Off the Record

#1. Make sure you use self-rising flour and salt when making beer bread: It turns out flat and flavorless if concocted otherwise.
#2. I will marry any man whose socks match his sweater.
#3. I still smell like Alton.


1. In the midst of a baking kick this weekend I cooked up two batches of soup, a red velvet cake and some beer bread. The cake was the only item for which I had a recipe, and I have my mother to thank for that. I used to make beer bread all the time, but, for some reason, I forgot two of the most important ingredients. The soup turned out delightful, save for the addition of too much rice, which made the soup more of a gloppy rice pilaf than anything. But it's good. Don't get me wrong, it's good. And there are plenty of leftovers of all of the above.
But my failure in the creation of these eats just goes to show that I will make a shoddy housewife...unless you don't mind coming home to deflated bread and soup served on a plate.

2. If you pay that much attention to the correlation between your torso and your ankles, I think I can learn to love you.

3. Never before would I have thought that I'd stay out til 4am two nights in a row in the small industrial town of Alton, Illinois. A mixture of bar hopping, people meeting, dance partying, beer drinking and movie watching pleased me to no end. And while I thoroughly enjoyed the time spent at my father's house calling my sister's cat a bitch, rummaging through old attic-bound mementos, overindulging in pumpking pie and cranberry sauce (but not together, heaven forbid!), cleaning my room, drinking coffee with the papa and watching Buster Keaton films, I think that now there are many more reasons to go home a bit more often.

Dear Mom,
My hair is not greasy--it's simply stylish.

Dear Melissa Hueting,
Not only did I enjoy our time drawing bunnies and making crafts, but I also enjoyed wandering around the butler pantries, the backstairwells and master bedrooms in your house during my trips to the "bathroom."

Dear Matt Horn,
Can I please have the key to every house that you have for sale in Alton? I would like to travel every inch of each one.

Dear Peter Sellers,
You are right up there with Steve Martin and Buster Keaton...I'm in love with you.

Dear Matt Anderson,
The memory of our kiss in Catharine McNelly's playhouse is becoming more and more vivid as the days go by.

Dear Karen's Cat Maybe,
Will you please stop being a bitch.

Dear Future Sugar Daddy,
Can you please buy for me every single house that Matt Horn has for sale in Alton? I would like to spend the rest of my life restoring them and sitting in their front rooms, drinking Scotch and reading New York Times Magazine.

The Voice

There was a Feist song playing in my car while I passed a bus stop with two women waiting. The song was from a mixed cd (surprise surprise) made for me, its intentions and message not quite clear, but something about mountains and rocket science and coming to realize.
I waited at the stop light in the early morning, the covered bench to my left. Posters about STD's and littering and drinking while driving hung in on the glass. The two women were seated: one of them eating a powdered donut and the other waiting with her eyes closed. The former woman was black, had short hair and was a bit chubby. I could tell her donut was a donut because it was in one of those white donut bags. And I could tell her donut was powdered because the powder was all over her face.
The latter woman was wearing a light jacket, unzipped, as I remember thinking how cold her neck and chest must be in the morning cool. But the sun was shining on her upper half and the book she had been reading rested in her lap, held with both hands. She leaned back a bit with her eyes shut, no smile or frown or any expression on her face.

Da da da da da da da.
Da
da
da
da
da
da
da.

My cell phone said 7.15. My watch said 7.15. The sun was almost up. My computer said 6.15. And, because computers are smarter than cell phones, watches and sunrises combined, I went with the computer's time.
But I still wanted to be sure.
Put a call into my father who, if it were actually 6.15, wouldn't have answered, as he's usually (should be, let's say) at church during that time. No answer. It must be 6.15.
But what if it wasn't?
Got dressed, into the car, turned from station to station searching for a local broadcast who would announce the time.
Nothing.
Banks, I thought, Banks usually have the time flashing on a jumbotron between updates on customers' birthdays and the supposed temperature.
No banks.
Time and Temp lady, I thought. But I didn't know the St. Louis number.
I remembered the Alton number.
But then I thought, what if it WASN'T the Time and Temp Lady? What if they changed the number and someone in Illinois answered a call at 6.15 (or what I thought was 6.15) from a woman who thought she'd be greeted by a friendly automated voice?
So I didn't call.
KWMU. Grocery. KDHX. Bar. WKRP. Library.
No time.
And what if we had no time? What if people just got there when they got there with no consequences for showing up earlier or later than what had been agreed upon? Time is this imaginery number that people set their watches to in order to live in a social world.
Who is there to say when time is wrong?

George Bush.
The Bank.
KWMU.
My Cell Phone.

And My Dad.

A popular form of ambiguity, the Mixed CD has been quite present in my life as of late. And, as with most homemade gifts, it is something that not only takes time and effort, but also a fair amount of pluck to complete. Within the context of a Mixed CD, there are many emotions to get across. There's the feeling of hopelessness; the feeling of intense longing; regret; salvation; pure love; retribution; disingenuousness; adoration; jealousy. While some may see it as a passive aggressive offering, I see it as a raw assessment of their thoughts about you...and perhaps their relationship with you...or the relationship they'd LIKE to have with you...or in reference to the relationship they ONCE HAD with you. Be it past, present, near future or future, Mixed CD's capture it all with 15 or 16 tracks that you tend to over-analyze and dissect, just waiting for nuances you want to hear. Someone will bear all when they make you CD, even if the feelings are not romantic. Compiling a collection of music is like listening to someone tell the truth: each word is perfectly thought out and intentionally placed in an order that will tell the story they want it to be told. A Mixed CD will rarely come from me, but it will always come from you.