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Scream 4: Indianapolis

Time: Monday Night

Scene: Frema and Useless Clutter's Apartment

It's 7:30 p.m., and Frema has just come home from a mentoring session with Annie. Tired from staying up late the night before, she is anxious to change into her pajamas and perhaps maybe dabble in some dip of the spinach and artichoke variety. Eyelids half closed, these are the thoughts running through her mind when she unlocks the door to her apartment. The lights to their newly decorated Christmas tree are on; Frema tilts her head and releases a happy sigh at the idea of peace on Earth and goodwill towards men. All should be quiet, as Useless Clutter is participating in the first night of his evening temp job. But what's that noise? The alarm clock? Could Useless have overslept and missed his first night of work?

Frema makes her way to the back of the apartment to the bedroom, where the alarm is set for 6:45 p.m. She turns off the noise and then turns her head. Why is his sock drawer sitting in disarray on their bed?

Frema is very aware now that something isn't right. A cold rush goes through her body as she slowly works her way through the apartment. The garbage can lid is up. Kitchen cabinets are ajar.

There's a good possibility a manevolent stranger is taking refuge in her pad.

Frema barely refrains from wetting her pants as scenes from Halloween, Child's Play, and Pet Sematary race through her head, and she hesitates at the doorway of each room. She resists calling out, as that very act has resulted in many Hollywood characters meeting their maker prematurely and with lots of blood. She does, however, turn on each light and investigate each space: behind the shower curtain; inside the laundry room and the hallway closet. She cannot bring herself to crouch down and check under the bed. She'd rather be knifed in the ankles then in the face, as her Prada glasses offer no stab-free guarantee.

The check is complete. Nobody is in the house. But that doesn't mean there never was. Frema realizes that Useless could have been kidnapped and tortured into revealing his girlfriend's schedule. He might still come back for her. Maybe to rape her. Maybe to slash her throat or pump bullets into her skin. Frema thinks she needs to get THE HELL out of there.

But first, she turns on the TV. That guy with the mustache from The Insider is talking about some obese woman with a disease that makes her think she's hungry all the time. She has a bad habit of hiding unbaked cookie dough in the soles of her shoes.

This could be interesting. And she IS really tired. Surely the killer wouldn't arrive in the next half hour, she thinks, and settles her bottom into the softest spot of the couch.

Later, Frema will learn that Useless made it to work unscathed. However, he did have some trouble finding his ID.

End Scene

The Good Life

So. Hi again.

A slew of not-unfortunate-at-all events have happened since Friday night, events I had originally planned to cover in-depth within separate posts: volunteering for the Lord of the Rings exhibit for the third time in two months; breaking my fifteen-year hiatus from Chuck E. Cheese; looking at engagement rings for the first time in my life.

However, all of those topics took a backseat on Monday night, when I had my first mentoring session with "Annie."

Annie lives on the campus of a local rehabilitation facility. She is in the secure unit, where there are bars and locked doors and few windows. When she's not on campus, she lives with a foster family and is one of eight children under her parents' roof. During our initial meeting, her face lit up and she said, "I've been waiting for a mentor for really long time."

On Monday, we spent almost two hours playing Phase 10 and eating Doritoes (her one request). Curious children peeked in the windows of the recreation room, closed off during our session, to see what we were doing. While I shuffled cards, others were screaming obscenities as they were restrained by security; others just cried for their mothers.

Annie complimented my shoes and asked what size I wore in clothes, saying how much she adored hand-me-downs. She caught sight of my hand lotion from Bath and Body Works and wanted to try it out. She asked for my phone number so she could call me in between our visits, which will most likely include more Phase 10, a side of Clue, and the rest of the Doritoes.

When I first considered mentoring, I imagined baking cookies with pretty little girls in pig tails who had two parents and a membership with the local Girl Scout troup and no history of physical abuse. Instead, I was introduced to a girl who needs a friend and role model more than I ever could have imagined; a girl who, in turn, will also prove to be a role model for me.

On that note, here's a list of

What I'm Thankful For

• A boyfriend who lets me slack off on laundering clothes and loading the dishwasher
• That I finally finished the sixth installment of Harry Potter
• Almost seven months of accident-free driving
• Hot chocolate
• Online shopping
• Unlimited long-distance calling
• A boyfriend who acknowledges that spinach dip is a full-course meal in and of itself
• Turning various friends and family onto the blogging bandwagon and watching them display literary talents I never knew they had
• Glow-in-the-dark pajama pants
• All My Children
• Diffusers
• Toilet paper that doesn't flake
• Parents who support me in making decisions they wouldn't have made for me themselves
• A boyfriend who understands that I can't support a wedding date that has three zeros in it
• Designer eyeware
• Making it through two whole months without sporting sauce on my face
• Welcoming my first brother-in-law
• Feeling welcomed by my future parents-in-law
• Learning that some necessities are really wants
• Learning it's OK for the oldest not to do everything first
• My career
• Being old enough to have a career
• Having a career that can financially support the family Luke and I have made in each other
• My brother and sisters
• Ice cream
• That Jessica Simpson and Nick Lachey had at least three years of wedded bliss
• My life

Happy Thanksgiving.

