That Sort of Creativity

“How you do one thing is how you do everything,” my boss Elizabeth tells me between 1 and 17 times everyday. Like Susan Boyle reaching the high notes and my grandma describing Letterman as “that man on TV who sleeps with all the women,” she nailed it.

How I do one thing really is, how I do everything, and I’m trying my damndest to make sure the answer is not: ‘badly.’ Or, more accurately, half-assed and then interrupted by a nap, the DVR, or to eat a street churro.

Last week I journeyed across our great nation to join my family for Thanksgiving. My goals: eat, drink, be merry, and clean my room. With childhood remnants stuffed under my bed and in every crevice of the closet woodwork, I feared I would become “that” 23 year old. You know her. The one who eats her weight in Nutter Butters, hoards her old teeth, and kept a napkin containing the spider, Steve, I she accidentally killed in 1997, and wrote a play about. Arachna-Steve has yet to be publicly performed, thank you for your interest.

Mid-dream sequence, I came to a startling realization: I never want to end up on Intervention weighing more than Shay from the Biggest Loser (you go girl), and then as a result, I have a lot of work to do.

Post thanksgiving veg-out I started on my project. I thought, what a creative little child I was, rummaging through rocks painted like lady bugs, and sketches of a family of super fairies living in a giant oak tree complete with its own helipad. I know what you’re wondering, was there an accompanying theme song optionally set to the beat of Savage Garden’s “Truly Madly Deeply” titled “Freely, Quickly, Safely?” There was, and 11, anyone will tell you, is a healthy age for that sort of creativity.

I left the strewn carnage (RIP Steve) on my bed and slept on the couch the next two nights. My days were filled with Ballard High School alumni, and a good 12 hours spent in the glorious trailer park that is a Husky tailgate. I only know three things: that we won 30-0, that I never actually say a full play, and that my mouth still hurts from the best spicy buffalo chicken tenders this side of the Mississippi.

Three of my best friends were in attendance, Jamie, Andrew, and Sparks Michael. Sparks are illegal now in many states,therefore holding a real special place in my heart. Michael went all Swine-Flu on us, but he came out anyway. “Beat it with booze,” Jamie advised him, “last year I showed up with a fever and after finishing the vodka that I snuck in my bra, I woke up with just a cold.” Michael nodded, and failed. The night ended with Andrew and I at the Ram, watching the Heisman ice sculpture melt and admiring our free Coach nail polish.

“How’s the room comin’?” my mom asked at breakfast the next morning.

I looked at her through the cloud of a throbbing headache, what room? I wanted to say, and then answered, “fabulous,” as I hid the evidence of couch slumber from her suspicious eye. Fun fact, it’s the left eye that’s distrusting; her right eye is the very definition of amiable.

By my last night in Seattle, I had yet to finish my room. The whole family sat down for spicy mango chicken curry and I suddenly felt 11 again, humming Savage Garden, planning the contents of my next time capsule, and weighing the likelihood that my mom would notice the collection of shells hoarded under my pillow (even in middle school my head was hard, and its earliest victim was my beach-bed.)

Mama Donna just smiled at me, in acceptance of my past and present weirdness, and suggested we call my sister, Bri on skype in Egypt. Cooper brought the canine flavor, Cap’n made sure to bring Bri’s plant Felix into the frame, and if computer screens don’t lie, and they don’t, we were the very picture of familial bliss.

I left the memories behind at that table and returned to my childhood room, resolved to finish what I started. There was no time left to wonder why I saved empty Oranginga cans from my 8th grade trip to Paris, or chose to trash Josh Harnett’s decoupage poster over Justin Timberlake’s.  I just reviewed, recycled, and basked in the relief of completion.

I felt good the morning I said goodbye. How you do one thing is how you do everything, I thought, a little last minute, with creativity flare, and an open mind.

A mind that’s not afraid to turn even a dead Spider into a work of art, (I’ll miss you, Steve), or a tree fairy into an Aussie boy-band inspired musical.

I’ll be your wings
I’ll be your pal
Livin’ in a secret tree
I’ll be your guide
We’ll soar away
Flying so high and so free
I cast a spell, I  save your life

Freely, quickly, safely, do!

