The Reason for the Season

My family, specifically my mother, had a tradition when we were little of holiday crafting.  Neither of my sisters nor I were particularly crafty, but my mom thought it was important that we felt like we had something to give at Christmas time and given all of our cash flow originated with her at this point, all we really had to offer was cheap labor.  So we crafted.

There was the year we made festive ornaments by painstakingly pinning sequins onto styrofoam balls.  Or the year we colored snowflakes and teddy bears on dish towels with fabric markers.  There was even a year in which we cross-stitched, the horror of which I won’t detail here but suffice it to say mom took care that subsequent years’ crafts did not involve needles. 

By far our greatest success was the toaster tongs, a fairly simple construction of two tongue depressors glued onto a piece of dowel rod, designed to remove hot items from the toaster.  My mother had stolen the idea from a far more engineering child than any of her own at a school craft fair, but we gave it that special Rinder flair by painting tiny blobular wreaths and holly berries on the tongue depressors – an enhancement that we all began to question when the tongs proved highly durable and were still being used in July.  

Our output was the stuff that grandparents dream of and the rest of the world views with a certain nervous curiosity.  For the aunts and uncles and neighbors lucky enough to receive their annual gift in person, the response was akin to how I imagine they would have reacted should one of their own children have brought home a wounded woodland creature, outwardly admiring the animal’s cuteness and the child’s initiative while inwardly devising any means possible to prevent this bunny (or stenciled napkin holder) from entering their home.  And yet despite these misgivings our loved ones oohed and aahed our creations tirelessly each year.  Clothespin reindeers!  Potpourri sachets!  OJ pencil cans! 

The truly tireless one, however, was my mother.  Not only was she the brains behind the operation, but as the years passed and our general enthusiasm for crafting waned she was also forced to be somewhat of a stern taskmaster, herding us into the dining room every Saturday in December and drowning out our moans and suffering sighs with Bing Crosby, Johnny Mathis and the sheer force of her crafting cheer.  Her enterprising spirit would have put the pilgrims to shame.  As it was, however, we kids felt that we were the ones shamed, forced to participate in what we considered children’s crafts well into our teenage years.

And yet now, many years later, Lindsey has initiated the same practice with her children, Alison reminisces fondly of the sequined ornaments, and even I find myself seized each December with a certain crafting je nes se quois.  As the air turns chill and the city becomes blanketed in icicle lights, there is a part of me that just wants to get out the felt markers and hot glue and, you know, make stuff.  At first I thought I could satiate this annual holiday urge via baking.  Classic case of correlation rather than causation.  Then I reasoned perhaps if I started my Christmas shopping earlier, that joyous spirit of holiday giving would be allowed to develop to maturation and could tide me over until January (when the holiday crafting inclination seems to dissipate on its own, supplanted by the New Years inclination to be a different person).  But shopping too proved not entirely fulfilling.

It wasn’t until I opened up the ol’ Macbook yesterday to begin writing my annual post that I realized-- this is it.  Misshapen, eclectic, a bit of a burden on author and readers alike, the rumball is my holiday craft project.  And as much as it may pain you dear readers, you know you can count on its arrival each late December to early January as surely as the driven snow.  Er, something.

So as we stand on the precipice of the new year, staring into the beady eyes of 2013, filled with a mixture of anticipation and indigestion, remember this – no matter what happens over the next 12 months, we can all meet back here next December 31^st to toast our triumphs and laugh at our failures together.

Unless my toaster tong startup takes off on Kickstarter.  In which case, it’s been real. 

*This post is dedicated to loyal reader Jen, who consistently provides me with inspiration and the confidence that my post will have at least 1 reader.  Jen, your first pair of toaster tongs™ is on the house.  

**Blobular wreath not included.

2K12: Most Attainable Year Ever

2012! A year of continuity and change!  A year of dreams and expectations and failure to meet those expectations! A year that begins and ends with the number 2!

Yes, I think we can all agree that the new year knows no limits at this point, mostly because none of us have even registered its arrival enough to stop writing “2011” on critical documents and rent checks. It is the annual ‘witching hour’ when every goal seems attainable, 24 hour days are rumored to contain 47 hours and we all believe ourselves to have heretofore undiscovered abilities and self control.  Gyms are packed morning and night, people are buying Groupons for juice cleanses and unlimited yoga packages, and we’re all pretty much convinced that we are going to be skinnier, happier, better people in 12 months time.

The end result of all this build up is invariably that we all wake up feeling like weak, fat losers by January 31 and immediately revert back to our old habits.  Which in all honesty are probably better than the new crazed habits we adopted for the first 31 days of the year.

Well dear readers, not this year!  In lieu of grand aspirations and subsequently grander failures, I have decided that 2012 will be the year that I make resolutions that can theoretically be accomplished by ordinary human people.  I will forsake the traditional overly optimistic new years resolutions for Equally Well Meaning But Realistic & Achievable Resolutions (EWMBRAR).

Allow me to illustrate with a few examples of typical resolutions and their EWMBRAR equivalent:

Resolution: Drop 2 pant sizes.
EWMBRAR: Throw away any pants that no longer fit.

Resolution: Stick to a budget in 2012.
EWMBRAR: Make a budget in 2012.

Resolution: Volunteer for a charitable organization.
EWMBRAR: Donate to those less fortunate by leaving your phone in a cab.

Resolution: Learn to cook like Bobby Flay.
EWMBRAR: Learn to cook like Trader Giotto.

Resolution: Spend less time playing Angry Birds and more time reading.
EWMBRAR: Spend less time playing Angry Birds and more time playing Words with Friends.

Resolution: Be a better person.
EWMBRAR: Hang out with people who have fewer morals than you do.

For those who quickly master this concept and wish to take EWMBRARing to a deeper level, you may want to consider the following model for the Equally Well Meaning But Even More Realistic & Achievable Resolution (EWMBEMRAR).

Resolution: Eat a more balanced diet.

EWMBRAR: Don’t eat cereal for dinner.

EWMBEMRAR: Don’t eat cereal for dinner more than once a week.

Resolution: Run a marathon.

EWMBRAR: Run for the bus.

EWMBEMRAR: Run for the bus if you really think you can make it.

Resolution: Stop biting your nails and chewing on pen caps.

EWMBRAR: Stop chewing on pen caps.

EWMBEMRAR: Buy more pens.

Start now or even a week from now and come January 31 you will just be scraping the surface of your true EWMBRAR potential.  To that end, let me leave you with this sequence taken from my very own list:

Resolution: Write insightful and thought-provoking blog posts in 2012.

EWMBRAR: Write a blog post in 2012.

EWMBEMRAR: Write a blog post before January 4, 2013.

Check back in a year and 2 days to see just how far realism and lethargy can take me! 

Top 10 List of Corporate Party Fouls

Let me start by saying that I myself am guilty of a few of these. I will also confess that yes, I did write this during working hours. However in my defense I must say that this may be the quickest post I've ever written - apparently I've been working on it for years.

Or I am a model of corporate efficiency.

Regardless, I bring you my personal list of top office pet peeves and workplace faux pas:

1. Emails and/or phone calls that begin with “Sorry to be a pain…”  Just stop talking and no apology needed.
2. Emails that ask for a read receipt.  What do you DO with all of those besides judge me for the time lapse between when I read and when I respond?
3. Email signatures that include first name in scripty font above the full name and address block.  Nice try, but we know you didn’t REALLY sign it.
4. Email signatures that contain a Twitter handle.  What, so now you can tweet me your endless list of demands?
5. The phrases low hanging fruit, up (or down) the pike, and hot button issues.  The visual is not helping and now I have nasty images of myself trying to grab at rotten apples while clients come riding at me in covered wagons that flash a big red “XXX” (in manner of Family Feud buzzer) every time I miss.
6. People who walk up when you are clearly in the middle of a conference call and ask “Are you on a call?”  No, but I heard that if you hold the phone up to your ear long enough, Elvis might answer.
7. People who walk up to your desk and ask “Are you busy?”  Nope!  Thank god you came along!
8. When someone forwards you an email chain that appears to have started in 2006 with the helpful note “See below.”
9. Emails the only content of which is “What is your phone number?”  Like I’m going to send it to you now!
10. Emails that are marked High Priority.  While hell hath no fury like the little red exclamation point, get in line.

A Giant Leap for Rumball Kind

Alright. So it’s been a while. However, given that in the history of the rumball “a while” has often been comparable to the gestation period of beluga whales, I suppose I should stop wasting words on needless or at least lame excuses.

[This is not to suggest that I am about to give birth to anything nearly as exciting as Baby Beluga… He was just a special little guy.]

The far more interesting comment is what has at last brought me back to the proverbial pen. The answer is simple: I found my rumball.

Alright. So it’s not my rumball, per se. It’s not even A rumball – it’s multiple rumballs. And malt balls. And rum. These balls belong to Ben and to Jerry and go by the wildly appetizing name of Schweddy Balls.

For any of you who hate fun and empty calories (which some might say are synonyms), please click here to understand what I am talking about for the duration of this post.