Checklist for the Ghetto Fabulous

An e-mail forwawrd courtesy of Donna Lyn, my twelve-year-old sister, the only sibling who can say things like "holla atcha gurl" without appearing whiter than a slice of Wonder Bread.

You Know You're Ghetto...

1. If you've ever used an album cover for a dustpan.
2. If you've ever run a race barefoot in the middle of the street.
3. If you had a candy lady in your neighborhood.
4. If you ever had to pick your own switch or belt.
5. If you have ever had to walk to school or walked home from school.
6. If you have ever used dishwashing liquid for bubble bath.
7. If you ever mixed Kool-Aid one glass at a time because you got tired of other people drinking up the Kool-Aid you just made.
8. If you have ever played any of the following games: Hide and Seek, Freeze, Tag, Momma May I? or Red Light Green Light.
9. If your neighborhood had an ice-cream man.
10. If you refer to "Now and Later" candies as "Nighladers."
11. If you've ever run from the police on foot.
12. If you've ever had reusable bacon grease in a container on your stove.
13. If the batteries in your remote control ever been held in by a piece of tape.
14. If you have ever worn any of the following: Brute, Hai Karate, Jean Nate, Old Spice, Chloe, English Leather, Stetson, Charlie, or Faberge.
15. If you've ever used Tussy.
16. If you've never been to the dentist.
17. If you have a friend or family member whose nickname is one word said twice: dee-dee, man-man, kay-kay, lee- lee, ree-ree, ray-ray, nay-nay, etc.
18. If you have ever paged yourself for any reason.
19. If you've ever worn house shoes outside of the house.
20. If you add "ED" or "T" to the end of words already in the past tense (for example,Tooked, Light-Skinneded, kilt, ruint, etc)
21. If you use 'n'em to describe a certain group of people (for example Craig'n'em or Momma 'n'em)
22. If you've ever driven on a donut more than two weeks after your flat.
23. If your child drops his/her pacifier and you sanitize it by sucking it.
24. If you have ever slept in a chair to avoid messing up your hair.
25. If you've ever left a social gathering with a plate.
26. If you can't hold a glass because of the length of your nails.
27. If the gold teeth in your mouth spell words.
28. If you don't have your own place but your child had a leather coat and a pair of Jordan's.
29. If you constantly hit *69 and ask, "Did you just call here?"
30. If you think Tupac is still alive.

What I find most disturbing about this forward is the fact that participating in childhood pastimes like Hide and Seek is just as ghetto as having a lack of pride in your dental hygiene. Other thoughts: Do pre-teens even know what albums are? Who says "Nighladers?" And since when did the simple act of walking become synonymous with pimphood?

I feel old.

All About the Benjamins and Monica from Friends

A week away from Thanksgiving, and I'm proud to say I've already started Christmas shopping. Back in October, I sat down at the table and make a carefully budgeted list of who to shop for, how much to spend per person, and on which pay periods I would allow myself to make the purchases; oddly enough, these strict limitations have put me more at-ease with the whole gift-giving process than simply buying to my heart's content like I did last year, when I was carelessly tossing out comments like "To hell with budgeting" and "How can you put a price on family?" and proceeded to fund hundreds of dollars of holiday cheer courtesy of Mr. Visa, back when I could make such decisions with the knowledge there'd be a three-thousand-dollar tuition refund check waiting in the wings next semester. Now I'm having nightmares about the student loans I'll start paying next month and scouting out which interstate junctions to frequent with my little tin cup and cardboard box. Now I'm thinking, "I can TOTALLY put a price on family."

In the short time we've been living together, Luke and I have managed our money pretty well. We've followed Suze's advice and made it a point to pay our bills together each month, and I even sent in the paperwork for a rebate from my contact lens provider, who shall not be named here because I hate rebates and lose respect for any manufacturer that issues them. If you REALLY wanted to give me a break, Contact Lens Provider, you wouldn't make me pay for the damn lenses in full and then demand I mail in not only my original sales receipt but also the UPC codes from each lens box, just in case I'm a thief with the deplorable habit of stealing NON-CASH PIECES OF PAPER THAT ARE NOT DOLLAR BILLS from my fellow man. Then, once I've proved my worth as a customer and a human being, I have to wait six to eight weeks before you'll reluctantly hand over forty freakin' bucks. For cripe's sake, get over yourselves.

