Oh Baby, You (Don’t) Got What I Need

I don’t want children. My husband does not want children. Simple concept. Not so much. When people ask us if we are going to have kids, and we say we don’t want them, we get looks as if we have just murdered kittens and set hospitals on fire. It’s as if we are killers, with the looks we get.

We have dogs. They are our babies. We will have canine children forever.

Yet apparently, that is not enough of an answer for some people, so I have prepared one and from now on, when I get the dreaded question “When are you going to have kiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiids?”, I will just direct that person to this website.

1. I have plenty of children at work. I see them for most of the day. I enjoy them. I tell them what to do. I enrich their lives. They go home. I have learned that I only like children when I see them for about an hour while they are under my complete control. Other than that, no thank you

2. Children are expensive. I have too many things I want to do, and paying for diapers and college and braces don’t all anywhere on that list. My list includes a house at the beach, more dogs, new eyes, and possibly my own private island.

3. Children are annoying. They come with no instruction manual. They cannot tie their shoes, eat, sleep, or wipe their asses on their own. They are completely non-self-sufficient. They cannot read. They are not born with a working vocabulary or sufficient understanding of Oscar Wilde books. Useless.

4. Children are easy to fuck up. Think back to your childhood. Now think back to all the things your parents did to you that screwed you up somehow. Do I want to live with the knowledge that no matter what I do, in twenty years, the child will blame me for everything? That no matter what I did, it was wrong? No, sir. If I want that kind of guilt, I will go to church.

5. Genetics are freaky. It brings back the old Forrest Gump axiom – You truly never know what you are going to get. With my luck, I would have a two-headed baby with a tail with one eye per head, cyclops-style.

6. Children are messy. I am messy enough for one household to handle. I refuse to be responsible for teaching another human being basic upkeep and tidiness. It would be hard to explain to a kid why mommy has not done the dishes in two days because she would rather read a book or watch the West Wing marathon on Bravo.

7. Children take over your life. I could not be a soccer or swim or football mom. I have nothing but loathing for hardcore soccer and swim and football moms who live through their children on Saturday mornings. I could never make t-shirts or buttons. I am also a klutz and would drop the child.

8. I am competitive. I fear that I would fall prey to that in raising my child. I might expect a six-month-old to read. It’s not that hard.

9. My coffee table is brushed aluminum with pointy corners and it sits on top of a handmade wool italian rug. Babyproofing would ruin our decor.

10. My dog is my child. I might not like a kid as much as the dog. The dog might get jealous, and we would have to get rid of the kid. And who wants a used kid? People would point and judge us even moreso.

11. I AM NOT A BABY MACHINE. I AM A SMART, COMPETENT, HARD-WORKING, TALENTED WOMAN WHOSE SOLE EXISTANCE WILL NOT BE VALIDATED SIMPLY BY POPPING OUT A BABY. I WORKED HARD IN COLLEGE TO GET WHERE I AM, AND I DO NOT WANT TO STOP WORKING. I LOVE MY JOB AND DO NOT WANT TO HAVE TO LEAVE TO PICK ANYONE UP AT DAYCARE. I AM NOT A BABY MACHINE. I am, in fact, a dancin’ dancin’ dancin’ machine. Watch me get down.

12. I would not put a child in daycare, ever. I do not want to stop working. See 11.

13. America’s educational system is in shambles. George W. Bush might get re-elected. Why subject anyone to that if there is a chance it could be avoided? It borders on child abuse.

14. When I get home at the end of the day, my dog is so happy she almost explodes with joy when I walk in the door. Every day, without fail, seeing me is the highlight of her day. When I get in from taking out the trash, she explodes with joy. When I let her eat one french fry, she has convulsions of delight. She lives to adore me. Top that, kiddies.

15. My husband has no patience for children. None. I think their screaming actually makes him physically ill. I cannot be the heavy.

16. I love sleeping almost as much as I love breathing.

I had wonderful parents. They worked hard, managed to give me and my sister everything we ever asked for, and had time to sit down and eat with us almost every day. Any parent who was half as good as them should consider themselve successful. They provide a wonderful example of what a mom and dad should be. I just choose not to follow it.

So to all of you people who look at me as if I am a murderer when I express my desire to be child-free, let me state unequivocally and for the last time….I am NOT a baby killer. I am just a baby-not-wanter. It’s not a crime. It’s a choice. So take your soggy diapers and homework papers and orthodontic bills and enjoy. I will take my unwashed dishes, my trusty terrier, my impatient husband and my copy of Dorian Gray, and I will be taking a big, fat nap.

