I’ve visited Alaska. Twice. And both visits occurred in 2007. Most of my time was spent in Anchorage but I did venture out to other areas like Seward and Kodiak.
On my first trip, I packed a wool crepe blazer and pointy toed, leather soled boots. I also toted a Prada messenger bag and packed everything up in a Tumi duffle.
“Wow, what’s up with all of those coolers? People bringing back things they killed?” I asked Alaska as we stood at the edge of the baggage carousel.
“We call that Alaskan luggage,” he explained as another cooler toppled out of the chute, the plastic covered with strips of gray electrical tape.
The next time I visited Anchorage, now more aware of the locale, I packed fleece and trail running sneakers. It’s the same way I travel to third world countries, dressing down so as to fit in. When I explored Ecuador and Guatemala, I left my stainless Tourneau timepiece on my dresser, relying instead on a plastic Swatch. I swapped out my Prada leather wallet for a nondescript one. My goal when I travel is to fit in and experience the landscape as if I lived there. There’s nothing to gain by sticking out.
“I just need to run in here and grab a new rifle strap,” Alaska announced as he shifted his car into park.
“That is a sentence that will never leave my mouth,” I said as I unclipped the belt.
I followed Alaska back through a maze of gear, displays dripping with camouflage hats and bright orange vests.
Standing in front of a wall of rifle straps, I asked Alaska a very relevant question.
“What do people who don’t hunt and fish do in Alaska?”
“They make plans to move.”
That marked my last visit to Alaska. But I’ve still kept up with the goings on in that state. Whether it’s Kodiak Konfidential or My Fairbanks Life, Murphy Dome Diaries or the Well Seasoned Woman, my weekly blog entertainment always includes some brilliant Alaskans. So while I’ve never technically lived up in that state, I do feel like I have a pretty solid grip on what life is like up there. That’s why, when I first saw Palin take the national stage, I had only one response.
“They don’t sell clothes like that in Alaska,” I noted to the people sitting around me.
“They don’t?” one person asked in disbelief as she adjusted her pearl earring.
And the answer is no, no they don’t. Sure, there’s a Nordstroms and a Banana Republic in the Anchorage mall. But that’s just not how they live. And I don’t say this in a bad way. Alaska reminds me of the interior of New England. You can wear a fleece jacket to a four star eatery in Vermont. Skinny heeled boots probably don’t even exist in all of Maine. Life in those parts isn’t about dressing chic but dressing for comfort and the weather. There are more important things to occupy yourself with, like the breathtaking scenery.
Anyway, it didn’t surprise me when the wardrobe costs for Palin exploded in the media last week. And I don’t have too much to say about it. At least not beyond the following:
(1) That’s a ridiculous amount of money to spend, even at retailers like the ones noted. And this has nothing to do with sexism but with poor judgment. I’d write the same thing if Biden was caught spending this sum on suits.
(2) Donating the Valentino and Escada togs doesn’t justify the indulgence. Although I’d love to know the exact drop date and location so I can buy all that shit up at a hefty discount.
(3) I’ve worked for over a decade at Banana Republic, a store that is by no means as chic as Neiman’s but certainly well respected for quality. I have also shopped at Barney’s and Bendel’s, Bergdorf’s and Bloomies. Escada is elegant but Ellen Tracy accomplishes the same thing. Palin, sweetie, you should have bought lesser suits and had them tailored to fit. It would’ve avoided this conundrum you find yourself in. You know, the one about being a small town girl draped in expensive Italian wool. Because our gripe isn’t that you got all dolled up but that you did it in a way that negates what you stand for. And nobody likes a hypocrite.
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
Thursday, October 23, 2008
Scars
A few years ago, my dad’s office chair at home broke. Like, you couldn’t raise the height of the seat so your chin was even with the desk. Standing in the foyer, Ex held the back of the new chair and I bent down to grab a hold of the base, a collection of steel tentacles with wheels. Except because it was a swivel chair, the top spun to the left and the bottom spun to the right. We both lost our grips, sending the base right into my leg. I screamed a string of expletives before dropping to the floor to clutch my shin. The wound healed but the evidence has remained, a thin white line a few inches up from my ankle.
