Ham!

I learned something at Halloween this year. People don’t care much for literature. But they FRIGGING ADORE cured meats. As previously mentioned, I was Scout Finch when she dressed up like a ham at the end of To Kill a Mockingbird. Everywhere I went, people would scream, “Ham! Ham! Hey, Ham!” I felt like the fat kid in an after-school special.

Everyone loved it. For its hamness. In the populace’s defense, it is a smallish part of the book, and most people probably haven’t read it since High School, but I really thought more people would get it. I had the following conversation with a stranger at a party:

GIRL: I love your costume!
ME: Thank you!
GIRL: Can I get my picture taken with you?
ME: Oh! Um, sure! (We pose) So, are you a fan of To Kill a Mockingbird, or do you just like ham a lot?
GIRL: I’m Jewish. I thought it would be funny.

The ham itself was incredibly cumbersome, as one could imagine. There are no armholes, and only a small hole to see out of in the front. I did a pH show in the thing, and had to keep craning my neck and jamming my mouth up into the eyehole so people could hear me talk. I mostly just tottered around while people laughed. I also played a vending machine, R2D2, and a giant poop.

Due to the armlessness of the ham, when I went to iO later, I brought bendy straws. Then Arnie, Sarah, and Cesar took turns feeding me my drinks through my eyehole. I thought people might find it annoying, but all three seemed pretty delighted by the situation.

There is now a human-sized ham in my living room. Molly wants to use it as our Christmas tree.

Costumes!

Well, this weekend was very busy. And very costume-oriented.

On Saturday morning, I had a gig for the Halloween festivities at the Cultural Center. Colleen, Cesar, Sommer and I were to do two performances of a sort of make-your-own fairy tale. The Cultural Center was all decked out and scarified, and stuffed to the gills with tiny children in Halloween costumes. Now, the old Tanner biological clock doesn’t often make its presence known, but the sight of a toddler dressed up as a grizzly bear or a bumble bee kicks it into high gear. Adorable! I theorized that when I have babies, I may have to keep them dressed as ladybugs and peapods year-round so that I will remember to love them.

The four of us just about died when we saw one tiny boy dressed as… Mr. T! He had a little bald/Mohawk wig, drawn-on beard, bling, the works. It was HILARIOUS! Unfortunately, we couldn’t figure out how to take a picture without looking like a roving gang of child molesters.

The fairy tale was a sort of choose-your-own-adventure thing, where the kids would choose what was going to happen, and we would improvise around it. To start it off, Colleen asked the kids to decide what character each of us would play. We had been asked to come in costume, so Sommer was dressed as Little Red Riding Hood. “What should she be?” asked Colleen. “She could be anything or anyone in the whole world!”
“Little Red Riding Hood!” they called.
“Ok… what about Tristan? What should she be?” (I was dressed as a princess, in a pink ballgown.)
“A hippopotamus!” came the rousing response.
“Great! And Cesar,” Colleen asked, gesturing to him, bedecked in an impressive wolf hat. “What should Cesar be?”
“A wolf!”

All right, kids. Very flattering. Thanks a lot. Jerks.

The kids in the second show were a little more inventive. Sommer was a slab of cement, I was the Eiffel Tower, and Cesar was a kitten. Oh, the adventures we had!

On Sunday, I embarked on the costume that I’ve been planning for months. Finally, the looming deadline of Halloween seemed imminent enough for me to actually begin work. I am going to be Scout Finch dressed as a ham. For those unacquainted with To Kill a Mockingbird, the protagonist has to dress up as a ham for a Halloween school pageant which illustrates the county’s agricultural products. I decided to achieve this, as Scout does, with a chicken wire frame. I think the covering is fabric in the book, but I’ve opted to use papier maché.

Heading out to the hardware store, I started wondering if a store in the city was likely to carry chicken wire. It seems more suited to rural life. They did have it, though it wasn't exactly handy. “Follow me!” the man working at the front counter told me, grabbing a pair of wire-cutters. I followed him all the way to the back of the store, where he unlocked a door. We found ourselves out in the back alley. Strange… Crossing the alley, he unlocked another door to some sort of big shed thing. We entered the ill-lit building, stacked with boards and dowels and the like, and he pointed me to a few rolls of chicken wire. I selected the kind I wanted, and we set about to measuring. “I’ll need it to wrap around me for the costume,” I told him. He tried to measure it on himself, but we kind of figured it would be best if we measured it on me. So we switched places, and there in a dark, scary, alley-shed, I wrapped myself in chicken wire while a stranger wielding a weapon looked on. I should probably point out that the fellow helping me was a scrawny hipster whose own measurements made it impractical for him to measure the wire because he was so much skinnier than I. He was not the least bit frightening. I was pretty grateful for that. I don’t know what I would have done if the person who helped me had been a little shadier. Or properly nourished. “The things I get myself into,” I mumbled as we unfurled me from my cage.