The next question is obvious – who ARE Ben and Jerry and how did they get such freaking awesome jobs? I could tell you the answer, but after spending a solid 20 minutes just now on the company website, I can safely say that Ben and Jerry tell it much better in their virtual scrapbook - check out 1983, good year. I can also say that it’s pretty much your standard Mom n’ Pop (or in this case Dude n’ Dude) operation turned large corporate franchisor.

Which leads me to the next obvious question – how does one possibly make a sundae that weighs 27,102 pounds?

[For those of you who have not yet checked out 1983 in the virtual scrapbook, this is the year that will forever be remembered as the year that someone made a 27,102 pound sundae in St. Albans, Vermont. Which coincidentally enough will forever be known as the town where someone made a 27,102 pound sundae.]

Upon further online investigation (which if you do not know by now is the cornerstone of this blog, and also of my existence), we learn that the 27,102 pound sundae was actually the result of a collaborative effort by the entire community of St. Albans + Ben + Jerry + a forklift. We can only assume that Ben & Jerry’s was selected as the ice cream brand du jour on that fateful day in 1983 based on mass by volume. Had those pioneering St. Albanians chosen Edy’s Slow Churned, for example, their creation may have topped out at a mere 13 tons.

The sundae, which has been described by some less-than-imaginative journalists as “mammoth,” was concocted in a swimming pool (duh) and was topped with chocolate fudge, nuts, a truckload of peaches, and a planeload of pineapples.

Which leads me to the next obvious question – who pairs peaches and pineapples with fudge? I would expect as much from Georgians or Hawaiians, but not the Vermontese! One can only hope the ice cream was rum-flavored.

Which brings me back to the present and Schweddy Balls. Available today in select grocery stores and Ben & Jerry’s scoop shops. And, in case it is not available in your town, you can either move to St. Albans (recommended) or click here to participate in all the virtual schweddy fun.

Thanks to Jenais for bringing this important rumball development to my attention.

Stay tuned for my next post – Baby Beluga: Where Is He Now?

The Intro-Extrovert

According to Myers-Briggs, the psychologists and pioneers whose famed personality “type indicator” helps give us all a valid excuse for any traits and behaviors that we may choose to exhibit, the basic difference between an extrovert and an introvert is not one’s level of social activity and interaction with others. It is rather whether one derives energy from those social interactions or not. Per Myers (or was it Briggs?), a true extrovert draws their energy from active involvement in events and engagement with those around them. Naturally, this does tend to mean that very extroverted people have large circles of friends and are often seen as “outgoing” and “a people person” (the traditional nay pedestrian definition of the word).

By the inverse property then, it would seem that the traditional definition of an introvert is “a loser.” However, we sophisticated students of Myers-Briggs know that this is not accurate. Introversion really just means that one draws energy from oneself, from one’s internal world and ideas. Introverts are deep thinkers. Philosophers. Spiritual leaders.

I have always wondered quite where I fall on the spectrum of “troversion” – Briggs (or Myers?) stresses that it is not a definitive label but rather a sliding scale with everyone exhibiting some traits of each. Without tooting my own horn (although M & B would doubtless excuse such impoliteness by deeming me “Feeling”), I can say that I generally like having others around me. I engage in an acceptable if not above average amount of varied social activities, and I feel comfortable in interactive settings. However, at the same time, I have always suspected that I am at heart a spiritual leader.

[M-B: “She’s so Intuitive.”]

Regardless of my future role in the church, however, it is true that I like spending time in my own head. I am comfortable alone and when reflecting on important matters I often like talking them through with just a few other people or talking them through with myself.

Clearly and like 99.8% of the population, I fall somewhere in the middle of the spectrum and quite honestly it’s never really mattered precisely where. Until I realized recently that I no longer spend any time in my own head. Nor do I reflect on important matters. Any talking with myself is frenetic muttering of To Do lists and is most likely done on the bus.

[M-B: “Nut Job.”]

I’m a busy girl – aren’t we all – but it’s not so much the busyness as the wholly extroverted nature of activities I am engaging in. I work at an advertising agency as a Digital Project Manager. Meaning, in sum, that my job is to listen to what clients want and then badger my coworkers until they do it. Feeler that I am, I like to think that I have a good relationship with most of my coworkers. Nonetheless, I find that I may as well begin (and frequently do begin) any work correspondence with the following:

With a job that requires pretty constant interaction with others, a wise Extro-Introvert would probably choose to spend some of their free time in quiet reflection. Recommended activities might include running, playing an instrument, taking baths or owling. I however choose to lead groups of 15-25 women and the occasional Perceiving male in the exercise regimen called the Bar Method. I teach Bar Method classes before and sometimes after work, such that by the time I arrive at the office I have already been extroverting for several hours.

This is where the muttering on the bus comes in.

I am not complaining over the choices I’ve made. [M-B: “Yes she is.”] I’m simply stating that whether Extro-Introvert or Intro-Extrovert, everyone and especially we aspiring spiritual leaders need to take some time for ourselves.

This was driven home for me on Friday night as I found myself, having passed up the opportunity to go have a ridiculous amount of fun at a cabin in northern Wisconsin for the weekend and having just said “no” to happy hour, sitting alone at an outdoor patio drinking a glass of wine and reading a book. The entire weekend stretched before me and I had no plans. I asked myself what I would most like to be doing at that very moment if money were no object. The honest answer: Sitting alone at an outdoor patio drinking a glass of wine and reading a book in the south of France.

So essentially in an ideal world I would have been engaged in the exact same activity except in a place where I know absolutely no one and do not speak the language. This struck me as somewhat pathetic until I realized that Myers-Briggs had a perfectly valid explanation (M-B: "Excuse"): I have been neglecting my undefined percentage of Intro. In fact I have been extroverting the crap out of myself to the point where all energy is sapped and inner Mandy is stunted and laying on the floor in a prone position.

Two days later, having engaged in some nice solitary blog writing and aggressive owling, I think the balance has been restored. Lookout spiritual world, I am poised and ready to assume command.

My job is to annoy you.

Visit here to take a free online equivalent of the Myers-Briggs type indicator or visit here to help those two "pioneers" make even more money off this thing.

After all that, I am an Extrovert. Also an overwhelming Judger.

A Blog About a Blog

I realize that WheresMyRumball is supposed to be a pseudo travel blog, however if you will indulge me one more post I would like to continue to write about writing. I swear there is a word for that – a word that describes the instance of a verb applying its action to itself, i.e. writing about writing – but I cannot for the life of me or Merriam-Webster figure out what it is.

Reflexive?

Sort of.

The opposite of an oxymoron?

Kind of a stretch, and multiple words.

Titillating?

What? Sorry, I just like that word. It sounds so dirty but it’s not! But then it sort of is, just because you thought about it.

Anyway, whatever the word is, there are only a few activities for which this concept can be applied. A few examples that come not-instantly to mind:

Talking about conversation

Thinking about thought

Writing a blog about the process of blog writing

That last one may just sound silly (try to ignore the sinking feeling in your stomach about what the next several paragraphs of your life may entail, namely great patience) but I am going to pursue it nonetheless. Blog writing is after all what got us here, we may as well explore it in greater depth in order to better understand the blog and thereby formulate an escape plan (that is for you, I am stuck here).

Take tonight. Once again, I arrived home intent on blog writing. I thought I had a topic picked out (it was sooo much more interesting than this, too) but then in crafting sentence number two I stalled out trying to remember a word. A long forgotten, rarely used, possibly non-existent word.

(Don’t you already feel like this entry would be so much better if I could just remember that damn word?)

So I did what I always do when I don’t know something – I turned to the Google. And in case you didn’t believe it was possible, I proceeded to stump the Google. My well-defined query of “what’s the word for when you do something about that same thing” returned zero relevant results. The number one result, in fact, was an article titled “What Men Want in a Relationship” about how women think men want the exact opposite of what they really do want. Clearly my muddled search terms indicated to the Google that I am post-breakup, likely drunk, and possibly thinking about cutting myself hence they directed me to the “Sex & Love” section of powertochange.com.

(The number three result is titled “6 Reasons Why You Might Be Feeling Bad Right Now.” And this is why I have pre-designated a trusted friend who, should I ever meet a sudden end, will immediately delete my browser history.)

When I accepted that I would probably need to refine my search terms slightly in order for the Google to actually help me, I went a different route and typed in “reverse dictionary.” The Google helpfully and immediately pointed me toward the OneLook Reverse Dictionary, which allows users to describe a concept and receive back a list of words and phrases related to that concept. This time, my entry of “a thing that describes itself” returned hundreds of results, a few of the more interesting of which were connotation, self-identity, hermaphrodite, fundamentalist Christianity, and reformed Egyptian.

Perhaps the most accurate on the list was pest.

I was intrigued, however, by another word on the list: paradox. That’s an interesting word. I knew it wasn’t the word I was looking for – quite the opposite in fact. So I pulled up dictionary.com and entered it with the intention of scanning for antonyms. Dictionary.com does not offer any antonyms for paradox.

(Seriously, if you guys could just think of this bloody word and text me, we could be done…)

In scrolling through the dictionary entry for paradox, I lingered for a moment in the section for famous quotations featuring the word. In doing so, I came to a few more realizations. First, I was struck by how much smarter than me old dead famous people are. Thomas Mann, for example, had the following quote: “Paradox is the poisonous flower of quietism, the iridescent surface of the rotting mind, the greatest depravity of all.” Thomas Mann clearly did not have a problem thinking of the word he wanted when he wanted it. I wish he were still with us.

