Don't Breathe Too Deeply

Do you remember in My Big Fat Greek Wedding how her father thinks everything can be cured with Windex? Well, my family has something similar, but we prefer a highly flammable substance. Starter fluid. Those cans of starting ether that you get at Pep Boys. Well, Grandfather uses it for just about everything.

It can get ink out of the inside of the dryer. It can get Sharpie off of a gift bag. It can get Silly Putty out of cloth. It can get the goo from a price tag off of anything. And it can get tar off my ass. These are the exotic uses of starter fluid, but what we usually used it for was cleaning generators. It cuts through grease like nothing you’ve ever seen. Back to the tar-on-my-ass story, though…

Grandfather had an old building in Ogden that we always called “The Plant.” Come to think of it, I have no idea why. Maybe I’ll ask him. We were working there one day, tarring the roof. Roll out the tar paper, tar the seams, squish the fiber tape into the tar, and put a final coat of tar on top of the tape. I was working away, counting the hours until lunchtime, trying to keep the sweat from running into my eyes, and I hear, “Kate?”

I stood up and peaked over at GF. He was up to his armpits in the roof. There were some weak spots and he had fallen through one. There was a shelf of lawn mowers in the room below that had, thankfully, kept him from going all the way.

Not sure of what the hell to do, and wondering how I’d tell Grandmother if something horrendous happened, I said, “Yeah?”

He held out one hand to stop me and said, “Don’t come any closer. Just stand there until I get out.”

Not seeing how this was useful at all, I did as he bid. There were some anxious moments as he hauled himself out of the hole, but he made it. We both examined the gap when he was on solid ground again and marveled that he was in one piece.

While that’s an amusing anecdote, it has nothing to do with starter fluid, you say. True. But I’m getting there. While I had been tarring said roof, I had accidentally sat in some tar. I was wearing a really crappy pair of jeans, so I couldn’t have cared less. Grandfather only cared because of what my mom might say and the fact that I had to ride home in his Lincoln Continental. (That car was insane. It was HUGE and cantaloupe colored. We called it the Pimpmobile.) So, I wouldn’t get tar on his precious seats, he had me sit on a plastic grocery bag. Being that it was tar on my pants, the bag stuck to it. Sexy.

Back at the house, he stuck a rag down my pants, sprayed my ass with starter fluid, and started scrubbing away. There was a dark spot there, ever after, but most of it came out. It’s become a long-standing joke now. My roommate makes starter fluid jokes. I should ask Rebecca to post her story about using starter fluid to get the BO out of a stinky costume she had.

Beware the fumes.

Mr. James & Mr. Holmes

During my junior year of high school I had that teacher. You know the one. That teacher that changes everything and shapes your teenage life. Mine was Mr. James. He was very tall, probably in his late 50’s or early 60’s (I’m bad at guessing ages), always chewed a piece of gum, hated the Utah Jazz, loved the L.A. Lakers, and called everybody by their surnames. He also said I was a pod person. I’m not entirely sure why. He had a VERY dry sense of humor, so it was hard to tell if he really would deduct 50,000 points from your grade, or if he was just being funny. Many times, the rest of the class would be staring at him with fear in their eyes and I’d have tears of laughter in mine. During his class, one of our assignments was an “I-Search,” which is a paper that you research on your own. Complete bibliography, interviews, proper format, the works. But the kicker was, you got to pick your own topic.

I was very excited to write mine. I’m a horrendous procrastinator and was determined that I was going to do as much ahead of schedule as I could, hopefully avoiding tears and bloodshed later on. Now, I had Mr. James for the first third of the school year and the last third. During the second third, when a whole bunch of my friends were starting their papers, I quizzed them. What was the first step? What came next? What could I do without actually being in the class? I picked my topic and started working on my premise. Sherlock Holmes: Then and Now. Basically, why was Sherlock Holmes SO famous in 1887 when the first story was published and what’s so freakin’ cool about him that he’s still so famous today?

Yes. I am a geek.

By the time I had Mr. James for class again, I was rarin’ to go. I did my interviews, compiled my sources, wrote to Sherlock Holmes societies for information and, hopefully, useful quotes. I wrote it carefully. Let my parents tweak it, double check it, and prod the hell out of it. I don’t remember crying during that process, but Mum might remember differently. I turned it in, confident that I had worked my ass off and put in all the effort I could have.

A few days later, Mr. James came into class and towered over me. He pointed at me with one long index finger and said, “Ms. Trottier.”

I thought to myself, “Holy hell! What did I do?!” But, out loud I said, “Yes?”

He glanced at the rest of the class and said, “Ms. Trottier has written one of the best I-Searches I’ve read in years.”

My eyebrows hit my hairline and I mumbled, “Really?”

“There were a couple of technical mistakes, but it was so well written you still got over a hundred percent.”

Coming from Mr. James, this was HUGE! It’s like someone else jumping up and down and squealing with delight. All I could do was sit there with my mouth hanging open, looking like a fool. People stared at me and started asking what I had written my paper on that made Mr. James compliment me. I said, with an evil grin, “Sherlock Holmes.”

They were appalled. They had written about abortion rights and gays in the military and I had written about a FICTIONAL CHARACTER!!! It was a pretty cool feeling.

So, wherever you are out there, Mr. James, thank you for the inspiration, the guidance, and the laughs. And know that this pod person is very much enjoying her planetary sojourn.

Dinner with Robin McKinley

Picture it. A mother sitting next to her daughter on a bed, reading her a story. The curly-haired girl, listening with rapt attention to every word. The epitome of childhood, right? Maybe someone else’s, but not mine. Before you start moaning about how my parents should have read to me and how could they be so obtuse, let me say that my childhood was the opposite.