There are tiny scratches on my arms, and drops of petrified flour water on the floor, but I now have a human-sized (not yet painted) ham sitting in the kitchen, behind the baby gate, so that it doesn’t escape. Actually, it’s because Molly’s dog, Lucy, has an insatiable hunger for the taste of papier maché. Or perhaps my ham-construction is just a little too believable.

Ponies!

I know it’s been a while, world. I’ve been uninspired to write. I still sort of am. And though we learned from my childhood diary that I am predisposed to writing down every single thing that I do, I don’t consider that even remotely interesting. I was g-chatting with my roommate, Molly, yesterday, and mentioned that I had received a one-word comment on my previous blog urging me to “UPDATE!!” I told her that I didn’t think I’d done anything lately that anyone cared about. Molly, in her infinite wisdom, told me, “People care about anything if you end it with pictures of ponies with drawn-on mustaches.” Fair enough.

I determined yesterday that I might be obsessed with poker. I was counting out a dozen of something for a mailing at work, and in place of “Eleven,” I said, “Jack”. Yipes! I can't wait until someone asks me what time it is, and I tell them "Jack-thirty," making them think that I'm an alcoholic. "No, no," I'll protest, chuckling. "Not Jack Daniels! A jack! Like, of diamonds? Oh, that's funny... You thought? No, I'm not obsessed with alcohol. I'm obsessed with... gambling. Oh... That's not much better, is it? Er, I'd better go. I have a meeting at Queen. I mean, twelve! Twelve O'clock! Oh, man..."

Speaking of games, I downloaded one from Popcap about a year ago called Peggle. You shoot a ball-bearing through some pegs, and earn points, blah, blah, blah. It’s not all that fun, but I got super-obsessed with it. This is because there’s a challenge mode where they give you a stamp of achievement after you have beat each level. There was one level I just couldn’t beat, and it made me CRAZY. I spent hours on it, having no fun whatsoever in the process. It was like a second job. (Or third, if you count improv.) Last week, I finally beat it. I yelled. Molly yelled. I shut my laptop with a triumphant, but ginger, click. Finally. I don’t have to play that awful game anymore. Then on Tuesday, a postcard came in the mail. “Thanks for ordering Peggle!” it said. “Now introducing our new version, 'Peggle Nights!'" I wonder if it’s a coincidence and it really just came out, or if the program sends a little alert to the people at Popcap to tell them you’ve completed everything you could on the existing game. It’s not online, mind you, it’s a download. Would they be so devious? Who is against me and my productivity? Is it Popcap? Or the world?

I haven’t ordered it, but I also haven’t thrown the postcard away. In fact, I used it to make a note of when High School Musical 3 is being released in theaters.

That’s right.

Speaking of… Cheesy stuff? Embarrassing things that I love? Movies with a cult following that are about love eschewing the social mores of the class system? I’m going to see Dirty Dancing tonight. The live stage musical event. My dress, jacket, and accessories are hanging in my cubicle right now on my basketball hoop. (As a side note, I rarely do it, but when I do set out clothes to wear , I can't just stack them in a neat, folded pile. It has to look like someone melted out of them. Or that I could leap into them in one single, confident bound. Or, perhaps, like I have set them out for someone who is unaccustomed to dressing herself, and must be shown where each item belongs. Clearly, the options are endless, and keep the imagination whirring long into the night. Though, that's probably just because I keep getting startled awake by the fleshless, but meticulously dressed body lurking ominously by my bed. )

And, yes. I do have a basketball hoop in my cubicle.

My buddy Jason bought Molly and me each two tickets to the show for our birthdays. We are bringing him and our friend Cassie as our guests. I anticipate magic. Campy, delicious, dance magic.

Can't wait!

Class!

A lady in my office just stopped in front of my cubicle for a second, and I thought, “Man! Those are some trashy heels!” Then I realized I had glanced at them through my wire mesh inbox.

To be fair, though, when she looked in, she probably misjudged me and thought that I was drinking Pringles crumbs straight from the can. They were more like shards. Much bigger than crumbs.

Log!

Forgive me for meta-blogging again.