But the quote that I would like to end with is from James Clavell. James, who FYI was an Australian born, British (later naturalized American) novelist, screenwriter, director and World War II veteran and prisoner of war, was quoted as saying “The more I know, the more sure I am I know so little. The eternal paradox.”

To James, I would say this:

Be glad you never met the Google.

A Midsummer Night’s Blog

In anticipation of the inevitable question – what could have possibly prompted this unprecedented mid-year blog entry? – I am actually going to dedicate the entire first three paragraphs of this post to explaining why on this night of all nights I have decided to write.

In a nutshell, I have decided that if I truly want to do justice to my undergraduate degree in English & Creative Writing and also ultimately pursue a career as a writer someday, then I must start to produce more than one piece of writing per annum. Plus we canceled our HBO and Grey’s Anatomy (which yes I still watch, two words: Jesse Williams) is a rerun.

Now, to any readers out there who may also happen to be my employer or my financial advisors (Bob & April Rinder), no I am not quitting the day job just yet. I have a long way to go before I can move beyond the “aspiring” stage and into full-fledged (read: paid) writerdom. Authorship? Regardless, I am resolved to try.

The hardest part about writing for me has always been titles. I feel, as do many would-be aspiring writers, a great deal of pressure to come up with truly brilliant titles. A brilliant title is not only an enticement for people to read your work, but sometimes, if a title is brilliant enough, it will actually convince them the writing is good. On top of that, a brilliant title will make your work memorable to your readership. It may even prompt readers to promote your writing to their friends and associates. With a little bit of luck, a brilliant title could ultimately result in an exchange like the following:

Reader: I read a good piece of writing the other day.
Friend/Associate: Oh really? What was it called?
Reader: Silhouettes.
Friend/Associate: Ooh great title. What’s it about?
Reader: …um… shadows.
Friend/Associate: Who wrote it?
Reader: No clue.

Because of this tremendous importance of titles, and because I am a procrastinator in the purist sense of the word (see: annual blog postings on December 31st), I invariably leave them for last. In college, my approach for academic paper titles was generally to come up with some play on words or overused cliché (and no, in this case you will see that is actually not an oxymoron) and then add a lengthy and dramatic subtitle that still failed to give any indication of what the paper was actually about. Some examples include:

Shattered Expectations:
The Inconsequence of Ending in Dickens’ Novel

The Inexhaustible Well:
Deepening the Experience of Diego Velazquez’s Las Meninas

Happily Ever After:
Re-imagining Jane Austen’s Emma into Film

Embracing the Savage:
The Triumph of Human Physicality in Orwell’s 1984

I mean I could go on. (For those of you who will appreciate, I did not even dig into the IHUM archives yet…) Anyway, it is clear from the above that the thesaurus was my good friend and constant companion in those days (read: early mornings of the day the paper was due).

For my fiction writing classes, however, I took it to the next level. Because as important as titles are for academic papers, the professor has to read them or at least pretend to in order to assign a grade. For fiction, however, a bad title can kill a story before the reader makes it to page one.

For creative work, therefore, I relied on the brilliance of the words themselves. I came up with what I considered to be a truly awesome word, and then would go to great lengths and artistic sacrifice to somehow weave that word into a critical part of the story (which was at this point written in its entirety and probably due in 20 minutes somewhere on the other side of campus). I picked titles like Etchings, Castaways, Lighthouse, and Silhouettes (you may have heard of it). I once went so far as to choose a girl’s name that I thought was particularly poetic and then proceeded to rename my main character Chloe (thank god for find/replace).

Ironically enough after what I have just shared, I came up with the title of this blog before I had a clue what I was going to write about. It just seemed fitting as I walked home on a warm July evening, intent on blog-writing. It is also a terrible play on literary greatness that is too often clichéd, making it the obvious choice for yours truly.

And yet if you will indulge me for another few paragraphs, I shall attempt to insert meaning where before there was only shoddy wordplay.

A wise friend recently told me that one of the keys to making a goal (read: dream) become a reality is to talk to people about it. The simple but ingenious reason being that once people know you have a goal you are working toward, unless they are forgetful or assholes, they will probably ask you about it the next time they see you. And if you continuously have nothing to share and no progress to report, you’re going to start to feel like a bit of an asshole yourself. You will also lose all credibility as a dream-haver.

So to you my loyal readership, I am entrusting my dream. Or at least this blog. It is now your duty (unless you are forgetful or an asshole) to continue the conversation. Not only do you remain obligated to read whatever I manage to post, you must also heckle me to produce more and better writing. Possibly even other kinds of writing that don’t rely solely on sarcasm and self-depreciation.

And also titles. I really must work on those titles.

Help My Soup To Help Itself

When I first sat down to write this year's annual holiday-time blog posting, I found myself re-visiting the 2009 entry in search of inspiration or at the very least to avoid blatant repetition. Upon re-reading, however, I quickly realized that this would not be a problem.

Not to send myself a Christmas poinsettia, but as perhaps the most avid and certainly most recent reader of my own blog, I feel qualified to call "2K9: The Year That Keeps on Giving" a fairly neat and well-constructed post. It has a thesis (although not asserted until the end of paragraph 7) and a motif. Characters are somewhat developed. There are beginnings… and endings… and beginnings again. Certain readers might say that things are brought full circle. There is even some light symbolism (Barbie Dream House = capitalism, Lindsey's glasses = Christ figure, etc). Yes, while by no means a literary masterwork, it represents a tidy capstone to what at least through the gas perms of hindsight appears to have been a fairly tidy year.

I start out this year's entry by stating that 2010 was not that year. Nor am I currently that blog writer. If 2009 was neat and orderly enough, 2010 has been what we might call “unkempt” as years go. I began the year in search of some new challenges, which I actually managed to find and then quickly remembered why I had not sought them out previously. In short, last January I was offered a new position within my company. I had been seeking a move of this sort, onto an entirely new team and with an entirely different segment of the organization, for almost 12 months. When the offer finally came through, I did what any sensible career-minded adult would do: I became a professional fitness instructor.

Yes, I started teaching a fitness program called the Bar Method. I also accepted the new job with TMP. And so I essentially tossed myself into the deep end of two very different pools at the exact same time, integrating myself into a new team by day while undergoing fairly intensive training in the principles and practices of Bar Method by night (read: 6 am). This combination resulted in rapid drowning and left me seriously questioning my own choices and overall value as a human being.

Don’t get me wrong – it has been an amazing year. I have acquired new skills, encountered new people and places, been faced with adversity, forgotten new skills, gotten hopelessly lost in new places with new people, curled up and whimpered in the face of adversity, and so on. It’s nothing that would make any high school guidance counselor or child actor bat an eye. Really, all I’m trying to say is that at present I have a sleep deficit to rival the state of California and absolutely no clear idea of how to summarize the past 12 months of mine or anyone else's life, much less make any broader observations about 2010 as a whole.

Luckily, I have never really defined any sort of mission statement or rules of engagement around wheresmyrumball. I would say in the absence of formal guidelines, the accepted practice is that I may spew forth whatever ruminations I feel and you all can choose whether or not to engage. Unless you are April Rinder, in which case keep reading. Or if you are one of those rare and marvelously loyal readers who have actually 1) noticed the rumball's absence and 2) experienced displeasure at said absence, you should probably keep reading purely to avoid hypocrisy. Also I heart you.

That said, I have spent that past several days in careful deliberation upon which topic would be fresh and engaging to my readership. I wanted to choose something timely yet dynamic. Something weighty but whimsical. Something with beginnings… and endings… and beginnings again.

I chose soup.

Now, for those of you who I haven't talked to since the onset of winter in Chicago, soup is something I happen to know a thing or two about. It has become my meal of choice this season for several reasons:

1) Soup is warm and delicious
2) My roommate Becky is an excellent and dedicated soup-maker
3) I am a passable soup-maker
4) It is hard to eff up soup
5) Soup is warm and delicious
6) You can make a lot of soup at once
7) Soup is most commonly eaten with a spoon
8) I like eating things with spoons

I could continue, but I've always felt that 8 reasons are enough to justify almost anything. Except clogs. (To those half-hearted readers who are tempted to point out that Reasons 1 and 5 above are the same, I would gently point out that 2010 has been a tough year and I am very tired. Please be quiet.) (To those readers who claim to require more stable close-toed footwear for podiatric reasons or Dutch descent, let’s agree to disagree.)

Why you ask, is soup the "It" food of 2010? Well, it's not. Cupcakes are. My love for soup, in fact, stems in part from its very anti-It nature. Soup has a truly timeless quality to it - sure, there are Soups of the Day or Week or at certain diners off the interstate Month, but soup itself never goes out of style. There is a soup for every taste and mood – minestrone for a hearty fulfilling meal, spicy black bean if one is feeling saucy, chicken noodle for comfort, miso for sodium deficiency.

Perhaps the thing I love most about soup, however, is its forgiving nature. Short a carrot? Not a problem. Need to substitute cannellini beans for kidney beans? Great idea. Added an extra five shakes of red pepper flakes? Serve with milk and Tums. As I said earlier, it is truly hard to eff up soup and there have been several occasions when what I thought were fairly egregious missteps in the cooking process actually resulted in a superior soup product. Or at least did not result in fire and/or bodily harm.