….FAIRIES RULE!

My Writing Class

When life gets nutty, I settle into the ass cheek imprints on my couch and wait it out. Hedging against this lifestyle choice, I recently enrolled my mind in some serious circuit training. Normally I would rely on something practical like sudoku, or Entertainment Weekly online contributors (god bless you Tim Stack), but this fall I called in the big guns, ESL class. Technically, it’s a Gotham humor writing workshop, but I don’t speak literature.

Tuesday, as the class discussed Philip Roth and his Pulitzer Prize (which apparently is not pronounced “Pulll-itzer”), I took a short nap, intermittent with whispers to Jess about Bethenny’s new baby daddy. A few minutes later our instructor Sara turned to me in reverence (disappointment?) and asked whether I’d seen Shakira’s She-wolf video. I had. Who hasn’t? It’s very sexual. I bit my tongue and chose not to inform the class that her new album drops 11/23, a humdinger day of music releases. Will the Latin princess take billboard honors, or will it (more likely) fall to one of the other Diva’s debuting: Lady Gaga, Rihanna, Adam Lambert, or everyone’s favorite Scot, Susan Boyle? It’s a tough race, but I will say that “Wild Horses,” makes me cry, and opens the world to newfound and limitless possibility.

“You’d make a good blogger,” Alana mentioned, after the Shakira convo stalled, and the completion of pooh-poohing on my piece about Gay America. I know she meant it as compliment, and I took it that way. I’ve learned to manage my own expectations and let’s be honest, my brow sits lower than most. While everyone else perused “The Naked Servant” from 1930-Boring this weekend, I tore through Twilight: New Moon, in French. I find it more complicated than Harry Potter in French, though my Roman Language wizarding vocabulary is well-renowned in some crowds. “On verra a Poudlard!”

“Twilight: New Moon” also hit the silver screens Thursday at midnight, and smashed them into 142 million little pieces. Sort of like Hillary Clinton did with the glass ceiling, except with teen monsters and lust. The real question on my, Tim Stack’s, and the general public’s minds: are we on Team Jacob or Team Edward? I know, Team Edward, but let’s posthulate that  Jacob (Taylor Lautner) had already celebrated his 18th birthday. Makes it much more like Sophie’s Choice than Deal or No Deal, am I right ladies?

The excitement of this mega phenomenon swirled through my head during Tuesday’s class. I looked from Pearl to Adam, Shayne to Dan and came to a startling realization. My partners in humor exploration don’t know who Robert Pattinson is. I can say this categorically, because they don’t know who Zac Efron is, and people who don’t know everyone’s favorite wildcat, are not familiar with America’s favorite head of hair.

I’ve come to accept this even if I don’t approve. My only issue is how can one touch the souls of mainstream pop culture in America if they don’t really know what makes them tick? I know all about that. I even know it in the world’s fifth most handy language. I could travel to parts of Francophone Africa speaking of Bella and Edward and their vampire love and how it relates to my life and be understood. Can you even put value on a talent like that?

My prestigious classmates run a different course than I do, and their eloquent words go in one ear and out the other. I may not speak their language, but I can out pop-culture them any day. In the words of the wonderful SuBo and iconic (and aged) Rolling Stones, “wild horses couldn’t drag me away.”

Keep your Pulitzers, I’ll take a People’s Choice.

A New (York) State of Mind

I often wonder if New York has changed me.

In attempt to stay a float in a sea of tri-state work egos, I’ve bolstered my attitude from laid back to super crazy. My thinking is, at least no one forgets an insane person.

“Kristen,” they’ll say, “cries a lot and looks like she wants to punch me in the face, but she’s a gem when it comes to client service.”

Still, I’m embarrassed to split a meal on seven cards, and to implore Pearl’s to have my dry cleaning done that same day, thankyouverymuch. Also, the word hella will forever serve as the foundation of my adjective lexicon. I drink hella pop, not mad soda. As I far as I can tell, my diet coke is happy.

