January 2006 Archives
At age 23, I have moved out of my parents’ house. I have moved out the state and the region in which they live. I pay my own rent and I buy my own groceries. But lest they think that the cord has been completely cut, I keep one very close tie to them: The Family Plan. Three cell phone lines, one bill. Unlimited calling among family members. The phone calls abound. Need to know how exactly to defrost a freezer that has is one block of solid ice containing several frozen pizzas? Speed dial. Want to tell someone about the unusual weather? Speed dial. Need somebody to tell you that everything is going to be all right? You know what to do. And while I credit this technology with keeping my family as close as can be while we are scattered across three US Time Zones, it also allows people to overstep their boundaries no matter the physical distance between callers.
I myself am guilty as sin. My sister’s husband knows all too well what free minutes between sisters sounds like. Currently they are trying to enjoy the bliss of new parenthood but I can’t help myself from calling several time a day to find out how many times the baby has pooped in her diaper or vomited on my sister’s breasts.
My older brother is in graduate school at the University of Pennsylvania, suffering through the massive workload of the Ivy League. I simply can’t relate to that, but I do know that if I don’t call him to tell him about my last round of explosive diarrhea, he’ll just have to read about it on the Internet. And that’s not right.
My little brother is in the Navy, stationed in Mayport, Florida. I know every time I say, “in the Navy” someone busts out with the song and asks if he’s gay. Well, I don’t know if he’s gay or not but I do know that he got a medal for fighting the International war on terrorism. I don’t know how he was fighting terrorism by playing beach volleyball with his shipmates, but he’s got the medal to prove it. Anyway, I doubt there is any better buzzkill than your older sister calling to check up on you, so I make sure to do that several times a week.
My dad spends the winter in California, but I don’t let a 3-hour time difference come between us. Oh hell no. Poppa M*Inerny gets plenty of calls about such exciting topics as:
I want a puppy!
My head hurts.
I forgot what I was going to say.
Hey, what should I do with my life?
Oh my GOD I have no money!
I want a puppy.
My mom is finally enjoying her life after 30 years of wiping noses, packing lunches, and carpooling. Right now her life is a whirlwind of social engagements and “late work nights.” But why should her crazy schedule keep me from calling her while I’m on my way to work? Certainly a 1-hour time difference doesn’t make it inappropriate to call at 7am. They’re free minutes! Let’ use them!
A few weeks ago I thought long and hard about getting my own phone line. T-Mobile would make it worth my while with a pimp new phone and maybe even some text messaging. But my own phone line would mean paying $7 a month to “talk free” with my family. Yeah, you read that right. After several calls to Customer Service I eventually abandoned all ambitions of cellular independence, because if I don’t talk to my family several times a day, who will?
I've spent the majority of my life looking awkward. When you're 6 feet tall and not a dude, it's hard to be anything BUT awkward, especially when all of your clothes are ill-fitting.
In middle school, I invented low-ride jeans by buying my pants a few sizes too big and wearing them low on my hips just to avoid high-waters. Yes, I would rather have an exposed ass than exposed ankles. I had to wear Eddie Bauer clothing because a)my mom was buying my clothes and b) they sort of made pants that we long enough.
In high school, things got a little easier. Express and The Gap started carrying longer lengths. I discovered that J. Crew even had an entire section devoted to tall girls, but was dismayed to find that they only carried select items (AKA ugly shit) in this section. I still wear nearly everything cuffed not because I'm cute or trendy, but because my monkey arms cannot be covered by the average shirt, jacket or coat.
In one more small victory for the girl over 5'10", The Gap has announced that they now carry tall sizes. Outerwear, Jeans, Pants, Shirts, and Skirts all for girls 5'11" and taller. I guess they were so sick of seeing me trying on normal jackets and singing "fat girl in a little coat," that they even decided to make their Mac jacket in Talls.
No longer will I settle for hoochie momma skirts or cold wrists. Thank you, Gap. Thank you.
Can I get a huzzah from all four tall girls that read this blog?
Yesterday morning at 10am I opened my door to a man in a blue jumpsuit who wrapped up my cable box and walked out the door. Yes. I disconnected cable. For the first time since my parents brought the illicit product into our TV room, the year I was introduced to MTV's Real World and the E! Entertainment Network, I have no cable. From now on, the Coylenerny family will be reading more books, listening to more music (oh wait, we don't have a radio) and yes, watching Law and Order on primetime rather than in syndication. It's the end of an 11-year love affair, one that had to end when I started to pay the bills on my own.