All this soup talk has brought to mind a story my parents used to read to me when I was little – Stone Soup, by Marcia Brown. The story goes something like this: A few soldiers are passing through a village and have nothing to eat. The villagers, miserly pacifists that they are, refuse to give the soldiers any food. The soldiers in their desperation fill a soup pot with water and place a large stone at the bottom, then set the pot up over a fire at a conspicuous spot by the roadside. The inquisitive village folk eventually wander over one by one and are told that the soldiers are making a delicious dish called Stone Soup. At this point they immediately want to try some (seriously, who ARE these people?) but are told the soup isn’t quite ready yet. It needs an onion, or perhaps a potato, or here a bit of parsley. The villagers find it in their insular hearts to chip in some groceries here and there, and so the story goes until the soldiers have transformed their pot of boiling water into a delicious meal (and possibly scored Knicks tickets to boot).

According to Wikipedia, the book by Marcia Brown is actually based on an old French folk tale, which is based on an old Hungarian bedtime story, which is based on a Dutch fable, in which the soldiers are wearing clogs. Which is irrelevant to the meaning of the story but should be judged nonetheless. Regardless of the origins of the story or the item used in the bottom of the pot, however, I think we can all agree that the message is clear and universal: even in the face of great hardship, there is nothing that cannot be accomplished with a bit of cooperation and sharing. Also villagers are arrogant pigs.

If I were to paint a picture of myself over the past year, I think I would look something like those soldiers – ragged, battle-weary girl, possibly in yoga pants, lugging an enormous heavy pot and scrounging for snacks. And you, my village of non-arrogant non-pigs, have really come through in times of need. Now, if there is one unwritten rule of engagement around wheresmyrumball, it is that we don’t talk about feelings. And, because you are my villagers, you all know that the only thing I like less than talking about feelings is feeling feelings. But there is something about the end of this particular year that gives me a certain, as those mischievous soldiers would say, je nous se qua. Clearly, they were drunk by the end of the story. Nonetheless, I do find myself seized by a sudden unnamed and uncharacteristic desire to share and emote and bring things full circle.

Be it food, energy, toothpaste, emotional capacity, clean socks – I am guaranteed to have been lacking it at some point or another during 2010. And you have provided or overlooked or tried not to inhale like true friends should and true family members are obligated to. At the end of such a year, I only wish I had a bombass soup, or possibly some Knicks tickets, to share with each and every one of you. Instead, all you get is this lousy blog post.

Shit.

Go have a cupcake.

2K9: The Year That Keeps On Giving

When my sisters and I were little, my family had a tradition of christening each year as it passed “The Year of the ____.” This tradition was specific to the family cabin in northern Michigan that we visit every summer and for whatever reason (because we are heartless mongers) was generally expressly related to a material acquisition that had taken place that year. For example, in 1988 my grandparents purchased a boat. That year evermore was referred to by the Rinder family as The Year of the Boat. The year prior my grandparents, perhaps in preparation for The Year of the Boat, decided that our stretch of lakeshore needed a dock. And so, stunningly enough, 1987 is remembered by us all as The Year of the Dock.

There was The Year of the Swing (’84), The Year of the Raft (’90), The Year of the Fake Snake To Stop Birds From Pooping on the Raft (‘91), and so on. Eventually there came a year in which the cabin experienced no noticeable commercial gain and so, in an effort to share our maturing values with the world and also distract ourselves from what could only have been devastating disappointment, it was decided that people could qualify as year-worthy. The Year of the Voorhies, dubbed for the dear family friends and former neighbors who joined us at the lake that summer, would somewhat mockingly become a year marked by commercial loss, which is why in some circles you will still hear it referred to as The Year Lindsey Lost Her Glasses Over the Side of the Boat Because She Wasn’t Wearing Her Croakie.

I tell you all of this not to relive the glory days of Michigan summers past, nor as a parable against gluttony and sloth (not mentioned here per se, but we were in fact quite gluttonous and slothful at the lake), nor even as a testament to the importance of Croakie wearing. Rather, I am reflecting on this childhood practice because as 2009 draws to a close and I mentally struggle to put some sort of capstone on the decade I find myself inadvertently bringing back the old tradition. This time, however, instead of marking summers in Michigan with material objects acquired during that particular year, I am marking years of my own life with material objects acquired during that particular year. You see the difference?

So for instance, had I been applying this designation system all along, 1987 could also have been dubbed The Year of the Barbie Dreamhouse. 1992 might have been The Year of the Bedspread I Got to Pick Out All By Myself, or conversely The Year of the Hideously Ugly Bedspread. ’88 would live on as The Year of the Big Girl Bike while ‘94 would forever be The Year of the Stereo Boombox with Dual Tape Deck and 3-CD Changer. While to me 1995 would always be The Year of the Gas Permeable Contact Lenses, those around me might instead remember it fondly as The Year That Mandy Squinted a Lot and Made Us All Uncomfortable With Her Constant Blinking.

I don’t want you to think, however, that this is a nomenclature based solely on physical possessions. The intention is rather to use the material objects as representations of larger life changes and developments that occurred during the respective calendar year. Reading between the lines then, 1992 becomes The Year That Mandy Learned That Her Choices Have Consequences and Also the Dangers of Pastel Color Schemes. 1989 was a milestone of maturity and independence and 1995 an awakening to ostracism and the cruel nature of one’s peers. 1994 was just awesome.

Which brings us to the present and the close of a glorious 2009. What object could possibly summarize such a year? 2009 almost cries out to be The Year of the KitchenAid, but at the same time could so easily be The Year of the Yoga Pant. Thinking back still further, The Year of the Shower Curtain seems fitting, with subtext as The Year Mandy Learned That Bathroom Accessories Can Cost Upward of $100 and Became Aware That Her Roommate is a Semi-Obsessive Anthropologie Online Shopper.

In the end, however, there is truly only one purchase that I will forever remember from the past year. And so 2009 becomes The Year of the iPhone.

This is the year that I learned that, while there IS undoubtedly an app for that, whatever that is, I probably don’t want it and instead would rather spend my $0.99 on a completely impractical and utterly useless app that I had never heard of and knew nothing about until I realized I couldn’t live without it. I’m talking about the TextsFromLastNight and FMyLife.coms of the mobile world. I’m talking about Wurdle, LineUp, and Scrabulous. I’m talking about the fact that I had never noticed a void in my life of time spent staring at virtual fish until it was filled by Koi Pond.

Let me just clarify something for those of my readers who know me personally (so all of you): This purchase is in no way a reflection of my desire or proclivity to talk on the phone. I abhor phone talking and I am fairly confident that I always will. This hatred is not at all related to the individual on the other end of the line and whether or not I want to talk to that person (except you - I'm actually screening you). But on the whole I’m really just not built for telephonic conversation.

Enter the iPhone.

This is a singular device, disguised as a telephone, that enables me to use pretty much every other means of communication imaginable to get in touch with someone and thereby avoid verbal conversation entirely. If someone, for example my lovely socially enabled roommate, is not responding to my text message for some reason, perhaps because she is too busy spastically refreshing the Sale section of Anthropologie.com, I can then shoot her an email. In this particular example, the subject line might read “Re: Our Household Bathroom Accessory Budget.” If that doesn’t appear to reach her, I have the option to post a message on her Facebook Wall while at the same time sharing a photo album with her entitled, let’s just say, “Cost Effective Shower Curtain Options.” I could easily browse Yelp.com in order to recommend some alternative and more affordable linen vendors in our neighborhood and, on the off chance that my aggressive fiscal sanctions may have caused irritation or even annoyance, send her a preemptive user-generated Someecard that reads “Sorry My Cash Flow Problems Don’t Allow You To Spend $100 on a Shower Curtain.”

Had my communications in this scenario for some reason fallen on blind eyes, I may have discovered that my iPhone would also enable me to transfer funds into my checking account or even request a bank loan.

I perhaps would have even been able to receive and view a Someecard from my roommate that read “In an Effort To Make Amends for My Unresponsiveness, I Got You a Fabulous New Shower Curtain. At Half Price.”

Can you understand why it was love at first sight?

The phone, not the shower curtain. Although the shower curtain is quite attractive as well. No really it is! I love it. And the matching towels.

I have to go feed my koi now.

The Best of the Worst of 2008 Year in Review, at a Glance

As 2008 draws to a close, I know we are all inundated with “Year in Review” articles, “Best of” lists, and other such retrospective marketing gimmicks. As this blog is purely for entertainment purposes and my fiercely loyal but (no offense) sparse reader base truly limits any marketing potential it might have, I would never dream of burdening you with such a ploy. Also, as luck and astute editorial planning would have it, I did not write a single new post in 2008 so the year in review reads something like this:

[refresh page]

[check email]

[refresh page]

[still nothing]

[refresh]

[refresh]

[email from Mom “When are you going to write something new? It’s June. I hate Snow Village.”]

