Pants Off Dance Off (PODO).

Here in Moscow, there is a saying that started...oh, somewhere. Somebody once said "pants off dance off," and it stuck like, well, like my shower curtain if I may say so without getting too graphic. Now, whenever we're having a really good time, or proposing to have a really good time, someone describes it as "Hey, PODO!" But it's never an actual pants off dance-off, it's just become a bit of slang, meaning "to have a really good time."

Do people say this off the Palouse, too?

Through the magic of the internet, I have done some credible academic research (Wikipedia--putting that graduate degree to WORK), and it turns out that PODO is a strip tease show that airs on something called "Fuse." Here's the real nugget of info that you'll probably need in order to function: it was hosted in its first season by Tila Tequila; in its second season by Jodie Sweetin (Stephanie Tanner of Full House); and in its third season by Willa Ford. What a list! What ladies!

In case you don't remember:

(You'll notice the lack of PANTS, as if foreshadowing where her career would go.)

(She looks like a lovechild sprung from the loins of Whitney Port from The City and Quinn from Glee.)

(I apparently have a lot to say about this video.)

I bring all of this to your attention because, um, I wanted to. And also, because today I've had pants on the brain. It's Pants Day here at the Spider House--the day I wash all of my pants. Or, almost all (I save a pair to wear, of course). I'm curious as to other people's pants washing habits. See, I have plenty of clothes, but only so many pants. I operate under the assumption that pants don't need to be washed like other items. Especially jeans. I mean, right around day ten or eleven is just when they start feeling really perfect and lived in. So, then, once every six weeks or so, I have to do a mega round of laundry because every pair of pants I own is due for a washing.

Should I be washing my pants more? Am I normal??

Here's what's probably not so normal: because of my height, and the relative length of my legs, and also--if I'm being really honest--a potentially expanding hip/thigh/butt region that causes my pants to hit higher on the ankle, none of my pants go in the dryer (ever). (When I lived in Spain, my little senora refused to understand this, which is why I walked around like a huge American high-water wearing dork and now I don't have a hot Spanish husband.) It's imperative to maintain the precious length of the pants by hanging them to dry. So, on Pants Day, my apartment looks like this:

Pants,

Pants,

PANTS!!!

On every door, on the back of every chair, hangs a wet pair of pants, looking like so many bodies that somebody de-footed and then chopped in half. And today, as I went about hanging them all, I thought to myself, "I wonder if I should tell my soon-to-be-roommate about this, or just let her find out for herself next Pants Day?"

Kendall

Much Ado About Nothing...Redux

(Here are some friends and I, and our interpretation of a Shakespearean comedy of errors.)

You can't see it, friends, but I'm pouring out a little of my ice cold diet cola in honor of two very important people. My parents. Mom and Dad. Oops, careful, trying to keep it off the keyboard.

Why am I pouring some out for my homies (and did we all listen to enough bad rap to get why I would pour diet coke on my desk? I hope so)? Because they're wise. And when I was younger, and people told me that I'd someday realize they were wise, I was like, "What-ever." But today is someday and my parents are a couple of brainiacs. Why? Because (obviously predicting the limits of my adult attention span) they offered me parental advice in bite-size pieces I remember. They offered the Fun Size candy bar equivalent of parental insight. Some examples:

1. You're going to be fine.

2. If you can't sleep, just rest with your eyes closed.

3. Kill them with kindness.

4. They'll get their come-uppance. (This one went with number 3, filled me with an ominous/passive sense of vengeance and was usually in reference to whomever had most recently been mean to me.)

5. Hate is a strong word.

Even though my parents said, "Don't say shut up," or "Don't say butt," (bottom is more gentile), they never said "Don't say hate." Instead, they would say warningly, "Hate's a strong word," and the weird warning tone of it made me so nervous that I would rescind. "I don't hate my brother," I'd say. "I strongly dislike him." And we all seemed to be okay with that.