I also have a scar on the top of my left foot. Two summers ago, while visiting Leslie in Atlanta, I played with the kids in the pool. Anders was leaping off the side and Olivia was sitting on the steps pouring water into teacups. At a certain point, I decided to swim back to the shallow end. I lowered my head, moved my arms and kicked my legs. Except the top of my left foot kicked right into a pebbled ledge just below the surface.
There was no question I had hurt myself, but I didn’t realize how badly until I was sitting on a chaise. Exposed to the air, the cut gushed blood. I bandaged it up but since there was little separating the flesh from the bone, the cut continuously reopened. It wasn’t until September that the scab finally fell off. I was left with a scar similar to the one near my ankle. Although, because of the location, this one was easier to see.
I have other scars too. There’s a dark spot on my right cheek from the Chicken Pox. I have a brown spot midway up my left arm from when I knocked into a burning cookie sheet. And I have a scar on my right palm, the result of a sharpened pencil piercing the flesh. I don’t recall how it happened. But I do recall my second grade teacher going pale when I held out my open hand to show her a gnawed up yellow pencil sticking straight out of it.
And then there are the scars you can’t see. Like the time Ex told me I was never thin enough. Or when Alaska said he didn’t love me. You may not be able to examine my exterior to see the evidence of those cuts, but they both left scars. They no longer ache and they no longer bleed. But there is no denying evidence of those gashes.
Earlier today, while sitting at lunch, I crossed my leg. When I glanced down at my Mary Jane, the patent trim reflecting the light, I could see the scar on the top of my foot. Looking at the thin slice of white, I smiled. It isn’t that I’m a masochist. I don’t take pleasure in the pain that comes with a bloody bruise. It’s that scars remind me I have survived. Without question, it’s been tough getting here. It was never easy bandaging the wound as I clenched my teeth to fight against the pain. But at least none of it took me down. And in the end, that’s all that really matters.
I also have a scar on the top of my left foot. Two summers ago, while visiting Leslie in Atlanta, I played with the kids in the pool. Anders was leaping off the side and Olivia was sitting on the steps pouring water into teacups. At a certain point, I decided to swim back to the shallow end. I lowered my head, moved my arms and kicked my legs. Except the top of my left foot kicked right into a pebbled ledge just below the surface.
There was no question I had hurt myself, but I didn’t realize how badly until I was sitting on a chaise. Exposed to the air, the cut gushed blood. I bandaged it up but since there was little separating the flesh from the bone, the cut continuously reopened. It wasn’t until September that the scab finally fell off. I was left with a scar similar to the one near my ankle. Although, because of the location, this one was easier to see.
I have other scars too. There’s a dark spot on my right cheek from the Chicken Pox. I have a brown spot midway up my left arm from when I knocked into a burning cookie sheet. And I have a scar on my right palm, the result of a sharpened pencil piercing the flesh. I don’t recall how it happened. But I do recall my second grade teacher going pale when I held out my open hand to show her a gnawed up yellow pencil sticking straight out of it.
And then there are the scars you can’t see. Like the time Ex told me I was never thin enough. Or when Alaska said he didn’t love me. You may not be able to examine my exterior to see the evidence of those cuts, but they both left scars. They no longer ache and they no longer bleed. But there is no denying evidence of those gashes.
Earlier today, while sitting at lunch, I crossed my leg. When I glanced down at my Mary Jane, the patent trim reflecting the light, I could see the scar on the top of my foot. Looking at the thin slice of white, I smiled. It isn’t that I’m a masochist. I don’t take pleasure in the pain that comes with a bloody bruise. It’s that scars remind me I have survived. Without question, it’s been tough getting here. It was never easy bandaging the wound as I clenched my teeth to fight against the pain. But at least none of it took me down. And in the end, that’s all that really matters.