[refresh]

[play Snood]

[refresh]

Which brings us to today and the exciting prospect of a brand new year! But before we can forge ahead, my anal-retentive nature requires me to at least attempt to punctuate the end of the 2008 sentence. I thought and I thought about what topic would be a fitting close to such a year – an Olympic year, an election year, a year in which I became both an aunt and a sister-in-law (again), and a year that saw some startling and fully precedented developments in the Jennifer vs. Angelina struggle. In the end, I couldn’t narrow it down to just one topic and so I shall hope that you were only skimming as I break my promise of a few paragraphs ago to give you:

The Best of the Worst of WheresMyRumball 2008 Year in Review, at a Glance

OR

The Top 5 Posts That Might Have Been

So without further ado...

5. Beijing 2008: Phelpsapalooza

There is one person whom I think we can all agree made the 2008 Olympics the epic and unforgettable event that they were, and that is Bob Costas. The tireless and come to think of it entirely ageless NBC anchor is synonymous with the Olympics for me. What would the games be without his heartfelt montage narration, tender interviews with local artisans, and subtly damning portraits of any foreign athletes who threaten U.S. dominance?

Bobby C. didn’t need to work too hard this time around, however, as Michael Phelps gave Americans enough fuel to maintain our superiority complex over the rest of the world until at least the next World Cup. And with Shawn Johnson & Nastia Liukin going above and beyond the call of duty to provide us with an American sweetheart (Shawn), a come-from-behind victory (Nastia), and some good old-fashioned intra-team drama (the Karolyis), we should be good to go until 2010.

Vancouver, may your people be charming and your panoramas sweeping.

4. Where the Wild Things Aren’t

2008 was not a year of great travel for me; however the few trips I did take were memorable to say the least. Perhaps the most noteworthy was a jaunt to Zuni, NM to visit my sister, brother-in-law, and then 7-month old nephew. It would take far too long to detail here why my sister and her family have chosen to live on an American Indian reservation in New Mexico (for money and fame) but the important thing is that they have actually managed to create a pretty delightful life for themselves there, complete with ceremonial native dances, semi-wild dogs, and a rooster. A real one.

Yet despite all claims that they are truly “roughing it” with their wood-burning furnace system, complete dearth of grocery stores, and proximity to a mountain trail that is in all seriousness referred to as Coronado’s Curse, after seeing Zuni for myself I have become a firm believer in the creed that Americans can live quite happily anywhere that Netflicks services.

That extra paper sleeve even doubles as kindling in the winter.

3. Not Your Grandma’s Tropical Depression

It would be impossible to say too much about Tropical Storm Fay, which not only made history by landing in the state of Florida a total of four times during its brief life but also demonstrated to the general public that there without a doubt IS such a place as Hispaniola.

2. Election 2008: Tinapalooza

I could have written a post every day documenting the course of this historic election, and I am confident that less than 75% of them would have been dedicated to Sarah Palin. And, as if the events leading up to Election Night didn’t provide enough material for even the most uninspired of journalists, I was even lucky enough to be present in Grant Park to witness Obama’s acceptance speech, thanks to the busy-and-important-ness of my former roommate turned campaign trailblazer Lyndsey Toeppen.

On that great night, as I listened to our next president speak about his amazing journey and the exciting changes we as Americans can look forward to over the next four years, I found myself reflecting on the most compelling and timely of questions: How on earth did Connie’s Pizza score an exclusive vendor contract for this event?

Now, I like Connie’s as much as or at least only slightly less than the next pie, and I understand the temptation to serve something so truly Chicago as deep dish pizza, but really? Connie’s? As if the branding alone wasn’t enough to make it worth their while, every single person within Grant Park who got hungry at any point during the 6-some odd hours of waiting and cheering and waiting some more was forking over $6 a slice. Or in the case of some, purchasing an entire pie and carrying it through the crowds where they probably re-sold it piece by piece at a 50% markup.

To me, it is clear who really won Election 2008. With Tina Fey as a close runner-up.

1. The Dogmatically Frugal Gourmet

This particular subject truly merits an entire installment of its own; however as with so many others I never wrote that installment so let me at least dedicate a few paragraphs to a certain item that I feel needs to be addressed. I can no longer put this topic off or sweep it under the rug as if it doesn’t exist. And I think you all know what I’m talking about here.

That’s right.

I’m talking about Amish Friendship Bread.

As I learned in late March of this year, Amish Friendship Bread is essentially the equivalent of a leavened chain letter which arrived in our home via my unassuming roommate and courtesy of a dear, rule-abiding friend of ours. The package included a Ziploc bag of “starter” batter that “only the Amish know how to make” and instructions that began with the following disclaimer:

*It is normal for batter to rise, bubble, and ferment. Burp the bag as needed to eliminate air.

Needless to say, my unease at the entrance of Amish Friendship Bread into my life only grew at the implication that the dough has needs not unlike those of a small child. Or at least a very demanding Chia Pet. My suspicions that this bread would negatively impact my life were confirmed as I scanned the rest of the instructions, which read a little something like this:

Day 1: Do nothing.

Day 2: Mush the bag.

Day 3: Mush the bag.

Day 4: Mush the bag.

Day 5: Burp the bag.

Day 6: Add 1 cup flour, 1 cup sugar, and 1 cup milk. Mush the bag.

Day 7: Mush the bag.

Day 8: Mush the bag.

Day 9: Do nothing. Reflect on sins.

Day 10: Mush the bag.

Day 11: Burp the bag.

Day 12: Mush the bag.

Day 47: Turns off lights. Mush the bag.

Day 82: Mush the bag.

Day 163: Throw cell phone down well. Cancel Netflicks. Mush the bag.

Day 194: Burp the bag. Feel badly about self.

Day 212: Trade in Hyundai for buggy. Mush the bag.

Day 239: Add 2 eggs, 1 tsp baking soda, ½ tsp salt, 2 tsp cinnamon, 1 large package vanilla instant pudding, 1 cup oil, 2 cups flour, ½ cup milk, and 2 ounces penitence. Stir vigorously. Add ¼ starter bag contents, stir, and pour into loaf pan. Bake for 50-55 minutes. Share remaining starter bag contents with 3 friends currently leading lives of ignorance and waste. Bread is done once brown on top.

Suffice it to say, there were a few “red flags” I noted about this gift, namely 1) It contains raw dough that has been passed from neighbor to neighbor and friend to friend over god knows how many years and generations and 2) It calls for more ingredients than I generally put into bread made from scratch, bringing to mind a book I used to love as a child titled Stone Soup. If you haven’t read it, I highly recommend picking it up. And skip the Amish Friendship Bread.

***

And with that, dear readers, I leave you until next year. I know that many of you have been experiencing severe rumball-deprivation (similar to how one experiences, say, a lack of indigestion, as evidenced by the scores of people who frequently take a pause after meals to exclaim “I feel great! I must not have indigestion!”), and to that I can only say that 2009 promises to be a verbose time for wheresmyrumball.com, a year limited only by hours in the day and letters on the keyboard. And maybe not even those, as I have started waking up regularly at 4am for no good reason other than the fact that Santa did not bring me a Sleep Number bed and I am sometimes seized by an impulsive desire to insært syΩbols ju§t b∑caÜse I cañ.

[email from Mom "You didn't ask for a Sleep Number bed! And stop picking on Michael Phelps."]

[sign off]

[play Free Cell]

Oh Holy Rumball

Friends, Rumball Season is upon us.

That’s right. Nothing says the holidays like a dense, boozey confection. In fact, with the amount of both baked goods and alcohol consumed by the average American during the month of December, it’s no wonder some brilliant pastry chef somewhere along the way decided to combine the two and enable multi-tasking. I think that should be enough to make us all say a little prayer of thanksgiving.

And so, to get back into the rumball spirit, honor The Season, and recognize the fact that Restoration Hardware is already on its 83rd day of Christmas, I decided it was time this blog paid a little homage to its roots.

Ever since I started this little adventure (in March) and with each of the countless (5) postings I have written, I have been bombarded (once) with the same question: What is a rumball?

Rumball [`rëm `bo´l]: From the German rumründ and Old Norse lusHbeall.

A truffle-like confection, being sweet dense balls flavored with chocolate and rum.

Yes, the inspiration for my blog and the object of my life’s pursuits is, more or less, an alcoholic Milk Dud. But such a Dud few have ever tasted! The original ball hailed from a Swedish bakery in Tiburon, CA, the aptly named Sweden House Bakery. It is a humble place, whose sole claim to fame may be its immediate proximity to Sam’s Anchor Café. But once you’ve tried the rumballs within, you realize that there is no place quite like it on earth.

But, as with the holiday season, we must not spend the entire blog dwelling on what was. We must forage onward in search of rummier pastures. That said, and because wheresmyrumball is still a travelog at heart, I take you now to the most appropriate destination I could think of for the season. I take you to Snow Village.

As much as I would like to remain non-denominational right now, there is no denying that The Village is a Christmas affair. Not so much in the sense of religious beliefs, but in the sense of shameless commercialism. Nonetheless, it is a glorious tradition, one of fine ceramic craftsmanship and strategic batting* arrangement. And, at least in the Rinder family, it is serious business.