Yesterday I experienced a moment of clarity. After ThE gOoF tRoOp went down in a rousing kickball loss, Amanda and I stopped at the Kmart on Bowery for 30% off cartoon footed pajamas. I picked out a holiday Eeyore print over pale blue fleece, in extra large. As a wise person once said, you can’t fix tall. Amanda thoughtfully selected some duckys. To be honest, it felt like the planets, including that star pluto, collided to create a supernova of perfect PJs.

The walk to the counter was fretful. Twelve hours away from pay day, neither of us were sure if our debit cards would clear. There are worst places to be declined, like at the Barney’s Warehouse sale, on a date, or after pledging $10 a lap at little Sue Ellen’s hop-a-thon, but as the indifferent High School student rang it up, fear consumed me.

“Cash back?”

“Yes,” I gambled, “but just $5.” Please clear, please clear, please clear.

She paused and looked at me dead in the eye, her gaze called me crazy in both english and spanish, but her human words simply wondered whether I wanted to give $1 to St. Judes, or St. Vincents, or St. Something-to-do-with-children.

Sick kids have good karma. I nodded. She turned back to the cash register and I watched it swallow my card and think hard.

“Do it,” I nudged my plastic frenemy, “I believe in you!”

Suddenly, the receipt poured out of the machine like bulls-eye tickets from the dinosaur game at Fun Plex. My toes smiled.

We jumped on the 6 line at Astor Place, which connects to the Kmart basement just like the Seattle bus tunnel does to Nordstrom, except way more ghetto than urban white professional. I gave Amanda a congratulatory high five. After avoiding our second cab of the day and purchasing some sweet jammies, we felt like accomplished adults.

I went home and slipped on my new footys, quickly falling asleep to dreams about Winnie the Pooh life lessons. I woke up just after 6am whispering, “It’s not much of a tail, but I’m sort of attached to it.”

Seconds later the buzzer rang. The doorman alerted me to my groceries’ arrival.  The $5 cash back from Kmart became the perfect tip. The delivery man complimented me on the food order, but between you and me, I think he really liked the mini Eeyores on my knees. I gave thanks from the donkey and myself, and then set about unloading the fresh goodness.

“Perhaps” I pondered as I unwrapped low-carb tortillas and Chunky Monkey ice cream, “this is why I have to shop at Kmart.” Then I thought better of it, feeling the fleecy warmth of Eeyore against my body, “this is why I get to shop at Kmart.”

Am I crazy? Check. Cheap? Check. Cheery? Always.

I haven’t changed much, after all.

Gay America

If you have a thing for Whitney Houston, we’re soul mates, and there’s room for you in my pocket. Everyone’s welcome; boys who like boys, boys who don’t know they like boys, and even boys who learned they like boys by being my friend. They’re a dedicated troop of homosexuals, flocking around me as if I were fellow gay icon, Zac Efron, singing High School Music songs shirtless in the desert. If I had a big enough stick, and the will, I’d beat them all away from Zac and me. Then, living out the collective dream of Gay America, I would offer to bear his children. He would accept.

Even though they kick ass, lesbians don’t tend to like me on the regular. Unless you count my roommate Bowman, but we just call her gay because she likes softball and late 90’s singer sing-writers. “Torn,” Bowman, is not the greatest song of 1998, and Natalie Imbruglia married a man. Food for thought.

I now what you’re wondering. Why did God honor me at birth with the world’s best natural gaydar? I used to think it was my freakishly tall legs or encyclopedic knowledge of caloric content. Last week Adam Lambert appeared in my dreams with a bedazzled trident staff and six inches of Chanel eye liner, answering for Him, “Diva, it is simply the result of so much awesome in one person.” I opened my sleepy eyes and nodded.  Also, I pledged to terminate the nightime American Idol google alerts on my Blackberry.

As fabulous gays of all types and sizes pop up on my TV, I find myself smiling at the progress made in pop culture in the last decade. I can’t think of anyone more likable on my DVR right now than Modern Family’s fabulous “CASABLANCA!” Cam. Other shows have gone further and addressed the coming out cycle itself. I’m not sure if it goes just like Degrassi: The Next Generation and Glee depict it, but I do know a pride montage set to a top 40 hit sounds like a lot of fun.

