Winged hearts & bands of skulls and stars

1

For my twenty-second birthday, Mitch bought me a tattoo. (If you’re just tuning in now–Mitch is my husband, and my twenty-second birthday was this year.)

I love tattoos, and have wanted one ever since I found out that there was such a thing. For the past, oh, ten years, I’ve been designing tattoos in the margins of my Lit351 notes, sketching amid the squiggly script of my journals, on damp napkins, as I drink coffee/talk to friends/watch MTV, and finally, finally, I made the appointment, handed the girl at the counter my final sketch and walked away, knotting my fingers, tapping my toes in excitement.

Of course, it would hurt. And it would, okay, it would be there forever, even when my skin gets wrinkly and dry, and it would fade, and bleed. But oh! I thought, doing a little jig on the sidewalk, grinning, it would be so very worth it.

2

In high school I came across a better (or at least, a legal) way than dealing drugs to drum up pocket change–I started designing tattoos for my older friends. Daisies and winged crosses and bands of stars and skulls; little soaring hearts and artfully rendered flames, you name it. This was not a booming business, but making a little money with my sketches made me happy, and it also made me wonder if maybe there was something more in it for me…

My sophomore year of high school, in health class, we did career studies (in health class, yes, it was a small school)–we each picked a career and looked up salaries, required experience/education, etc, wrote up a paper and presented it to the class. I, with my home-dyed peroxide pixie cut and my wallet chains, presented my fact sheet on what it would take to be a tattoo artist.

At some spirit rally during my senior year of high school, I won “Most Likely to Be a Tattoo Artist”, as well as “Most Likely to Join the Banditos” (I didn’t know what a Bandito was, then–this was before the great Northwest Bandito bust of ‘05). Winning “Most Likely to Be a Tattoo Artist” thrilled me like it might thrill most girls to receive “Most Likely to Succeed.”

3

In college, I was broke, and then married (and, thus, still broke), but the sketches kept piling up, journal after journal. I convinced several professors that drawing in class actually helped me concentrate (particularly when I was sketching my professors…), and every Christmas or birthday I’d say to Mitch, You know, I’d really like a tattoo, and he’d say Fine, but by the time said occasion rolled around I’d have scrapped whatever design I’d planned and said, Oh, oh no, not yet.

Until at last (at last!) I abandoned my attempts at profoundly symbolic designs (crowns of thorns, burning hearts, and Hebrew script), drew a simple, pretty design–all black, something like three curls of smoke–and informed Mitch that for my birthday I would like a tattoo. Though he arched his eyebrows and nodded knowingly, he said, Okay.

4

The day after my birthday, I found myself sitting in the lobby of Camden Chameleon, flipping through giant sheets of sample tattoos with Mitch, while the wall clock scraped past 5:20, 5:25 and landed dead on my appointment: 5:30.

I was not nervous/I was very nervous.

I was not concerned about pain or blood, but about the permanence of what I was about to do to my body–always, always it would be there. I’d picked my upper back, a spot unlikely to bulge or soften with age, or stretch with pregnancy, but still. At sixty, would it be an inky blur? At seventy, a gray shadow?

Eh, I thought, flipping past a grotesquely bright drawing of Mickey Mouse in his Fantasia robes, my whole generation will be sporting faded tattoos. All of us sitting in nursing homes with pinkish wreaths of roses encircling our swollen ankles, barbed wire ’round the biceps of the old men dozing in their wheelchairs, skulls and flames and daisies amid the liver spots and varicose veins, and I laughed aloud as the girl at the desk looked up from her clipboard and called my name.

5

Of course, it hurt like hell, but I was not surprised. I kicked my shoes off and wiggled my toes; I took deep, measured breaths in an effort to obtain enlightenment through suffering, or something that. It didn’t work.

Megan, the artist (she is lovely, please, go see her) chatted with me about my job, my parents’ jobs, my chickens, my writing, whatever came to mind for forty minutes as she outlined my tattoo, filled it in, then washed & bandaged it up. Nothing, I swear to you, nothing felt better, on both a physical and emotional level, than when she washed my back with that cool, damp towel.

