Once Upon Three Proms

As graduations near, Prom season is coming to a close. Recently my aunt, after recounting my cousin’s happy Prom this year, asked if I remember my Prom. 

I attended three Proms with two boys. I married and divorced one of them. At my first Prom I wore a shimmery green dress with velvet bodice and poofy taffeta sleeves and skirt. I bought the dress with earnings from my job as an usher and ticket seller at a minor league baseball stadium (I’ll have to tell you about being a Dukette another time perhaps). At $120, it is still among the most expensive pieces of clothing I have ever bought, topped only by my first wedding dress. The evening was notable for being my latest official curfew (2 a.m.) and a close encounter with a pool table. Aside from the pool table, I don’t remember much about the night.

At my second Prom, I wore the same dress. I added black satin gloves and shoes and a black velvet choker. I can’t remember if I was broke (my paycheck was now eaten by my car) or just didn’t find another dress I liked. I do remember shopping vintage stores around Albuquerque with my best friend. Both of these years we prepared for Prom together, and both years she found the most amazing vintage dresses. One year it was a floor length, black velvet, sleeveless dress with white satin sailor collar, and one year it was a strapless chocolate satin. Both suited her body and her personality perfectly. Our dates (mine different, hers the same) picked us up at my dad’s house. There was a lot of hairspray and giggling and hose adjustment. The night was most notable for the Italian dinner (Capo’s Hideaway), the earlier curfew (12:30 a.m.), and the gobsmacked look my boyfriend’s best friend gave me when I arrived at the dance (followed immediately by the filthy look and cold stare of his date). I had a great time, though I’m pretty sure I missed my curfew.

Dani at 17, getting a corsage pinned on before Prom

By the time I was a senior, my interest in Prom had waned. I was engaged. I was working two jobs on top of a senior schedule full of honors courses and AP exams. I was earning more money than ever, but also planning a wedding and getting ready to move away to college. My family was tense. My best friend and I were frayed. I didn’t think Prom was that important. I offered to work the night of Prom so that my friends could go. Then, the day before, perhaps caught up in the fever of Prom week, I changed my mind. Weeks before, on a whim, I had bought a skimpy little black dress off a discount rack for $12, with no idea when I’d ever wear it. I paired it with my black satin pumps and gloves and velvet choker. I don’t remember who’s idea it was to get my hair teased up into a bouffant up-do, but on the day of Prom, before work, I found myself in a salon with my best friend getting the tease of a lifetime. A bag with silk stockings and garters sat next to my feet. The hair and stockings were my only expenses. 

I went to work. My beehive was a spectacle with my red and white striped polo shirt and made for lively Saturday-night conversation at the ticket window. When I shut down for the night, I changed. I was sent off by my boss, the money counter, and my intern friend Paul. My date picked me up in front of the ball park. The juxtaposition between my fancy hair and my dorky uniform, my fancy, slutty dress and the grimy office were hilarious to me. I have only a vague memory of the dance, of standing in the middle of the crowd wondering where all my friends had gone.

The evening was most notable for the awesome hair, the sexy stockings, the clucking-hen attention of my male coworkers sending me off like I was their daughter, the cleavage, and the profound sense of loneliness in the middle of the crowded ballroom. 

A Book A Week 2010 Retrospective

According to my tabulations I read 73 books last year. That number is staggering to me. That’s more books than I’ve read for the past several years with small children (welcome back, adult intellectual activity). You can check here for the month-by-month list, including links to comments I made about the books (if I made any on the blog). 

I chose the books on the list as I went, abandoning some, returning to a few later, in a rather haphazard fashion. I read at a much greater rate earlier in the year than I did later in the year. During the summer I swallowed up books with little effort. From September forward I had to push myself to finish every book. I attribute the difference to LIFE factors rather than to the quality of the books I was reading. 

In 2011 I have A PLAN. I know, always dangerous, setting myself up for failure, yes, yes. I have already chosen most of the books I want to read according to a few basic criteria. I want to read a lot. 

