Menagerie

This weekend, I had a breakthrough in canine relations. You see, there's this Rottweiler that lives across the alley. Stuart is stocky and brown, tough except for an incongruous set of sweet floppy ears. I mostly see him when he's in his enclosure keeping an eye on everything around. His Rubbermaid doghouse is shaped like an igloo, and he spends most of his time standing on top of it, surveying his domain and barking like a militant Snoopy (as someone much wittier than I suggested). Nothing gets past Stuart; at the slightest crunch of gravel, he's boisterously on the alert.

But this weekend, I walked past him four times with nary a bark. I think he's finally accepted the bond that I have forged by saying, "Stuuuuuart," in a goofy voice every time I see him. Now, if only I could get the little dogs to stop yapping when I pass...

In other animal-related news, there were monkeys aplenty at the Class of 2000 five-year shindig. And by "monkeys", I mean "hayrides, musical spoons, potato salad, married folk, and polka music". Also "Jacque's parents" and "the requisite bonfire". Our activities coordinator (a.k.a. Jacque's dad) pulled us behind his John Deere tractor in a hay wagon around his farm (the site of the reunion), uphill and downhill and through the river, while classmate Steve played polkas on his concertina. Copious amounts of things were spilled near me (not by me, you know, but near me), especially when we ran into the same sapling four times in an effort to turn a corner. 'Twas fascinating, really. See y'all in another five, eh?

And to round out the menagerie, there is a horrible buzzy flying thing that has set up camp in our upstairs bathroom. It is not a bee. It is not a wasp. It is black, mostly, with a little bit of tan or yellow, and it has the tiniest middle body segment I have ever seen - it's literally a stick, with a head and torso on one end and a bulb for a bottom on the other. It tried to dive bomb me, and I had no Mountain Fresh Glade with which to attack it, so I ran away. Twice, because I forgot it was there after the first incident.

Sundry Goings On

What new excitements have I to share today, you ask? Prepare yourself - the thrills may very well prove overpowering...

First of all, it is summer. It is hot. Currently, the temperature hovers at ninety-seven degrees in my corner of Minnesota, but it feels like ninety-nine (all this is courtesy of the lovely and talented weather.com). In case the Fahrenheit measurements confuse you, let me assert, once again, that this is hot. This afternoon, the oppressive heat made it possible for me to experience my first brownout. Just when I finished eating my lovely lunch of turkey and cheese on Kavli, all the lights in the house flickered and died. I looked into the living room at Ian, who was draped across the couch, feet hanging off the end rather forlornly. "What's all this?" I inquired, perplexed at the lack of power but corresponding lack of the severe weather that would normally be the culprit.

"It's a brownout," my oh-so-knowledgeable brother replied. "They happen when people use too much power, like when lots of air conditioners are on. People in California and Texas get them all the time."

Just then, Annie came frolicking in from next door. "Is your power out too?" she asked. "My mom told me to come and check."

"Brownout," Ian crowed. I left him to his explanation, as work was long overdue. As I walked out the front door, I heard a belated, "Hurry up, you're letting all the cold air out!" No air conditioning during brownouts, apparently.

I managed to trek the two blocks to the office without causing my blood to boil or any such thing, and walked in to find my mum, who plays receptionist every Tuesday and Thursday, sitting in the dark at a dead computer listening to the beeping of some sort of advanced surge protector. "I was wondering whether you would have power up here," I intelligently commented.

"I want the computer to turn back on. I was playing Spider."

Fortunately for everyone involved, the power was restored after about twenty-five minutes. The internet didn't work for another twenty minutes, though, which was pure torment. So that's today's top story; with luck, it will make tomorrow's New Ulm Journal. Fingers crossed...

In other news, I am in a musical. This musical. (An admirable sentiment, as I'm sure some will agree.) "But Emily," you may ask, "when did you have a chance to audition for the Sleepy Eye Community Theatre production? I am well aware that you were not even in town to try out." Well, your suppositions are correct, you clever person, you. I didn't so much audition for the show. Or, if you prefer, I auditioned, if by "auditioned" you mean "was recruited". The female ensemble was apparently lacking in numbers, so much so as to be almost nonexistent, and after a few sessions of persuasion the old "lend a hand" attitude took over. That thing is going to get me in trouble one of these days.

