The Meanest Man in America

October 23rd, 2009 by Chris Nelson

I’ve long suspected that the cruelest cuts come with a kiss. Today it arrived in the form of a Wyoming State Patrolman who let me off the hook for speeding, but then did something far, far worse.

He wrote a citation, all right–because I don’t have a WY driver’s license. Apparently, even though I have a valid NY license, I was supposed to get it changed over within a year of residency. Oops. Guess they forgot to include that tidbit with the welcome package. I could so with one less bucking bronco sticker and one more “Hey, here’s the state law regarding the operation of motor vehicles.” Might help.

Anyway, I get out of the moving violation. Yay! And then I read the citation. Boo! The legalese is all fine and dandy. But the devastaing part was the physical description. He listed my correct hair color, eye color, height…and proceeded to overestimate my weight by thirty pounds.

I wouldn’t even be that heavy if I were pregnant with twins.

Yes, I read and reread that number and it stayed the same. Triple digits. Mocking me. What kind of man charges you $100, makes you part with your NY license and then PUTS DOWN ON PAPER–IN TRIPLICATE–THAT YOU’RE A FATASS? A Wyoming Highway Patrolman, that’s who.

Sadist.

The man looks me in the eyes, tells me he’s giving me a break, and then proceeds to stab me in my neurotic back. (Through which, my ego insists on noting, you can see ribs.)

That’s it! I’m going to court! I must correct this error for the record! Did you not see the NY license? I don’t have country bones! I’m vegan! I do an hour of aerobic and 1,000 crunches a day!

The upshot was that it took me 27 minutes from the time I left my desk at work to drive to the DMV until I exited, temp WY license in hand. That includes the eye test, photo and fee processing. 27 minutes.

I was sad about parting with my home state until I realized how easy it is to get things done around here. I went to the DMV, the courthouse (they may throw out the ticket) the supermarket and the library all on my lunch break. Hey, maybe this country living ain’t so shabby.

So long as I keep my distance from psychologically devasting highway patrolmen, I’ll be fine.

If anyone asks, he was 450 pounds. Give or take.

Category : Big Sky Country, Me! Me! Me!, Seen Around Town
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Six Story…Beavers?

October 13th, 2009 by Chris Nelson

For the past few weeks, this guy in my office has been raving about the new IMAX technology. Granted, it could be the same technology they’ve been using for the last ten years. It’s been at least that long since I was willing to fork out for a six story nature show. But I’m totally susceptible to rave reviews. (Which explains why I paid good American currency to see The Changeling.)

Apparently, full features are released in IMAX, now. It’s not just for nature anymore! At the Museum of Natural History in New York, however, it’s all earth all the time. I can’t imagine how many terrifying visions of extreme weather, journeys to the tops of mountains and fierce (or cuddly) animals they had to go through before they sank to this depth: Beavers.

The museum website doesn’t even give these poor creatures an adjective in the title of their IMAX debut. They don’t package them as “funny,” “resourceful” or even the tried and true “busy.” Nope. They’re asking you to fork out for plain ole beavers. All twelve-year old humor aside, is any beaver worth twenty bucks?

Seeing as the little guys spend most of their day building shelter, I can imagine that half the movie will actually be shot inside oversized dams. Q: What could be less exciting than watching a bucktoothed mammal build a twig-and-mud contraption? A: Watching a twig-and-mud contraption instead of Where the Wild Things Are, screening across town at Sony Lincoln Square.

I have to admit, part of what gets me about Natural History is their ticketing policy. In order to see IMAX, you have to pay the full (rather than suggested) admission to the museum. I’m a big fan of the pay-what-you-wish policy, as I’m pathetically closer to a starving artist than a patron of the arts.  Even so, I imagine that I could pull a crisp bill out of my hat for Spike Jonze.

Beavers, not so much.

Category : Entertainment
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Hey Oslo, WTF?

October 9th, 2009 by Chris Nelson

Yes, I voted for Barack Obama. Joyfully. I cried at his acceptance speech. And yes, I enjoy listening to his sound-bytes on the radio, which tend to come out in full sentences, in appropriate verb forms and tenses. Yes, he looks damn good in a suit. But worthy of the Nobel Peace Prize?

Naaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa.

Poor Jimmy Carter, who had to serve a full term, then actually do something after his presidency, in order to win the award. Poor everyone else who was nominated, too–people who had to do more than get themselves elected against a ticket that included Sarah Palin. Not the hardest task on planet earth, people.

Sending Bill instead of Hillary to North Korea was a smart move. Our president has made a lot of smart (slick) moves. So far, though, the only real example of genuine diplomacy I’ve seen Mr. Obama display is calming down Henry Gates with a beer. I hate to think that Alfred Nobel’s selecting committee considers the president’s potential–as conveyed by a marketing campaign–worthy of their award. But that’s exactly what they seem to be saying.

Now our pathetic, persuasive American ad campaigns are even effective at nabbing a Nobel? It’s a sad, sad world we live in, when nouveau celebrities like Mr. Obama start sweeping the Nobel prizes like a glorified popularity contest.