Anyway. During our Christmas shopping on Tuesday, somehow the second season of Scrubs and the tenth (final!) season of Friends found their way onto our conveyor belt, two purchases that were not Christmas purchases at all but in fact superficial material additions to our apartment, because they were each on sale and even though I thought the last season of Friends was sort of *eh* I was suddenly dying to complete my collection that. very. minute because the cover was such a breathtaking shade of magenta and Courteney Cox's hair looked really pretty. Plus, Luke loves Scrubs and I hadn't seen the second season and really, people, we don't even have cable, aren't we allowed ANY earthly pleasures?

Obviously, there's room for improvement.

I think it will be easier to save money when there's a lot less of it going around. Once the loan checks start going out, suddenly a smart celebrity hairstyle won't be sufficient grounds to blow thirty dollars, especially when we could use that dough to upgrade to a better brand of toilet paper or perhaps stock up on Ramen noodle soup.

Note to self: Begin construction of cardboard box. Also, purchase tin cup.

Not Your Momma's Paper-Towel Spokesperson

I found this link on another blog and spent the better part of a half-hour last night nearly wetting my chair. Be sure to click on "Innocent Escapes" to watch one-minute snapshots of just how Perfect a Perfect Man can be. I can't decide which of them I love best--the one where he compares my beauty to that of a doe or convinces me that frivolous purchases are really a gift for both of us.

Note: The Brawny Man's soft, Kiefer Sutherland-like raspy voice allows these gems to be viewed at work, as long as you can master the volume level. Not that I'm advising you to cheat your employer out of labor time by engaging in non-productive Internet activity. Except that really, I totally am.

Addendum: I was so easily drawn in by The Brawny Man's rugged sexuality that I neglected to realize each video shot is actually a subtle promotion for the paper towel itself. Catching spiders, opening pickle jars, drying off after an unfortunate faucet incident.... All a calculated scheme to entice me to purchase more product. And you know who noticed that? Luke. It would have served him better to take notes. I mean, it is too much to ask to write a song about my haircut?

Honey, We're Home

This was my thought when Luke and I returned from a weekend trip up north, the first in a series of four, as there are baby showers to cry over (quick shout-out to Molly and baby Jack!), Chuck E. Cheese parties to attend, turkeys to eat, and parental birthdays to celebrate. And as wonderful as all of those things are, there's still nothing like unlocking the door to your apartment, tossing your duffel bag over the thresh hold, and breathing a sigh of relief that you're finally off the road and alone with the one you love.

However, before heading home, the two of us ventured to Super Target and obtained our first "our," an "our" that, prior to Sunday night, was neither his nor mine nor a hand-me-down from a sibling nor a rental car from Enterprise: our first Christmas tree. It's not very big--only four-and-a-half feet and most likely a distant relative of Charlie Brown's little friend--but there's something particular about this "our" that brings home the realization that, wedding rings or not, we have made a home together. I get chastised for picking at the shredded cheese originally meant for tacos, and my disdain for all bread that is not Mother's All Butter will one day be the reason why I'm still single. Until then, we'll continue to argue over whether or not Clorox disinfectant wipes are any better than a roll of Brawny and a bottle of Windex.

This Christmas, the stockings won't be hung at "my" apartment, and there won't be lights in the windows at "Luke's." Instead, we'll be choosing Christmas cards and buying presents and decorating our tree with ornaments that will one day spark countless arguments between our children, all of whom will no doubt fight to the death for mementos from the first Christmas Mom and Dad spent under the same roof. And when we run out of ornaments, they'll have to settle for our vault of stories, stories about how their father used to wait in the wings for me to return from work so he could take candid shots like this one in the hallway:

 

...and about how Mom was so excited to start a family with Dad that she cried over other people's babies. Then the youngest one will snuggle into my arms and poop in my lap. Ah, the good life.

I can't wait.

These Are Only Half Rhetorical

- How is it that women can embrace motherhood, thrive in the professional world, and hold political office, all at the same time, and waitresses STILL assume the man always gets the check?

- Who would hate their daughter so much they would name her Tiwanna House?

- What do you say to a stranger who, after one drink, confesses she smoked crack in college?

- Why does this zit keep reappearing above my damn lip?

- How depressing must it be for a forty-year-old print rep to be given a time-out by a communications hotshot who still gets excited over which brand of cereal to eat for breakfast?