And when she was finished, I realized that my fingernails had left violet half-moons in the palm of each hand, and that any lofty ideas I’d had about the cleansing properties of pain, however half-formed, had vanished–though I felt weirdly elated. My toes, my fingertips tingled; my back burned. Oh, I felt feverish, and alive.

6

Though it’s not been four months, I’ve already got another design in mind. I heard somewhere that we don’t remember pain, and I remember telling myself explictly, as Megan outlined the second wisp, that I must never, under any circumstances, do this again–but I appear to have forgotten. Ah, I think, it wasn’t that bad. I’m better now, and stronger, and ready for round 2.

Puppy hunting

I work in a dental office, and, as all great dental offices do, my office subscribes to People magazine. Not on purpose, mind you–People just sends us freebies.

And sadly, given my basically news-free existence (no t.v., no newspaper, no radio–no statement, really, it’s just happened like that), People magazine has become my sole contact with the outside world–if by “outside” I mean “pop culture,” which in this case I do.

Apparently, the “outside world” is big on celebrity couples, and I just can’t help but notice that referring to those reigning couples by two separate names seems to be exhausting for the magazine’s typesetters–they’ve conveniently given each couple a single, androgenous title.

Which makes me wonder: can we possibly have two Bennifers? Why, yes, apparently we can–same Ben, different Jennifers. And who came up with that god-awful Brangelina? It sounds like a breakfast cereal gone horribly wrong. Fortunately someone stopped them before they introduced Custin, or Demashton.

But, this whole smoosh movement has got me thinking–wouldn’t that be handy? I mean, Mitch and I could combine our names, you know, legally, and save ourselves the hassle of forging each others’ signatures on key documents. We could be…Thitch. Or possibly Mea.

Of course, when I share my enlightened idea with Mitch, he stares at me as though I’ve suggested we take up puppy hunting. Eventually he says, in an unmistakably frightened voice, “Excuse me?”

“Well, I was just thinking,” I rally defensively, “it might be more convenient, and ‘Thitch’ has a certain sort of appeal, don’t you think?”

He continues to stare at me–horrified, his lips moving wordlessly–for so long that I begin to fear I’ve done him permanent damage.

“Nevermind,” I say hastily. “Forget it.” And the spell is broken: he breathes again.

Which makes me wonder how Brad has taken the switch to “Brangelina.” (I’m significantly less concerned about Ben.)

Why I am not a vegetarian

My first job ever was at a pizza joint, and somewhere in the first week I found myself in front of the make-line, assembling pizzas–throwing a fist full of cheese on a sauced-up crust, adding a handful of chopped peppers, onions, and then reaching, falteringly, for a vat of raw sausage.

With my bare hand. (I swear the Health Dept. ok’d this.) One of the many 6′+ delivery guys glanced my way and said, nonchalantly, “If you dip your fingers in the pineapple first, the meat doesn’t stick to ‘em near as bad…”.

I didn’t touch meat for two years after that.

And I found myself fielding questions. “Why?”, “Do you honestly think that makes a difference?”, and “…but how do you get any protein?” were among my favorites, the latter being especially touching because meat is not the only source of protein that the parents of a finicky stick-thin high school junior can scrounge up. Didn’t you guess that that’s what happened? My parents got stuck thinking up creative vegetarian entrees to keep me nutritionally sound while the rest of my family had chicken breasts, grilled salmon, etc.

I wasn’t the one doing the cooking.

This fact, among others, eventually knocked its way into my delicate skull (weakened from calcium defiency, right?) and propelled me toward a certain point, where an innocent bystander, who knew nothing of my preferences, offered me a turkey sandwich and said, “Here, try it, it’s really good”–and I did.

Let’s get this out of the way right now: I’m not anti-vegetarianism. Your choice is your choice. I’m merely articulating why I chose to take up the animal products (and by-products) once more, rather than arguing for one team or the other–really, I can’t stand teams. I’m not a “team player”.