I was considering this afternoon what to write about, and started thinking about how hard it is to grasp what is interesting about you to other people. Or even to yourself at a later date.

Case in point, I recently re-acquired my old diary, thanks to a flood in my dad’s basement that forced me to sort through the shipwreck of memorabilia that my mom had salvaged for me. “Ooh!" I thought. “This is awesome! I’ll be able to see my deepest and most private thoughts from my childhood! I’ll have such an insight into my 8-year-old self! Maybe I’ll gain a better perspective on Present-Day Tristan!” It should be known that Present-Day Tristan is not a big “feelings girl.” I don’t talk about ‘em much, don’t think about ‘em much, don’t deal with ‘em much. Apparently, 8-year old Tristan was much the same. I seem to have treated my diary as more of a captain’s log than some sort of receptacle for my inner-most desires. I list everything. I have to imagine that my diary is the dullest child’s diary that one could ever encounter. Yet, because of that, it’s actually pretty hilarious. For your reading pleasure, here is an excerpt from the first day of a trip to visit my family in California.

All original spelling/grammatical/punctuation errors have been preserved.

5/13/89

Today we got up at 4:30 then we had breakfast. then we went to the airport.
While we were waiting we thought we saw George Bush’s daughter. When we got on the plane it wasn’t clear enough to take off. So we went down to first class were the lady we thought was George Bush’s daughter sat.
Mom said “Hello.”
She said “Hi”
Mom said “Are you the presidents daughter”?
“Yes”
“This is Tristan.”
We exchanged greetings.
“And I’m Julie Tanner.”
“My name is Doro Bush.”
“Are you going to D.C. to see your dad?”
“Yes, but then I’m going to South America.”
“Oh well, goodbye”
“Goodbye.”
Then we went to our seat and played “Snakes and ladders.”
Then breakfast came.
There was a danish, a sausage patty, a blitz, and coffee. That flight was two hours.
Then we got off to the next gate wich was gate “7”.
Then we ate another breakfast.
That was a danish, orange juice, a sausage patty, fruit, and coffee (if you wanted it).
After that we saw a movie, it was called Beaches.
Mom was crieing her eyes out.
When the movie was over we played more Snakes and ladders.
Then we played war.
Then it was time to land.
My ears were popping so bad,*
Then we landed.
I saw Aunt Alicia and Uncle Gary.
Then we went to their house.


*Here you can see that I have written, and then erased, “I cried.”

The complete disregard for the paragraph lends even more of an antiseptic air to the thing. It might as well have military times before each line. What a weird kid! The only thing that even resembles a feeling, I erased! In my diary! That only I would be reading. Well, take that, young Tristan! Grown Tristan is publishing it in a BLOG! On the INTERNET! Now everyone will know that you cried when you were 8 because your ears were popping. Ha HA! Of course even that crying was from pain, not being overwhelmed by any emotion.

The only time in the entire diary that I mention an emotion is 11 days later, when the family went to Disneyland. Following is an excerpt from 5/24/89:

On the way, we stopped at Nougles to get egg burritos, coffee and Orange juice.
The man said they ran out of orange juice.
Em and I were disappointed.
But, the man gave us each a free ice cream cone!
Em and I were very happy.

There you have it. No orange juice disappoints me. Free ice cream makes me happy. Nay, very happy.

I then go on to list EVERY ride that we went on at Disneyland. In order. Including the ones we went on again. It takes up three pages. I recall that I achieved this by carrying a park map around with me all day and writing a number next to each ride we went on. I obviously thought this was very important to remember. Thank goodness I will always know that I went on the Submarine Voyage and then the Teacups, and not the other way around.

So, please pardon my mess while I figure out blogs. I am fighting a natural life-long inclination to tell you everything I ate for lunch today.


(Me and Emilie at Disneyland, circa 1983.)

Trips!

Suppose you came across a blog that was created because the author wished people would update their blogs more. You would think that that person would update her blog frequently, right? To quench her insatiable thirst for bloggery? Wrong-o!

But remember, I never made any grand sweeping claims about updating every day. Or, for that matter, ever again.

I’ve been busy! The week after my last post, I went to Wisconsin with pH for the Milwaukee Improv Festival, then to Oakbrook for three days for my company’s All-Staff Conference, then to Michigan with Molly, Laura and Kristen to stay at the Hall family cabin on Lake Michigan.