Ultimately, as much as we wish they might, rainbows of approval don’t yet shoot out of society’s eyes like the earthly elements in Captain Planet rings. I’m a banker not a scholar, but I’m pretty sure that is what world peace would look like.

Planeteers, the power is yours!

It’s not very funny.

The financial services industry, love it, hate it, or really, really hate it, puts on one hell of a show.

When a producing employee decides to leave our firm it’s rarely because of retirement, or the sudden realization of one’s “true passion” as a teacher or a racecar driver, rather, they leave because there’s an obscenely large check waiting for them on the other side.

In essence, they defect and run willingly to the enemy. Except they do so driving their new Mercedes, complete with their tail between their legs and client’s contact information in the trunk. It’s a reality that has occurred dozens of times year to date. In an era without bonuses, these guys get paid.

Until today I’ve watched it play out from the sidelines like a good lifetime movie dramatic sequence. Until today, it had never happened to me.

My broker left the firm.

Now, (Mom) this does not affect my job in any way, as I work for other, much higher-producing brokers who I will continue to get paid by. This broker didn’t make the most in commisions, but he was the most sane. It is an important distinction. I now find myself floating with no buffer between crazy #1 and crazy #2. I’m afraid I may soon become crazy #3.

I don’t blame him for leaving. He survived this living insanity for almost seven years and deserves some sort of congressional medal of honor or at the very least a regional peace prize for the effort. For my part, bravo, sir.

In other news, I’ve lost all ability to be funny. It’s sort of like that episode of How I Met Your Mother when Barney gets the nips and can’t talk to girls, my ability to amuse has been sucked out by the random and unusual punishment that is my work environment.

Feel free to give me a call. I’ll be on my couch at home, staring at the wall in cut-off sweats and a husky tee, trembling through one of a continuous stream of starbucks winter beverages. From time to time I’ll lament to no one in particular about roth conversions and 412 delivery. Not to you though, I won’t answer your call. My phone will be silenced, much like the state of my creative soul.

Wish me luck.

The Nor’easter

I’ve survived earthquakes, I’ve lived through depression-inducing rainfall, and I know a thing or two about volcanoes and minor Pacific Northwest blizzards. Despite my many earth science based accomplishments, I have never faced the fabled Nor’easter.  I know what you’re thinking, the name sounds friendly, like a greeting between family on the day our lord Jesus Christ was resurrected. It’s not, it’s something even more out of this world.

“What is the Nor’easter?” I asked a client on Friday. “A winter hurricane common on the east coast,” he explained, “A crazy, sideways snowstorm with sleet, and wind, and extreme darkness.” I gulped, “they said its coming on Halloween, maybe before.”

I left work listening to Tim McGraw videos on my shock-proof Olympus camera. The “Live Like You’re Dying”/”teen girls screaming” mash-up sure lifted my mood. Still, I woke up Saturday with trepidation, working up the courage to go outside and meet my friend Lemon. The tempereature read 62 degrees and it was sprinkling. “It’s not Pumpkin Spice Late weather at all,” I said sipping my winter drink in midtown, “I was scared I’d wake up to a disaster.” Lemon looked down and whispered, “My mom went on a date this morning.” I awkwardly took a few sips of my beverage, not sure what to say, “Oh. Is dating an AM thing, now?” She started telling the story, I stopped listening, and this relaxed me.

We met again later to make dinner with Bowman, I thought it would be fun to go out dancing and get my mind off death storms, but Lemon came over in tie-dye accented with a pearl necklace and earrings. Bowman sported a bright green sports bra shining through a wife beater and lululemon stretch pants. “Well played,” I told them. We stayed in and watched a Lifetime horror movie in the dark. Lemon has an aversion to overhead lighting. I mostly stared out the window at the lightening storm and got the shakes, “I wonder if it’s starting.” I announced. Bowman made fun of me with her eyes, and then her voice, “You’re just scared of the 7 year old with a demon inside of her.” I was truly afraid of both, possibly more.