Friday, October 17, 2008
I Give Up
I’m sitting in the driver’s seat of my mom’s car. The building that houses her foot doctor is just beyond the bumper and she’s inside having her stitches examined. My purse sits on the floor, the top unzipped and items scattered throughout. An issue of Travel & Leisure is spread across my lap. After I read an article about Southern France, I lean my head back and let the sunlight pouring through the sunroof beat upon my face. Then I close my eyes and pretend I’m sitting in a slatted chair on the Nice Promenade.
“Look, PJ!” my mom exclaims as she climbs into the front seat.
“Your boot is off!” I say as I open my eyes and adjust them to the light.
“Yup! I can drive again. Amen!”
“Oh yeah, a-the-fuck-men,” I mumble as I turn the key and steer the car out to the street.
Three weeks ago, Papa Sven died. Or he didn’t technically die. He simply sucked through four gallons of coolant in twelve hours. It all came to a head 40 miles from home, at nine o’clock in the evening, after an OBGYN appointment. Because New Jersey and a pelvic exam aren’t painful enough on their own. Since my mom couldn’t drive due to a busted foot, I abondoned Papa Sven and temporarily adopted her car.
And yes, I know this coolant problem, a leak somewhere in the line, is a fixable issue. So is the sunroof that doesn’t close, the trunk that doesn’t open and the broken filter fan thingy that trips the engine light. It’s just that the cost of fixing Papa Sven has now broken the $3,000 mark. And that’s assuming nothing else goes wrong. Seeing I have only owned the car for five months and already spent close to $2,500 on repairs, those are pretty obvious odds, no?
A week after I offered sexual favors to a Nepalese man at a gas station on Route 70 in exchange for assistance with refilling my coolant, I test drove the Audi A4. It was a bold move seeing I’ve cursed the brand since my youth. For twenty years, that’s all my dad drove. And without fail, there was always a window that was either stuck up or stuck down. The malfunction also typically occurred 500 miles away from home and on a very rainy day. It got to the point my dad kept a spare roll of electrical tape in his trunk. My favorite malfunction was the door that, since the inside handle didn’t work, required lowering the window to reach around for the exterior handle. Except, when that window got stuck in the up position, you had to start exiting on the other side of the car altogether.
Anyway, after dealing with the rapid deterioration of Papa Sven, a seven year old car with less than 40,000 miles, I crossed Saab off the list. My first car, a 1989 Honda coupe, never steered straight. My Acura Vigor was overpowered and underweight, sliding across lanes at minimal speeds. My Jeeps, yes, I had two, sucked gas faster than a frat boy doing a keg stand. My Nissan Altima, while reliable, felt hollow like a tin can. And since I’ve been driving an E-Class for the last three weeks, everything I can afford drives like Spam on wheels.
“You look beat,” my dad said as I collapsed in the chair across from his desk.
“I just spent an hour haggling over the price for a car I think I want.”
“PJ, the Audi’s got a great look. And you raved about the way it drove.”
“It did stop on a dime and rip through turns. I don’t know. Maybe I’ll borrow Michael’s '96 Avalon. He said I could. Since his kids are all out of the house, it’s sitting unused in his driveway.”
“You’re kidding, right?”
“Car leases make me want to barf.”
“Just get the Audi and be done with it.”
“I don’t even know what color I want. Dad, I test drove it in the dark.”
“You get that from me. On the way back from our appointment we’ll drive through the dealership and you can always borrow my car,” my dad said with a chuckle, knowing full well I’d rather take the bus than maneuver his Edge, a car that has so many blind spots I feel like Helen Keller at the wheel.
After a three hour appointment, I steered my mom’s car onto the Audi lot.
“Is that it?” my dad asked as I pulled parallel to a metallic silver A4.
I just looked through the window.
“PJ?”
“Can you take me Saturday to pick it up?”
PS: An hour after finishing this post, my mother came bounding into the office.