The ladies only end up singing in two songs, which is fine with me since I'm not exactly cut out to be a belter of show tunes. (I'm not so much a belter of anything, actually, as I don't think belting Renaissance music is quite appropriate.) And make no mistake, we're not the most melodious group on the planet. I mean, we're no Jeff Grossman Festival Singers. (As a side note, when are we going to have the Jeff Grossman Festival? And what would go on at the Jeff Grossman Festival? I envision singing and dancing and much merriment tinged with bitterness. If someone will volunteer to chair the festival committee, I bet we can have the event up and running in a couple of months.) So you'd think that the whole theatrical experience would be rather tame in terms of time demand, right? That's what I thought too. We're really on the same wavelength, you and I.

But, silly us, we've forgotten about the dance numbers. The musical's director is a Las Vegas teacher and choreographer during the school year, and he's heavily emphasizing the dance aspect of the show. This means endless hours of entertainment, as I watch Ian, Tom, and various other menfolk ranging in age from eighteen to fifty-six learn how to tap dance (step shuffle step shuffle step step step). It also, however, means endless hours of exhaustion, as I by turns fling myself about the stage and am flung about the stage. So far I've learned parts of four numbers, two of which include lifts. I have developed a set of bruises from each lift, all on my right leg. (Now I will detail them, since I know that it's exceedingly interesting.) The first set is a combination broken blood vessel and regular bruise on the inside of my right knee. The cause: lift number one, wherein I drape my right knee over my partner's left shoulder and snap my left leg up against his body and clutch his hands trying not to unceremoniously fall (today we ran into another couple and started laughing, and it was all over) as he spins us around. The second set is a nice little duo of pale bruises about halfway up my right thigh. The cause: lift number two, wherein a pharmacist (not that that's essential for the lift, but I thought it would be a noteworthy detail) grabs my left underarm and right inner thigh, dead lifts, and spins around while I daintily point my toes, left leg straight, right leg bent (today he left before that song, so I contented myself with hopping about in a circle, executing a vague semblance of the proper position).

Moving right along from that fascinating story, yesterday I walked past the lawn that was vigilantily mowed, and, lo and behold, it was undergoing another trim. This time, the mower (machine) was your average upright push mower, and the mower (person performing the act of mowing) was your average middle-aged fellow. Looks like the vigilante theory might be true after all! Too bad that the mysterious mowing woman didn't cruise on by our house today; she would have prevented Ian from jamming our mower whilst chopping down the Serengeti that was our lawn.

And that, I think, is all for now. Saturday is my five-year high school reunion; if it's more fun than a barrel of monkeys, I'll be sure to chronicle it herein. (Admittedly, if the fun it provides proves to be less than or equal to that offered by a barrel of monkeys, I will most likely chronicle it herein anyway.) Plus, keep your eyes out in the near future for an enumerated listing of all new dance-related bruises. I think I see three more finger-marks on my left leg from when lift number two went horribly awry yesterday...

Life, The Universe, Et Al.

Because few of you have experienced the wonderment that is Sleepy Eye, I have decided to present, in installments, a handy and definitive guide of everything you need to know about life in this lovely Midwestern hamlet. So, without further ado:

SLEEPY EYE: An Owner’s Manual
first in an interminable series

Congratulations! Whether you’ve come to us because of our low, low prices and 0.9% APR financing or due to our enticing short-term no-money-down rental plan, we know that Sleepy Eye will prove to be the perfect town for you. In this guide, you will find all manner of information pertaining to the smooth day-to-day operation of the town. It is vital that you familiarize yourself with this information; by doing so, you will ensure an optimum Sleepy Eye experience.

