The Weekly Meat

In the Closet

By guest author Monica Gebell of Writing the Open Road

Every six months or so, on the verge of a school vacation, I'm standing in my 5' x 5' closet at a loss for what to wear. It's the kind of stupor that makes me late for homeroom and makes me determined that I will clean the closet and get organized.

Teachers, by nature, are usually organized people. We know exactly where to locate a well-maintained lesson planner we used three years ago, we keep files like "Mockingbird: handouts" and "World Myth." We're supposed to know where our damn pants are.

My closet is especially tricky. It was a selling point when we were looking at the house as a potential home: I saw it as a small refuge with a beautiful, small, leaded-glass window reminiscent of the era of the house's construction (1902), a hovel where I might store or sport some things that make a little room a place of expression, decompression even. But since it houses everything I can put on my prenatal, postnatal, and non-natal body and feet throughout four seasons, there's little room for the few trinkets and whatnots that make it a room of my own.

So into the closet I'll go, boxes ready and labeled for thrift stores and bags for stuff that ought to have been tossed months ago: a shirt that hasn't fit since college but I keep because it was once hip; a knit scarf that's unraveled itself into threads; a pair of broken, worn-out sandals that helped me trek through parts of India and South America.

There's a basket of scarves that lives on top of the high shelf above the clothing rack I rarely touch. I purchased the thin blue one when I was 15, next to a night club in Tel Aviv where I had my first drink; another from a flea market in Tuscany where a bunch of friends decided we'd laze for ten days one summer (silk, apparently, can molt). A long, white kerchief with coin tassels purchased for me by friends as we embarked upon a belly dancing lesson prior to my bachelorette party. One, a remnant of my mother's flirtation with psychedelic fashion in the '60s; another, a thank-you gift for directing a play. I don't wear any of these.

I keep another basket atop the dresser in my closet for things like birthday cards I can't throw away, necklaces that need repair. Scissors and sewing stuffs. A glass jar of buttons that never managed to make it back onto the sweaters from which they've fallen (or were plucked by my button-happy daughter). There are small, beaded purses and floppy hats for whimsical evenings, belts, a ball cap. Assorted perfumes I don't often wear. Everything in here has a story. Everything in here, collectively, tells where I've been and who and what I've loved. All in a 5 x 5 closet.

A friend of mine has made a living of organizing people's homes (and lives). Part of her philosophy of organization involves tossing out what you don't need. Superfluous items are simply space-wasters. But for some reason, I cannot part with the (now too-tight) sweater I wore on a first date with my husband. I can't toss the beaded hemp necklace a stranger gave me in Paris, even though I never wear it. And though they're woolen, scratchy, and too big in all the wrong places, the jackets my grandmother's uncle had made for her in Argentina will have to find their way back up on the clothes rack.

Right after I find my pants.

A Modest Proposal

As much as I would like to suggest "preventing the children of poor people in Ireland from being a burden to their parents or country, and for making them beneficial to the public," that has already been done quite capably, hilariously, and effectively. So my proposal is far more modest. It is this:

I need some writing help.

It has gotten increasingly difficult to carve out enough hours each week to consistently produce posts of the quality I'd like to produce and I presume you'd like to read — and so it falls to the slim margin of time when I am not working, raising kids, cooking, fixing something broken, keeping myself alive and in shape, or simply decompressing. Cry you a river. I know.

In any case, whether you are a regular reader of and commenter on this blog, a lurking newbie, a TWM fan on the Facebizzle, or none of the above, I am putting out a call to those who can write, record, film, create, or otherwise produce Meat-worthy blog posts. Posting could be a one-time deal, or a semi-regular gig.

I'm not going anywhere, nor is the blog. But this space would be much improved — as is has been previously — by the addition of an occasional guest blogger.

About what subject am I soliciting postings?

Up to you. This is as close as I get to following any guidelines on the site. No minimum word count. In fact, posts could just as well be audio, video, design, artwork — as long as they fit in with the sort of things I publish, and are of substance.

What do you get out of the deal?

"There will be no money," as they say. But "a little something, you know, for the effort...." Namely, a forum, publicity, an established audience. Professional, thoughtful editing. And if you're local, beer.

If you're interested, please get in touch.

And if you're not interested, stick around. The next two posts in the pipeline are on Fishing, and The Best Short-Lived Bands (feel free to suggest your faves in the Comments section). And as always, more piping-hot vittles to come.

Perfect Timing

By guest author Abby Luthin

My husband Ben and I just returned from our first-ever weekend away from our young daughters, a trip to our friends’ wedding in Arizona. No Electric Slide, no boozy toasts or weeping. Just lovely surroundings, fine food and wine, and a fun collection of people there to celebrate the new and classy married couple. It got me thinking, nearly seven years after our own “I do's”, about how far we have come together, and how things might be different if we hadn’t met. Or, more to the point, what would have happened if we’d met at a different time in our lives?

