Our first trick-or-treater was dressed as James Bond.
Our second trick-or-treaters arrived via rickshaw. (Their dad was pedaling.)
Neither cared that we didn’t have a pumpkin.
Because we had a pug.
Happy Halloween!
Archives for October 2009
He rotted before his time
Why I won’t have a pumpkin this Halloween:
Because the weather here in Florida is swamp assingly hot. Because I carved a pumpkin with my sister PK two Saturdays ago only to have it rot and fill with bugs one week later. Because I spent $25 on three pumpkins two Saturdays ago only to have all three rot and fill with bugs one week later. Because I even carved a pumpkin for THE PUG that resembled the pug and looked like Pikachu when it was lit. Because both of these pumpkins were so delicately rendered, so beautifully carved and cleanly gutted that I’d never be able to replicate them. Because replicating their faces so soon after their demise would be disrespectful. The grieving process has just begun.
The day of the epic carving the weather dropped below 50 degrees. It was glorious. Crisp. Chilly. I wore a lightweight scarf and a long-sleeved shirt. When I gutted the squash, my hands were so cold I rubbed them together for warmth and then I saved the seeds, coated them in salt and baked them at 350 degrees. I drank warm tea and soaked my bones in PK’s hot tub. It felt like fall for 24 hours and then one day later, it was over.
For one day I was able to go without deodorant. For one day I was spared the onslaught of weird, random bugs that are STILL nesting under the hood of my car. For one day I was able to open the windows in my house and fall asleep to the sound of cicada bugs. For one day my pumpkin and the pug’s pumpkin sat lit in the front yard, their big round eyes fresh from carving, their pokey smiles oblivious to the impending rot.
The morning I tossed them in the dumpster I called PK for moral support.
“Hey. How rotten is your pumpkin?”
“It’s not bad. I mean, there are bugs in it and it’s a little mushy, but nothing too gross.”
“Have you looked at this morning?”
“No.”
“Open your door and take a look.”
<Shriek.>
“Yes?”
“It’s a rotten monster!”
—
You said it, Maurice Sendak.
I read an interview today in Newsweek with Where The Wild Things Are author Maurice Sendak. It’s actually a Q&A with Sendak, director Spike Jonze and novelist-turned-screenwriter Dave Eggers. The three collaborated on the film adaptation of Sendak’s 1963 children’s book … now in a movie theater near you.
I’ve been waiting a long time for a Hollywood director to capitalize on The Little Prince, my favorite children’s book. Other than a short-lived anime cartoon called The Adventures of The Little Prince, which ran on the CBC when I was a kid, the story has (so far) enjoyed mostly literary success. Phew.
Wild Things on the other hand has Jumanji potential. I get it.
Since Joe reviews movies, I often go with him to preview screenings. He had to work late on the night of The Wild Things screening, so I can’t vouch for the movie. I can however vouch for Newsweek’s interview with Sendak. I love it not because of anything Jonze says or Eggers says, but because of everything Sendak says. He’s 81, surly, clever and highly quotable. I’d kill for this interview.
Look for Sendak’s take on Disney. (Page 3.) It’s a worthwhile read for that bit alone.
Want to get dismissed from jury duty? Possess cognitive skills.
A month before my wedding I was summoned for jury duty. The date? September 23, during my honeymoon. How romantic. I asked to be excused and thus my request was granted and rescheduled for today.
So here I sit, in a courthouse cafeteria in Pinellas County, Florida, having just fielded 400 questions from a state attorney and defense attorney regarding a dude who drank too much, DROVE, got pulled over, refused a breathalyzer test, failed a field sobriety test and was charged with a DUI. I tried to be impartial, but apparently something I said rubbed the defense attorney the wrong way.
Now you tell me if you think this question is LOADED and DUMB.
The defense attorney: “Ms. Kurpiela, let’s say at the end of the day you find my client not guilty, but in your heart of hearts you thought he was guilty. How would you feel about that?”
Me: “Can you please repeat the question?”