At least the literature award is still safe. I feel comfortable knowing that I have never heard of the recipient, and will never read her work. That means there are larger things out there in the world than lil ole me and my populist (call it trashy) taste.

Please–reserve me a copy of that Levi Johnston Playgirl. And hand me a chalice full of hemlock if Dan Brown ever gets the Oslo treatment.

Category : At Large
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Joyride

October 5th, 2009 by Chris Nelson

Last weekend I sat down to do a close table edit of the last 150 pages of my novel, and the next book insisted on itself, instead. It started pouring out of me, in screenplay form, in a fully-realized way I thought would take at least 6 months of outlining to achieve.

Sometimes, it’s just that easy.

Of course, it helps that this is a story I’m intimate with, having written it to death, already. I tried all kinds of convolutions, over the course of five years–the story never worked. So I put it down for seven years. Now the story seems to be telling itself. 

Once upon a time, I would panic about a gift like this:  I would think I had to keep going, going, if I put the pages down, the muse will never come back–that my work was at the mercy of whim. I still have my superstitions. I write with the same pen until it runs out. I don’t talk too much about plot. But I am not afraid that the words will leave me. I’ve paid my price on this one!

It’s beautiful when the writing machine hits three lemons and the silver dollars start spilling out….

Category : On Writing
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Last to the Party, First to Leave

October 1st, 2009 by Chris Nelson

We got over an inch of snow last night– September 30th. I was more angry at the fact that it couldn’t wait a night.  Snow in October just doesn’t sound so bad!

The last time it snowed was June 7th, the day after my wedding. I had a house full of family and friends, every last one commenting on the unseasonal weather. All I can say is, it doesn’t feel so damn unseasonal to me. Not when we’ve gone a mere 17 weeks without the white stuff.

Earlier this week, we hit the mid-eighties. And now, obviously, it’s below freezing. Between the super-hyped H1N1 going around and the fact that I can’t possibly figure out what to wear from one day to the next, it’s amazing that the entire state of Wyoming isn’t quarantined until, oh, say, next July, when it decides to warm up for a whole week at a time.

(Actually, it should be easy to get dressed, going forward. I’ll just wear everything in my closet at once. A dozen or so wool sweaters, skirts, pants, boots–oughta do the trick.)

Ah, summer. We came so late to your party, and left so early. Can you please issue an extended invitation to your brother, Indian Summer? I’d really, really, like to see him this year….

Category : At Home, Big Sky Country
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I can handle all of it but the helicopters

September 11th, 2009 by Chris Nelson

I started to get angsty about the anniversary of 9-11 in mid-August. Finally, it’s here. And when I bury my head in the media sand, I can get through it.

I don’t know how to walk the line between memory and moving on. All I know is that my heart rate goes up when anyone mentions 9-11 on the news, or whenever I hear a helicopter. I will never forget. I will never bury my pain that deeply. But I don’t believe that listening to all the coverage out there will help me, either.

For this one day a year, I have an extremely hard time avoiding “what might have been.” What if my uncle had stayed at the academy that morning? What if I went to a bar, instead of a friend’s apartment? What if my family had processed it all differently?

I have relatives who won’t get on a plane. Ever. I don’t mind air travel, but I can’t stand the sound of helicopters. They hovered for months afterward. Now everytime I hear one overhead I think that a new tragedy has struck.

Is it wrong to carry on like it’s a “normal” Friday? I feel sad. I might cry. But then I will go to the gym and eat my lunch and later on eat my dinner and go to sleep around 10 pm. Is that ignorant, or a successful sign that I’m healing? Is normalcy really just avoidance dressed up in routine?

Today, I’m far from Ground Zero. In fact, I’ve only seen a single helicopter fly by me in WYO .  I’m lucky to feel safe on a daily basis. But at what cost? People here seem to have no sense that danger even exists. I doubt that I would trade my current comfort for 24-7 fear, but I wouldn’t trade it for blissful ignorance of fear’s existence, either.

So where does that leave me? Right where I am. And even if I can’t name it, or define it, or embrace it, I can live it. Here, now. Today is not just another day. But it is my day. I plan to treat myself gingerly, and enjoy what I can.

Category : Me! Me! Me!
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59 Candles

August 7th, 2009 by Chris Nelson

I guess I’m never going to meet John Hughes, now.  I’ll have to let that little fame-seeking fantasy go, along with the one where I get to do high school over and end up with Andrew McCarthy. Mr. Hughes has passed away to the prom in the sky, and I don’t know if I can keep from crying.

Growing up in the 80’s, the Hughes’ repertoire was far and away my gold standard of teenage fare. We didn’t have Twillight’s vampires. We had humans to lust after. Truthfully, I still prefer Judd Nelson to Robert Pattinson. At least the “rebel” has a nose. (The better to sniff out cheerleaders with a proclivity for bad boys.)