Put that in your pacifier and smoke it.

Votey McVote Vote

Imagine, if you will, that you and nine other people from very different backgrounds with varying levels of common sense, education, and inherent intellegence were collectively given ten million dollars to spend. The caveat is that only five of the ten people given the money are allowed to choose how to spend it. You are not one of the five chosen to make spending decisions, so you must remain absolutely silent while your million dollars is washed down the tubes on a lifetime supply of Preparation H, a Nascar Racing team, six thousand McDonalds Value meals, and a few 100,000 dollar a hand rounds of black jack. All you really wanted was a nice stock portfoilo, a hybrid car, and a house powered by solar energy. Tough shit. You were forced to keep your mouth shut.

Now suppose if you will, that you were allowed to take your money and choose how to spend it. Would you still remain silent? Of course not. If given the choice, would you purposefully keep your mouth shut and let others spend your money? Hell no. Down the road you would go in your new Prius, off to meet your financial analyst to have him deduct your green energy choices from your taxes.

It seems quite simple that half the the room shouldn’t be able to dictate what the other half of the room does; yet if we are lucky, only fifty percent of Americans vote. While the metaphor I use is not a perfect one, the spirit is the same. I cannot understand why one half of the country stays seated on their supersized asses while the other gets to pick who leads us. I know a lot of people feel like their vote won’t count, but if you ask Al Gore, he will tell you differently. I heard a statistic the other day, and since I am too poor to hire a fact checker, I am going to repeat here because it works for me. Kennedy beat Nixon by the equivalent of one or two votes in every precinct across the country. ONE OR TWO VOTES. So you and two of your friends vote, and someone else and two of their friends vote, and so on, and suddenly, we’ve got revolution on our hands. And this one, my friends, will be televised. (And possibly tallied by Tim Russert on his sweet dry-erase board.)

I don’t care who you vote for. It’s not my job to tell you what to think. (In case you don’t know what to think, vote for the man you think could actually spell commander-in-chief correctly with out spell-check or asking Dick Cheney where to put in the hypens. Hey, you asked.) Figure out what is important to you. Turn on the news. Find out who most closely matches what is important to you. Register. Get up and get in line. Cast your vote. Own your decision. Serious shit is going on in the world today, and if you don’t do everything in your power to make your voice heard, then you have no right to bitch. None. You let those five people who aren’t as smart as you, who don’t know your values, and who don’t listent to your input decide for you.

So if a year from now, you find yourself stuck with the political and societal equivalent of a lifetime supply of Preparation H, a Nascar Racing team, six thousand McDonalds Value meals, and a few 100,000 dollar a hand rounds of black jack with no hybrid car in sight, you have no one to blame but yourself and all the other dumbasses who sat at home on election day and exercised their ignorance.

If anything, this unites me for the first time in my life with P. Diddy. Vote or Die, bitches. It’s non-negotiable.

www.declareyourself.com

If college basketball was religion, my dad would be the pope

Right around the time I was eleven, I remember wondering why my father constantly yelled at the television from December to March. One night, I sat down with him, and I realized that there was a basketball game on television, and I almost left, because I knew nothing about basketball and figured I would find it pretty boring. But my dad is a pretty calm dude, not often prone to bouts of excitement, so i thought something must be up. So I sat, watched, and was captivated.

That game was UNLV vs. Duke, in the 1990 final four, which they lost, due in large part to UNLV’S outrageous talent, and in small part to Bobby Hurley’s bout with diaharrea, which Brent Musberger, in the first of many transgressions agains mankind, was nice enough to announce to the millions of people watching. (Because if I ate some bad Mexican, I like for people to know.)

Anyway, thus began my love affair with college basketball, and in particular, Duke basketball. I became a fan, and I think my dad was thrilled to have a buddy to watch with. Not that he stopped that weird yelling thing, but he taught me about the game, and who the players were, and what a zone defense was, and the difference between a shooting guard and a point guard. He possesses an uncanny ability to call what is happening on the court a second before the announcers call it (or five seconds before Billy Packer calls it, but Billy Packer is a big giant dumb turd, so it doesn’t really count.) I soon became the proud owner of several Duke t-shirts, bumper stickers, and the ultimate status symbol of 1991 – a Duke Starter Jacket. We took a trip to Duke and saw some games, just me and my dad. We watched Duke beat Kansas 72-65 to win the national championship and celebrated like we had something to do with it. I like to think that in a way, we did. To this day, it’s one of my favorite memories.