Then, yesterday, I dropped at least two (TWO) H-bombs in a single post! What came over me? Astute commenters were concerned. And rightfully so. Natalie said, "You HATED it? How is that POSSIBLE?" And Lynn said, "After all, it's Shakespeare." Right! I don't hate Shakespeare. I love Shakespeare.

Here's what I figured out today, in between getting quotes for shipping my mattress to California, canceling my audible.com account, and taking pictures of the furniture I'm trying to hawk (anyone interested??): I dropped the h-bomb, I used the strong word, not because I hated the movie, but because I strongly disliked how it had fallen in my estimation. My vehement reaction was not to the actual film, but rather to how my feelings about it had changed. (Although I still maintain that the Claudio-Hero story really bugs.)

I make my big move to LA in two weeks, and it is terrifying. I have no idea what I'll be doing in three weeks, or one month, or six months. And renting the movie was an attempt to cling to old, familiar memories. Then I was denied the pleasure of the cling! It had me all worked up. Still, I don't need to take my anxiety out on Shakespeare, or Claudio. (Grrrrr, Claudio.) I'd do better to remember Fun-Sized Parental Wisdom #1: You're going to be fine.

So, in conclusion, to end with a bad bit of word-play, my post yesterday was really much ado about nothing. But it was also much ado about something, just a different something than I thought yesterday when I wrote it. You dig?

Clingily,

Kendall

Nightmares and Dreamscapes. True Confessions.

(Just out of curiosity: do these pictures make you feel warm and fuzzy, or do you kind of want to barf?)

My friend, mentor, and fellow BBC drama watcher, Daniel, hates to hear people talk about their dreams. HATES IT. (I dedicate this post to him, though he doesn't even read the slog.)

I had this dream last night...

I was doing a crazy round of speed-dating in an empty parking structure. You know how it is. For each round that a girl makes it through, she runs up a level on the structure. The goal was to reach the top, and be paired off with the person of my dreams. But, I kept getting distracted, and then allowing myself to get swept up to the next level without actually choosing anybody.

When I reached the top, a bossy woman asked me who I chose. "I don't know," I wailed. "I forgot to decide." Well, she gave me a list of the names that were leftover. But she said I could pick two. The leftovers! I picked the first one, "Eric Smith." I remember so clearly, because I thought Eric Smith had had really cute glasses. (Who is Eric Smith? No idea. In my waking life I don't know any Eric Smith.) Then, I picked some girl, because I am apparently pansexual in my dreams.

But, when they emerged from the crowd, it was a different Eric Smith--no glasses. He stood there, smiling at me, not the person I thought I'd chosen, and then the girl came forward. She walked toward Eric, and he reached out and put an arm around her, and they started kissing. I just stood there like, "What just happened?" Even leftover, odd man out, not-the-right Eric found his match.

And the cheese stands alone.

I woke up in a cold sweat, with my heart pounding, knowing FOR CERTAIN that I don't want to end up at the tippy-top of the parking structure of Life, without having picked somebody.

When I forced Scott to listen to the dream, he said, "Well, there's not too much subtext to figure out there."

Here's why I had that dream:

1. My friend Wendy just recently told me that she knows someone who filled out an eHarmony profile, and was REJECTED. From eHarmony. Millions of people on the site, and a person can just get told, "Sorry, you're on your own"?? I've always assumed that if nothing else works out, there's eHarmony--but MAYBE NOT! This fills me with dread. If eHarmony told me they couldn't find a single match out of millions of profiles, what kind of chance would I stand in 3D? None. None chance.

2. At the grocery store, I told someone I was moving to LA, and she said, "Why not? It's not like you have a baby or anything." Which, though inarguably and wonderfully true, also unsettled me because...

3. I recently read an article about women having babies later in life. It said something like, "What most women don't realize is that their fertility takes a NOSEDIVE in their late twenties, and continues to PLUMMET into their thirties." And isn't that language dramatic?? But also, oh my god, I'm LOSING TIME!!