The defense attorney: “OK. In your heart of hearts you think my client is guilty of driving under the influence of alcohol, but because the state attorney’s office was unable to prove its case you must find him not guilty. How do you feel about that?”
Me: “How do I feel about that? Honestly the question is rigged. If in my heart of hearts I think your client is guilty then the state attorney’s office has done its job and I’ll find him guilty. If I feel in my heart of hearts that your client is not guilty, then I’ll find him NOT GUILTY. I’m a blank slate right now, but at the end of the day I won’t be conflicted. If we don’t make decisions based on what our heart of HEARTS is telling us, then how else do we decide?”
Silence.
My fellow juror candidates started mumbling. The two state attorneys smirked. The defense attorney, clearly flummoxed, turned to face the judge, who offered nothing but a shrug. His client? The guy on trial? His face turned red.
The defense attorney: “Thank you, Ms. Kurpiela.”
And then we broke for a 15-minute recess and when we returned to the courtroom I was dismissed.
—
PS. Larry King’s 1971 mug shot courtesy of the Miami-Dade Police Department.
In praise of index cards and blowing kisses
Stressed. Hectic. Busy. Chaotic. Overwhelmed. Exhausted.
Stressed.Hectic.Busy.Chaotic.Overwhelmed.Exhausted.
StressedHecticBusyChaoticOverwhelmedExhausted
Crazy how we often use these words to describe our lives. Crazy how we always promise ourselves it’ll get better next week. Or better next month. Or better next year. Crazy how life doesn’t bend that way, no matter how much we think the passage of time will make things easier.
Once the wedding is over. Once I graduate. Once he graduates. Once I finish this story. Once I lose 10 pounds. Once the baby starts to sleep through the night. Once I retire. These are just a few of the things I hear from people I know, including myself.
Once that happens something else happens. Worries and fears grow up with us, as do our coping mechanisms, which is why I think getting older is supposed to make us wiser.
On my kitchen counter is an index card I scribbled a grocery list on six months ago. It’s 3-by-5 inches of pure ordinariness except for one thing: six lines down, in the space between memory card from Radio Shack and butter, my best friend Ro wrote, “a 2nd residence in NY.”
Last April, she and my sister Heelya spent their Easter break at my place in St. Pete. I came across this card while I was cleaning my kitchen, long after they flew back to Buffalo. I was going to toss it in the garbage until I got to line six and read Ro’s note.
A second residence in New York.
Funny little Ro, I thought, sneaking in such a humble request on my grocery list. And then I stuck the card on my refrigerator and laughed and cried dumbly at once. The laundry was humming in the washer, three deadlines were hanging over my head, an engagement ring was on my finger and an empty container of cottage cheese was on the counter. Humdrum hoo-haa. Toilet paper, mustard and bread. Check.
Life is stressful and hectic, overwhelming and exhausting, but little things are what make one day better than the next. Often they go uncelebrated as we habitually explain to family, friends and coworkers that we’re busy, exhausted and overwhelmed, as we apologize for being late to work and apologize for snapping at our mothers and apologize for pissing off our husbands.
This post is in praise of little things, so many little things that I chose to focus on just one.
Well, maybe two.
The second little thing happened last night before I fell asleep. It was short and sweet and fleeting.
As I clapped* off the light in our bedroom, Joe asked: “Did you see me this morning out your office window?”
“In the driveway?”
“Did you see me blow you a kiss?”
“Oh no! Shit! I missed it!”
“That’s OK,” he said. “It’ll be waiting for you tomorrow. In fact, I think I hear it knocking on your window right now.”
“I hear it! It sounds jilted.”
“Yeah. Don’t forget to let it in.”
“I wont.”
And I didn’t
—
*Yes, we have a Clapper. I think applause in the bedroom is good for your ego.
When I said yes.