Then, a funny thing happened. We got some company. My family started wondering why my dad and I were constantly yelling at the TV from December to March. Out of either curiousity or concern that I had gone over to the dark side, they ventured into the family room. Boom. My mom started watching. My sister started watching. My aunt and grandparents started watching, and suddenly, this family that has absolutenly no connection to Duke University had become a group of rabid fans, converted by my father. I think it was meant to be. We were all born, like most Polish-Americans, with an inherent ability to spell Krzyzewski.

It didn’t stop there, and continues in fact, to this day. As much as my family claims to be Catholic, we all know that deep down inside, we really worship the god that is college basketball. Midnight Madness and the ACC Tournament are our high holy days, and March Madness and the Final Four are our Christmas and Easter. There are few things as heated as our yearly tournament bracket contest. Some of us pick teams with our hearts, and others pick teams based on statistics, and all that anyone wins is bragging rights for a year.

The best example I can give of the almost cult-like transformation of my family into college basketball zealots happened during the first March my then fiancee and now husband was at my house. It was around midnight, and he and I had both fallen asleep on our respective sofas.

I was jolted awake by “WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU ARE DOING? REBOUND! COME ON!!!!”

It was my mom. My mom, who a few short years ago, was not remotely interested in this basketball stuff was screaming like a banshee. My mother, who, due to the early hour she arises and her demanding job, usually falls asleep around eight, remained wide awake, shouting instructions to a bunch of basketball players whose names she didn’t know and who could not hear her. She had been shouting things at the television since December. We all had been. We still do. It’s loud at our house from December to March, and we may get a little crazy, but the important thing is that we do it together.

Thus ends the slightly sappy and poorly written part of this installment.

Shout out to my sister, Kelly, and her roommates, Sarah and Di, who I think might be the only ones who read this. SHOUT. OUT.

Anyway, tonight my sister needed some cheering up, as she is currently experiencing some of the downsides of college life (boys that suck) (the others being the food and the papers), and we got on the topic of my grandmother, Irene, know also as the Big I.

There are few people on this planet who are as cool as she. There are also few people as crazy. She is one of a kind, and Kelly and I made a pact that whenever we are in a bad mood or sad, we will think of her, and we will be cheered up. In case you are having a bad day, I thought I would describe some of the great Big I moments of the past. We don’t mind sharing. This is mainly for my sister. She alone understands.

1. When my aunt took her to Vegas, she snuck out of their hotel room at 3 a.m. to gamble.

2. When I shut my thumb in her car door, she told me to put some aloa vera on it, and it would be all better.

3. She plays the harmonica (in her words, “mouth organ”) like a champ. Her best song is After Midnight.

4. What other grandmother likes to set off illegal fireworks all during the summer?

5. Every year at Christmas, we wait for my equally insane Uncle Mike to make her laugh so hard she has to run to the bathroom.

6. One year for Christmas, she bought our entire family kazoos, and we all played songs for an hour. Happily.

7. She has been known to karaoke on the family karaoke machine.

8. One time, she brought my sister home from school, parked the car, and remained inside to rock out to the Beatles.

9. She likes Wilson Pickett.

10. She has a refrigerator covered in our pictures and drawings, like all other grandmothers. However. she also has hers covered in Tom Selleck and the guy from Jag, who she does not call by his name, but rather, she calls him “Jag.”

11. She has the cool habit of just saying whatever she wants to say to whomever she wants to say it.

12. When we were in elementary and middle school, we would go to her house every thursday after school. We would always eat brownies and watch the Disney Afternoon. It was the best day of the week.

13. She kicks everyone’s ass at 500 Rummy. That is due in large part to the fact that we follow her rules that she made up.

14. She used to let my sister, at the age of eight, stay up until three a.m. at the beach.

15. Her famous saying is “I don’t want to tell you what do to, but…” followed by whatever it is that she wants to tell you what to do.

*****************************************

Right around the time I was eleven, I remember wondering why my father constantly yelled at the television from December to March. One night, I sat down with him, and I realized that there was a basketball game on television, and I almost left, because I knew nothing about basketball and figured I would find it pretty boring. But my dad is a pretty calm dude, not often prone to bouts of excitement, so i thought something must be up. So I sat, watched, and was captivated.