4. I watched a Paul Newman movie directly before bed. Suffice to say, of all people in the world, ever, he's who I would choose as I ran the levels of any garage--I'd pick him again and again and again. Forsaking all others.

In my waking life, I don't much care if I'm climbing the levels of the parking structure in solitude. I like it fine. But apparently, in my subconscious, I'm going just a little bit crazy.

Daniel would say it's something I ate. My subconscious brain free-associating. Nothing to puzzle over. But I'm puzzling.

In honestude,

Kendall

"Working hard? Or hardly working?"

In college, my friend Andrew gave me a framed copy of the image above. Can you read it? It says, "Procrastination: Hard work often pays off after time, but laziness always pays off now." For five years, it has been on my desk. Often, when I should be working on a short story, or a lesson plan, or--Heaven knows--a slog post, I look at the picture instead, and I puzzle over the following questions:

1. Is that man standing in a real place? One that actually exists? Where is it?
2. If it is a real place, and it's as high as it appears to be, how cold must it be where he is? Shouldn't it be snowy? He's above mountains! And clouds!
3. What does this picture have to do with procrastination? Or laziness? Is the message supposed to be that if you don't procrastinate, you can climb this mountain? And what if I've got no interest in climbing mountains? I'm terrified of where he is.
4. Why are his shorts SO SHORT??

Then, an hour has gone by, I've done no work, and I start to think I might feel a little bit hungry, and just like that: productivity gone. Truly, if there was a Procrastination Olympics, I could win. But I wouldn't, because I'd be too lazy to turn in the registration form.

Now, I've got this new TV plan. I've got celluloid dreams (not cellulite dreams--certainly not). With this new goal, you know what two personality traits will absolutely not help me on my way? Procrastination and Laziness. Which means I've got to act against my instincts, just like Dexter Morgan. I've been watching a lot of Dexter, lately. Have you seen it? It chills my bones, and also fascinates me. Dexter has to work against his instincts in order to not be a sociopath serial killer, so, we've got a lot in common, obviously.

The point is that I'm consciously trying to be a different, more industrious person. It's hard to change when I've got 27 years practicing one pattern of behavior, but wanting the job I really want is a very good reason to change. And lately, I've had a lot of work to do. Like, a lot. I've been scrambling. I've been stressed. It has not been graceful. But, I haven't totally hated it. Which is surprising! I'm changing.

For proof, look at these text messages from last night:

Mom: "Life going any better yet?"
Me: "Yes, thanks. Digging myself out of the hole. Is it weird that it's been kind of fun?"
Mom: "No, it's usually rewarding when you work hard at seeing difficult or challenging things through."

I think most adults wouldn't need this explained to them. But I did. Because, honestly, it's kind of new to me to enjoy working hard. I hope I can keep it up.

But, I'll keep the Procrastination picture on my desk--if only because I really like the man's shorty shorts.

(more) Productively,
Kendall

Vinny and Pauly D are my trip to Nepal.

This morning, I got a text message from a friend that said something like, "Quick! Tell me something funny!"

I knew I had to rise to the challenge. Her text could not go unanswered. So I took a deep breath, and I texted her the deepest, darkest secret that I have never told anyone:

"I have crushes on two of the guys from Jersey Shore," I wrote.

Her: "Are you serious?"

Me: "Totally serious. Vinny and Pauly D."

The thing is, Vinny and Pauly D are not exactly my "type." The men I am drawn to usually look something like this:

Oooh, dreamy Dr. Reid. However, Vinny and Pauly D look like this:

Can you see the difference? Can you? (And do you remember those old HiLite magazines where there would be two pictures, and you were supposed to circle all the differences you could find between them? I am tempted to do that here. Helpful hint: there are one billion differences).

In my defense (because on this issue I know I need a strong defense. Some of you will still say my crushes are indefensible, but...) I know Jersey Shore is bad television. I know! They're terrible to women! They're soooo vain! Pauly D has his you-know-what pierced and a huge Cadillac tattoo, and Vinny still lives at home with his mother and likes it. In the words of Liz Lemon, those facts alone should be deal-breakers. Should be.