Speaking of which–Molly Ringwald, the cheerleader in question–perfect casting. Pretty, sweet, but not impossibly gorgeous. She amply fulfills the audience stand-in role for teenage girls in many of Hughes’ most memorable films, fitting perfectly into the “she could be me” category…whereas Kristin Stewart is far too haughty for the every-woman role. When I was 16, there was no way I rolled my eyes that much. My closest relatives may disagree. But please, let me still cling to a few fantasies….

I have to admit, too, that I feel guilty about Hughes’ death–he died in “my” city. New York killed the 80’s, man! He won’t be the last visitor to have a heart attack there. But he was one of the most influential to my generation. Sorry, Wisconsin. We didn’t mean to take him from you.

Flat out, John Hughes was a brilliant filmmaker. He captured teen angst like nobody else. Sure, we all remember our our teen heroes the best.  Hughes was mine. He gave me hope that the jocks, the nerds, the weirdos and the popular girls could all sit around a table together one day. Guess he anticipated FaceBook that way.

For the hope, the dreams, the laughs…to the late, great Mr. Hughes: RIP.

Category : Entertainment
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Silver and Gold

August 5th, 2009 by Chris Nelson

Mom always told me it would happen…As a silver lover from long back, I had to admit to myself that I really do, now, prefer gold. Granted, my wedding ring is white gold (looks silver).  But as for clothing, shoes, jewelry, home accents:  only gold will do.

Taste, that stalwart, has become a fickle friend.

It’s a seismic shift. I don’t know when it occurred, either. All I know is that I caught myself looking at a perfectly lovely silver top this morning and wishing–really throwing the hope out there–for it to turn into gold. (Where is Rumplestiltskin when you need him on e-bay?)

The same thing happened to me with wood. (Ba-dum-dum) I was always an oak girl. My preference was, for plain, light colored wood. Now I wouldn’t even put light wood in the laundry room. I’m drawn to espresso, mocha–colors like rich tasting coffees.

Is every aspect of my taste subject to such an obvious about-face?

What if I wake up one day and look, aghast, at my black clothes the way I see Navy? What if all of a sudden I want to be swathed in pastels (which I did prefer as a child)? What if I decide I’m not really a gym person?  Or a reader. Or a writer.  What if I decide I really do prefer math to English? Could I be a man trapped in a woman’s body?

Naaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh. But I could very well be a lazy person trapped in a neurotic’s body. I’m pretty sure that I’m repressing my inner fat woman. Even as I type this, she’s struggling to step off the elliptical and get her chili cheese fries on.

I just hope that my taste doesn’t change in even more embarrassing ways. I don’t want turn on soap operas and be awed by the plotlines…or decide that celebrities’ lives are none of my business (The horror!).  I hope I don’t release a rap album or start to cook with butter. And please, if I decide that blue eyeshadow is actually, gorgeously ironic, please shoot me.

Let’s just hope that I don’t have to order my gym clothes in blue XXXL before the cycle of strange is complete….

Category : Me! Me! Me!
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The Summer that Wasn’t

July 24th, 2009 by Chris Nelson

Historically, summer has certain characteristics that carry over from year to year. American kids don’t go to school, for one. Tourists tour. And it’s supposed to be hot outside. This year, I’ve seen the campers, the out-of-state license plates. But I haven’t felt the heat.

In Wyoming, where it snows six to eight months a year, it’s imperative for my well being that I get good and hot for a few months. The first four years I was living here, it routinely hit 100. One hundred degrees of lovely dry heat. It worked like a charm!  It got so hot for so long that I was excited for it to get cold again.

Here’s the rub: Without a decent dose of mind-melting heat, how am I supposed to be grateful for freezing temperatures to return?  This year I am seriously lacking the will to get through the winter.

I know it’s been similar all over the country. My friends back home tell me about breezy days that should be sweltering. It’s not all bad, not having summer. But it’s not all good, waiting for the leaves to fall off the trees again when I only got to wear shorts twice, either. Maybe August will bring those third-degree sunburns I’m craving….

Category : Big Sky Country, Me! Me! Me!
1 Comment »

Get a Grip

July 9th, 2009 by Chris Nelson

It’s been two weeks since the man turned his right hand into Frankenstein.

 right-hand2

His injury is definitely making me appreciate the use I have of both hands–especially for writing. I instantly lose 100+ points off my IQ when I try to scribble with my left. My print looks like the specialest of the special ed kids got hold of a crayon and a piece of papyrus.

In fact, there are all sorts of fun things I use my hands for that I automatically take for granted. Like pulling my hair back into a ponytail. Or getting dressed. Eating meals, too. If I had to shovel in my calories lefthanded, I would have to wear clothes to match whatever color food I’m eating. Half of it would, inevitably, end up in my lap.

Watching the man do his hand exercises, such as “try to get the ring finger to touch within five inches of the thumb” is excruciating. As is the game we play where I touch his pinky with increasing amounts of strength and ask if he can feel it. He can’t. His nerves aren’t repaired, yet.

At least it looks better:

new_pics_062

One odd thing, though: no amount of scrubbing seems to get the blood off. Perhaps Lady MacBeth wasn’t being metaphorical.  Out, damned spot, indeed!  Blood on your hands tends to linger….

Category : At Home
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