My 15 Minutes of Fame on Failblog

No matter how down I'm feeling, I know that Failblog will make me laugh. I'm proud to report that a photo I submitted of a wedding site in "picturesque" Sonoma made it onto the site today. I told my little sister that it's a shame that she already reserved a church in New Orleans for her wedding. This location is unforgettable.


more fail, owned and pwned pics and videos

Why The Sampler Platter has been empty lately

In case you happen upon this blog, I wanted to let you know why I haven't updated it since April. I've been devoting all my writing -- and almost every waking hour -- to my current project, Reschool Yourself. I'm a bit obsessed with the project and know that it's what I'm meant to do, since I simply can't stop thinking about it. And despite the steep learning curve involved in buliding a website and new career, I sincerely enjoy the process. I haven't been so happy with my work in a long, long time. Now I just have to find ways to be paid for it!

A bit about the project: This school year, I'm going back to my old classrooms, from kindergarten to college, to explore how at some point my education began to shape me instead of my shaping it. I'm spending time volunteering and participating in every grade from kindergarten through college, doing my schooling again on my own terms. Along the way I'm educating myself in technology, politics, finance -- anything that's intimidated me in the past -- and will be doing traveling apprenticeships & school visits in the spring.

My intention is that Reschool Yourself be not only about me, but about all grown-ups who feel unhappy or stuck, especially because of habits or beliefs developed in school. I want to reschool myself so I can help other adults do the same, in the ways that they choose. I'm dedicated to inspiring a culture of "reschooling" among grown-ups, so we adults can not only be happier for our own sake, but for the sake of our kids and students. I hope that you subscribe to the blog and share projects of your own in the new forums.

I expect to add to The Sampler Platter when I have posts in mind that wouldn't be appropriate for Reschool Yourself, whether in tone or topic. Though I'm largely absent from this site, I'm still living the sampling philosophy every day and hope that you are, too.

www.reschoolyourself.com

Melia’s Top 5 “Crack-Snacks”

Allow me to introduce you to the top five snacks over which I have no self-control. Like a hungry golden retriever left unattended in the pantry, I will devour every delicious morsel and leave no trace. Even if I attempt to behave like a civilized person—eating one serving, closing the package, putting it away, and leaving the room—I cannot resist the sweet siren-call of the crack-snacks. I will inevitably return to open the package and repeat the process several times, truly believing that each time will be the last. I am convinced that each of these snacks, like Kentucky Fried Chicken according to Mike Myers’ Stuart MacKenzie, contains "an addictive chemical that makes you crave it fortnightly."

5) Trader Joe's Tomato & Basil Hummus Dip. I raise eyebrows in the checkout line when I stack up three or four containers of this full-bodied hummus with a nose of garlic. I cannot help but eat a 7 oz. container in one sitting, normally paired with Trader Joe’s Salted Potato Puffs (see #3) or toasted tortillas. One of my greatest pleasures in life is to open a fresh container of this hummus, scoop the excess off the lid with a single chip, and pop it whole into my mouth.

4) Trader Joe's Banana Crisps. When these first hit the market a couple of years ago, the nutrition facts read, "Total Fat: 1g." Unlike banana chips, these had apparently not been fried but tasted almost exactly like potato chips, only "lightly sweet." I considered the crisps a miracle food, the most perfect way to satisfy both my cravings and my recommended daily serving of fruit. Because the banana crisps came in limited supply and flew off the shelves, I would reserve eight bags at a time(yes, actually reserve them in advance) and eat approximately one bag per day. Everything went swimmingly until I popped open Bag 1 of 8 and noticed new sticker on the front: "Total Fat: 8g per serving." I did a double take. In somewhat of a panic, I returned to Trader Joe's to ask an employee about what had to be a mistake. "The original bags were mislabeled," she said. "The crisps are fried, and they do have 8 grams of fat." I thought about how many crisps I'd consumed over the past months. Suddenly, it became clear why I'd begun to develop a bit of a "banana belly." This was the first time I had ever considered filing a lawsuit. Still in shock, I returned the 8 bags of crisps and have grieved for the loss of the perfect snack ever since.