On Sunday I decided to do some research to prepare myself for the Nor’easter’s landing. The last one hit the city in April of 2007, dropping more rain than ever before in a 24 hour period. In February of 2006 it dumped over 26 inches of snow, the most since Laura Ingalls Wilder’s day. I count time in historical figures. My favorite is Helen Keller. She covers the bases for 50% of the 20^th century and quite a few raucous Nor’easters. Random weathermen on multiple channels seem to think she’s coming back soon (the storm not Helen, RIP), and we’re in for a rough and wild winter. How they can predict the weather patterns three months in advance I can’t be sure, but I extend to them the same blind faith I give to all my newsmen. You’re welcome Anderson, again and again and again.

The weather only continues to improve as the days pass, in fact I was nearly blinded by Tevas today, TEVAS, but I’m not one to be tricked. My strategy is two-fold, stock up on canned food and blankets (which incidentally crosses over with my Swine Flu Preparedness Action Plan), and scare myself regularly to lessen the blow when winter comes. Last weekend I cried at a haunted house (THE DEMON KNEW MY NAME).

Next step? Go see “Paranormal Activity,” possibly alone and at night. More likely, with Lemon. I figure I can weep on her tie-dyed shoulder and people will still make fun of her more than me. Then when we leave the theater and enter the whiteout I will be too numb for hypothermia to set in.

I will survive.

Strengths and Weaknesses

You probably have heard that I’m an efficiency aficionado with a master degree in gumption. You heard right. That’s why I was laughing when someone recently asked me about my biggest weakness. First of all, it’s none of their beeswax.  Secondly, I don’t have time to dwell in negativity. Why hang in satan’s playground when you can play kickball with the big guy upstairs? You can quote me, you’re welcome. Let’s talk strengths.  My secret, unlike Oprah’s, crushes wishy-washy behavior with a jackhammer. It’s really the key to success in this world. Two words: simple delegation.

When I wonder why starburst wrappers stick to my fingers after going balls-to-the-wall at pre-Halloween pumpkin carving sesh, I think, “enchanticism?” but I call my friend Sarah to be sure. “Friction,”she tutors mindfully. At least I think she said “Friction,” it was definitely a word that starts with an “F” and makes me think of Newton, or Mr. Tong, my 12th grade physics teacher who jumps from the ceiling on the 1st day of class as the ultimate icebreaker. She recently expanded her realm of influence in my life by explaining to me, in layman’s terms, the health care bill in Washington. This is what I took away: blahahblah reform is good! Sarah is my scientific lifesaver, and in addition, I think Mr. Tong is an acrobat.

When I want to use electrical equipment I ask my roommate Bowman, or attempt to read the multi-lingual instructional manual in a language I, A) Don’t understand, B) Don’t speak, and C) Originating in a country I’ve never been to. Bowman usually does a better, albeit less spicy, job. She’s never, after all, taught me what azul de cobalto means. She’ll tell me, “Press the “on” button ‘till it turns ‘blue’. If that doesn’t work change the ‘source’.” After spending 29 minutes pressing each button from top to bottom, left to right and then prettiest to ugliest (cobalt blue has never tickled me so) the TV may still be dark, but the shows over anyway and whose to say my half hour wasn’t more productive? I can speak to that, and it was. Besides, Bowman will turn it on for me eventually, she’s unemployed.

When I need something built I call Chris, begrugdenily. I should be more specific, when I want something put together sort of badly, with a lean, and the probability that it will fall apart within the year I call Chris. He’s no Ty Pennington, but I couldn’t afford that gem of a builder anyway. Plus, its sort of great to watch Chris struggle through the process, wondering aloud, “why are these pictures in swedish?” Then his anxiety grows to the point where you’re 50% sure he’s going to throw that tall rustic bar stool out the window. When he finishes I clap, mentally. Physically I just point him in the direction of the next piece of manual labor to be completed. Too much positive reinforcement makes people lazy and satisfied. What sort of life is that? It’s one without Ikea stores, that’s for sure.

When I want to know a time or place I’m supposed to be somewhere/do something I ask my mom. I only talk to her on Sundays, the Catholic Sabbath. Not because she’s super religious, but because she really likes the word “Sabbath.” As do I, it rolls nicely off the tongue. If I’m traveling I always forward her my itinerary, just so she can forward it back to me when the time comes to take flight. The problem with domestic outsourcing of one’s schedule is that she doesn’t always get the memo. For instance she may come back to me with, “Sorry Kroo, you didn’t tell me the day/time/location of Jenny’s Keg for Cancer.” It’s ok, because my $5 won’t save Jenny’s grandma anyway, but I could have used the beer.