Chapter One: Deviant Behavior, or How Rules Are Made To Be Broken

1) The postal service will deliver your mail even if the sender has neglected to include your street address.

The Harvard Club of MN, our Minneapolis-based alumni association, addressed my invitation to its annual summer barbecue to:
Me
c/o My Parents
Sleepy Eye, MN 56085
It’s good to know that the whole house number/street name thing is actually superfluous. (Those wishing to send cookies or sparkly objects, take note. Those wishing to forward chain letters and outstanding [as in overdue, not amazingly wonderful] bills, uh, don’t so much take note.)

2) Vigilante lawn mowing is on the rise.

As I was walking the two blocks from the office to my house, a woman on a riding mower zipped across the sidewalk, out a driveway, and down the street. Now, just prior to this getaway she had been mowing a lawn, as one is wont to do when occupying a lawn mower. Her speedy, mower-assisted departure raised a troubling set of questions in my mind. If the newly-mowed lawn belonged to the woman mowing, why did she tool off atop the mower? Wouldn’t it have been more convenient to, oh, I don’t know, park the mower and drive the car that was sitting in the driveway? Conversely, if the woman drove away on the mower because it was her only mode of transportation (i.e. the car sitting in the driveway, and, indeed, the driveway itself, didn’t belong to her) then WHY was she mowing a random lawn?

Thinking about it now, I admit that a number of plausible explanations come to mind. I am convinced, however, that the woman was a vigilante lawn mower, intent on protecting the town from overgrown grass and towering dandelions.

3) A favorite local summer activity involves thievery and pyromania.

That’s right – bonfire season has arrived. (What, you thought only the British had such festivities? No, my friends, in SE we uphold the great tradition of lighting fires and setting off fireworks simultaneously. Here, though, things are ignited without any sort of symbolic or celebratory significance.) It isn’t exactly legal to have real bonfires – and by “real” I mean “immensely gigantic” – within the city limits. Fortunately, Tom (Ian’s best friend from high school) and his brother Dan are gracious enough to host frequent gatherings. They live on a farm just outside of town, and their property contains valley that hides a creek and sandbar/island (the status of the landmass depends on rainfall). The thinking behind the creation of this year's bonfires seems to be, "Hey, wouldn't it be fun to steal stacks of wood pallets from the town printing company, assemble them in a two-tiered arrangement, and then burn them?"

In fact, it is fun indeed. Of course, it's hard to get close to the fire when the flames shoot thirty feet in the air and are clearly visible for a few miles. And it's rather difficult to add wood to the fire once the blaze begins to settle down. On the upside, flashlights have been rendered unnecessary and the boys are getting a lot of medieval-castle-storming practice as they use the pallets as makeshift shields when approaching the flames. Now, if only the inferno didn’t incinerate marshmallows…

Chasing That Other Emily

I should have known it would all end painfully.

Monday was Ian’s birthday – my little baby brother, eighteen whole years old (well, technically I kind of stopped thinking of him quite so diminutively when his last growth spurt put him at 6’5”). He decided to spend the week in Lake City and set out Sunday night with Ali so as to avoid driving on his birthday; last year, the family was on the road for fourteen hours on June sixth heading to Boston for my graduation, and somehow he didn’t enjoy that so much. I don’t know why, personally…

Michal and I joined the rest of the crew in LC (Pat, Ali, Ian, and friends Mallory and Christopher) early in the evening on Monday. We arrived, brandishing wrapped presents (my handiwork) and frosted cake (Michal’s), just as everyone was preparing for an outing to the driving range at The Jewel, the golf course development with which my dad has been working since 1995. Now, Ali was on the high school golf team, and Pat has spent countless hours out on the links since that’s just part of what businessmen do. Mal and Chris, both employed at the course, each have a set of clubs (Mal inherited hers when her younger brother outgrew them; Chris is newly obsessed with the sport). But Ian doesn’t golf. And Michal doesn’t golf. And, until Monday, Emily didn’t golf. But oh, that was about to change.