That aside, I must state that one of the biggest problems I have with this pro-veggie/pro-meat debate is the fact that most vegetarians I end up butting heads with (mind, I avoid that situation at all costs, though I know some really darling vegetarians) assume that I just haven’t summoned up the courage necessary to give up my beloved meat–that given the right persuasion, I’ll finally get up the nerve to move forward, into the light, and accept what what I know to be fundamentally right.

Sound like church? It should. I’m making that comparison intentionally.

What people miss in treating me (anybody) like that is the possibility that, dammit, I might have actually thought this out, and come to a conclusion of my own–and my conclusion might be different from theirs. (Can I get an Amen?) I’m becoming less and less of the opinion that any one thing is absolutely right for every single person, in every single situation–and coming from a Christian (yes, I am), I feel that’s saying something.

Whatever that “something” may be.

But, to the point–once I moved out, on my own, and began to recognize the phenominal patience my parents must have required to make special meatless sauce for me, I felt a bit humbled. With only cans of garbanzo beans and bulk rice to keep me protein’d, I understood (albeit dimly) that vegetarianism required a bit more sacrifice than just giving up meat–and in that light, several other things occurred to me.

One: no matter how I tried to convince my relatives (Iowan and otherwise) that, “no really, salad is fine,” at every gathering, they’d feel compelled to make some special, meat-free dish just for me. They’d even call a week or so before Thanksgiving to ask what I would eat, so as to be sure that I’d have something on my plate besides French bread–and no matter how I tried to impress upon everyone that it’s not their meatloaf personally that I object to, I couldn’t help but notice a wrinkled brow here and there as I turned down the chicken casserole again.

Not everybody is vegetarian-entree savvy, I noticed. Take that and run, if you like–tell me about how we need to educate the masses about the advantages of a meat-free diet, and about how the fact that meat is such a central part of our diet in the first place is a major part of The Problem–I’ll be here waiting.

Now, then. If you’re finished, I’ll move on to item Two.

I admit that the meat market is a mess. Yes, it’s gross that we kill things in these inhumane ways (bred for slaughter! Ugh!), and keep the whole process so far away from the consumer to the point where we really have no idea (no idea) what we’re buying when we pick up a package of chicken breasts. I’d rather we just went hunting, and killed our dinner ourselves, than bought into the santized idea that Meat=Dinner, not Animal. Probably turn a lot of people vegetarian that way, that’s for sure.

But, I will not show up at your dinner table and tell you so. If you offer me a chicken breast, I better damn well take it and like it, I figure. I mean, you’re feeding me, and I’d feel like an utter brat, passing it back to you and explaining why you’re personally contributing to a corrupt system and how, if you’d killed this chicken in your backyard you’d probably feel a lot different about it.

Because even if I didn’t say so out loud, people tended to take the “passing back of the chicken breast” as precisely that: an accusation. “What?” I had people ask, on several occasions, no matter how tight I kept my mouth closed, “Do you really have a problem with my meat?”

Three: Vegetariansim is a luxury. Get down on American consumerism all you want, but how many places can you actually buy meat-substitutes in the ridiculous abundance that we have here? And sure, we can grow our own vegetables (I am 100% behind that), but even in America there are places where that just isn’t possible–because of the lack of nutrients in the soil, because of the feisty weather, because of the lack of space (oy, apartment living!)–not to mention deserts, or the tundra. Places where people eat meat because that’s all they have.

Some people are much more concientious than I was–they protest the American market, and recognize that vegetarianism perhaps isn’t practical in other parts of the world–but my problem wasn’t with slaughterhouses and economy. I was just bummed out that a cow had to die so that I could have a hamburger.

Which isn’t a bad reason–it’s just kind of, well, an emotional reason. Kudos again to my parents for allowing me my feeble stab at independence, for humoring and/or encouraging it, even–but the real test (how serious about this am I?) definately didn’t come until I was doing my own grocery shopping, and preparing my own meals.