Watch The Joe Proposal in People & Blogs | View More Free Videos Online at Veoh.com
Joe’s dad gave us his camera card last weekend so we could import some of his wedding photos. While we were browsing through pictures we found a VIDEO of Joe’s proposal at our housewarming party a year ago. Baffled, we watched the video and squealed with nervous delight as I stood – at the urging of Joe – in the middle of our living room and obliviously thanked everyone for attending our party. Of course almost everyone in that room knew what was coming except me. How they all managed to keep their mouths shut I’ll never know. How I, a journalist with extraordinarily perceptive spidey senses, managed to not figure out it I’ll never know.
It was without a doubt, the greatest surprise of my life.
Have you ever been so surprised your heart falls out out of your chest and flops like a fish on the floor? Have you ever been so shocked you lose all ability to express yourself? The muscles in your face and the chemicals in your brain fail to communicate, or they simply communicate too much, causing what country folks refer to as a deer-in-headlights reaction? If you’ve ever been there, you know what I mean.
I witnessed this first hand when my mother threw my father a surprise 50th birthday party last December in North Collins. My sisters and I were all there, hiding in the shadows of a banquet hall, waiting for our father to walk unknowingly into his own belated birthday party, a party he thought was for my mother’s 2nd cousin. PK and I of course flew from Florida to be there and I swear when we ran out screaming “SURPRISE,” my father looked like he was going to faint.
Joe and I rarely talked about marriage during our courtship. We started dating in March. Got an apartment together in November and bought a house one year later. We weren’t the kind of couple that fantasized about our wedding. We never tossed around dates or looked at engagement rings. I never told him whether I preferred one cut of diamond over another and he never asked. There were other less serious things to do and talk about, so instead we did and talked about those things.
Until Nov. 22, 2008, when Joe pulled out his great-grandmother’s wedding ring and asked me to marry him in front of everyone we knew. It was better this way. I trust my gut better than I trust any other part my body, so when I said yes I meant it.
His parents were in the living room too that night and apparently someone recorded the whole thing. We had no clue the video existed until three nights ago. I hope you find it as suspenseful as we do!
—
In other news …
- Remember Ricci and Mbaye? They’re getting married Dec. 12, 2009 in Dakar, Senegal. Way to go, R&M!
- Tomorrow Joe’s brother Phil, Terrence Duncan and Alex Pickett will embark on a one-month, cross-country documentary filmmaking project. For all the wildly creative and inspiring details, visit routesmusic.com. Way to go, PTA!
Stuck you, Bed Bath & Beyond.
Joe is watching the Packers–Vikings game tonight, which means I’ve lost my television privileges, which means I’m bored, sitting on the couch watching the NFL’s juicy Brett Favre/Aaron Rodgers sword fight.
“Really?” I asked Joe. “We’ve gotta watch this game? We watched football yesterday.”
“It’s Favre versus the Packers,” he cried. “Yes, we’re watching this game.”
“Goddamit. OK, fine,” I said. “I’ll just write a Lance post about how much I hate peeling stickers off my shit.”
So here ya go. I hate peeling stickers off my shit. Never has this been more obvious than now, as I unpack boxes filled with the nicest kitchen gadgets, appliances and cookware I’ve ever owned – Bed Bath & Beyond wedding presents from family and friends. The goods themselves are wonderful, but the store’s stickers I swear to you are made with an impenetrable goo devised by military weapon manufacturers. I’m afraid Bed Bath & Beyond stickers are so permanent and unforgiving they are no longer stickers. They are stuckers.
What has spurred this seemingly random rant?
My cheese slicer. That’s what. A gift from Joe’s parent’s friends. Last week I finally purchased a block of cheese worthy of slicing, but when I went to shave a chunk of mozzarella off the block, I noticed that a goddamn sticker was stuck to the head of the slicer. And not only that, the goddamn sticker was wrapped around the handle of the tool making the likelihood of goo residue even more probable.
Like most stickers, this one was stubborn and unyielding. Even worse, I couldn’t actually USE the apparatus to cut my cheese until I removed the ghastly sticker. I clawed at the label. I gnawed on it. I tried to lift it with a knife and scrape it with my fingernail. None of it worked. I was salivating for mozzarella. Craving its creaminess. The milky brick was teasing me from the kitchen counter, daring me to give up the good fight and reach for a steak knife instead, but I would not admit defeat.