That game was UNLV vs. Duke, in the 1990 final four, which they lost, due in large part to UNLV’S outrageous talent, and in small part to Bobby Hurley’s bout with diaharrea, which Brent Musberger, in the first of many transgressions agains mankind, was nice enough to announce to the millions of people watching. (Because if I ate some bad Mexican, I like for people to know.)

Anyway, thus began my love affair with college basketball, and in particular, Duke basketball. I became a fan, and I think my dad was thrilled to have a buddy to watch with. Not that he stopped that weird yelling thing, but he taught me about the game, and who the players were, and what a zone defense was, and the difference between a shooting guard and a point guard. He possesses an uncanny ability to call what is happening on the court a second before the announcers call it (or five seconds before Billy Packer calls it, but Billy Packer is a big giant dumb turd, so it doesn’t really count.) I soon became the proud owner of several Duke t-shirts, bumper stickers, and the ultimate status symbol of 1991 – a Duke Starter Jacket. We took a trip to Duke and saw some games, just me and my dad. We watched Duke beat Kansas 72-65 to win the national championship and celebrated like we had something to do with it. I like to think that in a way, we did. To this day, it’s one of my favorite memories.

Then, a funny thing happened. We got some company. My family started wondering why my dad and I were constantly yelling at the TV from December to March. Out of either curiousity or concern that I had gone over to the dark side, they ventured into the family room. Boom. My mom started watching. My sister started watching. My aunt and grandparents started watching, and suddenly, this family that has absolutenly no connection to Duke University had become a group of rabid fans, converted by my father. I think it was meant to be. We were all born, like most Polish-Americans, with an inherent ability to spell Krzyzewski.

It didn’t stop there, and continues in fact, to this day. As much as my family claims to be Catholic, we all know that deep down inside, we really worship the god that is college basketball. Midnight Madness and the ACC Tournament are our high holy days, and March Madness and the Final Four are our Christmas and Easter. There are few things as heated as our yearly tournament bracket contest. Some of us pick teams with our hearts, and others pick teams based on statistics, and all that anyone wins is bragging rights for a year.

The best example I can give of the almost cult-like transformation of my family into college basketball zealots happened during the first March my then fiancee and now husband was at my house. It was around midnight, and he and I had both fallen asleep on our respective sofas.

I was jolted awake by “WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU ARE DOING? REBOUND! COME ON!!!!”

It was my mom. My mom, who a few short years ago, was not remotely interested in this basketball stuff was screaming like a banshee. My mother, who, due to the early hour she arises and her demanding job, usually falls asleep around eight, remained wide awake, shouting instructions to a bunch of basketball players whose names she didn’t know and who could not hear her. She had been shouting things at the television since December. We all had been. We still do. It’s loud at our house from December to March, and we may get a little crazy, but the important thing is that we do it together.

Thus ends the slightly sappy and poorly written part of this installment.

Shout out to my sister, Kelly, and her roommates, Sarah and Di, who I think might be the only ones who read this. SHOUT. OUT.

Anyway, tonight my sister needed some cheering up, as she is currently experiencing some of the downsides of college life (boys that suck) (the others being the food and the papers), and we got on the topic of my grandmother, Irene, know also as the Big I.

There are few people on this planet who are as cool as she. There are also few people as crazy. She is one of a kind, and Kelly and I made a pact that whenever we are in a bad mood or sad, we will think of her, and we will be cheered up. In case you are having a bad day, I thought I would describe some of the great Big I moments of the past. We don’t mind sharing. This is mainly for my sister. She alone understands.

1. When my aunt took her to Vegas, she snuck out of their hotel room at 3 a.m. to gamble.

2. When I shut my thumb in her car door, she told me to put some aloa vera on it, and it would be all better.

3. She plays the harmonica (in her words, “mouth organ”) like a champ. Her best song is After Midnight.

4. What other grandmother likes to set off illegal fireworks all during the summer?

5. Every year at Christmas, we wait for my equally insane Uncle Mike to make her laugh so hard she has to run to the bathroom.

6. One year for Christmas, she bought our entire family kazoos, and we all played songs for an hour. Happily.

7. She has been known to karaoke on the family karaoke machine.

8. One time, she brought my sister home from school, parked the car, and remained inside to rock out to the Beatles.

9. She likes Wilson Pickett.

10. She has a refrigerator covered in our pictures and drawings, like all other grandmothers. However. she also has hers covered in Tom Selleck and the guy from Jag, who she does not call by his name, but rather, she calls him “Jag.”