Four: This is a battle that didn’t end with a bite of turkey sandwich, oh no. Mitch and I even flirted off and on with veganism (the no dairy sort) in a half-assed way, but, again, we were turning down plates of food that we had no business refusing–and that just didn’t sit well with either of us.*

We reached a compromise: at home, we eat vegetarian. If you come to our house for dinner, you’ll most likely end up with a plate of eggplant curry, or tofu stir-fry–not because we’re out to make a statement, but because that’s what we have. We try not to buy meat (though we slip now and then at restaurants, as a treat–mmm…Fiamma Burger…), but if somebody prepares a dinner for us, oh, you can bet we’ll eat every scrap.

Because, to me, people should always be more important than any political/spiritual/social agenda that I can think up. It’s not just about stepping delicately around hurt feelings–it’s about recognizing the lengths people go to to prepare a meal for me, and not letting that effort (that love) go unacknowledged.

When Mitch’s grandma gets up early to make a full spread of corned beef & cabbage (with from-scratch pecan pie for desert!), just for us, God help me if I go heavy on the cabbage and pass back the corned beef untouched.

God help me if I don’t take seconds.

———-

*Mitch also had a stint of vegetarianism–more “socially-minded” than mine, and instigated by a much-admired roommate–but he worked his way back into the meat-stream as well, and for reasons similar to mine.

Bring on autumn, and cider, and soggy shoes

This past week in Bellingham has been gorgeous: 80-degree weather, cloudless, blue skies–our ever-green grass finally succumbed to the lack of moisture and died, creating lovely, golden fields of brittle and parched lawn. The prickly feel of a constant sunburn (careless with the sunscreen, I am), and the sweat in the small of my back remind me that, at last, summer is here.

But this morning, I woke up to cloudy, gray skies and the definate threat of rain. The air sneaking in under my cracked window had turned overnight, and instead of the hot, sticky wind that I’d fallen asleep with, it was fresh, damp, indicative of fall. The cool air of a fever breaking.

Summer could be a single week long, and I wouldn’t mind. Yes, it’s a nice season, and I’m a big fan of the ripe berries, the afternoons in the backyard with water bottle, notebook and novel, but every single year, no matter what sort of summer we’ve had, that first rain–the one that speaks of fall–always sends me gleefully to my dresser to pack up the tank tops and sandals. Bring forth the sweaters and stocking caps!

Ever heard of that weather-dependent depression, where people get all bummed out in the fall and winter from lack of sunshine? I have the exact opposite: a hot, rain-less summer pitches me headfirst into a mid-August slump, and it’ll last until that first rain comes around–and I am not the only one here who suffers when the rain stays away too long.

The way people were grinning this morning, you’d think we lived in the desert, and this rain was the monsoon we’d waited so eagerly for all season, keeping our children back from the brink of death with the last drops in our canteens–rather than the first fine mist of 90 days’ straight rain. It’s as if our collective memory has forgotten that this morning’s clouds means yesterday’s sunlight is gone now, for three, maybe four months.

At the grocery store, the cashier helpfully volunteered to push my empty cart back out to the front of the store–not to save me the effort, but because he wanted to sneak outside and smell the rain.

That’s right–smell the rain. For as much as I talk about, you know, reclaiming the land and preserving it, blah blah blah, I have to admit that my single, favorite smell (surpassing even coffee beans, unlit pipe tobacco, beeswax and satsuma oranges) is the smell of rain on dry cement. It’s enough to make me stop and stand still, just smelling the wet pavement. Not even wet earth smells that good, in my book.

And now, any second, the leaves will begin to change, the wind will pick up, and driving down Holly St. at night will be my favorite stretch of town again–something about the rain-blurred traffic lights, the trees lining the streets, turning gold and red, the white rope lights that shops put up in the windows (or leave up all year, but turn on only after October).

Farewell to the dirty feet of summer, and to whatever tan I managed to muster via sunburn; farewell to the ten-o’clock sunsets and the busy downtown streets. Let the windows of the buses turn silver with condensation, let breath come in bursts of gray steam; let cheeks turn pink, let me dig out my mittens and walk to work, smiling, in the wet and the cold–because this shimmering mist is what, above all things, reminds me that Bellingham is my home.

But my friends call me "Thor"

Today on the bus, I overheard the following verbal transaction take place on the driver-to-driver CB radio:

“Swordfish, this is Eagle. Over.”