But as I texted to my disbelieving friend: "They're really funny, and uber-masculine, and also, I'm CRAZY."

Vinny and Pauly D are really funny, and they seem like they're laughing just as hard as, if not harder than, everyone watching the show, and they've got huge muscles and they're always saying things like, "Don't let the spiked hair fool you. I'm not a bitch."

Had I not been confined, via text, to 140 characters, I would've said something like this in my defense:

Why do I go nuts at the chance to travel to distant countries? Why does a twenty-seven year old woman still totally love dressing up for Halloween? Because traveling, or wearing costumes, provides a brief vacation from my all too ordinary self and my ordinary life! Well, Vinny and Pauly D are my trip to Nepal! They're my slightly off-color Halloween costume that I'd never wear 364 other days of the year! I watch them and I think, "What would it be like? If we went to the club, and we beat the beat, and they got in fights defending my honor, and then we all admired their huge muscles while we ate pickles in the Jacuzzi on our roof? Wouldn't that be something different!" And different is always enticing. For a while. In my defense.

The truth is, I wrote this entire entry about Jersey Shore just so I would have a "reason" to show you this CLIP THAT I LOVE.

2010: the year of KENDALL!!!

Because this is my blog (and a "slow-going" blog at that, as one friend has vocalised...ahem...), and because a New Year arrives tomorrow (and what better time to reflect on where you came from, and think about where you are going), I thought I would totally indulge myself by showing you some excerpts from a journal I kept exactly ten years ago. I just encountered this journal in my tiny old nightstand. In every instance, I have done the bare minimum to edit into stand-alone excerpts.

(Anyone allergic to melodrama, or to teenagers who take themselves too seriously, should NOT read on. Even those of you not allergic, I bet I can make you cringe.)

Kendall Sand in 1999-2000. This journal houses the dreams and prayers of Kendall Sand (That is actual title of journal, as written by author on title page).

• "I want to write. I don't know when or where, or for what. But I want to write and I see this as a chance to practice a little every day and become more aware of my voice. Who knows what the future of this journal, or my writing, may hold."

• "If I ever write about being seventeen, I had better remember how much of my life revolved around the enigma of love. What the hell is it?"

• "The comfort I find in solitude does not signify that there is something fundamentally malignant in the core of my being. I am okay!"
  

• "I fear that I will be the kind of person who spends her youth dreaming about what will be, her adulthood dreaming of what was, and fails completely to ever feel content".

• "Every so often, I think it is very valuable to sit down and think hard about who you are. It is late, and I am not up to the task of delving into the complex mystery of me, but this is a brief review:"

• "My identity mantra: I know who I am, what it means to be me. I'll be okay."

• (At this point, I had a terrible crush. Be especially gentle with 17 year old Kendall.)
  "He was polite, I was a kid he was polite to. But...did he have to be so nice, or so genuine, or so hot? Of course. That is what makes unrequited love the bitter pill that it is, the sheer beauty of its target. And he is beautiful, in a radical way that denies beauty, or transcends it. Alas, I am swept away by my much overheated, underused heartstrings."
  

• "Do you know what I see when I picture myself in the future? Nothing. I have absolutely no idea where I want to go or what I want to do."

• "Tonight marks the closing of a door. A door that, if it were up to me, should have stayed open. I crossed my fingers, said short prayers, and stuck a foot in the door just to delay its closing. But shut it is, and I bid a let-down goodbye to the high school football game."

• "Wow, my first journal entry of the new millenium! I am pleased to report no cases of mass destruction or rioting. We're all still okay."

• "When I go back through this journal, I just might barf at its shallow and superficial content. Rest assured, Kendall of the future, you worry about animals and pollution, you volunteer your time, and value the achievement of a deep and personal consciousness. "

Then the journal breaks down into several pages of song lyrics. That's right. Song lyrics. If I'm feeling really strapped for topics in 2010, I might just screw the pooch and reproduce them here. But they are very, very bad.

