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Merry Halloween!

Here it is, the morning of Hallow's Eve, and I'm already humming "Joy to the World." By this time last year, Christmas presents had already been purchased. I'm a little behind, but ideas are swimming around in my head, sharing space with holiday tunes.

I wasn't always this excited about Christmas. As an undergrad with only a part-time job, it was a hatefully mean time of year, designed to suck the financial life right out of you. I remember my senior year, having about 12 dollars in my pocket to last me through the month of December, with a slew of presents left to purchase. You see, in November I played the role of the responsible college student and cut up my two precious credit cards. A month later I was hating my responsible self. But like I said, I had to get these gifts. So, I carefully examined the two half-cards I still carried in my wallet. I had made the cut horizontally instead of vertically, which meant that the scan bar was missing but the actual credit card number and my name were still intact. Once at the mall, I showed five different IDs and pleaded with the cashier to punch in my number manually so that I could give my loved ones a very Merry Christmas. After 10 minutes, a call to Discover, and poorly disguised tears, I was able to charge what I needed. Despite the nonjudgemental staff, though, I never went there again.

Since I became a member of the full-time work force, things have been better. I start shopping earlier, and I only use my credit cards if I absolutely have to. This allows me to get excited about the whole process - malling, wrapping, card writing, and the like. So, Merry Christmas to you and yours! - I mean, Happy Halloween!

Hello Procrastination, My Old Friend

For shizzle! Here I am facing a 10:00 a.m. Tuesday deadline, at which time I will hand over copy for the college's alumni magazine for layout and design, and I'm blogging. As I check the links to my friends' blogs, I mentally criticize them for not updating more consistently. But then, as I gather material for what is certain to be a very long night, I think maybe they're onto something by not blogging when they have more important things to do. For me, though, writing helps me to sort out any lingering thoughts that may interfere with said work. Also, the longer I put the work off, the better it will be, as I work best under pressure - definitely a good thing, as I finished only 5% of the work I intended to this weekend.

I did, however, manage catch up on two weeks' worth of All My Children, Scrubs, and Sex and the City. I DID eat a half a package of Oreos over the course of two days. I DID NOT put on make up, and I DID NOT wear anything dressier than a tee-shirt and jeans. All in all, a spectacular time.

P.S. Seeing The Grudge on Friday night scared the bejeezus out of me. I woke up at 6:00 a.m. the next morning having to go to the bathroom in the worst way, but I was too petrified to even let my feet touch the floor. Luke was forced to accompany me down the two-feet walk to the john. And he didn't even bitch about it; the mark of a truly wonderful man.

Holding A Grudge

I'm not really holding a grudge; I'm in a much better mood than I was yesterday. No, The Grudge is the latest Japanese-inspired thriller to hit the show, and I'm tickled pink at the idea of seeing it tonight. Rensselaer's new (and sorely needed) movie theatre opened last week, which means no more having to drive 45 minutes out of town in order to catch a flick. As I'm a huge horror fan and Halloween is fast approaching, this is the perfect thing to get me in the mood. We'll see what happens, though; as excited as I am to watch scary movies, I'm not very good at handling the aftermath once the lights turn on and the credits start to roll.

In honor of this very scary season, may I present:

Frema's Favorite Scary Movies

Pet Sematary
Not only did seeing a three-year-old child get hit by a truck traumatize me for life, the images of a guy with brain-guts on his tee-shirt and an invalid with an f'ed-up spine shouting "Never get out of bed again!" gave me nightmares for years. YEARS. Dead is never better.

Child's Play
When I first heard this title, I thought it was a sex movie. (Who knows why? I was 10.) Anyway, he's another guy that caused me to lock my closet door and glue my eyes to the door at bedtime. However, the last two Chucky movies are pretty campy and just make me laugh. I even bought Bride of Chucky dolls for my sister Samantha as a Christmas present a few years ago. I'm patiently awaiting the release of Seed of Chucky this fall.

Children of the Corn
Try watching this movie when you live in a town surrounded by cornfields. Not a good time.

The Ring
"Seven days" my @$$. This movie STILL scares the crap out of me.

Candyman
I grew up in Chicago, so this one implied an extra layer of terror. I've thought "that word" in front of the mirror several times but never had the guts to say it out loud - kind of like the Bloody Mary thing. Has anyone ever really done that?