Off to the driving range we went, decked out less than appropriately in tank tops, cropped pants, and sneakers (the womenfolk, anyway; the boys sported the appropriate collared shirts). Mal, who has taken one golf lesson in her life, set out to show me exactly what this sport was all about.

“Okay, so stand like this, with your knees bent and your bum kind of sticking out. And have your back straight, but at an angle toward the ball. Line up your club so that the ball is centered. Oh, wait, I should probably tell you how to hold the club first. The grip is kind of like the one you use on a tennis racket, at least in orientation. Hold it in your left hand first, and interlace your left index finger and your right pinky.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know, that’s just how golfers do it.”

I am proud to report that I am now exceedingly good at the grip. The rest of it, though… well,

*whiff*

“Bend your knees more. Keep them bent, and swivel your hips. It’s like Elvis.”

*divot*

“Better… Keep your left arm straight for the first part of your backswing, and don't let the line break at the wrists so early.”

*whiff*

"You forgot the knees!"

I had one decent shot - at least, one shot that actually went up in the air and covered more ground than the rest of mine combined. Of course, I was using some large-ish, wedge-ish club (the name eludes me), which is apparently not commonly employed on the driving range. "It'll build confidence," declared Chris. And I guess it worked; I did, after all, have one decent shot.

But oh. The pain. At 4.30 on Tuesday morning, I woke up in my dad's stiflingly hot living room, and stumbled through the darkness afforded by pre-sunrise and nearsightedness to switch on the ceiling fan. As I flopped back onto the couch, a twinge shot through my right shoulder, and the part of my mind remaining conscious determined, "Oh, yeah, foreign motion, new muscle movement, this should be fun. But, I mean, you played tennis with Ali last week, and that should be similar, right? It'll be fiiiiiiine..."

Worst. Case. Of. Golfer's. Shoulder. Ever. EVER. It still aches right now. I spend a third of my time trying to ignore it, a third attempting to massage it, and a third searching for new and innovative positions in which to prop it so as not to force any muscle activity whatsoever.

This brings me to my point. I figure that the only way I can avoid undergoing such a painful adjustment ever again is to become an avid golfer. If you Google my name (not that I have, or anything...), most of the entries refer to British golfing star E.L., and if I'm looking to escape pain and agony, I might as well give her a run for her money while I'm at it. Sooo... anyone for a tee time?

Surreal Moment of the Day

Today I went to work.

(No, that was not the surreal moment. With my employment track record, though, it was a good guess...)

When working in Sleepy Eye, I set up camp in my father's office. He does business out of town every day but Friday, and his vast oak desk sits empty and forlorn. It's the perfect spot for, oh, I don't know, a writer who wants nothing more than quiet, privacy, and a working internet connection. My routine is always the same: I chatter with Shari, a paralegal who is the office's lone occupant most days; meander past conference room, billing office, and various closets; and settle into a well-cushioned rolling recliner scaled for someone larger than I. Opening a document of notes and fragments optimistically saved as "Chapter 20", I await inspiration or instant message, whichever comes first.

The desk is heavy and imposing, with a thin glass top that covers its entire surface. This is Pat's answer to a bulletin board, and it is nearly cluttered with all manner of memorabilia: a tennis ball autographed by my sister, a yellowing e-mail to his brothers beside a yellowed Hagar the Horrible cartoon, my seventh grade photo, a land development map, a round red alarm clock - broken - that was a gift from my brother. Today is my first day at the desk since last summer, and new postings have appeared in the intervening year. Glancing away from my laptop, I notice a Post-it note (intentionally yellow) that has been taped securely to the innermost edge of the glass. Amid jotted phrases, one full sentence is written in block letters and outlined in red pen. It's a strong, independent declaration, and I know that it's been placed so prominently to provide motivation and encouragement. As the familiarity of the phrasing strikes, I almost involuntarily begin trying to place the source of the quote. Something I've read? A cinematic voiceover, perhaps?

Then I realize, while incredulity descends, that the words seem so familiar because I wrote them.

Talk about surreal...