“PJ!” she excitedly sang. “I have a C-Class loaner and this is what you need to get. I've gotta run home to meet the heater guy but I'm coming back so you can take it for a few laps around the neighborhood. You're going to LOVE it!” she trilled.
As soon as I heard the back door clicked close, I intercommed Michael and asked him how much he wants for the Avalon.
“Look, PJ!” my mom exclaims as she climbs into the front seat.
“Your boot is off!” I say as I open my eyes and adjust them to the light.
“Yup! I can drive again. Amen!”
“Oh yeah, a-the-fuck-men,” I mumble as I turn the key and steer the car out to the street.
Three weeks ago, Papa Sven died. Or he didn’t technically die. He simply sucked through four gallons of coolant in twelve hours. It all came to a head 40 miles from home, at nine o’clock in the evening, after an OBGYN appointment. Because New Jersey and a pelvic exam aren’t painful enough on their own. Since my mom couldn’t drive due to a busted foot, I abondoned Papa Sven and temporarily adopted her car.
And yes, I know this coolant problem, a leak somewhere in the line, is a fixable issue. So is the sunroof that doesn’t close, the trunk that doesn’t open and the broken filter fan thingy that trips the engine light. It’s just that the cost of fixing Papa Sven has now broken the $3,000 mark. And that’s assuming nothing else goes wrong. Seeing I have only owned the car for five months and already spent close to $2,500 on repairs, those are pretty obvious odds, no?
A week after I offered sexual favors to a Nepalese man at a gas station on Route 70 in exchange for assistance with refilling my coolant, I test drove the Audi A4. It was a bold move seeing I’ve cursed the brand since my youth. For twenty years, that’s all my dad drove. And without fail, there was always a window that was either stuck up or stuck down. The malfunction also typically occurred 500 miles away from home and on a very rainy day. It got to the point my dad kept a spare roll of electrical tape in his trunk. My favorite malfunction was the door that, since the inside handle didn’t work, required lowering the window to reach around for the exterior handle. Except, when that window got stuck in the up position, you had to start exiting on the other side of the car altogether.
Anyway, after dealing with the rapid deterioration of Papa Sven, a seven year old car with less than 40,000 miles, I crossed Saab off the list. My first car, a 1989 Honda coupe, never steered straight. My Acura Vigor was overpowered and underweight, sliding across lanes at minimal speeds. My Jeeps, yes, I had two, sucked gas faster than a frat boy doing a keg stand. My Nissan Altima, while reliable, felt hollow like a tin can. And since I’ve been driving an E-Class for the last three weeks, everything I can afford drives like Spam on wheels.
“You look beat,” my dad said as I collapsed in the chair across from his desk.
“I just spent an hour haggling over the price for a car I think I want.”
“PJ, the Audi’s got a great look. And you raved about the way it drove.”
“It did stop on a dime and rip through turns. I don’t know. Maybe I’ll borrow Michael’s '96 Avalon. He said I could. Since his kids are all out of the house, it’s sitting unused in his driveway.”
“You’re kidding, right?”
“Car leases make me want to barf.”
“Just get the Audi and be done with it.”
“I don’t even know what color I want. Dad, I test drove it in the dark.”
“You get that from me. On the way back from our appointment we’ll drive through the dealership and you can always borrow my car,” my dad said with a chuckle, knowing full well I’d rather take the bus than maneuver his Edge, a car that has so many blind spots I feel like Helen Keller at the wheel.
After a three hour appointment, I steered my mom’s car onto the Audi lot.
“Is that it?” my dad asked as I pulled parallel to a metallic silver A4.
I just looked through the window.
“PJ?”
“Can you take me Saturday to pick it up?”
PS: An hour after finishing this post, my mother came bounding into the office.
“PJ!” she excitedly sang. “I have a C-Class loaner and this is what you need to get. I've gotta run home to meet the heater guy but I'm coming back so you can take it for a few laps around the neighborhood. You're going to LOVE it!” she trilled.
As soon as I heard the back door clicked close, I intercommed Michael and asked him how much he wants for the Avalon.
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