Rosemary's Baby
I believe in God and angels AND devils, so the idea of this actually happening is enough to do me in.

Halloween
I saw this for the first time at a fifth-grade sleepover; by the end of the movie, I think we'd all wet our pants. It's the way he walks, just like Peppie La Pew. It says, "I could hop on one leg while you run and scream your head off, and you'll still get knifed up but GOOD."

And on that note, Happy Friday!

Sad Face...

...to turning down drinks with the guest speaker in my magazine class last night. Terry Sullivan, a contributing writer for GQ, not only gave a shpiel and answered questions for the group but also read the drafts we were workshopping. Guess who one of those drafts belonged to? Frema! He said that my transitions between paragraphs were very graceful and then complimented my use of the word "literally." He was not as kind to everyone else - he told one girl that her article rambled a lot and suggested that she read some Nora Ephron to get down the technique for the casual essay. No "nice effort" or "good try" - just "this stuff is hard to do."

Anyway, before class ended, my professor announced that everyone was invited to join him and Terry for a jolly good time at a local pub. I was a little bummed that I hadn't brought my wallet but not too concerned, until I was stopped by two classmates on my way out. They asked me if I was going along, and when I said that I thought I wouldn't have time, they said, "We're only stopping in for one. We won't be long." This time I felt like crap as I said no again but made it a point to thank them for including me. As I walked away, I felt tears stinging my eyes, and I cried a little more when I got home.

Stupid, huh? It's hard to explain. Graduate school, for the most part, has been a very solitary experience for me. I live too far away to be a part of a study group or have any regular involvement with campus life, so when these two students made such an effort to extend an invitation, it felt awful to have to say no; like maybe I had just missed my chance to be a part of something outside of the university. I'm not saying that having a drink with these guys would've made us lifelong pals, but who knows? Every connection has to start somewhere, right?

The odds of me keeping in touch with anyone after graduation in June are slim, even though there are several people I'd enjoy getting to know better. But it's hard to know the appropriate way to reach out. It's not like grad students are looking for new friends the way they were in high school. They're adults now, with full-fledged careers and spouses and children and friends of their own. And since I do live in Indiana, what's my opening line? "Maybe the next time I'm in the city we could hang out?" "Drive two hours to Rensselaer and we can have coffee?" I barely have time to see my established friends, let alone develop new ones. But who DOESN'T have room for more quality friendships? It's really pretty depressing.

Tomorrow I promise to be happier. It's Friday, after all, and I get to babysit an adorable little girl this weekend. Hooray for babies and days off!

College is Fun!

Right now I'm feelin' pretty cool in Ryan's dorm room at Columbia College. We had lunch in the University Center cafeteria, and I took care of some work e-mails while she fixed herself up for class. The rooms she shares with her roommate is awesome; they each have their own computer, their own desk, and they share a private bathroom (also huge) with two other girls. It makes me think about when I was an undergrad and skipped class to play Nintendo and watch Kevin Smith movies. Those were the days....

It's been a rough week. I had to drive to Chicago on Monday night to hear Julia Alvarez speak at the Chicago Public Library, which was wonderful, but I had to drive back to Rensselaer in time for work on Tuesday morning, only to leave again at 3:00 for class last night. I've been pretty tired, but there's only three weeks of class left, so I think I can keep it together. Once done, I plan on celebrating with a weekend of sweat pants, spinach dip, Soap Net, and Sex and the City. (Love those ladies!) My mom calls it "that nasty show," but seeing as she watched the premiere of He's a Lady and is waiting patiently for the second season of The Swan, she has no room to talk about what constitutes as trashy programming. "But those ugly girls needed it!" she said. "It changed their lives!"

Welcome to the new millenium.

Mi Familia Loca

It started yesterday, as members trickled in and out of my parents' house in Chicago to celebrate my father's 44th birthday. Ryan, our newest college freshman, comes home with a various assortment of overnight bags, even though she's not staying the night. As she shows off a recent purchase--a cute little pair of Bebe sneakers--her toothbrush falls out from one of the shoes. Unwrapped. Uncapped. Unprotected from potential foot fungi. "But they're brand new," she said, as if the idea of unsanitary people trying on the sneakers before she did were a foreign one. Gross, but whatever. I move on.