So how did I spend my first day without Celebreality TV? With a nice walk to the Library and Dunkin' Donuts, followed by a nice day spent in bed, finishing one book after another, pausing only to make and field phone calls that took advantage of FREE MINUTE WEEKENDS! And the evening? Without my marathon of L&O, L&O: SVU, and L&O: CI, I returned to the pleasures of a simpler time. Pretending it was the 90s, I went to Blockbuster. And rented a movie. My weekend was positively Amish.
Then it was off to the forgotten borough of Staten Island for a lunch with my Grandmother's cousin and his daughter. Because if there is a DROP of shared blood between us I will sniff you out and haunt you for life.
i'd like to make some changes/before you arrive/
so when your new eyes meet mine/they won't see no lies/
just love just love
Today, my beautiful sister gave birth to a beautiful little girl. Little Girl Wilker was born this morning at a healthy 19 inches and nearly 8 lbs.
To my very first niece:
I'm so glad you finally showed up. I look forward to meeting you the next time I'm in Minneapolis and getting to know you over the course of the years. Since you're new at this, let me offer a few pieces of advice.
When you go to Pappy's house, sit with hands folded and listen politely when he talks about golf. Do not touch the remote. Do not touch anything for that matter. Pappy likes babies but he's not crazy about kids so if you want to bask in the warm glow of Steve's attention you better play your cards right or he will give you a shoulder so cold you'll catch pneumonia.
When Grandma is wearing an outfit that makes you want to cry, cry. Really let her have it. When your mom flips out, just get out of the way. It'll all clear up in a few minutes and most likely the problem has something to do with another driver, not with you. Do NOT try to give your father a taste of your ice cream. He. Will. Crap. His. Pants. I find explosive diarrhea hilarious, but I don't know how you feel about it.
Your uncle Patrick has a lot of weird tattoos and yes, sometimes he smells funny. But he's a sucker for girls with brown eyes and nice hair, so be sure to really work that cute baby angle if you want him to buy you a Frosty or a twist cone at McDonald's. Uncle Austin has issues with personal space, both physical and emotional. Be sure to give him lots of hugs and wet kisses and tell him you lovelovelove him all the time.
That just leaves me. One thing I don't like is when babies go limp when you try to pick them up. I'm impressed at the survival skill but honestly I don't like the feeling of ohcrapijustdroppedababy because you're feeling crabby and decided to do the baby slide. Also, I'm not really big into the really extremely high-pitched screaming, so keep that at a minimum and we'll be golden. But you know what I love? I love the smell of clean babies (not shitty diapers) and I love fat baby bellies, so don't go all Nicole Ritchie on us. I also like cute little baby noses, so keep yours as long as possible before the M*Inerny beak eats your face. Yes, I'm assuming you'll get a M*Inerny nose because that gene can strong-arm any other nose gene. Just look around you, girl.
Meghan tells me that you are beautiful and soft and have fuzzy brown hair. I was born blue with a mouthful of my own crap. Long story, ask Grandma. That's it, Shrimpy. There's no turning back now. Welcome to Crazyville.
Love,
Auntie Nora
At 8am on Saturday I took the Chinatown Bus to Baltimore. You may be wondering, as my Grandma did via email:
Baltimore? As in Maryland??? What's there? They don't even have a good baseball team!
Well, I wouldn't know anything about baseball, Granny. And as I found out, there really isn't much in Baltimore, other than a harbor and some seafood and some landmarks and some busted ass buildings. But you know what is in Baltimore (County not City) ? Gilmore. That's right, of the Monkton Gilmores. On my first trip to Maryland (where I got to cross another state off my list, holler!) I met the elusive Dan Gilmore, enjoyed the many masterpieces of Chef Dave Gilmore, Sr., and was for the first time in a situation where redheads were the majority.
It was a nice, nice, nice relaxing weekend. Dave and I watched nearly the entire 2nd Season of Arrested Development and the entire 1st Season of The Office (US). I also ate several homemade chipwiches, which automatically makes the weekend a success.