To recap:

At seventeen, I used words like "alas," and "enigma" and "underused hearstrings." I had an identity mantra. I valued "the achievement of a deep and personal consciousness."

At twenty-seven, I use words like "shit," "blam-o," and "wack-a-doo." I have an identity crisis. I value women who have long hair.

Oh good god, where is the coffee ice cream.

In the words of Andy Rooney, "Happy New Year, almost everyone."

See you back here in 2010!

Kendall of the future

I'll Keep My Eyes, Thank You Very Much

Last year, when I completely lost my mind and elected to take a poetry workshop, I read a really lovely book by Thomas Lux, called The God Particles. Lux is a smarty-pants, and kind of a rock-n-roll type poet, judging from his handsome cover photo. I had a crush on him--a literary crush--which means that my mind plays a weird trick on me where I want the author to like me, so I make sure I really understand and respond well to his work in case we ever meet (and in my mind, we do meet, and I am unbelievably charming and well-versed). It's twisted, but it's true.

So you can imagine my dismay to read his poem titled, "Eyes Scooped Out and Replaced by Hot Coals," where he writes:

"that the eyes shall be gouged out
and replaced by hot coals
in the head, the blockhead,
of each countryman or woman who,
upon reaching his or her majority
has yet to read
Moby Dick, by Herman Melville (1819 - 1891), American
novelist and poet.

Um. (ashamed whisper): I haven't read Moby Dick. That's bad, and I know it. It makes me a blockhead. Thomas Lux claims it merits the forfeit of both my eyeballs. MD is pretty much widely recognized as one of the most important things that ever happened to human words and human brains. I get it.

I just never had a clear sense of what the book was about. I knew that there was a whale; I knew that there was a guy named Ishmael ("Call me Ishmael," I say, whenever someone mentions the novel, because I was told once that that is the first line, and I hope saying it will keep the person from asking me straight up, "Have you read Moby Dick?") and there is a Captain Ahab (I think?); and I knew that I should never, in any of my graduate classes, or in life, on pain of death (or getting my eyeballs scooped out) admit that I hadn't read it.

But a New Year is on the horizon, and I don't need to carry all this baggage and guilt into 2010. (By the way, are we going with "twenty-ten" or "two thousand and ten"? I like the poetry of the latter.) So, I'm reading Moby Dick. I'm on page 21. Do you hear that Thomas Lux? Leave me my eyes!

You know what? I already get why the book is kind of a big deal. It's funny. I just finished the scene where Ishmael, stuck in an over-crowded inn, has to share a bed with a stranger, who just happens to be a harpooner named Queequeg, a cannibal and seller of embalmed heads. So, there you are, with poor Ishmael, hiding beneath the sheets when Queequeg comes in from a busy night of selling his shrunken heads and climbs into bed, weilding a tomahawk between his teeth. And Ishmael, of course, freaks out. Funny, right? Can't you just see Owen Wilson as Ishmael, and Vince Vaughn as Queequeg?

If someone had told me MD was a funny book, I would have read it years ago. Plus, Ishmael, the protagonist, feels super modern and human and flawed. So, here is my big revelation for you, and you're going to be so pleased that you stuck with me until now (did anyone stick with me until now?) : Moby Dick is good.

You can send your gratitude for this insightful review in the form of cash money, or a comment on the blog either about a) your own confessions about Moby Dick; b) your suggestion for another book adults must read, or else have their eyes scooped out and replaced with hot coals.

Cheap Shot. (I've got access to a photo scanner.)

I've got nothing for you today, really, except for this photo that is meant to distract you with cuteness so you don't notice the complete lack of interesting ideas in my brain.

I think massive amounts of food, chased by holiday-sized quantities of television and booze, have made my cerebrum into a total wasteland. Here is a visual representation of what happens when I try to think about potential blog topics:

..........................................................................