An hour later, my brother wants to know if I'm going to his junior ring ceremony tomorrow morning. What junior ring ceremony? I ask. Well, the one that's taking place tomorrow morning, of course! And to rejoice in the fact that all five of "the children" are in the same zip code at the same time, plans are made to go out to breakfast after the ceremony - a very big deal for us, as the only time we share meals together outside of the home is after a graduation. So what could I do but say yes? Even though I have no change of clothes. Even though I had originally planned to hit the road by 9:00 a.m. to finish the ton of homework I have due this week. I'm supportive, right? And I want everyone to be together just as much as my parents do. The rest of the night was spent watching a Growing Pains reunion special with my mom, washing a load of towels, and knocking out 50 more pages of the Julia Alvarez book I'm reading for my personal essay class. (My new Limited handbag can hold just about anything!)

Sunday: the big ceremony, which is actually incorporated into an hour-long Mass, takes place in the gymnasium of my brother's high school. Half-way through, someone's phone starts to ring to the tune of Halloween, and during the offering of the gifts, my youngest sister decides it's the right time to reapply her very, very, VERY grape-smelling lipgloss. Afterwards, we hit a nearby restaurant, and the fun continued as Geo dribbled eggs onto the crotch of his good pants, Ryan burped twice, and Samantha produced a laugh not unlike Pee Wee Herman imitating a horse.

Now I'm home, and I still have that homework to do, so I better wrap this up. To close out, here's the chorus to a song that I've been infatuated with the last few days and relates to the subject of family (althogh bears no relation to this particular entry):

John Mayer, "Daughters"

Fathers, be good to your daughters

Daughters will love like you do

Girls become lovers who turn into mothers

So mothers, be good to your daughters too

Where The Boys Are

I'll tell you where they were: they were with ME, in the college's snack shop at 4:00, and some women as well. Much to my delight, I received two confirmations early this afternoon, and right on time were the "unusables" that were actually quite usable. We set up shots of students playing pool and having silly conversations over mini-tacos and fountain drinks. They were so cooperative with all the posing we did, so wonderful with their time, so appreciative of the free food that was actually purchased as a prop and thank you to them. They were truly a joy to be around. And to top it all off, the Canon got some decent shots.

There are some jobs that, if you're not careful, will suck the life right out from under you: meetings, memos, action plans, and the word "appropriateness" can make it hard to remember the reason you accepted the position in the first place. But being in that snack shop today reminded me who I really worked for, and it's not the president, not the admissions department, not the faculty. It's the students who are paying good money to receive a solid education and learn something special about themselves along the way. Thinking about that, and them, gives me a renewed sense of energy. If playing photographer can help in some small way to make their degree mean something, I'm willing to give it a whirl.

Gushy, huh? It doesn't happen every day, so I'll revel in it now.

Go Pumas!

Where Have All the Pretty People Gone?

That is the question as I scramble to find attractive male students for a photo shoot at 4:00 today. By mandate of the president, they must be "manly men," so I'm trying hard to fill the order, all the while cursing the admissions department as they've canceled the photo shoot that would take this whole situation off my plate, and hating that a great group of kids is more than willing to volunteer their time but physically not good enough to "use." I'm just going to tell the unusables to come anyway and try to find more people to add to the mix. I really hate this part of my job. Hate. it.

In funnier news, my 16-year-old brother picked me up from the train station after class last night, so I got to ride around in his pimp-@$$ car, one that my dad actually got for free. It's about 15 years old and has its weak points - a broken speedometer, noisy seatbelt mechanism that sounds like a car fart, and until this week, a missing driver's side window. It lived for three weeks with a white garbage bag fastened to it like a ghettofabulous eye patch. "Isn't that distracting when you drive? How do you see through the garbage bag?" I once asked naively.

"I don't actually drive with the bag ON" was his reply.

Of course.

Laughter is the Funniest Medicine

Tonight I was flipping through the channels when I noticed that Rescue Me was on FX. This is a relatively new show starring Denis Leary that deals with the ins and out of life in a New York firehouse. I didn't discover this program on my own; on Tuesday nights after class is over, I walk into my parents' kitchen in Chicago and see them at the table, glued to the television, laughing themselves silly. That is, unless my dad's at his own firehouse; then it's my mother, snickering alone.