Financially, taking the Chinatown bus makes sense. $35 roundtrip from NYC to Baltimore, Philadelphia, or Washington D.C. seems like a good idea until you're standing in the pouring rain on a Saturday morning while dozens of Chinese women direct you onto a bus where you stare out the window at their tiny bodies throwing tiny punches at each other. As Gilmore put it, we're worried about landing on Mars? We should be worrying about finding a more efficient way to connect the largest cities on the East Coast. One that doesn't involve getting dropped off at a rest stop outside of Baltimore or breaking down on the freeway near the Newark airport. Oh, and Gilmore also found the Chinatown bus blog. Now I have offically seen everything.
My sister Meggie is pregnant, like she's been for the past 9 months. Shrimpy was expected to get here on January 9th, and though it's last name will be Wilker, it is clear that the baby is already a M*Inerny. I just hope it ends up with the same amount of sarcasm and bitterness, or it will be emotionally and possibly even physically crushed by our family.
For everyone involved (and yes, EVERYONE is involved) this baby's gonna change some stuff. For example, Patrick, you are no longer the youngest. Therefore, you shit ain't gonna be so cute anymore so learn how to use deodorant and how to clip your own toenails. I'm gonna have to learn how to share the spotlight with something that poops its pants. My dad is going to have to learn that his cries for dinner will be drowned out by the baby's cries for whatever it is that babies cry about, which I think might be everything. And nothing. Austin might fall even further off the face of the earth. And Meghan? Meghan might have to share her birthday if Shrimpy McShrimperton decides to arrive on MLK day 2006. In other words, if you want any of Mom's attention, you better get it now.
I've already called her twice today.
Last night I had lunch with Kate Strickland, one of my dearest grade school friends and a fellow New Yorker. We met for Thai food on the Upper East Side and traded stories about college, work, and memories of dear old Annunciation Catholic School. Although it seems like 8th grade was just yesterday, apparently we're all growed up. Some of us are married, most of us are working, some of us are back in Minneapolis and a few of us have scattered across the country. But one of us is gone.
The Annunciation grapevine never told me that Andy Peterson committed suicide last October. He's been dead over a year, and I never knew. It's strange because I think about Andy on a fairly regular basis, since his crazy middle-school antics are still as entertaining in retrospect as they were when I was 12. The dinner conversation fell a little flat for a moment after I received that news. Andy was wild, uncontrollable, and hilarious as a child. Who could have ever guessed that he carried such a heavy sadness inside of him. For all of those reasons and more, I can't bear the idea of Andy being an uncomfortable silence at a dinner table. Andy, this is for you:
Thank you for all of those belly laughs. Thank you for standing on top of desks and making teachers re-evaluate their career choice. Thank you for being a backseat driver to Mrs. Rattray as she dropped 8 kids off at Centennial Lakes Movie Theater. Thank you for having that unrequited crush on Emily Pelant. Thank you for doing the very best Ace Ventura impression I have ever, ever seen. Thank you for being the poster child for ADD long before they handed kids bottles of Ritalin to reign them in. You gave my childhood so much color and so much laughter. Thanks.
Nora
Mary Clare arrived on Wednesday night and the next four days were combination of sleepover talk, shopping trips, laugh attacks, and every kind of food that New York has to offer.
First there was the coffee, bagels, and cannoli for breakfast. Followed by the gigantic turkey burgers near NYU.
Followed mere hours later by Fuzz and I eating so much food at Eastern Nights that Gilmore's eyes turned into lazers.
Fuzz's suitcase (and credit card, for that matter) were hit the hardest.
BONUS:
The requisite try-on-awful-wigs-and-take-photos-and-let-hilarity-ensue.
Today, my cousin Fuzz, sometimes referred to as Mary Clare, arrives in New York City. I am very excited to have a little piece of home sleeping on my futon.
Since life is just a party, Dave, who is trying to be referred to as David these days, is also coming into town this weekend for a job interview and some ethnic food that he will undoubtedly hate.
In other news, I'm getting awesome voicemails on my work phone:
Not sure if this is from the same person who left a creepy voicemail about Nora's Corner (my first published writing venture, a big hit with parents and librarians in the Twin Cities) on my cell phone, but if it is your status will officially be changed from awesome to creepy.