All I know is that I’m glad our paths crossed when they did because if it had been even weeks earlier, Ben and I would have hated each other. And not in a charming Sam and Diane, David and Maddie, Oscar and Felix kind of way. More of a get-a-load-of-this-guy and who-does-she-think-she-is? kind of way.

I recognize that I am very high strung. Understanding this about myself required great caution when Ben and I started dating. He might have thought the slow reveal was a feminine courting technique. I knew that if I disclosed the full reliquary of my eccentric tendencies too early, he might run for the hills.

My type A tendencies bloomed early in life. There was a whole year around the age of eight or so when I read both Hints from Heloise and Emily Post’s Etiquette: A Guide to Modern Manners many times over. If I spilled grape juice on the carpet in my doll house, I knew how to get it out before it stained. Serving cold soup before the main course? I knew which spoon to use. Need to write a letter to a colonel and his companion of many years? I had the proper salutation prepared. When we were far enough along in our relationship for me to mention having collected and absorbed these tomes in my youth (so helpful when picking the exact wording of our wedding invitations!), Ben sighed and noted, again, it was good to have met when we did.

What was Ben doing at the same age? By his own account, he was spilling grape juice, playing street hockey, and extruding mouthfuls of mashed potatoes from the gaps in his teeth.

Our late teens and early twenties also would have seen us as antagonists. One of my earliest memories at Macalester College was of reading about a kamikaze party set for the first weekend of the school year. A teetotaler myself, I thought those who imbibed didn’t take their studies seriously. My look-down-my-nose attitude poorly masked insecurities about not fitting in, but knowing that now didn’t help me one bit then. My roommate explained to me the nature of the event, mentioning that the booze in that dorm suite was always mixed in the bathtub and drunk with a plastic cup scooped into the cocktail. I probably mentioned that "cocktail" was a nice way of putting it, what with the poor sanitary conditions of a bathtub being used for a beverage hold. And then I most likely grabbed my books and headed for the library.

Ben’s college experience? A thousand miles away and four years earlier than mine, let’s just say he hosted plenty of similar parties, and still claims an acute tequila “allergy” stemming from those days.

Immediately before our friends exchanged their wedding vows in Phoenix, their rings were passed among the guests with the request that each person add a silent wish or words of wisdom for the new couple before they wore the bands as husband and wife. I surprised myself by knowing exactly what I wanted to say. That we had known and very much liked the groom before he met his bride, that we liked her right away, and that he’s been especially buoyant ever since. But that it’s important not to forget he’d had his lumps before, as have we all, and that he’d become the person ready for the relationship being formalized into marriage before our eyes the moment she’d walked into his world — and not a second sooner. It’s possible they’d have been happy as high school sweethearts, or college coeds, or twentysomethings in Boston. But I didn’t think so, and not just because of the span when he styled his hair in a fauxhawk. Yet it doesn’t make their partnership now any less powerful.

As Ben and I listened to the wedding tunes during the reception, I thought about how our formative musical experiences wouldn't have endeared us to one another either. In fact, we would never have been at the same venue. My first rock concert was Cyndi Lauper’s "Girls Just Wanna Have Fun" tour at Poplar Creek for my twelfth birthday — accompanied by three friends and chaperoned by my mom. I vividly remember being outraged by the price of t-shirts and, as we stood for the entire show, wondering to myself why everyone couldn’t just sit down already so I could use the seat my mom had paid good money for.

Sure, Ben knew about these tunes, but his first concert was the Kinks and he still owns ratty Bruce Springsteen and AC/DC t-shirts. Early in our relationship, I tried to impress him by boasting that I’d seen a concert at Minneapolis’s hip First Avenue, which for me meant that I’d evolved past the music of my early teen years. Naturally, he asked who I’d seen, hoping for Hüsker Dü, or the Replacements, or at the very least Prince. There was a long, awkward silence after I answered Big Country (I still have the ticket stub to prove it!). I filled this void with an approximation of the "bagpipe” solo from "In a Big Country." And yes, dear reader, he still married me.

During my post-graduate years, due to too much Tour de France viewing combined with my now unsurprising lack of dating experience, I had a few quirky requirements for the guys I dated. One was that the boy be clean-shaven. Ben? Thankfully, just weeks before we met, he had shaved off a soul patch he’d been sporting for ages. Another prerequisite was a very specific height and physique: over six feet, gaunt, and, preferably, with hairless biker legs. While Ben’s nowhere near gaunt, he’s also not quite, even in hockey skates, anywhere near six feet. He’s also refused to shave his legs.