My friends, last week I used olive oil to remove sticker residue off a Bed Bath & Beyond Chop and Scoop cutting board, a wedding gift from my girlfriend Loren.
It took five applications of olive oil and two dishwasher runs to lift the residue off ONE cutting board! After I peeled the gargantuan Chop and Scoop sticker off the front of the board, it was so gummy I could palm it.
And don’t even get me started on pictures frames. WHY DO STORES PUT CHEAP-ASS STICKERS ON PICTURE FRAMES? I’ve lost a year of my life delicately removing sticker crumbles off the glass in picture frames.
Now, I understand companies need to label their products with prices, brands, half-off stickers and barcodes. I get that. But at least invest in a quality sticker. One that comes OFF. Like butter. ON THE FIRST TRY.
Fellow consumers, I’m using box cutters to chip away at stickers. BOX CUTTERS. And still my efforts are futile. It shouldn’t be this hard to rid an item of its packaging.
Bed Bath & Beyond, you insult me. I recommend you take a cue from Borders. Borders stickers are so easy to remove I challenge anyone to leave behind a smidgen of adhesive debris on the first pull.
Now that’s a quality sticker. That’s a sticker I can respect.
PS. KMart sticker (top) found on Geektarded’s blog.
Grounded
Always a procrastinator, I wrote my wedding vows on the day of my wedding on two sheets of complimentary stationary provided by The Inn at Holiday Valley while my bridesmaids got their hair done at the School House Salon in Ellicottville, N.Y.
Here they are (unedited):
10 promises to Joe by Heidi
1. I promise to always let you keep our house temperature below 76 degrees.
2. I promise to always make you turkey or tuna sammies for lunch, depending on your preference, and in the event that we’re all out of tuna, I promise to buy you your favorite diet tuna.
3. I promise to keep the house adequately stocked with Timmy Ho’s coffee.
4. I promise to always dance Cubbie when you play his favorite song on your guitar.
5. I promise to always dance on your feet to slow Phish songs.
6. I promise to always sing back-up vocals to your made-up songs.
7. I promise to let you watch ESPN Sports Center after you get home from work and even though Keith Olbermann irritates me, I’ll let you watch MSNBC during dinner – and while I’m at it, I promise to never nag you about the chicken and ketchup you always drop on the carpet.
8. I promise to always wait for you at the top of hills when we take the olympic route on bike rides.
9. I promise to always listen to the first drafts of all your stories.
10. I promise to be a good sport – a better sport – when you win our Rummy games.
Joe,
You are the best thing to ever happen to me. You keep me grounded, you keep me laughing and you keep me guessing. I love your quirks, your spontaneity and your predictability. I love that you tell me I’m beautiful and fresh-faced in the morning, even when I know I’m anything but. I love your open mind, your open heart and your wit. I love that when I complain about my hair growing into a mullet, you trim it for me with the kitchen scissors.
I love our pancake breakfasts and 20-mile bike rides, our evening card games and Wipe-Out/Take-Out nights. You make me a better person. A lighter person.
I give you this ring and promise with all my heart to be yours forever. Whatever adventures lie before us will be a riot no doubt. There’s no one else I want in my corner. I love you so much.
——
PS. When we were on our honeymoon in Upstate NY, we took at least three dozen photographs using the camera’s self-timer option as we jumped off a giant concrete fire pit in the woods in the middle of Saranac Lake. On Day 7, we paid $25 for a rented canoe, paddled out to our own private island in the Adirondack Mountains, feasted on a picnic lunch of fat deli sammies and cold Labatt Blue and freestyle jumped off boulders all day. Although our aerobic photo shoot lasted for one solid hour of hilariousness, it resulted in moderate calf pain and tender ankles. Joe paid for several poor landings the next day while summiting Whiteface Mountain.