I was thinking about this tonight and remembered that, even as a child, I've always loved hearing my parents laugh. I was never a huge fan of I Love Lucy, but my mom was addicted to it, which was reason enough to park it on the couch and submit myself to Lucyisms she couldn't get enough of. As for my father, he enjoyed impersonating Michael Jackson, telling jokes about the King of Pop's faded skin color and disappearing nose and faking embarassment about being a former president of his local Brady Bunch Fan Club.

When I was little, laughing reminded me that my parents weren't just parents. They were people who had likes and dislikes, bad days and funny days, with funny bones to match. We still get hysterical reminiscing about old Brady Bunch episodes, cracking jokes about the infamous house of cards and the charm bracelet that almost ruined it for Carol's girls.

Good times.

Homelessness Is Da Bomb

Not to YOU, maybe, but it was to the Glamour panel that decided an Ivy League graduate's story about living with her mother in a green Volvo station wagon was first-prize material in their "Tell Us the Story of Your Life!" contest. I had submitted my own attempt at an autobiography back in April and was one of over 8,000 women who submitted, according to the magazine.

When I saw the story, I was bummed. I was really proud of my piece, thought it was one that women could relate to on a number of different levels. I guess pre-teen bulimia isn't as interesting as having to brush your teeth in a Starbucks bathroom every day. Maybe she was throwing up, too.

Flashdance

Since this is the start of the first full week of October, I have labeled today as the "real" first day of fall. To properly welcome the new season, I chose my black-and-white plaid wrap-around skirt, which has been patiently waiting for the turning of the leaves since I stashed her away last spring. With my skirt, button-down shirt, and pull-over vest, I was feelin' pretty darn spiffy (and a little bit like I was in Catholic school again). Plus, it was a beautiful day, so when the opportunity to visit the other side of campus presented itself, I couldn't say no to an invigorating walk.

...That is, until I hit the outdoors, at which point I realized moments too late that I hadn't turned my skirt properly (meaning the folds were positioned in the front instead of on my hip). I tried to grab at my legs as subtly as possible to keep the wraps from parting open like the Red Sea, but with notepads and office keys in my hand, the attempts were clumsy and not always successful. There went the provost - up went the flaps.

Oh, well. At least I was wearing tights.

Oops, I Did It Again

My no-shopping resolution lasted about 12 hours - seven of which were spent in peaceful slumber - and crumbled instantly when I saw a Limited "Real Sale" flyer had been included in yesterday's mail. October 4th sale! Woo hoo! I cried, and by 2:00 p.m., my silver Cavalier and I were on our way to Lafayette. When I reached The Limited, finding out that the October 4th sale did indeed start on October 4th and not two days earlier just for Frema did not deter me from my mission: find great clothes! I ended up with three sweaters, one swingin' skirt, and an awesome handbag that has liberated me enough to throw away my raggedy ole tote for good. Next stop: Hot Line for a great pair of chocolate-brown knee-high boots, complete with "trashy" stilleto-like heel. I ended my fabulous spree with new make-up and a free(!) pair of panties from Victoria's Secret.

Did I spend a lot of money? Yes, yes I did. Was it wonderful? Absolutely.

No Schmirnoff Necessary

Well, my quarterly review took place this morning and I survived, like I knew I would. I also held myself together, a rarity for me when receiving constructive criticism. The rest of the day went off without a hitch - I even received FOUR compliments on my outfit of choice (one person did it twice - thanks, Steve!), which only reinforced my perceived value of clothing as well as my desire to do some serious malling. But this weekend, I must discipline myself. I must focus. This constant back-and-forth schedule will only last until Thanksgiving, and I can certainly keep it together for another five weeks, can't I?

Random thoughts:

. . .On the Brown Line in Chicago this week I saw a young woman sporting jeans and saddle shoes. I miss me a good pair of saddle shoes - do they even sell them anymore?

. . .I love blogging more than I ever thought I would. The idea of a new post creates an energy in me I've never experienced when writing fiction. There's something about organizing your thoughts and trying to keep them fresh for the masses that gives me an extra kick. It not only helps me to ground myself, but it keeps me connected with the varying personalities of the world, ranging from close friends to complete strangers. In either case, you are all sorely needed by me.

About those saddle shoes - seriously. Let me know.