Snow Village entered our lives on December 25, 1994, when my father – ever desperate for ideas for my mom, whose idea of a “helpful” Christmas wish list includes items such as 4” x 6” photo paper (glossy) – gifted her The Snow Gothic Farmhouse, just to see if it would take. And, as no Snow Building can be without at least a few accessories, he threw in The Snow Mailbox and The Snow Fire Hydrant too. With such emergency response preparedness and USPS compliance, how could Mom object? Snow Outpost was established in the dining room.

With this initial success under his belt, Dad continued the “tradition” next year and gave Mom another Snow House, a few Snow Benches, and (gasp) the first Snow Inhabitants. Snow Outpost successfully transitioned into Snow Settlement. And there was much rejoicing.

I cannot recall whether it was the next year or a few years later that Snow Village experienced a real estate boom similar to Silicon Valley circa 1999. Dad happened to stumble into the lower level of our local Christmas tree vendor, where he discovered nothing less than Snow Mecca. Every available surface of the store was covered with it – Snow Houses, Snow Shoppes, Snow People, Snow Foliage, Snow Pigeons, you name it. Dad’s decision was clear: Snow Presents for everyone.

It should be said at this point that I personally thought Snow Village was the best thing to happen to Christmas since the Barbie Dreamhouse of '87. So you can only imagine my delight when I joined the ranks of proud homeowners, and my near ecstasy when I became the proprietor of not only the Snow Skating Rink (the people really move!), but also the Snow Chimney Sweep and Snow Trash Cans.

A few Christmases later, for completely unrelated reasons according to Mom, my parents decided to set a present limit for each other. 3 items. No more, no less. One might think this stipulation would lend itself to gifts such as nice jewelry, or elaborate vacation packages, or expensive electronics. Or a pony. One might think it would not lend itself to gifts such as lip balm, or day planners, or the unthinkable, Snow Tchotskies.

On Christmas morning, we all gathered ‘round the tree and began to open presents (which we do one by one, in turns, to allow for the appropriate oohing and ahhing and togetherness). It quickly became clear (because I looked) that the very large package toward the back of the tree had Mom’s name on it. The anticipation mounted – definitely the electronics! or the pony – and finally she ripped it open to discover…

That was the year that Mom realized she needed to set some Snow Zoning Ordinances. Ignoring Dad’s somewhat feeble protestations re: the subtleties of “item” versus “wrapped item,” she firmly declared that she was not going to let us become “one of those families that can’t even play their piano because it is covered with Snow Village.” We would happily remain one of those families that can’t play their piano because we don’t know how.

From that point onward, Snow Development in the Rinder household would adhere to the following code:

I) All Snow Dwellings, Offices, and Commercial Establishments would hereafter be relegated to one (1) surface in the house, that being the buffet cabinet in the dining room.
II) The aforementioned surface could be expanded via artificial means, i.e. plywood, provided that the offended party could still access her dishware.
III) Failure to comply would result in the offending party’s immediate removal to Snow Hell.

Thus, Snow Village quickly settled into a happy and stable no-growth economy. And there was much rejoicing.

I need a rumball.


* Note that, contrary to popular belief, batting is the fluffy white stuff used as quilt filler, fake snow, and impromptu après ski blanket as needed. Bunting is the cloth crap used to make flags and other flag-themed trimmings.

The Accidental Entomologist

In 1990, shortly after my family moved to Chicago for the first time, I was introduced to the Midwestern delight of the 17-year cicada. To commemorate this potentially once-in-a-lifetime experience, we have a picture of my dad and I standing in our front yard, which is literally carpeted in the bugs, and the expression on my 7 year-old face is clearly letting Mom (behind the camera) & Dad (stage left) know that when the cicadas have dispatched them and sucked out their juices, I am going to live with my real parents. 17 years later, with a keen sense of timing and skills equivalent to those of a bluejay that flies into the same window over and over again, I managed to coordinate my second move to Chicago just in time for the Next Coming.

For any of you who haven’t managed to be in the greater Chicagoland area between late May and early July of 1939, 1956, 1973, 1990, or 2007, allow me to explain the phenomenon that is The Periodical Cicada.

Basically, these are bugs that have a longer life span than your average goat. The cicada youth are called “nymphs,” a word which has apparently expanded from the classical definition of “beautiful maidens dwelling in the mountains, forests, trees, and waters” to include enormous pre-pubescent insects. These nymphs hibernate underground for the first 16 years and 10 months of their lives, emerging from the soil in late May of their 17th year (possibly upon realizing that they are now eligible to drive in the U.S.) Once topside, the nymphs undergo their final molt, littering the terrain with peapod-like shells and revealing that they are in fact albino. The other bugs’ vicious teasing drives the cicadas to scamper up the nearest tree, where they cling for several days while their exoskeletons harden and darken to a nice normal brown color. The cicadas’ eyes remain red to secure their supporting role on Fear Factor.

So many of these creatures emerge over a 1-2 week period that they pretty much cover the entire surface area of certain Chicago suburbs. Then the mating ritual begins. The males produce their mating call using structures in their abdomen called tymbals, and after 17 years of celibacy the competition for a mate can be pretty fierce. You can imagine the scene in the locker room: “My exoskeleton is harder than yours” and “Check out the tymbals on that guy!”

After slapping each other on the thorax and crushing a few deciduous rootlets on their heads, the males begin to collectively belt out a chorus that can reach up to 96 decibels (the equivalent of a low jet fly-by). This obviously makes the females come a-running. So drunk on love are they that both males and females proceed to fly into anything that moves. Or doesn’t. In fact, you can basically dropkick these things and they won’t even bat a beady red eye, thanks to those exoskeletons. Simultaneous with the mating symphony, the molted shells that are still covering the ground from the initial emergence begin to decompose and produce a smell that has been unanimously classified by entomologists as “dirty diaper.”

At this point, many Chicagoans do the sensible thing: They eat the cicadas. That’s right, cicadas are a delicacy in many cultures! But really, who wouldn’t want to eat a gigantic winged insect that has been marinating in pesticides and fertilizer since before the fall of the Soviet Union? Apparently the cicada has a nutty flavor and, if harvested at the right time, its texture is similar to the soft shell crab. You can batter them, fry them, serve them as appetizers, put them on pizzas, or bake them into yummy desserts. [For more info, see wheresmycicadaball.com. And don’t even bother coming back here.] But watch out – for those of you with shellfish allergies, cicadas may cause a flare-up as well. One website also warns cicada snackers to “be wary if you are prone to the gout.”

A handful of Chicago merchants have taken the cicadamania still farther, coming up with the truly brilliant idea of using the giant bugs as a marketing ploy. Walter E. Smithe Furniture is having their “Cicada Sale” which boasts such ingenious taglines as “Miss it and wait another 17 years!” and “Escape the noise and save a bundle!” The TV commercial features 3 men with their heads superimposed on cicada bodies, singing about their low prices to the tune of “You Might Think” by the Cars. Other, less inventive products include “I Heart Cicada” t-shirts, key chains, and of course cookbooks.

By late June, most of the adult cicadas will have gone to that great piece of tree bark in the sky, but not without leaving their spawn behind. Females can lay up to 600 eggs apiece, ensuring the continuation of their species for another 17 years. (But don’t worry, their long life cycle means that periodical cicadas escape natural population control and can achieve astounding densities as high as 1.5 million per acre! No need for that endangered classification just yet.) The eggs incubate for a month or so until late July or early August, when they hatch, pour down from the trees like raindrops, and burrow underground until 2024.

Right about the time I move into my treehouse in Elmhurst.

My tymbals are bigger than yours.

Derby Days, or The Demon Daybreak Goes to Kentuckiana

Had you asked me two months ago (around the time of my last post… shhhhh) where I would be on May 3, 2007, I might have said Chicago. I might have said New York. I might have even said Tushka, OK.

I would not have placed myself in a 36’ RV called the Demon Daybreak gunning down I-65 toward scenic Clarksville, IN with a handful of unidentified Irishmen and a fridge full of raw meat.

And yet that is where I found myself just a few short days ago. For those of you who are questioning my life choices right now, let me clarify a few things:

1. The RV was not actually named the Demon Daybreak. It was the Daybreak model by the highly respectable Damon Motor Coach Company. The demons came along later in the trip.
2. One does not necessarily “gun” an RV. We kept it at a civilized 60-65 mph, slowing down for curves and while attempting to retrieve bottled beverages from the fridge.
3. Clarksville, IN was not our final destination. Our final destination was the KOA trailer park just up the road.
4. We cooked the meat before we ate it. (Mostly.)
5. While I may not have known the Irishmen’s names for portions of the trip, neither did they.

The ultimate destination, before you get really concerned, was the Churchill Downs and the 133rd Kentucky Derby. And, we reasoned, if one is checking this epic event off the life To Do list, one had best do it in proper style and with the necessary vehicular bling. Methinks Xzibit would be the first to agree.

My goal today, however, is not to give you all the details of the weekend (for that, please see "Chamillionaire & Krayzie Bone") but rather to address a few myths and stereotypes that you may have (and I certainly did) regarding the Derby itself, the nature of RV travel, and the entire nation of Ireland. Let’s begin.

