Before The Dude pressed pause on Facebook, we were having a competition to see which of us could achieve the lowest number of friends. (I am talking about Facebook friends, as there is no competition in real life; the Dude has many more friends than I do. So I guess I'm "winning" that "game".) We took this challenge seriously and every time one of us dropped the ax, the other had to make some tough decisions. I believe we were tied at 90 friends when he went on hiatus, though I've culled the heard a bit more in anticipation of the challenge picking up as soon as he reactivates his account.
Yesterday I started thinking about our longstanding sibling promise to serve as funeral bouncer for each other. The funeral bouncer keeps unwanted attendees from entering the venue, by force if necessary. Do either of us imagine that war criminals would attempt to pay their respects upon our deaths? No, but there were a few high school girls who were really bitchy to us. (While we were in high school. Though I would probably be savaged by today's high school girls too.) This funeral agreement is not just an inside joke that we shared in our teen years. We still discuss it from time to time. The Dude gets genuinely ticked when I suggest I may be too distraught over his death to evict mourners.
Contemplating these strange misanthropic activities has caused me to wonder how we became two weirdo peas in an antisocial pod. Why is it that each of us is suspicious of people who collect Facebook friends like Sesame Street's Bert collects bottle caps? Why are we wary of people who enthusiastically attend their high school reunions? And how do I explain my answers to those questions when they boil down to, "Because OBVIOUSLY."
After I FINALLY made my way through the fifth A Song of Ice and Fire book, I decided that I was ready for some lighter reading. It took my half a year to read five of George R. R. Martin's books (I started strong and slowed down during the fourth and fifth books), so I was delighted to cruise through three funny books in just a couple of weeks.
1. Let's Pretend This Never Happened by Jenny Lawson
My friend L sent me this book last summer right after I started reading Game of Thrones, so it sat on my bookshelf for ages and ages. I saw L and her lovely daughters in February and promised her that I was finally going to start Let's Pretend This Never Happened. It was so pleasant to have a breezy, comedic collection of stories to read. I will say that as a gal who cusses like a sailor, I was actually a little distracted by Lawson's constant swearing. A well placed f-bomb can slay me, but the language in this book was gratuitous-- with one exception. During a childhood game of tag, Lawson accidentally ran into a deer carcass that her father was cleaning in their yard. The experience, which she describes as wearing a deer sweater, caused her to vomit inside the carcass. Holy smokes, use as many curse words as you'd like in that chapter, Jenny Lawson.
2. Is Everyone Hanging Out Without Me? (And Other Concerns) by Mindy Kaling
Mindy Kaling is both a very funny person and a girly-girl. So I can, at best, relate to her on like 50% of 50% of things. (I was on the state championship math team, so yeah, I know that would be 25%.) Kaling's interest in fashion and her frequent references to her "best friend" made me feel like a dude. Her story about storming out of work and her inclusion of a bunch of cell phone self-portraits confirmed that we have very little in common. But really, her subject matter was no more foreign to me than Jenny Lawson's. I was entertained by both books, so mission accomplished.
3. Bossypants by Tina Fey
The consensus is that Tina Fey is brilliant and hilarious, right? I figured this book might be a bit of a let down because I had high expectations. Well, Mean Girls was super funny, "30 Rock" was one of my favorite shows of the last decade, and Bossypants made me laugh out loud on the T like a weirdo. (Unprovoked laughter is better than publicly weeping while finishing Tuesdays with Morrie and A Thousand Splendid Suns on public transportation. Strangers prefer an unhinged train mate to be a jolly nutbag rather than a sloppy sack of gloom.) In a fantasy world where I could choose a celebrity to be my friend, I think I'd go with Fey. (Bonus: I'd also score Amy Poehler as a FOAF*.) Not only is Tina Fey a smart, funny, successful woman, I also imagine that she possesses just the right amount of judginess, which I both relate to and value in a pal.
I am on record as a serious Christmas enthusiast. Christmas was never more magical than during my childhood, and yet an unpleasant task loomed during the most wonderful time of the year-- writing thank-you notes. My parents were strict about enforcing their thank-you note policy at Christmas, birthdays, and other occasions that resulted in presents. I dreaded sitting at the kitchen table with a stack of blank note cards. I was not allowed to simply write, "Thank you for the [blank]. I really like it. Love, Herself." My parents insisted that we compose proper, personal notes. It was ridiculous how overwhelming a few letters could be. Some years I secretly created a template from which to work, modifying it slightly for each recipient. I tried the trick of increasing my penmanship size. The Dude had the advantage there, as his standard writing was much larger than mine. When cards with pre-printed sentiments on the interior were mixed in with blank cards, The Dude and I would race to snatch them up. We were especially depressed when white lined paper was our only option. Suffice it to say, I would have been delighted if my parents had abandoned their thank-you note policy.
I am not sure at what point in time I went from being forced into writing thank-you notes to writing them on my own, and ultimately to placing a great deal of value on the giving and receiving of thank-you notes. I am grateful that my parents got me into the habit of writing them, and I am super judgmental of people whose parents evidently did not do the same. Now instead of feeling dread upon seeing a stack of blank thank-you notes, I feel anxious until I have crossed each recipient off my thank-you list. When I complained about having to write thank-you notes when I was little, my dad explained to me the work that went into the presents I received. He wasn't just talking about the effort a person makes to choose the right gift. He told me that the person who included a check inside my birthday card may have had to work several hours to earn the money given to me. Maybe because my dad had a physical job that required him to walk for miles in humid summer weather and in freezing winter weather, the idea of a someone spending hours of his or her day working for my benefit stayed with me.