11. She has the cool habit of just saying whatever she wants to say to whomever she wants to say it.

12. When we were in elementary and middle school, we would go to her house every thursday after school. We would always eat brownies and watch the Disney Afternoon. It was the best day of the week.

13. She kicks everyone’s ass at 500 Rummy. That is due in large part to the fact that we follow her rules that she made up.

14. She used to let my sister, at the age of eight, stay up until three a.m. at the beach.

15. Her famous saying is “I don’t want to tell you what do to, but…” followed by whatever it is that she wants to tell you what to do.

*****************************************

Right around the time I was eleven, I remember wondering why my father constantly yelled at the television from December to March. One night, I sat down with him, and I realized that there was a basketball game on television, and I almost left, because I knew nothing about basketball and figured I would find it pretty boring. But my dad is a pretty calm dude, not often prone to bouts of excitement, so i thought something must be up. So I sat, watched, and was captivated.

That game was UNLV vs. Duke, in the 1990 final four, which they lost, due in large part to UNLV’S outrageous talent, and in small part to Bobby Hurley’s bout with diaharrea, which Brent Musberger, in the first of many transgressions agains mankind, was nice enough to announce to the millions of people watching. (Because if I ate some bad Mexican, I like for people to know.)

Anyway, thus began my love affair with college basketball, and in particular, Duke basketball. I became a fan, and I think my dad was thrilled to have a buddy to watch with. Not that he stopped that weird yelling thing, but he taught me about the game, and who the players were, and what a zone defense was, and the difference between a shooting guard and a point guard. He possesses an uncanny ability to call what is happening on the court a second before the announcers call it (or five seconds before Billy Packer calls it, but Billy Packer is a big giant dumb turd, so it doesn’t really count.) I soon became the proud owner of several Duke t-shirts, bumper stickers, and the ultimate status symbol of 1991 – a Duke Starter Jacket. We took a trip to Duke and saw some games, just me and my dad. We watched Duke beat Kansas 72-65 to win the national championship and celebrated like we had something to do with it. I like to think that in a way, we did. To this day, it’s one of my favorite memories.

Then, a funny thing happened. We got some company. My family started wondering why my dad and I were constantly yelling at the TV from December to March. Out of either curiousity or concern that I had gone over to the dark side, they ventured into the family room. Boom. My mom started watching. My sister started watching. My aunt and grandparents started watching, and suddenly, this family that has absolutenly no connection to Duke University had become a group of rabid fans, converted by my father. I think it was meant to be. We were all born, like most Polish-Americans, with an inherent ability to spell Krzyzewski.

It didn’t stop there, and continues in fact, to this day. As much as my family claims to be Catholic, we all know that deep down inside, we really worship the god that is college basketball. Midnight Madness and the ACC Tournament are our high holy days, and March Madness and the Final Four are our Christmas and Easter. There are few things as heated as our yearly tournament bracket contest. Some of us pick teams with our hearts, and others pick teams based on statistics, and all that anyone wins is bragging rights for a year.

The best example I can give of the almost cult-like transformation of my family into college basketball zealots happened during the first March my then fiancee and now husband was at my house. It was around midnight, and he and I had both fallen asleep on our respective sofas.

I was jolted awake by “WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU ARE DOING? REBOUND! COME ON!!!!”

It was my mom. My mom, who a few short years ago, was not remotely interested in this basketball stuff was screaming like a banshee. My mother, who, due to the early hour she arises and her demanding job, usually falls asleep around eight, remained wide awake, shouting instructions to a bunch of basketball players whose names she didn’t know and who could not hear her. She had been shouting things at the television since December. We all had been. We still do. It’s loud at our house from December to March, and we may get a little crazy, but the important thing is that we do it together.

Thus ends the slightly sappy and poorly written part of this installment.

Shout out to my sister, Kelly, and her roommates, Sarah and Di, who I think might be the only ones who read this. SHOUT. OUT.

Anyway, tonight my sister needed some cheering up, as she is currently experiencing some of the downsides of college life (boys that suck) (the others being the food and the papers), and we got on the topic of my grandmother, Irene, know also as the Big I.

There are few people on this planet who are as cool as she. There are also few people as crazy. She is one of a kind, and Kelly and I made a pact that whenever we are in a bad mood or sad, we will think of her, and we will be cheered up. In case you are having a bad day, I thought I would describe some of the great Big I moments of the past. We don’t mind sharing. This is mainly for my sister. She alone understands.