So honestly, how can one have weakness when they have an all-star team like mine thinking, fixing, building and scheduling around the clock? It all comes back to simple delegation, a tool that’s worth its weight in gold. How much does it weigh?

Ask Sarah.

That one time I didn’t go to the Daily Show.

Welcome back Thursdays! You’re the new Thursdays. Wednesdays gave it a try, but there’s nothing quite like hitting the town in style on the weekend’s eve (or alternatively Friday’s little brother, whichever nickname you prefer).

A couple Thursdays ago I had a stressful afternoon at work. You know, the kind where you figure out that your client may be liable for a $200,000 tax bill that was not your fault but is now your problem. The scratch-out-your-eyes-and-jump-out-the-window sort of afternoon. Then suddenly I got a text message and found myself in a Sophie’s choice situation. Bowman’s olive branch-like hand reached out and offered tickets to the DAILY SHOW. The catch? I had to be there in 45 minutes. Like Sophie I pondered my problem. Do I solve the tax problem or become part of Jon Stewart’s laugh track? Unlike Sophie I had a little bit of time to work with. I labored as fast as I could and then (literally) sprinted 6 (yes, 6! What? 6!) avenues in full work attire to make it to the taping.

A selection of comments I heard along the way: “Where’s the fire?” “Take it easy, sister!” And my personal favorite: “Your legs might fall off!” (That last one was closer to the truth then one could ever know). I digress.

Legs attached I reached the line and it was loooooooong. Bowman stood at the end sporting her kindergarten teacher stern face while venting about her long commute. I looked at her, clearly showered and presentable. “Someone took the time to dress appropriately,” I mused to my own broken appearance, “If this was the Amazing Race she would not be my partner. Hell to the no.” Shaking off my selfishness, she HAD gotten the tickets after all, I put on my hopeful smile and waited…… We were cut. I’d like to say it was really close and tragic, but it wasn’t. At least 30 people in front of us were cut too. Talk about overbooking! Fortunately we were put on some magical list that will allow us to reschedule sometime in the next month to bajillion years. (read: January 28^th)

Suddenly our songs of disappointment were interrupted by a commotion. “Colbert is taking standbys!” announced a voice from above. Quick as a jackrabbit, we and our wronged brethren booked it up the street to the Report and wrote our names on the list. “Sometimes they take everyone,” we overheard. I felt hope, Obama style. One mojito later and I was frantically excited. “Hope, Change, Hope, Change, Hope,Change,” I chanted, “If Obama can do it so can we.” Then, SLICE, my optimism dissipated, we were cut again. Somehow the President of this country and the funniest man on tv at 11:30pm (take that Letterman) both managed to disappoint me.

My ego was injured, but my resolve stood solid. I said goodbye to Bowman and headed to a comedy hour where my friends promised good times and laughter. I’m not sure if mandatory gasoline-esque cocktails are technically “good times,” but I suppose the experience could have been worse. Although those death-bevs couldn’t have been. They were hands down the worst I’ve ever had. Right after Amanda’s (second or third?) favorite blogger went on stage, I skipped out early to meet up with a friend for fondue and wine.

Running late, I sprinted down the same sidewalk from a few hours before. This time I was running away from the late night comedians, and there was no one to cut me. Rod Blagojevich be damned, I’d rather hang out on a couch with Thaitung!  Hang out we did. Point of interest, it’s always a good idea to split an entire bottle of wine with a skinny asian, even if he’s older than you, he can only drink so much. You’re definitely going to come out ahead.

The evening built from there and all my friends joined together at “Therapy.” I really don’t know what to say. I think you can just look at the picture, knowing that two of my best friends are in it, and laugh joyfully with me.