So, I'm acknowledging this photo for what it is: a cheap shot to get me out of blogging. When the holidays are over, and I'm a little (a lot) less lethargic, I'll come up with something good to throw your way. Until then, look at me as a little kid, next to a snowman!


PS: I've never been so well-dressed as when my mother dressed me. Check out those saddle shoes.

These are my confessions...(and, Usher, when will you release a new album???)

I've already confessed to a few important facts here. And, when I say "confess," I mean, "admitted to myself" because--again--no one is reading this blog. Someone probably would, I suppose, except that I won't tell anyone what it's called, and when I bring my blogging up in conversation (because I bring up everything in conversation), I shoot my listener the old stink-eye, signaling: don't go looking for my blog. It's still marinating.

Confessions to date (both explicit and implied):
1. I'm a bit of a quitter (vis a vis my first, sad attempt in July).
2. I'm obsessed with thinking about my blog, then writing--in a blog--about what I think about my blog (and yes, my mind really is this circular all the time, something the blog makes abundantly clear).
3. I'm overwhelmingly anxious about being interesting (this is an important realization for me about me, so the blog is proving valuable in that regard).
4. My friends are very, very smart. (Smarter than you-know-who, that's for sure.)

Here is the latest confession I'd like to present to you, and by you, I mean me:

Number 5. My students are also smarter than me. Not all of them, and not all the time, but man--sometimes, they just school me.

Maybe because I am a young, and--as one student said on Tuesday--bouncy (and he means, so we're clear, that my personality is bouncy, which I think means bubbly, as in happy and good-spirited, but it has nothing to do with my anatomy, so we're clear) teacher, they know me pretty well. I mean, they get me. They're able to make astute observations about my character, and then I have to fake like I'm all mysterious and elusive, when really, they've got me pegged.

And they have a habit of asking me strangely personal, entirely off topic, questions about myself (Kendall, do you like chocolate? Why?! Do you have some?? No, I was just wondering.) And last week, when I was really thinking very seriously about getting a cat, what I would name it, and where I would store the litter box because I want a cat but I do NOT want an apartment that smells like a litter box, and would I be able to have appropriate boundaries regarding the cat, aka not treating it as a human being because I am feeling like I need something to love, I walked into class and was greeted by this:

"Kendall, do you have pets?"
"No."
"Do you want a pet?"
"Well, yes. I think."
"You should definitely get a pet."
"Why?"
"Because they're really good at keeping you company, and you're never alone."

What the...? Where did this come from? What was she suggesting with all the "never alone" talk?

Then, today (and I'd like to reiterate that these questions are posed right as I walk into the classroom, still wearing my coat and my bag and not at all prepared for the interrogation, because interrogation it is):

"Kendall, did you always want to be a teacher?"
"Um...no."
"So, what did you want to be?"
(Here, I scramble because, honestly, I've wanted to be everything under the sun--my earliest career ambition was to work at Fred Meyer's, thereby having round-the-clock access to the bulk candy, my second career ambition: Baby from Dirty Dancing--everything except, maybe, for "teacher.")
"I wanted to be an actress. Then, a journalist. Then, a lawyer--"
"I can totally see that!!"
(Several other voices chime in, that yes, they can totally see me being a lawyer, many heads nod yes).
"Really? You can?"

How could she have known that I have, just this week, started reading What Color is Your Parachute? That later tonight I will be making lists of adjectives that describe my skill set, and answering a series of questions that will tell me what I am meant to do. That I am, right this day, struggling with whether I should have gone to law school, or should maybe go back to school for...something. If I'm going to look for a different job (and everything in me says that I need to), what job am I going to look for?

How do they do that?? My students. It's like they sense my deepest thoughts and worries.

No, I never meant to be a teacher, but here I am, with these crazy, ESP students and frankly, it really does not suck (if you don't count pay, benefits, job security, and Lewiston).

But here is Confession #6: I have this one idea of what I really, really want to do.

I think my parachute is TV colored. So, there's that.

And in conclusion, seriously, Ur-sher, MAKE AN ALBUM.