1. When my aunt took her to Vegas, she snuck out of their hotel room at 3 a.m. to gamble.

2. When I shut my thumb in her car door, she told me to put some aloa vera on it, and it would be all better.

3. She plays the harmonica (in her words, “mouth organ”) like a champ. Her best song is After Midnight.

4. What other grandmother likes to set off illegal fireworks all during the summer?

5. Every year at Christmas, we wait for my equally insane Uncle Mike to make her laugh so hard she has to run to the bathroom.

6. One year for Christmas, she bought our entire family kazoos, and we all played songs for an hour. Happily.

7. She has been known to karaoke on the family karaoke machine.

8. One time, she brought my sister home from school, parked the car, and remained inside to rock out to the Beatles.

9. She likes Wilson Pickett.

10. She has a refrigerator covered in our pictures and drawings, like all other grandmothers. However. she also has hers covered in Tom Selleck and the guy from Jag, who she does not call by his name, but rather, she calls him “Jag.”

11. She has the cool habit of just saying whatever she wants to say to whomever she wants to say it.

12. When we were in elementary and middle school, we would go to her house every thursday after school. We would always eat brownies and watch the Disney Afternoon. It was the best day of the week.

13. She kicks everyone’s ass at 500 Rummy. That is due in large part to the fact that we follow her rules that she made up.

14. She used to let my sister, at the age of eight, stay up until three a.m. at the beach.

15. Her famous saying is “I don’t want to tell you what do to, but…” followed by whatever it is that she wants to tell you what to do.

*****************************************

Right around the time I was eleven, I remember wondering why my father constantly yelled at the television from December to March. One night, I sat down with him, and I realized that there was a basketball game on television, and I almost left, because I knew nothing about basketball and figured I would find it pretty boring. But my dad is a pretty calm dude, not often prone to bouts of excitement, so i thought something must be up. So I sat, watched, and was captivated.

That game was UNLV vs. Duke, in the 1990 final four, which they lost, due in large part to UNLV’S outrageous talent, and in small part to Bobby Hurley’s bout with diaharrea, which Brent Musberger, in the first of many transgressions agains mankind, was nice enough to announce to the millions of people watching. (Because if I ate some bad Mexican, I like for people to know.)

Anyway, thus began my love affair with college basketball, and in particular, Duke basketball. I became a fan, and I think my dad was thrilled to have a buddy to watch with. Not that he stopped that weird yelling thing, but he taught me about the game, and who the players were, and what a zone defense was, and the difference between a shooting guard and a point guard. He possesses an uncanny ability to call what is happening on the court a second before the announcers call it (or five seconds before Billy Packer calls it, but Billy Packer is a big giant dumb turd, so it doesn’t really count.) I soon became the proud owner of several Duke t-shirts, bumper stickers, and the ultimate status symbol of 1991 – a Duke Starter Jacket. We took a trip to Duke and saw some games, just me and my dad. We watched Duke beat Kansas 72-65 to win the national championship and celebrated like we had something to do with it. I like to think that in a way, we did. To this day, it’s one of my favorite memories.

Then, a funny thing happened. We got some company. My family started wondering why my dad and I were constantly yelling at the TV from December to March. Out of either curiousity or concern that I had gone over to the dark side, they ventured into the family room. Boom. My mom started watching. My sister started watching. My aunt and grandparents started watching, and suddenly, this family that has absolutenly no connection to Duke University had become a group of rabid fans, converted by my father. I think it was meant to be. We were all born, like most Polish-Americans, with an inherent ability to spell Krzyzewski.

It didn’t stop there, and continues in fact, to this day. As much as my family claims to be Catholic, we all know that deep down inside, we really worship the god that is college basketball. Midnight Madness and the ACC Tournament are our high holy days, and March Madness and the Final Four are our Christmas and Easter. There are few things as heated as our yearly tournament bracket contest. Some of us pick teams with our hearts, and others pick teams based on statistics, and all that anyone wins is bragging rights for a year.

The best example I can give of the almost cult-like transformation of my family into college basketball zealots happened during the first March my then fiancee and now husband was at my house. It was around midnight, and he and I had both fallen asleep on our respective sofas.

I was jolted awake by “WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU ARE DOING? REBOUND! COME ON!!!!”

It was my mom. My mom, who a few short years ago, was not remotely interested in this basketball stuff was screaming like a banshee. My mother, who, due to the early hour she arises and her demanding job, usually falls asleep around eight, remained wide awake, shouting instructions to a bunch of basketball players whose names she didn’t know and who could not hear her. She had been shouting things at the television since December. We all had been. We still do. It’s loud at our house from December to March, and we may get a little crazy, but the important thing is that we do it together.