MYTH: Proper Derby attire is similar to what you might find at a debutante ball.
VERDICT: True.
This I discovered a bit late in the game. As in, upon my arrival at the Churchill Downs clad in a Guinness t-shirt, the pants I had slept in the night before, Reefs, and a trucker hat with my name written on it that I purchased on the streets of New York for $10. Now, let me disclaim that it was raining outside and threatening to continue for the entire day. Let me also note that we weren’t sitting in the grandstands but rather standing in the infield, which would presumably turn into a muddy pit by the end of the day due to the precipitation. This did not seem to concern the coiffed and feathered J Crew models on steroids surrounding us. Nor, presumably, did it concern the Queen of England, who was also in attendance and who I’m betting was not carting around a roll of toilet paper “in case the Port-o-Johns run low.”

MYTH: The Kentucky Derby is a horse race.
VERDICT: Unclear.
I am guessing that this one is true but could not confirm it because from no spot on the infield is a live horse actually visible. We peasants had to sneak into the paddock area, and from there we had a view of the large screen TVs that were broadcasting the races. I’m guessing that those who dished out the $3000 for grandstand seats got HD. Queen Elizabeth may have had plasma.

MYTH: The Mint Julep is a Derby delight and the drink of choice for all race goers.
VERDICT: False.
The Mint Julep is whisky on the rocks with a sprig of mint floating on top. Even the infamous Woodford Reserve $1000 Mint Julep, made with ice from the Arctic Circle, fresh mint flown in from Morocco, and sugar imported from Mauritius, served in a gold-plated cup with sterling silver straw, is no Derby delight. And the drink of choice for this race goer was (clearly) Miller Lite. Although, in a pinch, Smirnoff + Sunny D = crazy delicious.

MYTH: RVs are a means to an end, the perfect ride for anyone who doesn’t like stopping every time they need a bathroom.
VERDICT: False.
While it is true that motor coaches offer the comfort of ensuite facilities for the efficient traveler, the Daybreak by Damon is so much more than a mode of transportation. Picture an exceptionally roomy living area with inviting home-style décor and elegant furniture selections, an efficient kitchen with rich cabinetry and lots of useable storage space, and a master bedroom designed for comfort and charm. The Daybreak made the KOA motor park, and the interstate, feel like home – thanks Damon! (In a sidenote, should you feel inclined to refund the fees assessed for damages to the convertible table-bed and spot cleaning of the carpet, I do have a PayPal account for your convenience.)

MYTH: It is impossible to get bad barbecue in the South.
VERDICT: False.
I have actually disproved this theory multiple times in the past two weeks, which is perhaps why I have been experiencing some symptoms of depression. Both on this trip to Kentucky and on a trip to Nashville the weekend prior (yes, yes that does mean I drove the same stretch of I-65 four times in a ten day span) I was a victim of bad barbecue. It started in Nashville. I had signed up for the Country Music ½ marathon purely on the pretext that I would be able to consume massive amounts of pulled pork after crossing the finish line. Had I known that the payoff was going to be slightly raw pork on a soggy bun with a dollop of what appeared to be watered down marinara sauce with oregano sprinkled on top, I might have chosen differently. Especially when I discovered this to be the condiment of choice in Kentucky as well, and that it was not limited to pork. Needless to say, we stuck with burgers for the rest of the weekend and formulated plans to report several local restaurants to the Better Business Bureau. And ship them a crate of Sweet Baby Ray’s.

MYTH: The Irish drink more than any other people on the planet.
VERDICT: True.
Names have been changed to protect immigration status, but let’s just say that observing “Martin” and “Francis” and “Bart” over the course of the weekend prompted one member of our party to declare: “It makes my liver want to jump out my mouth and run away.”

Or maybe that was the bad barbecue.

Brooklyn: Ordinary Burough or Dream World of Magic?

I spent the past weekend in New York, primarily visiting one Liz Shearer and secondarily enjoying art and culture and stuff. And what better way to do the latter, we asked ourselves on Saturday morning (morning being 1pm NYT, which I have discovered is very different from EST), than by attending a barleywine festival in Brooklyn?

It was not our original plan to attend a barleywine festival in Brooklyn. However, Liz received some email correspondence late Friday evening that read something like this:

Drink as a Hobbit Drinks

Train for St. Patrick's Day at the eighth annual Split Thy Brooklyn Skull Barleywine Festival this weekend. On tap: 34 different brews, from winter wheats to chocolate stouts to the exceptionally strong namesake ales. Or as Eric Asimov writes: "Barley wines are not for chugging after a workout. They are not refreshing but thought-provoking, sip by contemplative sip ... I like to think of Bilbo Baggins, comfortable and secure in his paneled Hobbit hole, with a cupboard full of seedcakes and a mug of barley wine."

When one receives an invitation to a beer festival, the name of which appears to be written in pirate-speak and which someone named Eric Asimov* has likened to a cozy evening hearthside with Bilbo Baggins, one does not say no.

Or at least Liz and I do not.

Instead, we asked ourselves were we worthy of such an undertaking? We asked ourselves what we must do to properly prepare for said fest? We asked ourselves what would Bilbo do?

Now, I must pause my tale as it occurs to me that there may be a few of you out there who are not so familiar with the realms of fantasy literature and who I still deign to call ‘friend.’ (We won’t even go into whether those persons deign to call me friend or even acquaintance, nor whether they would deign to read this blog. Outlook not so good.)

But on the off chance there are some fantasy novel non-familiars in my reading audience, allow me to provide some background. When I speak of fantasy novels, I am talking Tolkien. I am talking Narnia. I am talking Lloyd Alexander. I am even talking Susan Cooper. Much as I love him, I am not talking Harry Potter.

Characters must include at least one hobbit, dwarf, gnome, or other such person of small stature. One character must have an animal friend and one must play a woodwind or stringed instrument (percussion and brass need not apply). Ideally one of the characters will be enchanted, although this requirement can also be filled by the animal friend. Once assembled, the cast of characters will form a band and proceed to rove.

For the most part this roving is through forests and in the best fantasy will involve a tree dwelling of some sort. While on the move, the travelers carry their worldly belongings and provisions strapped to their backs in rough burlap-style sacks. (When strapped to their belts, the sacks are made of leather and are called “pouches.”) Their food comes almost entirely in dense cake form, including oatcakes, wheatcakes, corncakes, seedcakes, and the aptly named “mealcakes.” Occasionally the forest will provide dietary supplements of wild berries or roots; perhaps even mythical beings would suffer ill effects from fiber deficiency in an entirely cake-based subsistence. Their drink is characterized only as “ale.” It is presumably dark, it is presumably strong, and it is most definitely carried in a pouch and enjoyed by all.

That said, the answer to our question WWBD? was all too clear. Faced with the prospect of a journey to far-off Brooklyn to imbibe of the fine barleywine, Bilbo would bake some oaten cakes and find a haversack in which to transport them.

Now, I am not sure that Bilbo would procure his oats at an organic grocery on 107th and Broadway, nor would he impulse purchase some pear and pecorino as a delightful hors d’oeuvre for his oatcake main dish, but sadly we were in Manhattan not Middle-earth and did I mention we like cheese?

So, with our haversacks (Liz’ was at least made of a canvassy material; mine was pathetically cotton) full of oatcakes and our hearts full of joy at the prospect of encountering other like-minded barley loving fellows, we set out to break our Brooklyn skulls.

Upon our arrival at Mug’s Ale House in the somewhat hipster neighborhood of Williamsburg, we were a bit surprised to find that our compatriots were not so much settled into large armchairs by the fire. Nor were they roving in the tiny wilderness of the back beer garden. There was ale all right, but it was served in miniature snifters rather than pouches or even earthenware mugs. No pipers piping, no lutists luting. There was not a cake in sight.

Nor was there a waiter in sight, for that matter. After consuming our first snifter of barleywine, we waited a solid 45 minutes to order our second, nibbling half-heartedly on an oatcake, only to be told by a very harassed looking waitress that they were just “really swamped” at the moment. Although our ears perked up momentarily at the mention of “swamp” (Gollum?), we decided perhaps it was time to rove onward.

We decided Bilbo would go to the delightful German beer haus up the way.


* Eric Asimov appears to be the chief wine critic for the NY Times. And a closet fantasy lover. I aspire to be Eric Asimov. Tragically, I know nothing of fine wines and my love of fantasy is no longer the well-kept secret it once was.

The Road Not Traveled: Top Ten Scenic Vistas and Sites We Decided to Give a Miss

We brake for animals, border patrolmen, even the occasional traffic signal that Oklahoma likes to insert onto the interstate, but we didn’t brake for these.

Note: Much of what you are about to read is courtesy of the fine folks at AAA Tourbooks, producers of unintentional comedy since 1947.

For anyone new to AAA Tourbooks, there are a few things you should know before we begin. First, these books are not intended as serious guidebooks. While their stated purpose is tourism, they are geared toward motorists; anyone who has ever been on a road trip knows that motorists are in far greater need of entertainment while on the road than they are tips for sightseeing off the road. Thus, AAA Tourbooks sets itself apart within the industry through sheer breadth of coverage. Picture an entire 683-page volume devoted to things to see and do in Kansas, Missouri, and Oklahoma. The possibilities are staggering. Then, AAA hands these books out like Starlight mints to anyone even claiming to be a card-carrying member, such that one could theoretically tear out Kansas and use it to spit out one’s gum and still have enough reading material to drive the 40 from Bakersfield to Wilmington and back again.