Each month I will read 1) a notable/classic book that I have not read, 2) a book I’ve read before, 3) something published in the past two years, alternating fiction and non-fiction, and 4) a recommended book, alternating between suggestions from trusted readers and from the ALA banned/challenged book list. A fifth, unlisted category exists as well, those books that I read out loud to the Sonars. I’ll include these books in my discussion as the year goes along.  Right now we’re reading The Goblet of Fire.

I’ve filled in a chart on my wall with book titles, leaving some spaces for new books and for recommendations. I will almost certainly make substitutions along the way.  I’m open for recommendations from YOU, by the way. Hit me in the comments with books you’ve loved.

Here’s what I’ve planned for 1Q 2011:

January

Hitch Hiker’s Guide to the Galaxy by Douglas Adams, Lolita by Vladimir Nabokov, Super Sad True Love Story by Gary Shteyngart, and Leviathan by Scott Westerfeld

February

The Kite Runner by Khaled Hossein, The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath, Reading Lolita in Tehran by Azar Nafisi (yep, still need to finish this one), and The Chocolate War by Robert Cormier

March

Far from the Madding Crowd by Thomas Hardy, The Handmaid’s Tale by Margaret Atwood, [Recent Fiction, which I will choose spontaneously at the library], and Luka and the Fire of Life by Salman Rushdie

What are you reading?

No one wants to be a puppet, the ethics of opportunity

In 1997 I lived in San Antonio, Texas for one year.  Fresh from New Mexico State University with two degrees (Biochemistry and English) and university honors and tangible working experience as a tutor, a lab tech, and a slinger of electronic media.

UN-gainfully UNemployed.  UNcertain what the heck I was going to do with my life.  UNderstandably worried.  Partner was responsible for our location, and thankfully he was employed.  New schoolteachers in Texas then and now do not get paid very well, though, so there was a certain pressure for me to unseat all of those UNs.

I spent a lot of time with the classified section of the Express-News.  I put out applications for just about everything that was even remotely related to my training and experience and a great deal that was not.  I was hoping to do better than bagging groceries or checking out videos, but was willing to do almost anything that would get a little positive cash-flow going.

One day I got a call from a law office.  This was the sort of law firm that is named after only one person and advertises on the back of the metropolitan phone books of several cities in Texas.  Those ads featured a cowboy hat and boots, and their TV commercials were filled with folksy truisms, a bushy mustache, and a drawl.  I remembered applying to this firm.  They were hiring for several different positions, and I was hoping only to be considered for an intake receptionist.  After all, I had NO legal training of any kind.

Color me surprised then when they wanted to interview me for a different position.  A New position within the firm.  A Very Important position.  And yes, they believed I had the perfect qualifications.  I’d like to say I was cynical, but I was so glad to get a bite for a job and so flattered by the charming voice on the phone that I didn’t blink when he said he wanted to talk to me about being their new Ethics Officer.

Let that sink in a minute.

I was completely terrified and had nothing appropriate to wear.  Almost nothing.  I ended up wearing a shirt and tie with these cheap, sort of dressy, sort of feminine suspendered slacks, and heels.  Everything was brownish.  I was sure I’d fall down with every step.  I thought I’d throw up in the car on the way there.

My interview consisted of thirty-seconds of hateful scrutiny by a receptionist, a ten-minute chat with the venerable proprietor, and five minutes with each of his lawyers.  I had expected to be interviewed by an office manager or something, and was really surprised to be interviewed by the boss.  Mr. Lawyer, esquire, wore a necktie and suspenders and heavy cufflinks.  His suit jacket and cowboy hat hung on a rack next to his office door.  I can’t remember a single thing about that interview except that I was intimidated and nervous and sure that I’d fall down when he led me on a tour of the office.  I remember thinking that MY suspenders were stupid compared to HIS suspenders.

