, not every blog. One was a site encouraging people to go to church naked. Still, that's communication! What better way to strip off the pretensions of life?

I guess a need for communication is why I blog. I'm afraid I'm becoming more post-modern every day, and blogging is a way to have a touchstone of embarrassing sentimentalism. The thing is, I love honesty. I want to know about how people are deep down. And I want to tell people about me. Sometimes I think I share too much with people, whether in print or in person. I like to explore the little everyday details that make up a life. I may have shared too much about those details when I wrote an essay in undergrad about going shopping for a new bra. Looking back, I think the class may have felt awkward when I read it aloud.

That's the problem with honesty: someone usually feels uncomfortable. But I'm sick of the boredom of being polite. So I will continue to post embarrassing personal and/or sentimental slush on this blog. Try not to feel uncomfortable.

List: Things Men Shouldn't Do on a First Date

1. Offer your arm prom-style and say "Shall we?'

2. Use grotesque cheesy phrases such as "You look lovely tonight."

3. Try to take a picture of your date with your camera-phone.

4. Suggest a walk in the snow when the woman is wearing heels.

5. Disregard bad weather and refuse to leave earlier so that you get stuck on a hill with the tires spinning and your date prays to Jesus to let the night end soon.

6. Insist on getting out of the car and walking your date the five feet to her door.

7. Be a boring, ridiculous buffoon.

8. Tell your date that people always tell you you look like Tom Hanks.

9. Not take hints about the woman being "busy" next Saturday but keep asking questions about what she's doing that day.

10. Call fifteen minutes after you drop her off to tell her you got home safely.

11. Expect a second date.

Brrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr

Today I woke up and it was winter. Actually, I felt it coming on all through the night as the wind whipped tree branches against the side of the building and I had to burrow deeper and deeper into my nest of blankets. I have realized afresh how my conception of cold does not align with most of the population. I've learned that most households keep their thermostat at around 70 degrees in the winter. Some people even dare to drop to 68. This is not how I was raised. We were like a family of house-cats all seeking the warmest spot and turning the heat up to a temperature that would stifle most Mid-westerners. My parents' electric bills must have been obscene. I never thought about bills, I just wanted to be warm.

Now that I have to pay the bills, I am trying to adjust to life in an igloo. But in the mornings, when my resistance is low, I still sneak into the hall and turn the thermostat up to 75 degrees. Even that's not really warm enough. I wear sweaters all the time now, and fuzzy slippers. I sleep with a comforter, a quilt and another down comforter on my bed. But I'm still cold and am looking into getting an electric blanket. Now if only I could find an electric jumpsuit to keep me warm during the daytime.

Hot Cold

The computers hum and blink their one giant eye, a room full of Cyclops that never sleep and stare and have no eyelids. Sure, there are screensavers but they just blink some more and never stop radiating energy into the room chock full of fluorescent light and rays. It's dead here, quiet, a place of screens and papercuts on my fingers from the paper that spews out of the printers, page after page after page. Outside it's windy cold fresh and the leaves are slick wet under my shoes. The parking lot it black and wide and I rush to my car get in lock the doors. It's scary in parking lots at night when nobody's around and there are shadows and what could I do? Something. It's nice when I get home and the lights are on but they aren't screens and there is yogurt and cookies and I like the fire that turns on with a switch, because the fire is real true light not from a bulb or screen. It's hot light, not cold like the computer lab, parking lot, but like the sun, summer, the glint in peoples' eyes when they are excited.

Death Under the Kitchen Sink

We caught a mouse. The little bugger was in the trap this morning. I checked immediately after I woke up. It was sort of gratifying to actually see the cause of the trouble and know that it was eliminated. But it was also quite sad. The poor brown furry thing was stuck in the trap, dead. I just stood there and stared at it. Then I started to get really sad and had to close the cupboard. I knew I couldn't get rid of it, so I waited until my roommate woke up and asked her remove the mouse. My eyes got teary for a moment as I described to her the situation under the sink. I know it had to be done. Mice are dirty gross disgusting and can't be tolerated. We have scrub the cabinets with bleach. But it was sad to see the mouse in the trap. I hope there won't be any more.

Mouse in the Lazy Susan

There is a mouse in our lazy Susan. More precisely, there was a mouse. It is gone now. I don't know where it went. Perhaps it is traveling through a labyrinth of the backsides of cabinets and the spaces behind walls, nibbling as it goes. It nibbled my macaroni and cheese.

I discovered the mouse this morning. I woke up, drank some water and stumbled to the kitchen. I mixed some oatmeal from a packet and and microwaved it. I sat down on a stool at the counter to eat my warm oatmeal. The sun peeked through the blinds and all was right with the world. A few bites in, a sound came from the cabinet containing the lazy Susan. It sounded like a piece of paper being flicked around in the cabinet. I knew it could only be a mouse (or, more horrifying, mice). I was hit with the irony that this is the nicest apartment I've ever lived in, and yet it is the first one to have a mouse. I walked over to the lazy Susan and spun it around. No mouse. Thank goodness. I hadn't thought about what would happen if the mouse flew out at me. Maybe it wasn't a mouse after all.

I bent down and inspected the cabinet. A bag of popcorn had a ragged hole in the side, and specks of corn littered the bottom of the lazy Susan. I peered into the space behind the Susan. A tiny mouse turd lay on the plywood. In my mind, a tiny swear word rose and emerged softly from my lips. I thought about just closing the cupboard and finishing my oatmeal, but then I decided that my roommate needed to share in my horror and promptly woke her with the news that there was a mouse in the lazy Susan.

Together, we inspected the damage and found more evidence of nibbling. My macaroni and cheese packets had large bite marks in the paper. A corner was missing from her box of taco shells. The mouse could not be denied. I pulled on some jeans and rushed to Wal-Mart for traps, the old-fashioned kind that snap. I set them, nearly snapping off a finger in the process. Two traps sit baited in the lazy Susan, one on the top level and one on the bottom. No carnage has yet occurred. My roommate said lazy Susans are notorious for having mice. You are all forewarned.

Do You Want to be a Sex-Kitten?

Most women do, secretly, says Maureen Dowd. We're taught to want that, just as we are conditioned to think feminism is about ugly women who hate men. Lies, all lies. Read this column for some more insight. I don't usually like Maureen Dowd, but I think she nailed it here.

NY Times column