3) Trader Joe’s Salted Popped Potato Chips. At 4 grams of fat per 22 chips, these are almost as perfect a snack as I believed the banana crisps to be. (If 4 grams is also a misprint, I will cry.) Munching on these chips is like eating air. Salty, starchy, delightfully crunchy air.

2) Lundberg Sesame & Seaweed Rice Chips. Like kettle corn, they are unexpectedly sweet, with a light and lovely seasoned crunch. Made of brown rice, they are incredibly healthy, especially when all six servings in the bag are consumed in one sitting, after midnight. I'm convinced that this is a best practice in nutrition, on par with a juice fast.

1) Trader Joe's Milk Chocolate-Covered Pretzels. I am powerless against the compulsion to break into the bag in the Trader Joe's parking lot. My recent driving companion told me, "As soon as you opened the bag, I wasn't even in that car anymore. It was just you and the pretzels." Now, if you’ll please excuse us, the chocolate pretzels and I need another moment alone…

Let us acknowledge the Creator of 4/5 of the preceding snacks.

If you don’t recognize Trader Joe’s as the king of snacks, I will fight you. Please take a moment of silence for people in parts of the country who suffer through life without a Trader Joe’s.

Crack-Snacks Honorable Mention:

Equal Exchange Mint Chocolate with a delicate crunch. I discovered this chocolate at a Rainbow Grocery sample table last month. Each time the sample man turned his back, I swept by and swiped another square. I fancy myself a chocolate connoisseur, having had a college roommate whose Belgian grandmother shipped her a steady supply of Cote D’or mignonettes. This Equal Exchange organic mint chocolate stands out from the rest, 67% cacao with a subtle crisp, like Thin Mint Girl Scout cookies. When I learned that small-scale Latin American farmer cooperatives produce the chocolate, I decided that it was my activist duty to buy enough to keep them in business. (Oh, the sacrifices I make in the name of social justice.) Apparently other customers made the same vow, as the chocolate tragically went out of stock after my first heavenly taste. I am overjoyed to report that tonight, after several employees combed the aisles to find it, the mint chocolate and I had a blissful reunion.

Zen and the Art of Hostelling

If you’re ever feeling bored or uninspired, as if you are measuring out your life “with coffee spoons,” as T.S. Eliot wrote, go stay in a hostel. I guarantee that it will snap you out of your routine. You can never predict what you will experience and whom you will meet. If you ever begin to feel that one day looks just like the next, hostelling will remind you of the variety of surprises that 24 hours can hold.

During my travels in Europe and Latin America, I stayed in dozens of hostels and took from each at least one noteworthy observation or story. There was the hostel in Budapest, Hungary, where you not only needed to bring your own bedding into the dorms, but also your own toilet paper into the bathroom (woe to the traveler who was not forewarned). In Paris, my hostel window overlooked a cobblestone courtyard filled with café tables, fragrant flowers, and a vagrant “entertaining” himself in the shadows. In Antigua, Guatemala, I stayed at a hostel that was home to a few friendly resident cats. I noticed a sign on the hostel door that said, "Please close the door at night. The cats are not allowed upstairs at night. Neighbors kill cat. Please help us keep the cats alive." Apparently the crazy neighbor lady didn't like the cats and had fed poisoned ham to one of them. As you can imagine, having this kind of element next door made me wary of going upstairs at night myself.

Over the holidays, I felt in need of a little inspiration and decided to try out the American version of the hostel, opting for one at Point Montara, north of Half Moon Bay. I had conceived the trip as a “reading retreat” and had brought dozens of books with me, intending to do little but read for several days straight. The hostel had a large common room furnished with couches and armchairs, a perfect makeshift library. I stacked an armload of books on the end table, swaddled myself in a comforter, and settled in next to the fireplace to read.

I found it difficult to concentrate, as the enormous dragon in the corner of the room made me uneasy. Suspended from the ceiling, as if from a great leash, was a massive, multicolored papier mache beast. Its red eyes gleamed, its striped tail curled maliciously, and it seemed to gnash its long white teeth. What it was doing in the sitting room of a hostel I could not imagine.