Three decades into my thank-you-note-writing career, I am now militant about them. My favorite advice columnist, Emily Yoffe from Slate's Dear Prudence, is similarly rigid about writing thank-you notes. I've quoted it before, but this line from Yoffe is a personal favorite:
"My mail would indicate that many people who receive
gifts think the thank you note is passe. Which I think allows the gift
giver to decide that as far as future gifts are concerned, you'll pass."
When I get a hand-written thank you note these days, I immediately add a check plus into the space the sender occupies in my brain. An easy way to gain my favor is to send a thank-you note my way when the time is right. Likewise, I range from disappointed to infuriated when I do not receive thank-you notes. (Not sending a thank-you note for a wedding present? SERIOUSLY?!)
In my search for articles about thank-you notes, this was the best I found. I'm more extreme than the author, as I think a thank-you email is kind of cheap-- though still far better than no thank you at all.
Thank you to my parents, who taught me etiquette and gratitude. Thank you to my family and friends who reinforce those early lessons with their good manners.
Jimmy Fallon writes thank-you notes every Friday night. You can crank a few out each year.
If ever there were a reason to post, it is the 20th anniversary of The Sandlot, the movie that inspired the name of our blog.
The Dude and I were genuinely obsessed with The Sandlot. It came out when I was in grade seven and The Dude was in grade five. We were already a year into our obsession with two movies released the previous year-- The Mighty Ducks and Newsies. The Sandlot and The Mighty Ducks go together nicely as an adolescent sports flick double feature, but I have to own up to our appreciation of Newsies. We love us some musicals. In the early '90s, we didn't own many movies. In fact, before saving up to purchase these three killer VHS tapes (and the two subsequent Duck sequels), I believe the only movies at 8 Victor Terrace were E.T. and The Addams Family. E.T. was the first movie I ever saw at the theater, and is an acknowledged classic. I am still contemplating naming my fake son Elliott in honor of that film. The Addams Family is a little tougher to explain. I did see it at the theater with a bunch of my grade six friends, but I'm not 100% sure why we felt compelled to scoop this for our collection. I can tell you with certainty that we bought it at McDonalds though-- right around the time when Micky D's was hosting "All You Can Eat Pizza Nights." Pizza at McDonalds. It didn't last, but damn if it wasn't delicious. Back me up, Dude.
When I think back to the number of times The Dude and I watched Newsies, The Mighty Ducks, and The Sandlot, I know it is a small miracle that we made good grades and grew to be quasi-successful adults. In 1994, D2 came out and we worked that into our rotation. (D3, released another two years later, was never a favorite, though we did buy it to complete the set.) I can remember the excitement of our mum driving us to Home Vision Video to buy these gems. We had to save up somewhere in the neighborhood of $15-$20 for each, but boy did we get our money's worth. The Dude and I got into a routine of watching these movies constantly for several years. We didn't have cable and I hadn't hit my John Hughes period yet, so we would easily crank through selections from the Newsies/Ducks/Sandlot collection every weekend. And sometimes we'd fit one in after school if we didn't have practice. My dad was not pleased with our consumption of these movies, but he did enjoy The Sandlot when he sat through it once. (He is not a repeat viewer. That comes directly from our mum's bloodline.)
The Sandlot holds up as the most quality of our mid-90s favorites. It is the story of Scotty Smalls, a pre-teen boy who moves to a new neighborhood in 1960s California. Although Smalls initially doesn't have any athletic or social skills, Benny "The Jet" Rodriguez takes him under his wing and Smalls joins the group of neighborhood boys who spend their summer vacation playing ball together at the sandlot. I related to the anxious, non-athletic Scotty Smalls. Benny, the most talented player and the leader of the group, always reminded me of what my dad might have been like as a kid in the '60s. (Don't burst my bubble if you knew my dad in the '60s and he was a can't-hack-it pantywaist who wore his mama's bra.) Michael "Squints" Palledorous slayed me with his giant grin after tricking Wendy Peffercorn into giving him artificial respiration, and his delivery of "for-ev-er" will be stuck in my head until the end of time. But the movie is stolen by red haired and pudgy (say hello to my future Match.com tagline) Hamilton "Ham" Porter. Holy smokes is Ham quotable. The article below references "You're killing me, Smalls" and I'm bummed that the director never happened to overhear me one of the approximately 11,000 times that I have uttered those words. Ham's description of himself "baking like a toasted cheeser" on a hot summer day clearly struck a cord with The Dude and me. Tropical weather is hard on husky gingers. And Ham's trash talking is priceless. Enjoy:
I can't believe two decades have passed since The Dude and I were in our Newsies/Ducks/Sandlot heyday. Four movies with pre-teen/teen male casts-- What more could a junior high gal (and her little brother) have wanted on any given Saturday afternoon in mid-90s Central Maine?
Check out this article about the 20th anniversary of The Sandlot. It includes a "Sandlot Kids: Then and Now" slideshow. Yes!