Thus ends the slightly sappy and poorly written part of this installment.

Shout out to my sister, Kelly, and her roommates, Sarah and Di, who I think might be the only ones who read this. SHOUT. OUT.

Anyway, tonight my sister needed some cheering up, as she is currently experiencing some of the downsides of college life (boys that suck) (the others being the food and the papers), and we got on the topic of my grandmother, Irene, know also as the Big I.

There are few people on this planet who are as cool as she. There are also few people as crazy. She is one of a kind, and Kelly and I made a pact that whenever we are in a bad mood or sad, we will think of her, and we will be cheered up. In case you are having a bad day, I thought I would describe some of the great Big I moments of the past. We don’t mind sharing. This is mainly for my sister. She alone understands.

1. When my aunt took her to Vegas, she snuck out of their hotel room at 3 a.m. to gamble.

2. When I shut my thumb in her car door, she told me to put some aloa vera on it, and it would be all better.

3. She plays the harmonica (in her words, “mouth organ”) like a champ. Her best song is After Midnight.

4. What other grandmother likes to set off illegal fireworks all during the summer?

5. Every year at Christmas, we wait for my equally insane Uncle Mike to make her laugh so hard she has to run to the bathroom.

6. One year for Christmas, she bought our entire family kazoos, and we all played songs for an hour. Happily.

7. She has been known to karaoke on the family karaoke machine.

8. One time, she brought my sister home from school, parked the car, and remained inside to rock out to the Beatles.

9. She likes Wilson Pickett.

10. She has a refrigerator covered in our pictures and drawings, like all other grandmothers. However. she also has hers covered in Tom Selleck and the guy from Jag, who she does not call by his name, but rather, she calls him “Jag.”

11. She has the cool habit of just saying whatever she wants to say to whomever she wants to say it.

12. When we were in elementary and middle school, we would go to her house every thursday after school. We would always eat brownies and watch the Disney Afternoon. It was the best day of the week.

13. She kicks everyone’s ass at 500 Rummy. That is due in large part to the fact that we follow her rules that she made up.

14. She used to let my sister, at the age of eight, stay up until three a.m. at the beach.

15. Her famous saying is “I don’t want to tell you what do to, but…” followed by whatever it is that she wants to tell you what to do.

Richard Quest Could Kick Matt Lauer’s Ass

In Spain, hotel alarm clocks are built into the television. I am not sure if there was just a rash of alarm clock thefts in four star hotels across the nation and they had get rid of the tabletop ones, or if it’s a normal Spanish custom (like salty cheese and smoking), but if you wanted to be awake at a decent hour, you had to set the TV timer. At the right time, the TV would turn on and get louder and louder until you were forced to get up and turn it down.

Such that we speak enough Spanish to get by, but not enough to understand Spanish television, each noche we set el television to either CNN International (which, for an American company, gave sparse reports about the good ol’ USA), or the BBC (which, oddly enough, had news mainly about America and hardly anything about Britian).

One morning, the TV went on, and our lives changed for the better. We still have not recovered from the assault on our senses. And we don’t want to. The assaulter in question’s name was (and still is) Richard Quest.

If you’ve never seen or heard of him, he is one of the main reporters for CNNInternational, and he also does reports for regular American CNN. He doesn’t tell the news. He shouts it in the most enthusiastic, jarring, British voice imaginable, with absolutely no volume control or variation. The first time we heard him, he happened to be asking his viewers for suggestions on something, and he implored us to “SEND IT IN A EMAIL!” I cannot do his statements justice in print. You have to hear him to appreciate him. He is truly, unbelievably awesome.

Dumbfounded, we stared at the TV, and started laughing. For the rest of our time in Espana, we anxiously turned on the television, and waited for Mr. Quest to show up – and he was on constantly, because I think he anchors the morning show on CNN-I. No matter what the report was, from bombings in Tel-Aviv, to riots in Paris, he earnestly and jovially reported them to us as if he was reporting the happiest news report ever. You would assume from his pure joy that Becks had been cloned, or Tony Blair and George W were found dancing the tango in women’s undergarments (which I think might be true), or that trucker hats finally had gone out of style. Since them, whenever I hear bad news on the TV, I just imagine RQ saying it – and it suddenly becomes the best news ever. National deficit tops four trillion -HA! Convicts escaped from prison, armed, and coming my way – Excellent! Compound that fact that he has a name that should belong to a third-rate porn star with a mullet and a mustache, and that he brings about the eternal question – “is he gay, or is he British?”(mainly because of his excellent ties and skinny suits) – we all need to write to NBC, because this is the man I want telling me the daily news, cooking with Emeril, and interviewing recently kidnapped children – “How did you feel when you were put in the trunk? SEND ME THE ANSWER IN AN EMAIL!” All I am saying is he wouldn’t need to pull a stunt to get me to tune in to the Today Show…I don’t know, something like flying all over the world in a week and complaining about it.