It’s the little things that make Thursdays so great. You know, like a feisty mojito, a random strip tease, and the fact that that Burrito Friday is just around the corner. And you know what else? Comedy Central and their line police can take their prestigious queues and semi-famous guests and suck it. That is, until Thursday, January 28th when, thank you fate, you delightful vixen, Bowman and I will be back, as VIPs, for some Daily Show action.

Then, you can all suck it, Friday’s little brother style.

Wedding Bells and Cigar Smells: The Truth About Duluth

The Duluth airport is not very big, it’s not very bright, and it’s not very great. In my architectural opinion it was built sometime between 1977 and 19-UGLY-ERA. The gift shop is full of warm smiles and homemade elmo coffee cozy’s, while the WIFI blocks celebrity gossip websites. During my time there this weekend one thought kept crossing my mind, “How do I get out of here, quickly?” It’s a fact that when one travels from Friday to Sunday a good portion of their weekend is spent at the airport, and this definitely pertains to me. I don’t want to call that travel dungeon “hellish,” but, jesus, mary and joseph, it sure was.

Sandwiched between my hours, HOURS, at the Duluth airport was an incredible wedding. My cousin Mikaela married a Duluthian (Duluthite? No one knows) named Louis. The service was lovely, the reception, refined, and the party, rockin’. I had a blast. One particular accomplishment was my successful infiltration of the famed O’Connor cigar breaks. Every O’Connor wedding (and there are a lot of O’Connors and hence a lot of weddings) includes a stogy party for the menfolk. I wanted in. With Emily by my side we took over that old boys club and coughed our way through conversation. Then we went on a beer run. It was worth it. Fact: We’ve never looked cooler.

Before I knew it the fun was over, and I found myself driving away from Lake Superior’s fresh water oasis back to the musty Duluth “International” Airport. Their destinations include Minneapolis and Detroit, which to these people seems to mean an entirely different country, and after experiencing this wacky plane portal, I fully understand why. Ladies and Gentleman there is nowhere quite like Duluth.

The following is a word for word replay of the security check on my return. It lasted about 15 minutes, I kid you not.

(D1: Crazy Duluth Security Lady. D2: Crazy Duluth Security Man.)

Before reading I want you to replay scenes of Fargo /New in Town (for the 5 of you who saw it)/Drop Dead Gorgeous in your head a few times to get the accent down.

 

D1: Howsitgoing? Do you have any liquids or gels with ya? 

Me: Good, thanks. Yes I do, but they’re under 3 oz.

D1: Pull them out for me if you don’t mind now. 

(I open my suitcase and take out my toiletries)

D1: Take ‘em out, one by one please.

(I comply. “She’s crazy,” crosses my mind)

D1: This one is empty so we’ll put to the side. You gotta keep pulling them out, I can’t put my hands inside, you know.  Against the rules.

(She shakes her blue gloves in the air like a 1920’s flapper. I continue to take out my items from the bag)

D1: Keep on going. OH yes, any more liquids or gels? Maybe in your purse?

Me: No.

(She looks in my purse anyway)

D1: Ok, now.  Do you travel a lot?

Me: Um, yes.

D1: I was going to say now, when you open your purse you can see your money right away right there. That’s a mom comment, you know. 

(She glances over her shoulder. My mom is standing outside the security checkpoint, laughing so hard she’s crying.)

Me: It’s fine. 

D1: Ok looks super, go ahead. 

Me: I have a laptop too.

D1: Oh aren’t you smart?? Ok, just put that here in the bin. There ya go. Go right on through now.  

 

A few moments later…

 

D2: Excuse me miss, are these your shoes?

(A young man shakes my shoes at me)

Me: They are. 

D2: Ok, if you can come with me we’re going to have do some additional screening on them. 

Me: Sure…

(We walk to the screening room, my mom is dyingggg laughing behind the glass while he stares intently at my flats)

D2: So, howsitgoing? Where are you traveling?

(Wands shoes from top to bottom)

Me: Hi. Um, I’m going home.

(Turns them slowly, counter clockwise on the observation table)

D2: Where’s home?

Me: New York City. 

(Brings the shoes close to his face. I’m pretty sure he’s smelling them.)

D2: SHUT UP, NO WAY.

Me: Yep.