The dragon reminded me of an exhibit that was housed in the Santa Clara University reading room during my senior year of college. Displays around the perimeter of the room showcased the belongings of an Arctic explorer. One of these belongings was the explorer’s pet dog. A taxidermist had set this dog into a perpetually courageous pose within its glass case, its head cocked toward the sky. I found the dog grotesque and wondered what had possessed someone to put it alongside the study carrels. Perhaps an inventive university employee had thought of the dog as an inspiring presence, like a mascot, to the students who were cramming for biology midterms. On the contrary, the dog had consistently distracted me from my studies. It had prompted me to glance up from my reading every few minutes to wonder why on earth it was there, just as the dragon in the hostel reading room was doing now.

I later overheard the hostel manager explaining the dragon to a visitor. “It was part of our Halloween carnival,” he said. “A local hardware store sold me all of the materials at cost. These eyes even light up—the kids loved it. We decided to leave it here permanently, because every lighthouse needs a dragon.”

“Yeah,” I thought grouchily from my reading corner, “like a fish needs a bicycle.”

I had originally intended my reading retreat to be silent, but that’s simply impossible in a hostel, which is always full of characters ready to chat. The first two I encountered were middle-aged women wearing curious outfits: white bonnets, ankle-length homemade dresses in dowdy prints with aprons and “capes” (think Little Bo Peep, not Superman). I asked one about her background, and she said that she and her friend were German Baptists, who were similar to Mennonites, who are similar to the Amish. The two women turned out to have normal jobs (one was a caretaker for the elderly) and were allowed to use modern technology like cars and computers. I was more than a little disappointed that they couldn’t tell me about buggies or barn-raising or sowing their wild oats.

During the rest of my stay, I met a cast of other colorful characters, including:

· A cameraman for Hollywood movies, including the Spiderman series. He was telling a woman that during filming, he often chatted with Tobey McGuire about basketball. The woman said, “I’ve heard that you’re not supposed to talk with the actors between takes.” The cameraman replied, “Well, it’s not like he’s playing Patton—he’s Spiderman, for God’s sake.” Touché.

· A guy in his 40s who asked if I’d made my chicken korma yourself (Yes). “It smells just like my favorite Thai curry. You’re not married, are you?” (No.) “Well, you’ll make some man very happy someday.” (Thanks?)

· Three Spanish women who stayed in my dorm room one night. I have lived in Spain twice and love the country dearly, so my heart leapt at the sound of the vosotros verb tense, which is exclusive to Spain. “De donde sois?,” I asked (“Where are you guys from?”). One of the women had lived in “Sahn Frahn-thee-sco” for 10 years, and the other two were visiting from San Sebastian. They weren’t nearly as interested in talking to me as I was to them, so I sadly left them en paz.

· A girl named Anna, who was a 4th grader from Denver, as her mom told me in a brief kitchen conversation. As I ate my quinoa with vegetables, Anna stared at me intently from across the table. This made me uncomfortable enough to wolf down my carefully prepared meal, in order to escape her penetrating gaze. After dinner, I retired to the common living room to read and journal, which inspired Anna to deliver a play-by-play of my every movement.

Anna: She’s reading Eat, Pray, Love.

Anna’s dad: I’m sure they named it that because all the verbs have one syllable. (Anna’s dad was a literary genius.)

Anna’s mom: I read the first part of that book. It’s about a woman who goes to Italy, then India, then Indonesia, I think.

Indian woman in the kitchen: I heard an interview with the author on NPR, and it sounds interesting…

It’s not only distracting when people are conversing about you as if you’re not there, but unnerving as well. Was I supposed to look up and smile? Join in the conversation about me? I pretended that I was too absorbed in my book to hear. As I actually couldn’t concentrate, I pulled out another book with writing exercises, looking for an activity to focus my attention.

Anna: She’s reading two books at once.

Anna’s mom: Well, sometimes you need a few options. I brought three books on this trip.

I tried to ignore them and began journaling.

Anna: Now she’s writing.

I visualized Anna narrating, “She’s standing up. She’s walking toward me and raising her palm. She’s smacking me upside the head repeatedly.” Instead of indulging my fantasy, I gathered my belongings and left the room.