Never Ruthless and Other Tidbits

Welcome to my very own little bloggenzie! Since '04 has begun its belated process of separation, I figured it was time to follow Meg's lead and jot down my Minnesotan activities for your perusal. As an inaugural post, I present the following feature:

Twenty-Two Need-To-Knows

1) I am never ruthless. When you consider that my middle name is Ruth, it's pretty clear that ruthlessness is impossible for me.
2) When wearing headphones in public, I sing pop music under my breath. When not wearing headphones in public, I sing (mostly) Renaissance music under my breath. There is simply no stopping the soundtrack in my head.
3) Squirrels throw things at me. As a result, I am afraid of them.
4) I really would like to have a little tap-dancing man living in my coat pocket. As I have explained elsewhere, I would provide him with a dainty piece of balsa wood, and he would alternately wear clogs and tap shoes, depending on what sort of jig he wanted to perform.
5) One of the graduate programs to which I was admitted would have presented me with a M.S.Ed. The idea that I could have been a legitimate Master of Science is, really, laughable.
6) I am the shortest person in my immediate family.
7) My REM-created life is much more exciting than my real one. I used to dream about taking in my dry cleaning. Of late, however, I have chopped off my own hand and, independently, someone else’s leg (he wanted to date a one-legged girl, and chased me around for quite some time because I chopped it at an angle and he wanted me to round it off). I was yelled at by a thesis interviewee and a Super Target security guard convinced that my friends and I were on drugs in the patio furniture section (after capturing us, he tried to feed us mangoes filled with marijuana to frame us). Other locations have included a Sin City/Florence hybrid, the Underworld, and a wedding in New Ulm (entertainment – well-executed song and dance numbers – provided by a very showy HGC). Most recently, I dreamt that Jon Stewart announced he would be attending the wedding of his niece – my cousin – during a segment on The Daily Show. I was surprised, since before this revelation, I never realized that we were related. He must have been neglecting his family reunion duties.
8) In high school, I was recruited into a community polka band.
9) I prefer warmth to cold, snow to rain, and almost anything to Boston slush.
10) Other people only laugh at my jokes if they a) share my sense of humor (rare), or b) are wildly entertained by the fact that I laugh hysterically even when repeating something “funny” for the fourteen-teenth time.
11) I have never been stung by a bee (and I would not like to be[e]…HAHAHAH [see above]).
12) I am addicted to spellchecking.
13) One time I hit myself in the face. I woke up having slept wrong on my left arm, thereby cutting off all its circulation. I was still half asleep, lying on my back under my comforter, but was utterly fascinated by the fact that my entire arm was numb. So I did what any curious person would: I used my right hand to stretch out my left arm, and promptly let go. Since it was, indeed, numb, it fell back directly onto my face. That was my finest hour, I think.
14) I hate scary movies, but have somehow been convinced to watch a number of them anyway (*cough cough* Meg).
15) I like the smells of paper and redwood chips. Oh, and, like, flowers and laundry and such.
16) I could live on chocolate for a goodly amount of time.
17) Despite going off to get me some citified learnin’, I am still hopelessly naïve. Case in point: while driving to Kansas City with Jacque last summer, we pulled up behind a red semi. Usually, such huge trucks have plaques on the back cautioning other drivers of wide turns and lengthy blind spots. This vehicle was missing its official warning sign, but a handwritten notice was posted in its place: “Show your [drawing of two circles with dots in the middle]”.
Emily to Jacque: “Oh, look, show your eyes. You’re supposed to make eye contact with the driver in his side mirror, I guess.”
Jacque to Emily: “Those aren’t eyes – he wants you to flash him!”
Oh.
18) I have broken two bones, one playing basketball and one playing duck duck grey duck. One required physical therapy to restore full motion; can you guess which?
19) The most well-received phrase I have written during my current period of employment is “an expectation of radishes”. It makes sense in context.
20) My bagpipe impression is second to none.
21) I am not blonde.
22) I am twenty-two, and will be for another eighty-eight days. Not that I’m keeping track…