Ben’s requirements, as I know now, were nearly as precise. He never thought he’d be interested in someone who’d never had a driver’s license. Or who has kept a record of every book read and movie viewed since 1988. (And he hasn’t even seen the rating and cross-referencing systems I’ve added.) He never thought he’d be interested in someone whose personal life soundtrack is stuck in the Top 40 of 1987, or whose earliest reference material reading was of household stain removal and etiquette guides. Or who could even name her earliest childhood reference material reading.

Superficial? You bet. But don’t we all try to control our romantic leanings because it’s out of our hands who we fall for? That’s not to say some differences aren’t insurmountable. Just that there’s something to be said for relaxing a bit and following our instincts and letting what we do have in common — the important things — speak for themselves. Because it’s at the moment you’re willing to go on a date with the hairy-legged boy, or confess that you thought Hüsker Dü was a type of child’s toy akin to the hula hoop, or ditch whatever else it is that keeps you in such a safe place you’re unwilling to grow, that amazing, wonderful things can happen.

So after the ceremony in Arizona, as we tooled back to our hotel in our rental car — the windows down, the cool desert air blowing in — “Angel in the Centerfold” came over the stereo. I said, “You can change it” at exactly the same time as Ben shook his head and turned up the volume. Perfect timing, indeed.

Why I'm Backing Barack

By guest author [REDACTED]

Post removed December 2011, as outdated, at the request of the author. --BK

How to Travel with Your Significant Other and Not Break Up

Editorial Note: This post was co-written with my wife, AKL.

 

Please — before it’s too late — reconsider that romantic getaway you’ve been planning.

Traveling is devastating for relationships. If you love each other, stay home. Even perfectly functional, happy relationships can be ruined by the wedge issues travel creates for couples. Long-festering personality quirks can suddenly look like deal-breaking character flaws in the bright light of the Caribbean. Or the dingy light of a hotel bar.

We assure you, you’ll be much happier just staying at home and watching other people break up on TV.

Now, if you absolutely must leave home, please take with you our five time-tested survival techniques:

 

Rule #1: Prepare.

Seasoned Euro-traveler Ben Franklin said, “By failing to prepare, you are preparing to fail.” So prepare. Know your itinerary, bring your passport, extra socks, Scooby Snacks with which you can bribe your significant other…. Every trip has its hassles, and the fewer hassles you have, the fewer passive-aggressive “discussions” you’ll have about those hassles.

Also, buy good maps. Nothing can create tension faster than a stupid argument over how to find some hard-to-find landmark.

 

Rule #2: Avoid landmarks.

Landmarks are public places where couples are meant to have “moments.” Do not underestimate the importance of these moments. Try to gauge — or even (gasp!) ask — what the expected highlights of the trip are for your partner. And then try very hard not to screw up those highlights.

There’s a time and a place for everything, and the time and place for a state of the union chat is not at the Louvre or on the observation deck of the Eiffel Tower.

In fact, guys, do not under any circumstances go to Paris. Paris is like a wedding (or a funeral); you will never be forgiven for screwing up Paris.

 

Rule #3: Don’t go to bed angry.

This seems simple, but it’s not. Sort out little issues as they pop up during the day rather than giving them a chance to boil over when you’re tired and belligerent with mini-bar purchases.

We call this the “Brady Bunch rule.” No matter how bad things got for the Brady family — be it a surfing accident, a broken nose, or the everyday indignities of being the middle child (“Marcia! Marcia! Marcia!”) — by the end of the episode, all had been worked out and even Jan was happy again. Make bedtime the end of any “episodes.”

 

Rule #4: You’re not connected at the hip.

If you love art and are dying to see Florence’s Uffizi Gallery, but your partner can’t tell a Giotto from a grotto, ditch them for the day. You’ll see and do things on your own that you wouldn’t together (CAUTION! Skip this rule when in Vegas!) and even have something to talk about when you meet up later.

Being apart can also help you put your relationship in perspective. Are you enjoying yourself? Is this really a person with whom you could see yourself growing old? Living without? Is that hot bartender really giving you the eye?

 

Rule #5: The grass is never greener.

On every trip, you will meet exactly one person with whom you would fall madly in love, if not for your significant other. Do not fall in love with this new person.

It will be difficult. You will meet this person on a plane, or a bus, or a trek, or in a bar, or through a friend. The man or woman will come from Australia, or Iceland — an island country full of outgoing people with fabulous hair and supermodel cheekbones. They will be mysterious and have an interesting name and some odd talent. Their name will be Jada or Sven, and they’ll play bass for Bjork. You’ll have fantasies about living in their perfect world, and having transcendent sex and uncomplicated communication.

Remember, like internet Vi@gra! or 99-cent shrimp cocktail, if it looks too good to be true, it is.

Of course, if none of this helps and traveling does destroy your relationship and you ultimately find yourself single, well don’t just sit there and think, “They told me so,” get off your couch and see the world. You can start with Australia or Iceland.