I missed the response, but c’mon, I can actually picture the drivers hanging out in the break room, arguing over code names–”But I always have to be Chipmunk! Why can’t I be Panther, just this once?”

Yes. I want a codename, and badly. I keep trying to get them to call me “Thor” at work, but nobody seems to go for it. Guess it’d be pretty intimidating to have someone named Thor polishing your teeth, but honestly–Thea* is Greek for “goddess”, and what’s less intimidating about that?

*And, in case you keep trying to call me “Thee-ah” in your head, you better think again. Just because I can’t figure out how to key in the accent above the “e” doesn’t mean it’s not there–it’s “Thay-uh”. Rhymes with “Princess Leia” (“goddess”, “princess”…hmm).

Stephen King didn’t say

“Symbols schimbols. Sure they’re important but…Well look at Ahab’s whale. Now there’s a great symbol. Some say it stands for god, meaning, and purpose. Others say it stands for purposelessness and the void. But what we sometimes forget is that Ahab’s whale was also just a whale.”

–MARK Z. DANIELEWSKI, possibly quoting Stephen King (House of Leaves), but can we ever really know?

We’ve got issues

Here in Bellingham, we like to get things done. Sure, there’s plenty of kids who sit around and complain about the swanktification of downtown and that damn Starbucks (me), but mostly we’re a city of clear-eyed folks who know what they want and who go out and get it.

Unfortunately, we all want different things.

A prime example would be the weekly protests in front of the Federal Building. Every Friday, a group of radical movers-&-shakers (right & left, mind you) dust off their posterboard and set out to change the world–a noble calling, no doubt. What they accomplish, however, is to further confuse those sorry souls who can’t look out the window and drive at the same time, which heaven knows, we don’t need to encourage–if the protesters had been picketing, say, defensive driving, then cheers! Mission accomplished.

Because what’s catching the eye of these distractable drivers are the fifty different slogans on fifty different signs. HONK FOR REGIME CHANGE, BUSH IS A WAR CRIMINAL, MY DADDY BOUGHT ME THE PRESIDENCY, blah blah blah and, my personal favorite in the “who comes up with this crap” category, BUSH LIED, PEOPLE DIED. Huh. That’s deep.

For the most part, the protesters are pretty united against Bush–”war is bad” and all that–but you get the occasional odd-ball in there who thought this was a pro-choice rally or a (Your Issue Here) debate. And best of all, across the street are the 3 veterans in uniform with the banners that read, rather unimpressively, SUPPORT OUR TROOPS.

What happens now? A few people honk in support, a few rednecks lean out the window of their trucks and hollar a creative expletive or two, but mostly people drive on by, still wondering what’s on t.v. tonight or if that chick by the water cooler was flirting when she complimented your lavender tie. I, for one, pass by feeling as though I’ve suddenly entered the Land of the Bumperstickers–which is a rather bland place, I must say. I mean, if you’re gonna clutter up my view with slogans, at least entertain me. That’s all I’m askin’.

But, before I digress into a rant on bumperstickers (whoever comes up with the Christian ones should be fired. Fired.), let me return to those bold footsoldiers of Democracy, who go forth with petitions and protest signs, and say–Wow, do you think this might be more effective if the people you were preaching to were interested?

I honestly can’t think of a time when I’m less interested in regime change than Friday evening, when I’m on my way home from work.

So, let’s consider our options–we could waylay people in the street and fill their ears with propaganda, but the chances of changing anyone’s mind are slim, since those who disagree will either enter into a fierce debate with you and storm away muttering something about “those dirty hippies”, or they will chime, politely, “Oh, I’ve already signed that…”. Which is what I do, anytime I see somebody with a clipboard. Bad habit, I know, but it works. Throws the UPS guy for a loop, too, and that’s always amusing.

Let’s see. Picketing, petitioning, handing out flyers, marching door-to-door–these are all very invasive practices, and (churches, pay attention) for every one person who perks up their ears, you piss off about twenty. Now, do the math. Does that work out to a profit?