- If I love All My Children so much, why haven't I taped it in the almost three months I've been without cable?

- What's so wrong with my e-mail address that Dear Abby refuses to share her daily words of wisdom with my inbox?

- Who's your daddy?

A lame attempt at an entry, to be sure, but it's been a long week. Feel free to share your own burning thoughts.

Off to the Races

Last week, I knew Luke being sick would guarantee I'd sport some physical ailment before Monday, and whaddaya know, I left work early on Friday to become a permanent fixture on the couch for a majority of the weekend, except when the two of us ventured outside the apartment on Sunday for two meals and a trip to church--a significant moment for us, as it was the first time we've been to God's house in Indianapolis since I moved here in May. Actually, the subject of religion in general is a big topic, since I'm Catholic and he's Methodist and neither wants to convert but both want to raise our children under some sort of Christian umbrella.

When I was younger, I never even considered this as an issue for relationships; in my pre-teens, when life didn't exist beyond the boundaries of Hoyne Park and the local Jewel, I just assumed everyone was Catholic and of course I would meet a nice Catholic boy and of course we would raise lovely Catholic children who would have godparents and go to CCD and live in fear that taking the last pack of fruit snacks without asking would no doubt secure your seat on a one-way train to Hell. Then, after I actually started dating, I thought every man I'd meet in the future wouldn't be Catholic but in fact, an athiest, because the only type of guy I seemed to attract was one who thought religion was for those too afraid to face their own mortality. Those same guys also wanted to smoke pot and wear flannels with holes in the arms and own every issue of The Punisher; the flannel thing alone should have given me pause, but I was a late bloomer, so really, I was just relieved to find members of the opposite sex who weren't turned off by my holding-on-to-the-eighties bangs and who were willing to make out with me in the alley behind my parents' house. Good times.

Anyway, now I'm an adult and realize that 1) the world is not overrun with Catholics and 2) Luke and I will eventually have to decide whose faith our children will inherit, something that unlike eye color or sexual orientation, we can actually control. A baby step towards that was taken on Sunday, when we went to a Catholic church a few miles from our apartment, knowing that we'd be in Merrillville this weekend and therefore attend a Methodist service with his parents. And so on and so on. This plan of action will hopefully allow us to become more acquainted with the values and rituals associated with the other's faith, which will hopefully help us to make a decision when the time comes, which will probably be when we get engaged, because we'll have to decide who will marry us, and if you're married in the Catholic church, it is understood that any future children will be raised Catholic, and that's that.

Basically, this means that our religions are now in competition with each other, poised at the starting line, each bearing a paper crucifix attached to their tank tops, vying for the title of Who Will Get The Blame For Screwing Up the Lives of Frema and Useless Clutter's Offspring, because in the end, no matter what religion you are, somebody's going to attribute your math handicap slash bra size slash tendency to only eat Tic-Tacs in even numbers to which version of the Bible you read.

It's for that reason that, in the end, we're less concerned with denominational hats and more focused on making sure our precious, darling Amelia doesn't have nightmares about the devil taking the form of a rooster and ripping a hole through the earth's crust to capture little girls who are too fond of fruit snacks for their own damn good (thanks, Grandma).

And they're off.

Priceless

* As Number Twelve chronicles the story of how she met her husband, it reminded me I've never shared with you just how Luke and I came to be. I wrote the story last year, and it was published by the Rensselaer writing club I belonged to. Here, the highlights. And one adorably dorky photo.

Almost five years ago, when I was writing for the second-smallest daily newspaper in Indiana, I was a junior in college who wasn't looking for a serious relationship. I already had one proving to be more trouble than it was worth. But when Luke's brown eyes and kind handshake greeted me one December afternoon, I instantly knew he was something special. When I returned to my residence hall an hour later, I couldn't help babbling to my friends about the cute reporter I'd met that day. He believed in God, loved his parents, and thought stealing was wrong; that alone placed him above and beyond every boyfriend I'd ever had. I was hooked.

I still had my own beau back home, but my enchantment with the cigarette smoke and Play Station 2 that so encompassed him was fading fast. Breaking up with him was easy; showing Luke I was now an eligible bachelorette required more effort. There were "just-writing-to-say-hi" messages delivered several times a week to his home e-mail address, conversations about Kevin Smith movies and Ice Cube, and invitations for him to join the Relay For Life team I was captaining in town. Soon he was making mixed tapes--always an encouraging sign, am I right, ladies?--and returning from vacations with souvenirs especially for me. When I found out he had reluctantly agreed to volunteer his time at a local charity bachelor auction that April, and that there was one ticket to spare, I felt my cards had finally fallen into place. The night of the auction, though, I was beginning to doubt my decision, so I devised a plan: I would not take along any credit cards or receive any cash advances from my ATM. My ammunition consisted of a Monopoly-themed checkbook with a fifteen-dollar balance and a twenty-dollar bill. If God couldn't find it in His heart to present to me The Man Of My Dreams for a combined thirty-five bucks, surely it was a sign we were not meant to be.