Highlights from my trip to Milwaukee:

- Our pHamily the Musical show was lots of fun, and the audience really seemed to enjoy it.
- My shoe flew off during the show and almost beaned our music director, Dan.
- There were snacks and beer backstage. I love free food.
- We went to Safe House, an awesome spy-themed bar. There are secret passages and lots of little puzzle-type things, and you have to know the password to get in. If you don’t, you have to perform some sort of "embarrassing" task. Being told to act like penguins may mortify your average bar-goer, but the lady had to yell at us to stop squawking and waddling around so that she could swing open the bookshelf to reveal a hidden entrance. Super fun. Jason, Dan and I got trapped in a secret passage, and had to call Alaina on her cell to come let us out.



Highlights from my All-Staff conference:

- My boss dressed up as a penguin. (Perhaps he was a spy?) Then he danced around.
- I was forced to dance alone in front of 50+ people. With no music. Twice. Once dressed as an old lady, and once waving a jump rope. The people I support know I have no shame, and exploit this.
- I accidentally told my waitress, "Great buns," referring to bread rolls. She was really mean to me after that.
- The following conversation occurred with a lady that I support in the administrative sense, but never see, as she has a home office. She has recently been diagnosed with diabetes, and is trying to lose weight.

LADY: Is this ham or turkey? I can't eat ham.
ME: Oh, yeah. I forgot you're Muslim now.
LADY: I'm not Muslim.
ME: Um. I know.
LADY: Oh. You're funny.


Highlights from my trip to Michigan:

- We got a tour of the Threadless office from Kristen when we picked her up. Pretty effing amazing. They have two ping pong tables, a photo booth, and Buck Hunter. There’s a bunch of other awesome stuff too.
- We all discovered a common love for Legally Blonde: The Musical.
- We pretended that we were forty-somethings on the annual girls’ getaway, and did bits about our husbands and kids back home. I could never remember how many kids I had. That part wasn’t a bit – I just kept forgetting what I’d decided…
- We messed with a dude that came to hit on us on the beach. It turned out that he was high on mescaline. I became fascinated with rehabilitating him through the powers of sarcasm. I think I really got somewhere with him...
- Molly’s parents were there, and are totally awesome. We even had a goody basket on each of our beds when we got there. Adorable.
- At some point, each of us had a green bug in her hair.

I just unpacked from all three trips.

New!

Lately I have been bemoaning the fact that people don’t update their blogs more frequently. And that more people don’t have blogs. I like blogs. Sort of. If they’re not boring. You get to know what people are up to without the pesky inconvenience of talking to them. When you do have to talk to them though, you can refer to happenings in their blog without them ever having really told you, and you seem magical.

Anyway, it felt hypocritical to complain so much about people not writing blogs when I don’t have one myself. So here it is.

Blog.

I wonder if all blogs start out analyzing blogs, and then laying out one’s reasons for starting one.

Because you can’t really start a blog with “I went to the market today, and it was super-crowded and an old lady bought 8 pineapples and a pair of knee-highs.” Because that in itself doesn’t seem like enough of a catalyst to start sharing your life with the world, odd though it may be.

And you can’t start it with “I just got this promotion and cast in a TV show and my baby invented time,” because then it just seems like you’re looking for attention. But, then again, what is a blog but a desperate plea for attention? “My life means something. The things I do are significant. Pay attention to me.”

So, yeah. Sometimes I do things. Sometimes I see things. They are usually fun.

Here are some highlights of my week:

-There is a church near my apartment that does some extended churchbellery at 6pm. As I walked by on my way to rehearsal I was almost positive it was playing the Jurassic Park theme. Bong bong bong bong bong. Bong bong bong bong bong. Bong bong bong bong bong, bong bong boooooong! It turned out to be some hymn that just has a similar strain, but it was amusing to imagine brachiosauruses filing into the pews in their Sunday best.

-When I walked by IHOP on Sunday, they announced over the loudspeaker, “Tristan, party of 2.” It was really hard for me not to go in. I felt guilty for a minute for just walking by.

-A lady got on the bus yesterday, and then suddenly there was an apple next to her. I’m not sure if it was there already and I hadn’t noticed it, or if she dropped it, or put it there, or what, but there it was. Lolling around on its own little bus seat. The bus gradually filled up, and people would head for the seat, and then see the apple and continue on. By the time we got on Lake Shore, there was exactly one more seat than there were people, so the apple remained undisturbed, free to enjoy the priority seating usually reserved for the handicapped and elderly.

- Played poker last night, and ended up turning a profit of a cool four dollars. Playing from 11pm to 3 am, I figure that puts me at about the same pay rate as an immigrant strawberry-picker.

That’s all for now. Pay attention to me.