At first I was annoyed at the constant distractions and interruptions in the hostel. I had intended to do some serious reading during my retreat, not endure the stares of a monstrous dragon, or a 4th grade stalker in need of some manners (and a hobby). With time, however, I began to appreciate the element of surprise that each day, and each moment, would bring. One evening I would be cooking alongside a man who just returned from six months researching pathogens in Peru; the next I would be bunking with a Dutch woman on holiday from her work with incarcerated youth. I never knew if my plan at any given time—whether to read, or shower, or use the stove—would be thwarted by one of my fellow travelers and became more flexible. Most importantly, my stay in the hostel reminded me of how many fascinating characters and experiences I can have in a day if I open myself to them.

I’m telling you, if you need a departure from your routine and a dose of surprise, go for a stay in a hostel. It will give you something to write home about.

Flickr Creative Commons image of Point Montara hostel courtesy of gordon_landon.

Writer's Block

I'm aware that until now, the most recent entry on my blog has been dated "Summer 2000." Though I started the blog in September, the piece is from college. When I decided to start a blog, I imagined it would be a way to share my old writing and inspire me to write something new. I did a lot of writing as a kid and teenager, but these days my creative expression seems to be limited to painstakingly crafted Evites and witty status updates on Facebook. I'm a bit scared that years of Outlook emails have sucked the creative juices from my veins. I'd like to think that I didn't peak at 17.

I've intended to post new blog entries, but so far I've confined my writing time to the laundromat. An hour of writing every two weeks hasn't gotten me very far, especially when it's interrupted by passionate cries ("Ay, Carlos, mi amor!") from the telenovelas blaring in the background.

Either I have to spend a lot more time with the screaming, sticky-fingered children running around Señor Burbujas ("Mr. Bubbles" in Spanish), or I have to take writing a little less seriously and post more casually. It's a little scary for a perfectionist not to send out every phrase for peer review before publishing it, but I'm going to give it a whirl. Though my entries may not be worthy of The Onion, at least they will exist. Stay tuned...

Boys' House

Summer 2000

To enter a boys’ house is to enter another world. I’m not talking about a house in which a boy lives with his parents, or his girlfriend, or whomever. I’m talking about a house in which a boy lives with other boys. A house that contains 225 DVDs, three video game systems, and no fresh fruits or vegetables.

To first set foot in my ex-boyfriend’s apartment, I had to throw my purse over the edge of the waist-high fence surrounding the patio, step up on the drainpipe, and propel myself over. This was not the most graceful move I have ever executed, and not one I especially wanted Matt, whom I had just started dating, to see. Why was it necessary? Because the front door’s knob had gotten stuck. Why hadn’t Matt and his roommates called the manager? Because they had decided they could fix the door themselves. I witnessed this show of mechanical expertise, in which one of the roommates and a friend used a butter knife as a screwdriver and fiddled with the door until they were satisfied. When they tested the doorknob, it promptly came off in their hands. So they abandoned the project, leaving a gaping hole in the front door where the broken knob had been. Thus I had to jump over the fence every time I entered the apartment, which resulted in several cuts and bruises, as well as severe annoyance. Matt and his roommate Jeff didn’t get the door fixed until the week they moved out, and by that time I’d grown accustomed to hopping the fence.

Because the front door was out of order, and the screen door didn’t have a key, the apartment remained unlocked at all times. I found this lack of security disturbing, considering the wealth of electronics inside, and I half expected a murderous burglar to be inside the apartment every time I came in. Fueling my fears was a life-sized cutout of The Rock (a musclebound wrestler), which loomed out of the darkness, a hulk staring down anyone daring to enter the living room.

Visiting the boys’ house felt to me like roughing it in the wilderness. Even after I overcame my fear of being mauled by an intruder, I had to forage for food. One night, I was hungry and looked in the kitchen for something to eat. In the fridge, I found a Brita water purifier that no one had bothered to fill, a few condiments, several bottles of beer, and a Tupperware container of chili.

“Is this edible?” I asked Jeff.