Oh snap, Matt Lauer.

That’s right, I said it. So people out there, write to Jeff Zucker c/o NBC – and join the revolution.

Anyway, more importanly, my husband won’t let me play fake tambourine in his pretend band.

Apparently, Liz Hurley has more tambourine-playing talent than I. Bitch.

Apparently, I would keep the invisible groupies away, and why tour if there are no groupies, says the man I married.

Look for them at a imaginary club near you – “So Fuckin Rusty plays the three and one half songs they know.”

Whatever, honey. You’re no William Hung.

Ryan Adams: He’s a Uniter, not a Divder

Though I am a dork on just about every level, musical knowledge is the one area where the other team almost always kicks my ass in Trivial Pursuit. Ask me anything about Oscar Wilde or the wives of Henry VIII, and bore you to tears off I shall. (Especially in a dark bar in Seville.)

Music history? Please. Music theory? As if. When people go on and on about the significance of some record or some song, what I hear is the teacher from Peanuts. Whaa whaa whaa whaa….It’s all just music to me. It’s hard for me to sometimes understand why people get all up in arms about how important a song is. Books move me. Poems move me. Songs, while I enjoy them, don’t. Oscar Wilde is my punk rock.

Or so I thought. The first time I ever heard a Ryan Adams record, I almost drove my car into a ditch. As my husband often does, he had loaded my car CD changer up with music he thought I would like. (If he had known about my inability to buy CDs before he married me, my fourth finger on my left hand would probably be pretty naked right now.) I turned the stereo on that morning with a wee bit of trepidation, because dear hubby has a penchant for “sad bastard music” (his term) or “make me want to drive my car off a bridge to end the pain music” (my term). I mean, I enjoy sad music, but not all the damn time. Enough with the Coldplay already. Hey Shanie, how you doin?Nothing to see here, move along. We do love many bands, and have attended many concerts together, but never had we quite found some composition that seem to suit us both equally. Something that spoke to him and entertained me. For many hours of our relationship we searched for some music, some song that welded his love of melancholia to my love of optimisim. (Mainly we searched on long car trips to bleakest Pennsylvania, where we danced the dance of “would you turn that down? I am trying to read over here” “But it’s so good” But it makes me want to kill myself. Turn it down!” ” But its GOOD!” “TURN IT DOWN!” And so forth)

When I heard “Gold” for the first time, a giant grin spread across my face. There it was – the CD that equal parts what he loves and what I love. This was goooood shit. And the a song about Sylvia Plath (well, sort of) came on and I almost drove my car into a ditch. It was so good I couldn’t believe it. Suffice it to say, we played a song from that album as the first dance at our wedding, and got some strange looks from people, wondering why the song we played sounded nothing like “Cuts like Knife.” We’ve listened to all his stuff, and love it all for different reasons, and it’s music we can both agree on…and I get it. I get why it’s good, and I get why it might move people.

In December 2003, we got to see Ryan Adams in concert at the 9:30 Club in DC. Shane and I have been to dozens of shows, ranging from U2 to Kelly Joe Phelps, and I love going to concerts – but this one…When the dude you listen to all the time is three feet from you, when he gets down on the floor and starts dancing around with the crowd and touches you, when he takes it upon himself to voluntarily crowd surf and climb speaker units and literally rocks the house…well, I just don’t know how to finish this sentence.

I would like to say thanks to Mr. Adams for the buzz he gave us all – it’s like the greatest bong hit that just won’t end. I don’t know if he is all rock persona, all drug-addled, tortured song writer, or some bizarre combination of the two. I suspect he is a normal guy who acts the way we think a rock star should act, but who the hell really knows? I don’t really care. If it’s an act, it’s a damn entertaining one. I can’t write concert reviews. I’m not going to try. They might just be stupid records….but they are the first stupid records that I really understand and love.

Shane, you did good. You were right. I turned it up.