(Examines the bottom of my shoes one more time)

D2: Ok now, these check out. You can take ‘em back. Have a great flight now.

(Hands me shoes)

 

Despite the self-importance quirkiness of the Duluthianays, and the terribleness of their airport, I rather enjoyed the town itself. There’s something about friendly smiles and fresh water sting rays that just makes me want to come back for more. Also, the margaritas are cheap, and I bet they’d taste great bundled up in my airport elmo coffee cozy. Throw me a cigar and the picture is complete.

Well played, Duluth, well played.

The OPEN

I was 15 years old and new to the sport. The first time that yellowish/greeny ball connected with the center of my strings and soared (more like a kite than a bird) over the net, well, my heart danced. I’ll never forget the exhilaration of serving an ace. Or the more common feeling of having one smacked right by me. Indeed, I was and remain a mediocre player with a good backhand, an awful forehand (I’d like to give a shout out to the Swedish Hospital maternity ward for my ghetto right arm!) and a strong love for the game.

I’m no tennis superstar, but, this story is not about me. Oh no. It’s a quick tale about the semi’s of the final Grand Slam tennis event of 2009, and your jealousy of my presence at it.

Oh the Open! Sunday was my second time at the fabled tournament, and my first at a semi-final. On the bill? Del Porto v. Nadal and Federer v. Djokovic.  All four are top 5 tennis players in the world, and in 5th place, Del Porto ended up (Spoiler! But seriously, are you hiding under a rock?) WINNING. God bless the underdog, and on the same note god bless the seasoned champions. What a day!

The sun was shining, the beers were under $10 and the company was good. I remember sitting there, towards the top of the 22,000 person stadium, grinning widely at the court, not unlike the Cheshire cat. The result: a knarly sunburn on the left side of my face. But, who cares if people call me two faced? In a sense, they’re right, and they didn’t get to watch those matches and specifically that play, so they can suck it.

Oh yes, the play. The second to last point of Federer versus Djokovic, I remember it like it just happened (possibly, because it did). Federer was up two sets and the game score was 6-5.  Djokovic served, 0-30. After a short rally he forced Federer up to the net, Federer volleyed, and then Djokovic returned deep to the center of the baseline. He smiled, Federer ran. One step before the ball Federer reached and smacked a return shot through his legs, over the net and straight past Djokovic’s frozen look of amazement. Unreal. Unreal. Unreal. Check it.

 

I’d like to pause to arbitrarily list celebrities in attendance for this play (can you guess with 3 can be seen in this picture taken of Federer’s box??):

Hayden Christenson (I literally ran into him, literally)

Rachel Bilson (She was with Hayden, and she’s tinnnnny)

Ashley Olsen (She could have smiled more. Story of her life)

Justin Bartha (They didn’t even show his name on bigscreen! Hellllo, The Hangover!)

Justin Timberlake (Was MOBBED by the crowd after breaking down to SexyBack)

Charlize Theron (Kissed her bf on the bigscreen)

Stuart Townsend (Like Bartha, was not named publically)

Gwen Stefani (In town for fashion week and looked fab)

Gavin Rossdale (Friends with Federer)

Stanley Tucci (He has a great name, I always say)

BILL CLINTON (I was most excited about him, can you believe that?)

David Archuleta (Performed at the Women’s finals right after, was Meatloaf not available?)

Jack Nicholson (Mischevious as always)

Lorne Michaels (He is a celebrity: FACT. I give you, nbc.com)

Matthew Broderick (He shows up at everything in NYC)

Ben Stiller (Was looking about 65 years old)

Christine Taylor (Also did not receive a big screen name drop)

Anna Wintour (I still want to see September Issue, anyone in?)

 

I was in good company. I only wish I could have watched Del Porto beat Federer in 5 sets in the final. In box seats. I also wish I had put on sunscreen. Quite a bit. But honestly, I wouldn’t take back a thing. Well….. maybe I would have mobbed JT too. Or possibly President Clinton.

(I just decided that choosing between JT and our former Prez at a world famous tennis match might just be the hardest decision of my life. But if someone has to do it, I accept.)

Until next year….

 

(Above) Del Porto wins the Semis!