“No,” he said, “That’s been there for months. It’s part of us now—we’re too attached to it to throw it away.”

Frustrated, I looked in the cupboard. Nothing was there except Top Ramen and a can of Planter’s Peanuts.

“They’re from last Christmas,” said Jeff. It was August when I found them.

If the food situation weren’t enough to make me feel like I was camping, it was the bathrooms, whose toilets clogged during one out of three flushes. The boys had toilet paper sometimes (usually no one bothered to change the empty roll), the soap (when there was any) lay in shards, and the toilet seat was always up. There was no garbage can in the bathroom, so I had to throw Kleenex into the kitchen wastebasket, which was constantly smelly and overflowing (“It’s Jeff’s turn to throw it out,” Matt told me for weeks). I didn’t dare use the shower, because Jeff had informed me that he peed in it every morning.

“It eliminates a whole step,” he said. “I’m too tired in the morning to lift the toilet seat, pee, flush, then get in the shower.”

This disgusting show of laziness did not bother Matt in the least. “Pee is good for your feet,” he told me. “It prevents athlete’s foot.”

The boys’ house was not only unfriendly to human visitors, but to animals as well. The third roommate, Troy, had moved out a month before my first visit to the apartment, and he had left behind a cat that Matt and Jeff both hated. I heard that poor Maverick had been overweight when the boys first moved in, but by the time I arrived on the scene, he had slimmed down considerably. Matt and Jeff had barely enough money to buy food for themselves (hence the empty fridge and cupboards), much less for the cat they loathed. Therefore, Maverick went from fat to scrawny in a matter of weeks, and when visitors asked about the rapid change, Matt and Jeff would nod knowingly and say, “He’s on a special diet.”

When the lease was up and the boys moved out, I did not envy the person who had to clean the place, scrubbing the smelly corner by the piano where Maverick had peed, and the space under the leaky fridge that had grown green with mold. However, I missed the apartment much more than I thought I would, despite its toxicity and lack of amenities expected by a civilized person.

I didn’t need to feel nostalgic for long, as Matt soon moved into a new boys’ house with two new roommates. I felt an unexpected sense of comfort when I saw the coffee table they had fashioned out of a wooden board laid over two speakers, and when I realized that they had a complete home entertainment center but no silverware. I loved to hang out with the boys, staying up late watching useless movies on HBO and eating cereal out of casserole dishes because there were no clean bowls.

Since I always had fun at Matt’s place and came away with good stories, I wondered occasionally if I could ever move in. I quickly thought better of it. A boys’ house would be intolerable for someone who couldn’t stomach a steady diet of Top Ramen, and who didn’t get fired up by watching Rocky 2 for the tenth time. In other words, it would be intolerable for girls in general. For any girl with basic standards of cleanliness and civilized behavior, a boys’ house is an exciting place to visit, but a frightening place to live.

Application to Date Me

Note, 12/08: When I met my partner Darren in February 2008, I officially closed the application process. Reference the final paragraph of this post and the words "God forbid"...yes, my Monday nights now involve football and much yelling at the TV screen. Coincidentally, they also involve karaoke at the neighborhood pub. In Mississippi. Funny how things turn out.

September 17, 2007

Dating would be much more efficient if interested guys had to fill out an application. I imagine that they would submit it to me with a cover letter expressing their intentions and qualifications, along with a recent photo. I could read these items at my leisure, ask for supplemental materials when necessary, and then make an informed decision. This process would eliminate the majority of candidates without a single forced conversation, saving precious time and sparing me countless uncomfortable moments. It would also soften the blow of rejection. I wouldn’t feel the least bit guilty sending a form letter that read, “After reviewing your application, I have decided that we’re not a strong romantic fit. Thank you for your interest.” It’s much harder to take personally than, “You’re a great guy, but I’m just not that into _______________ (programmers/Young Republicans/carnies).”

Completing an “Application to Date Me” should be standard practice. After all, people have to fill out an application to attend private school, to buy a house, and to be granted with other special privileges. Isn’t enjoying the pleasure of my company in the same league? It’s certainly on par with getting a job at Taco Bell, or at least I would like to think so.