AAA employs the infamous “Diamond’ rating system for accommodations, which ranges from 3 Diamonds for superior establishments (Hampton Inn) to 1 Diamond (Pit Stop). Single Diamond hotels should be considered only if the undersides of all bridges within a 50-mile radius are already spoken for.

The second important metric for AAA insiders is the recommended time for site visits. For example, the California Tourbook recommends that visitors to the Getty allow 3 hours minimum. Anything with a recommended time allotment of 15 minutes or less should be avoided. However, please bear in mind that AAA did recommend at least an hour for someplace in Albany, TX called the Old Jail Art Center; reader discretion is therefore advised.

It was with these Gold Standards held close to our hearts that Dad and I left San Francisco and ventured out into the Great Unknown. And it was with the AAA Tourbooks as our Roadway Bibles that we pretty much floored it through much of the Mountain & Central zones. Yet, as we drove, scanning maps and flipping through the books to see just exactly what we were missing, a few places caught my eye and drove home the road tripper’s mantra: Never look back.

So, I give you The Road Not Traveled:

10. National Border Patrol Museum - El Paso, TX
AAA tells us that this hallowed institution documents “over 100 years of U.S. Border Patrol history throughout the United States.” On top of this amazing feat, the museum offers visitors an up-close look at the “canine units” and the once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to actually sit inside a border patrol vehicle (read: white sedan).

9. Willcox, AZ
While Willcox does boast the one and only Rex Allen Arizona Cowboy Museum and Cowboy Hall of Fame (storyboards! genuine leather! ranch implements!), it is also home to the Willcox Dry Lake Bombing Range (AAA: Allow 1.7 seconds minimum).

8. North Maricopa Mountain Wilderness, Arizona
I hear that the South Maricopa Mountain Wilderness is much nicer this time of year.

7. Jackrabbit Statue - Odessa, TX
This 8-foot statue of a Texas jackrabbit is billed as “the world’s largest known hare.” Despite this convincing claim, Dad and I remained skeptical.

6. George W. Bush Childhood Home - Midland, TX
For those who truly want to get inside the psyche of the man himself, this “fully restored” home boasts “furnishings authentic to the period of 1952-1955” when the Bush family lived there. How the fine folks in the curatorial department managed to get their hands on a real “cracked ice” Formica tabletop and matching chrome & vinyl chairs is anyone’s guess!

5. Burro Peak - Somewhere north of Lordsburg, NM
They say those that visit the Burro come back much altered.

4. Biggest Burger King in Arizona - Yuma, AZ
Dad and I would’ve been all over this one but the ball pit was closed for “renovation” (read: bi-annual hosing off).

3. Tushka, OK
Despite the overwhelming temptation to pick up a “My husband / daughter went to Tushka and all I got was this lousy T-shirt” t-shirt for Mom, we decided our time was better spent 5 miles up the road at the Boggy Depot State Park & Recreation Area.

2. Mastodon State Historic Site - Imperial, MO
They didn’t take American Express.

1. Frontier Texas! - Abilene, TX
Frontier Texas Exclamation Point is the main event in (where else?) Abilene, TX. According to AAA Tourbooks, the facility “offers a look at frontier life through audiovisual and interactive exhibits.” Attractions at Frontier Texas Exclamation Point include a surround-sound ride that allows visitors to experience both a buffalo stampede and a shootout; a holographic presentation that introduces frontier (!) folk, settlers, and Indians; and interactive exhibits featuring a stagecoach and a saloon. AAA also advises that “Life-size buffalo replicas may be seen.”

Six Days on the Road

Let me start by saying that it is my firm belief that everyone should drive across the country at some point in their life. Preferably their young life. My most recent road trip, moving back to Chicago after almost 7 years in the Bay Area, has convinced me that, if possible, one should share this experience with one’s father. However, if your own father is unavailable, don’t let that stop you. Take mine.

I have always known that I take after my dad in a number of ways, but this trip added a few more to the list. My secret fascination with really nice hotels, although I rarely actually stay in them; the not-so-secret joy I find in the worst kind of country music (such as Sawyer Brown’s early hit “800 Pound Jesus”); my pre-travel anxiety, mostly related to packing efficiency and general tardiness; the prematurely white hair (oh wait, no, I’ve known about that since I was 5); my dislike of Oklahoma; and finally, my love of road trips.

That said, I would go ahead and venture that Dad & I were perfect travel partners. Especially if your idea of a great trip is one that starts with some nervous packing, ends with some grey hairs, and involves a lot of Mike Reid, Hampton Inns (best beds, hands down), and general scorn for the landscape around Tulsa in between.

The adventures started before we even left San Francisco, namely last Sunday afternoon as we attempted to cram my life’s possessions into my car while still leaving ample room for airflow. For those who may not know, my car is a Toyota Celica. Small. Very small. It is also silver. This has absolutely no bearing on its cargo capacity; I mention it here because the color will come into play later on in our tale.

After shoving (read “carefully aligning”) everything into my car and slamming the trunk shut, my dad picked up two abandoned rubber bands from the floor of my now-empty room and put them around his wrist, declaring for the general benefit: “Rinders’ Second Rule of Travel: Leave nothing useful behind.” And so we began. (I decided not to tell him just then about the handfuls of nickels I had thrown away earlier that day, after deeming the effort it would take to pack them to cost me far more than 5 cents.)

Over breakfast the next morning (Day 1), which was eaten at my dad’s eccentric Victorian B&B just down the road from my old apartment on Sutter, he starts telling me about a radio show from his youth called Captain Midnight. For those of you who may not have been tuned in, Wikipedia informs us that Captain Midnight was a WWI fighter pilot recruited by the U.S. military to head up the “Secret Squadron,” a group fighting sabotage and espionage prior to the U.S. entry into WWII. Like all good heroes, Captain Midnight had a trusty sidekick, the unfortunately named Ichabod Mudd. I did not know where this seemingly casual reminiscing was headed until Dad informed me that his most vivid memory of listening to the show is Captain Midnight’s tagline as he and Ichabod embark on a new adventure: “Ok Icky, fire up the silver dart!”

It is at this point that I realize that my name for the duration of our journey would be “Icky.”

I won’t bore you with the details of the early portion of the trip, or even many details of the trip as a whole. I will instead bore you with the details of one particular evening in El Paso.

[You may note that El Paso is not, in fact, en route from San Francisco to Chicago. This is true. However, having gauged that the Silver Dart was not so much built for snow and/or mountains, we had opted for what my dad calls the “Southerly Southern” Route. This took us all the way down to San Diego, then across the lower portions of Arizona, New Mexico, into Texas, and finally north through Oklahoma, Missouri, and Illinois.]

So it happened that on Valentine’s Day we found ourselves in El Paso dining at the local (and when I say local I mean it was in the lobby of our Holiday Inn) watering hole called the Cactus Rose with a guy in an enormous black Stetson, a woman who looked like Mrs. Robinson and dressed like my second grade teacher, and various members of the Canadian militia.

Rinders’ Third Rule of Travel (and not-so-coincidentally one of Stephen Covey’s Seven Habits of Highly Effective People): First things first. My dad orders his now standard Maker’s Mark manhattan (I went away to college and apparently my parents discovered hard alcohol) and I, thinking that a place named the Cactus Rose would know how to handle tequila, asked for a margarita. The confusion in our waitress’ eyes should have been our first clue.

The drinks arrive. Dad looks suspiciously at his glass, which appears to be a whole lot of bourbon whiskey with a maraschino cherry floating on top. It seems the bartender was focusing so hard on the type of whiskey requested that he forgot a few key ingredients, like vermouth. As for my marg, let’s just say that a quick taste and a glance around the restaurant confirmed that, when the Romans are wearing Stetsons and packing heat, one drinks beer.

However, Rinders’ Eighth Rule of Travel dictated that we must drink what had been placed before us, and so we did. Then it came time to order food. After 3 days on the road, we were both searching for something that could possibly contain a nutrient on a menu full of ribs, ribeye, country fried steaks, and various other battered items. We both opted for a grilled catfish, the key attributes being that it was grilled and that it came with salad.

Dad and I amused ourselves while waiting for the food by drawing on the paper tablecovering with crayons handily left on the table in a miniature cowboy boot. Mrs. Robinson, looking like she had had a few, stumbled by, nearly losing a heel off one of her festive red pumps. At one point, a man with a handlebar mustache wearing an electric blue vest came over and offered me a rose, which I took. The Canadian militia looked on.

The salads arrived, and we were each provided with what can only be described as a tureen of dressing. So far, so good – at least it was on the side. The food arrived. And continued to arrive. It seems that our catfish were not working alone, but came armed with potatoes, coleslaw, entire loaves of bread, Saltine crackers (stuffed into our bags for later, per Rinders’ Second Rule), and, last but surely not least, beans. Our astonishment at what appeared to be the entire Harrah’s buffet transplanted onto our table must have shown in our eyes because our waitress kindly informed us as she placed the last dishes down that “Everything in Texas comes with beans!”

As we learned at breakfast the next morning, this is true.

But when in Rome, one does as the Canadians do. One eats the beans. And one orders another Budweiser.