The other two or three lawyers were mostly unmemorable except that none of them seemed too sure what sort of questions they were supposed to ask me or what I would be doing.  They were all white men over forty-five.  All of the staff that I met were hispanic women under thirty.  One lawyer was a retired Navy JAG so freshly installed in the office that half of his law books were still in boxes and his razor haircut was still fresh.  He looked uncomfortable there.

On the trip home the adrenaline rush and fear started to fade into headachy fatigue, and my skepticism and cynicism woke up.  Part of me hoped that they would pay me a lot of money.  Part of me knew that I would have no idea what I was doing in that job.  I had no background in philosophy or ethics or the law.  I didn’t even think I was particularly old enough or wise enough to offer any kind of credible advice about anything morally questionable.  That part of me knew I’d be nothing but a rubber stamp for that slick dude.  A young woman, easily ignored or patronized by the boss.  In that office, I suspected, an Ethics Officer was merely an empty rhetorical device to flash at critics of the morals of that style of law practice.

Still, I thought, it was a job.  I could probably overcome my moral compunctions for a job that didn’t involve videos or grease or even a name tag, right?

They called me the next morning with the job offer.  I declined before the phone call ended.  I think he was surprised, which gave me a thrill.  I eventually found a job in a souvenir gift shop, making almost no money at all, and went off to grad school the next year.  You’d think I’d be remorseful about passing up that job in that law office.  That it was a Good Opportunity, right?

I’ve regretted a few missed opportunities in my life, but missing out on being an Ethics Officer will never be one of them.

Work from there

I’m a little behind on my Friday Night Lights viewing.  A few weeks ago I watched the first couple of episodes of the most recent season.  One story line has former Panther QB Matt Saracen (why is he still part of the story again?) doing an internship with a local artist.  When prompted to give his opinion of Matt’s work, the crusty old jerk (love him) flips roughly through Matt’s portfolio, chooses one drawing, rips it to shreds and hands Matt a scrap of paper.  I think it was a drawing of a hand.  “This part right here doesn’t make me want to throw up.  Work from there.”  

If you rip through your writing, throw out all the cliches, and get to the heart of it, which is the part that doesn’t make you want to throw up?  Write from there.  

A close-up shot of my computer, complete with mustache, inspirational quote, small pictures of the kids, and desk detritus

Changes Afoot

Did you notice how the holidays sort of zoomed by?  Well, ok, they zoomed by for me.  I find myself here, in the middle of January a little flummoxed by how zippy things have been.   On top of that, we’ve had a big change. 

We have been joined by my Sister, who will be living with us for a while.  The kids think she has really cool stuff.  Preparing for her arrival, we turned the house upside down and shook it a little bit, then turned it back the other way and shifted things around.  All but one room in the house had furniture moved in, out, or around.  Here are the twelve feet of lovely shelves Partner added.  

Sister arrived here with her car-full of cool stuff after three days and 1,600 miles of solo driving through wind and rain and caffeine jitters, but finds herself stronger and more resilient for the adventure.  I think she might have a grey hair, but she denies it.  

The good news is that things are settling down.  Sister has several promising leads on jobs, which, in the current economy, leaves us all thankful.  Today she is taking her next brave step, driving over the Bay Bridge.  This is a big deal because she has a thing about bridges.  I patted her on the back and wished her best of luck.  Seriously, after 1,600 miles of American Highway, what’s one little old bridge?  Nothing!  

Somewhere in the haze and shuffle, I forgot all about sending Christmas/End-of-year cards to family and friends.  At this point, if I send them, it looks like they will turn out to be Inauguration Cards.  Ack, and I just realized that I have until Saturday to send something for a cousin’s wedding.  

My usual, organized self is feeling a bit jittery at the thought that something has fallen off the radar, so for now, I am reminding myself to breathe, picking up the second kilt sock, and knitting for the next thirty-five minutes.  Yes.  Thirty-five.  All while glancing sideways at the calendar.