My sister suggested that I create an Application to Date Me when I was newly single a couple of years ago. Having gone on a couple of disappointing dates, I thought this was a great idea. The only thing in question was what this application would look like. If it were going to identify candidates with high potential and screen out the others, I would have to word it carefully.

I decided to call in the reinforcements. I asked my friend Carol, who was also single and a bit exasperated with boys, to come over one night and create a joint application with me. Surrounding ourselves with munchies, we huddled over my laptop and summoned as our muses the many awkward boys of our past. The following is an excerpt from our application:

1) Throw this application in the trash if you:

• Drip sweat on me while we are dancing
  
• Shave the Batman insignia into your chest hair
  
• Document your Unabomber phase on your personal web page

2) Delete my number from your cell phone if you aspire to:

• Wear the most authentic Darth Maul costume at the midnight premiere of the new Star Wars movie
  
• Become a Dungeon Master
  
• Become a vampire

3) You will spend tonight alone if you:

• Are skinnier than I am
  
• Have delicate, tapered fingers with manicured nails
  
• Get misty-eyed when Celine Dion hits the high note in “My Heart Will Go On”
  

Let me emphasize that these are all based on real-life experiences, with a couple of specifics changed to spare feelings. You can imagine why Carol and I were frustrated with dating. That night, we shared one horror story after another, which inspired us to list six pages of qualities we absolutely did not want in a man. We stopped only because it was after midnight, and we never did get to what we did want.

The first draft of the Application to Date Me turned out to be a tool not to find the man of my dreams, but rather to screen out those who need not apply. I’m sure it would do a great job of weeding out applicants who were perky morning people, spoke to me in baby talk in the presence of others, or had ever watched an entire WWF fight. It would eliminate those who were really into Lord of the Rings, triple bacon cheeseburgers, or death metal. It would also probably ensure that I never went on a date at all, having kicked to the curb most of the candidate pool.

As I’m now 27 and hoping to avoid becoming an eccentric Cat Lady, I’ve decided that I should probably revise my application in terms of what I actually do want in a guy. My Fall 2007 Application to Date Me will give special consideration to those who:

• find it impossible to eat a quality meal without frequent, contented “mmm”s
  
• can quote both Happy Gilmore and Catcher in the Rye in the same conversation
  
• are equally at ease playing kickball with my middle school students and drunkenly rapping “Bust a Move” at a divey karaoke bar

The following questions will be included in the application:

1) Who would win in a Saved by the Bell cage match, Jessie Spano or Lisa Turtle? Explain your answer.

Answer: Jessie, of course, powered by her feisty feminism and her secret stash of caffeine pills. She’s so excited…

2) Angelina Jolie is ____________.

a. A dirty homewrecker

b. A resident of Crazytown

c. Skeletor's more attractive cousin

d. A beautiful, savvy ambassador using her star power for social good

Answer: All of the above. Rachel Ray’s response of “a skanky, backdoor c*nt” would disqualify her for inappropriately harsh language. Though let’s hope that Rachel Ray wouldn’t be filling out an Application to Date Me in the first place.


3) What’s the best strategy for dominating in Halo 2?

Answer: The only appropriate answers are, “What’s Halo 2?” or “Who the hell cares?”

I’m aware that My Application to Date Me shouldn’t dismiss all candidates who have different tastes than I do. I know that if I dated the male version of myself, I would never be introduced to anything outside of my comfort zone. I’m grateful for what past boyfriends have taught me, especially when that knowledge scores me occasional points in the Trivial Pursuit sports category. I’m all for being well-rounded, even if I’ve been known to grumble about hiking Big Sur in 100-degree weather, or to threaten breakup if Tom Waits doesn’t quit yowling about getting behind the mule.

I imagine that in spite of all my careful screening, I’ll probably still end up with someone with certain questionable tastes (then he’ll have to forgive me for going to an *N Sync concert at age 21). I may even—God forbid—end up with a guy whose emotions are directly affected by Monday Night Football. Who knows, maybe I’ll find myself glued to the game along with him – but only on the condition that he karaoke Britney Spears’ “Stronger” with me when our team wins. I’ll make sure to include that in the application.