Instead, picture this. Mom cooking something on the stove and curly-haired daughter is perched on the counter with a book in her hands. Many of our dinners were fixed that way. Mum sautéing and me reading to her.

Being the offspring of two librarians was extremely useful. I’d finish a book and Mum would say, “If you liked that, you’d LOVE this!” I’d tell her that it couldn’t possibly compare with what I’d just finished, she’d tell me just to read the first chapter, I would and a day later I’d ask if there were more books in that series. She’d have them ready and waiting for me. I hated that she was always right!

Our favorite dinnertime, or anytime, companion was The Blue Sword by Robin McKinley. It’s my favorite book in the world. I’m not sure whether it’s because it’s beautifully written or because I have so many fond memories of reading it aloud to Mum and Dad. Probably both.

Nine years ago, my copy was falling apart at the binding. Pages falling out, torn cover. And this was a hardback! My AMAZING father wrote to Ms. McKinley’s publisher and then to her. He got me a new copy of The Blue Sword and The Hero and the Crown (the prequel) and had her sign them for me. It was the best present I ever got. (And that includes my U2 iPod! Although, it’s a VERY close second.) He also gave me the letters he got from her. I never had the heart to get rid of my old copy, though. It’s still in my bedroom, lovingly preserved.

Mum and I could never pick which part we should read. Sometimes we just started at the beginning (a very good place to start), sometimes I had her pick a page number between 1 and 272. If we were really at a loss, I’d just start with her favorite part. The sentence, “Mathin could not sleep after he had silently wished Senay and Terim speed and luck,” can still send a shiver down my spine.

When I was home for Christmas, I asked Mum if she wanted me to read and, not being stupid, she said “Yes!” I said, “Blue Sword?” She just smiled. I read while she was cooking and after dinner the three of us sat by the fire and I finished the book. Surrounded by cats and blue-tinged flames, it was perfect.

“My honor is yours, Lady, to do with what you will. I have not been given a fall such as that in ten years and that was by Corlath himself. I’m proud to have had the teaching of you and, Lady, I am not the least of the Riders.”

My name is Kati...

My name is Kati and I’m a Coke addict. No, not that Coke. I mean Coca-Cola. It’s the stuff of the Gods. Just keep reading and you’ll know just how addicted I am.

I love the red of the can. That fabulous sound as you pop it open. (Nothing else sounds like a Coke does. Really.) That first sniff of tasty Coke smell that wafts out. The sound it makes as you pour it over ice. The slight tint of red it has when light shines through it. The way it bites with that first sip. The buzz of caffeine frolicking in your head. The classic taste of it. The last swallow of the can tastes best, I don’t know why. With pizza, or Chinese food, or French fries, or anything really. On an insanely hot day. When you haven’t had one in days. When you’re stuck in jury duty.

I am a purist, though. None of this vanilla-cherry-lemon-lime crap. No Coke floats! Definitely not diet! The only exception to this rule is Coke Slurpees. God, I love those!

De-toxing off caffeine is NOT fun. I seriously cut down on Coke just over a year ago and, at first, stopped drinking it entirely. The headaches were awful! People kept asking what was wrong with me. I lost quite a bit of weight, though. No Coke and green tea did miraculous things for my waistline.

So, there it is. My one true vice. I hear that knowing your addicted is the first step. Towards what, exactly, I don’t care too much… I’m sorry, I have to go. Like a siren calls a sailor, my Coca-Cola is calling me.

The Lights Go Dim

Many of you know how much I love the theatre and, more specifically, that second as the lights go dim. It’s all about anticipation. You’ve been waiting for this moment and this is when the show begins.

It all began with another evening at the theatre. There were many of them in my youth. We had season tickets to Pioneer Memorial Theatre Company in Salt Lake City. Tangent Alert! We always sat in the front row of the balcony at Pioneer and we went so often that we had one guy that we always looked for. He sat on the groud floor, just below us, if we were to look over the edge. He had a shock of white hair and, apparently, no comb. We called him "bed-hair guy" and he never missed a show. OK, tangent's done. Sometimes, we had season tickets for Utah Opera too. I can’t remember the evening that Grandfather first told me the story, oddly enough, but the tale itself has been burned on my brain forever. He said there was an old radio show that was recorded in a theatre off Times Square and every broadcast started with the phrase, “And the lights go dim in the little theatre off Times Square.” Every time after that, he would lean over to me and whisper that as the lights went down. Now, we both murmur it.

That second of suspension is one thing when you’re in the audience, another when you’re waiting to go on stage, and quite another when you’re the one controlling it. I came to this realization recently. I had been stage managing for a while before I figured out that I had been IN CHARGE of hundreds of those moments. I had made them happen! Wow! Such power!

Years ago, that second was a surprise. Cause for a quickening of my heart and sitting up a little straighter in my seat. Now, it’s all about fading out the pre-show music, bringing up the light for Sean’s curtain speech, and switching the CD’s for the first music cue. I have way too much to do to really cherish it. Unless, (this is just coming to me now), maybe that moment is stretched out for me now. It’s the length of the show. Two hours of quickening heart and sitting straight in my seat. It’s just as vivid, just as inspiring.

And the lights go dim in the little theatre off Hollywood Way…

Processed Cheese-Food Product

I was at the grocery story a few weeks ago and purchased a block of cheese. I'm a complete sucker for some super sharp cheddar and thought it would make good snacking material. Well, a couple of days later, I slit it open, cut off a chunk, stuck it in my mouth, and said, "What the hell?!"

It was sharp cheddar, BUT it was processed sharp cheddar! So, it had that evil "American" cheese taste to it! (What is so American about nasty cheese?) The texture was all screwed up and it was vile, plain and simple. I thought Robyn might eat it, but she made the same nasty face I did. Eventually, we threw it away. It was too gross to even think about eating. Blech!