Here is where I would offer a solution, but I don’t actually have one. I’m just into, you know, pointing out the problem, not solving it. But, here–in closing I’ll say that, if you want to change my mind about anything, please respect me and my fiercely protected “personal space.” Don’t come marching in my bubble to tell me about how Bush is ruining my country, or how the liberals are stripping me of my freedoms, because as long as I feel like a tally-mark earned for either side, I will not be satisfied.

I learn more from one conversation with a friend that I respect and appreciate than I do from a hundred overly-aggressive, however articulate, crusaders.

And I say that to both sides, right and left.

If my life was a movie…

…I hope this would be the soundtrack.

1. Girl, You Have No Faith In Medicine (The White Stripes)
2. Crocodile Man (Chris Smither)
3. E-Pro (Beck)
4. Annie-Dog (Smashing Pumpkins)
5. (I Can’t Get No) Satisfaction (Cat Power)
6. Desperate Guys (The Faint)
7. Rowing Song (Patty Griffin)
8. Fell on Black Days (Soundgarden)
9. Comtine D’un Autre Ete: L’apres Midi (from the soundtrack to Amelie)
10. How Can I Forget (The Faint)
11. Burndt Jamb (Weezer)
12. Victrola (Veruca Salt)
13. Like Spinning Plates (Radiohead)
14. Rodeo Clowns (Jack Johnson)
15. Tear Drop (Massive Attack)
16. Been Around the World (Cracker)

My chariot awaits, my dancers entertain

I love public transportation:

Our bus system here in Bellingham recently underwent a serious (practically surgical) make-over, and to get everyone in on the fun, the good folks at WTA are running a very special promotion: the bus is free for all of August. Which is basically like Christmas for a whole month, where I’m concerned. I can just…walk on a bus? Anytime I want? For free, you say? Excellent…

Since it’s summer and all the college students are still elsewhere (wherever it is they list as “permanent address” when filling out credit card applications), most of the buses are completely mine. Just me, the elderly & infirm, and the crazies. But more often than not, it really is just me, sitting the back of the bus with my textbook-sized copy of House of Leaves (yup, I was one of those kids). Sorta like having a chauffer, actually, but without the bubbly.

I love roofers:

And by roofers I mean the fellows who are apparently practising traditional Celtic-dancing on the top of my building right now–in heavy, steel-toed boots. Occasionally, they chuck stray shingles over the edge of the building without so much as a “Fore!”, which is provoking a severe phobia of “things falling from above” in me every time I leave my apartment.

I love The Faint:

For providing the soundtrack to those rooftop rehearsals of The Lord of the Dance that are taking place directly over my head. Also, for helping me realize my drop-kicking skills (it’s a disturbing game, but it’s wickedly fun).

I love the DMV:

What could I possibly say about the DMV that would be witty and original? Surely hundreds–no, thousands–of essays have been written on the waiting, the shady comrades-in-waiting, the two malicious-looking employees behind the counter (nevermind the fact that there are 6 lines–only 2 of them are ever staffed), the waiting, the sinking feeling of taking your number and realizing it’s somewhere in the 700’s while number 81 is “currently being served”, the guy who takes you on your drive test and fails you (it was only a curb, for crying out loud; it wasn’t actually a child), the waiting…and I won’t even get started on the photos. We all know about the photos.

But, listen, my experience really was different. Why? Because I was only there for ten minutes. I took my number (#031), found a seat, read half a page in my book and listened in on a few (sadly uninteresting) conversations before some bored-sounding lady came on the intercom and said, “Now serving number 0-3-1.”

I looked around at all the people who had been waiting much, much longer than I had–who looked like they’d basically moved in, begun work on their five o’clock shadows and such–and felt guilty for a single, fleeting second.

Then I marched up to the counter with my winning ticket.

The train is our oyster

My little brother is bigger than I am. All those years my parents warned, “You’ll be sorry, someday he’ll be bigger than you”? Turns out they were right. These days, a bear-hug from Ross can pop several ribs out of place (slight exaggeration, but oh God, it feels like it); a pat on the back can make my ears ring (no exaggeration whatsoever)–and almost anything he says, perfectly timed, can make me laugh until I’m dizzy or nauseous or possibly both.