As I made my way into the VFW hall, wearing the only dress I owned at the time, a velvet number totally inappropriate for spring, I did what any restless girl would do in an unfamiliar place: head to the bar. By the time the auction began, the room was slightly off-kilter and my bladder was filled to capacity. Meanwhile, Luke had already downed four rum and cokes. Earlier in the week, he'd confided in me that he wasn't very secure in the Looks Department and was afraid it would detract potential buyers. Silly boy--I was already worried that hoards of drunk female professionals would trump me with their plastic before I made my own meager offer.

And suddenly, he was up.

"Can we start the bidding at fifty dollars?" the emcee asked. I bit my lip and frantically shot a look at one of my female coworkers, who whispered, "Bid, Frema! Bid!"

"Fifty dollars!" I shouted, and the whole room stopped and stared at my overzealous announcement. I couldn't meet Luke’s eyes as the emcee said, "I've got fifty dollars! Can I hear fifty-five?"

"Fifty-five!" I replied. Then, "Sixty!" I eventually outbid myself with a grand total of one hundred and twenty dollars. The other ladies never stood a chance.

"Sold to the lady in red for one hundred and twenty dollars!" he concluded, and then it was up to me to collect my new prize. I grabbed Luke's arm. "I wouldn't let them get you," I whispered, still afraid to meet his eyes.

"Thanks," he said.

After the bidding was over, there was the small matter of payment. That's when I remembered my pre-auction resolution and the fact that I was ninety-five dollars short. I gulped as I wrote out my check and handed it to the cashier. Everything will work out, I told myself firmly, but really, it didn't. I bounced that check, as well as the one I wrote to cover it. And so it went for two months until I landed a steady summer job selling popcorn and pretzels to snobby tourists at Navy Pier. Adjusted grand total: one hundred and ninety five dollars.

But he's worth ten million times more.

Let The Children Come

Make that "child." Luke and I had one little tyke trick-or-treat us, and only because her aunt lived upstairs. (I shudder to think what would have happened had I not taped a construction-papered pumpkin to the front of our door.) I nearly fell over myself with the candy bowl, stuffing Starburst chews and mini-Snickers into her little purse until her mother told me to stop. Good thing, because I was about to start raiding my purse, I was so happy. Perhaps she would have enjoyed a Visa bank card or half-used bottle of Purell?

It was a low-key Halloween. Luke wasn't feeling well, and I was too busy lamenting the loss of cable on such a significant holiday to properly tend to his needs. I actually had to go to Blockbuster, people. For a girl accustomed to Michael Myers marathons on TBS and back-to-back showings of A Nightmare on Elm Street on USA, this is the equivalent of asking a duchess to pee in an outhouse. To make matters worse, this is the first year in four that we didn't carve a pumpkin, and we barely glanced at our collection of ghost stories. If it weren't for these pictures, I'd forget I ever celebrated October 31st at all.

[Edited on 12/9/06 to add: Some photos were lost during the Blogger/TypePad merge.]

In that last one, I'm a Nurse Dressed As A Pumpkin. Genius!

Last year I posted a list of movies that freak me the @#^$ out. If you're interested, click here.

Anyway, today's Monday, so it's time to post the results of my "Name That Tune" contest.

1) "Feels Like Love," Vince Gill 2) "I Wanna Be The One," Stevie B. 3) "Penny Lover," Lionel Richie 4) "Baby Got Goin'," Liz Phair 5) "I Like The Way (The Kissing Game)," Hi-Five 6) "Giving You The Best That I Got," Anita Baker 7) "Poison," Bell Biv Devoe 8) Growing Pains theme 9) "As I Lay Me Down," Sophie B. Hawkins 10) "Mmmbop," Hanson

Winner: Anonymous

Seriously. I have no idea who you are. But you win! You got all ten right--maybe because you Googled the lyrics; maybe because you're my long-lost twin; maybe because you broke into my apartment and tore through my CDs. No matter. For your prize, I'll answer a question, if you want, or say something nice about you like the folks at Snapple do for their customers. Your call, as long as it's free and I don't mind doing it.

To those who played, gratitude; to all my readers, apologies for exposing you to this list. But really, it could have been worse. Does "Never Gonna Give You Up" mean anything to you?