Recently, he moved away for college.

By “away”, I really mean Seattle, which isn’t bad as far as “away” goes, but still–sometimes any distance at all feels too far.

And then he joined a fraternity.

I wasn’t sure whether to laugh or gasp in horror when he told me, so I’m sure my expression looked a bit like, say, the face I’d make if Bush burst out with an Astaire-style tap dance on the evening news, while arguing for an attack on Canada–if you can picture that (my expression, I mean).

And so, sometime last spring, we hatched this mad idea to get me on a train to Seattle so I could spend 4 days in Ross’ “scene”–his word, not mine. We picked the weekend of a cousin’s much-anticipated wedding (wine! relatives! disco! hysteria!) so that Ross could come home for a few days, and then we could ride the train down to Seattle together.

Things went pretty much as planned.

Until we got to the ticket booth at the Amtrack station, that is, and realized that I, utter fool that I am, had forgotten Ross’ ticket at home. After that minor delay, we dragged our luggage out onto the train platform and stared at the many cars in front of us, doors open and waiting, and wondered how exactly one goes about “boarding” a train. No worries, though–a conductor with an interesting hairpiece sauntered over to us just then.

“Where’re you headed?” He asked, beaming broadly.

We told him, and he beamed still broader and said, “Sit anywhere you like!”

“Anywhere?” We asked.

“Yes! Anywhere!” And he sauntered away.

Ross looked from one end of the train to the other, his eyes glazing over happily, and said, “The train…is our oyster.”

And so our excursion began. Four days in a frat house, and I bet you’re thinking scandal! intrigue! binge drinking! Well, here’s the funny thing–we were by far the rowdiest ones there, which is not surprising if you know Ross, but rather surprising if you know me. Most of the boys were quiet, pleasant lads, who, when asked if they wanted to join us for an evening of drinking, responded, “Actually, man, I’ve got homework.”

“What kind of frat house is this?” I wondered.

My moment of glory came when I beat my brother (hitherto pretty much Beer Pong champion, having only ever lost once) at Beer Pong. Twice. In a row.

(Triumphant laugh.)

However, I’m pretty sure that, later that night, he had to piggyback me home from the UW campus after I sat myself down in the middle of the sidewalk (rather drunk, yes) and said, “I’m tired.”

“Little further,” he said.

I protested–”No.”

“Piggyback?” he asked.

“Okay.” And it was settled.

That was just one night, though. During the day, Ross went to work, and I prowled the many blocks of University Ave., seeking out bookstores & coffee shops & Cellophane Square, and at 3:21 every afternoon we went to Tully’s and bought milkshake(s) with our “Buy 1 Get 1 Free! (Only valid from 3:21-3:51pm)” coupons. We went back to the frat house after that and Ross beat me (often, and badly) at pool, before heading upstairs to make tuna casserole in the frat kitchen, while an endless stream of guys in flip flops moved in and out of said kitchen, claiming to have met me earlier in the week.

Hmm. “Yeah, hey…man,” I’d say, and smile politely. For the better part of the week, apparently, I was “Ross’ little sister”–until it came time to buy beer. Then they figured out who was “the elder”, and right away.

On this trip, I had the distinct pleasure of watching the episode of The Family Guy where they make fun of frat boys in–get this–a room full of frat boys. Ah, sweet irony. (I think that’s ironic, anyway. Ever since that controversy with the Alanis M. song, I don’t know what “ironic” means anymore.)

But, as all weekends must eventually do, this weekend came to an end, and we found ourselves back at the train station, saying goodbye (which was sad, but not sappy, so there). I suppose in the long run it was good that the weekend ended, since Mitch had been calling often over the last few days to ask when I was coming home, but as I boarded the train I couldn’t help thinking that it might be nice to a have a little Ross to carry around–much like some people carry small dogs–to say funny things, or recite entire episodes of The Family Guy for me, while doing all the voices (even Stewey’s).

No, I realized. A small Ross wouldn’t be fun. I’m far more attached to the big one.