Melissesages

Like skiing, housepainting, and knitting, I can bake, but I usually choose not to. Baking can be fun, the way anything you only do once in a great while can be fun (ie watching “Titanic,” playing volleyball), but ultimately it’s a lot of work for something I can buy in a store. More importantly, nothing I bake tends to have any nutritional value whatsoever, with the possible exception of bran muffins. So to me, baking is taking a lot of time and energy for something that’s super unhealthy for me. Not my idea of an ideal evening.

But, every once in awhile, the mood or occasion strikes me, and I go into Baking Mode (which, incidentally, is a lot like Housework Mode or Reading Mode, in which people are supposed to leave me alone). Last night was such a night. Since I bake so rarely, though, I do also tend to bake a lot. This is because I want to show off my crazy baking skills to as many people as possible in one go, which helps to limit the number of times I have to bake (Efficient, right?). When my mom gave me the recipe for Frosted Pumpkin Chocolate Chip cookies, she cautioned me that it makes a big batch, so I might want to halve the recipe. Instead, I made a batch and a half. The original purpose in cookie-baking was to provide some for my little sister, a junior at Luther College in Iowa, who I’ll be seeing tomorrow. After I made a couple dozen for her, though, I kept going. Tyler and I both brought cookies to work this morning, and we’ll bring cookies when we hang out with our couple friends tonight. Tyler already took a plate over to my mother-in-law’s last night, and of course, there was a pan or so’s worth of cookies that Tyler took down by himself, and the large-ish amount of dough that I ate (Would you believe the baby made me do it?).

The cookies took most of the night, but if I do say so myself, turned out well, and I’m feeling pretty pleased with myself. Not only did I accomplish my original goal of making cookies for Stephi, but I’ve showed off my baking skills enough to get by without baking again for months. Hooray! Now I just have to stop eating cookies.

In television news, a sad fate was handed down for three ABC shows last night. The network announced the cancellation of quirky “cult” favorites “Pushing Daisies,” “Dirty Sexy Money,” and “Eli Stone.” They’ll all be disappearing after they finish out their original 13-episode run. I don’t care much one way or another for “Eli Stone,” since I decided awhile back to take a years-long sabbatical from legal shows. And the cancellation of “Pushing Daisies,” by far the best of the three and maybe the best new show on television, is very sad, but we all saw it coming. The show, like “Sports Night” and “Firefly” before it, is simply too smart for its own good. It’s creative, unusual, brilliant, and gorgeously designed and shot, so it makes sense that “Give us Law and Order or Give us Death” Americans would have no interest in it whatsoever. I’m extremely bummed out about the loss of great television, but I just can’t say I wasn’t expecting it.

Actually, to my own surprise, the show I’m most depressed about losing is “Dirty Sexy Money.” I’ve watched this show since the beginning, and have really enjoyed its soapy, clever wit and ridiculously fun storylines. It’s basically “Gossip Girl” for grownups, and it’s silly escapism that has managed to avoid being patronizing or cheesy. And man, the show does boast the best ensemble cast on television: Donald Sutherland, Lucy Liu, William Baldwin, Jill Clayburgh, and Peter Krause are all film and television royalty, and there have been some outstanding performances by relative unknowns Glenn Fitzgerald (as the sardonic, bitter Brian) and Natalie Zea (who plays Karen and dances away with every scene she’s in). This is the kind of show that Tyler and I watch and go, “Ugh! He’s so evil!” and “Oooooh!” every five minutes. It’s just fun, but it’s good fun, and I’m really very sorry to see it go. And a little surprised – unlike “Pushing Daisies” or the equally quirky “Eli Stone,” “Dirty Sexy Money” does seem to have the potential for mainstream appeal. But there are a million factors that go into these network decisions (and don’t think the fallout from last year’s writer’s strike is over yet, because we’re still seeing plenty of that), and my guess is that ABC simply didn’t have anyone to partner this show with. Even in the TiVo age, the networks still work very hard to sculpt a television “lineup” of similar programming, which is why CBS pairs crime shows together and NBC has its Action Mondays. And with “Private Practice” pairing with its parent show “Grey’s Anatomy,” in the winter, “Dirty Sexy Money” simply finds itself without a dance partner. And down comes the ax.

On the (somewhat dim) bright side, this will leave me with more time in my week. There’s so much I should be doing every night: grad school applications, keeping the house picked up, working on the nursery, and about a million other little things. Instead, though, by 7 or 8 Tyler and I drop down on the couch to watch TV until bedtime. We love TV, and dammit, I get tired. But maybe if there’s less to watch, I’ll be able to work up the energy to get more stuff done. Right?

I spent this past weekend with family in Flanagan, Illinois. Flanagan is a small town: there are less than 1,000 people, there are no stoplights at all, and you can walk all the way around town in about 45 minutes. There is no video rental place, no restaurants (though there’s one bar), and certainly no movie theater. It’s not exactly what I would call “Melissa.” When I was a kid, we used to Illinois pretty regularly to see my mother’s side of the family, and each time I arrived with an enormous stack of books, protection against the boredom that awaited me in town.

Still, I’ve always had some great memories of Flanagan – visiting by myself for a whole week in the summers, playing in the hay loft at my cousin’s farm, taking my first 4 AM Black Friday shopping trip with my sister to a nearby town, eating enormous meal after delicious enormous meal. My fear of cats was first cultivated on the half-wild farm cats at my uncle Phil’s (they bite), and one of my earliest memories ever is when a newborn puppy in the barn bit my finger. I cried, more surprised than anything, and my older cousin Brent made me laugh instantly by pretending to spank the tiny creature, which didn’t even have its eyes open yet. And, above all, time with my maternal grandfather. He and I never had too much in common, but his sense of humor intersected perfectly with my own. When I was a kid he would spend hours showing me his coin collection (don’t laugh, it’s fascinating) or playing cards or telling stories about my mom when she was little.

But while I’ve always had good memories there, it took me a long time to appreciate Illinois and a way of life that was so different from the one I preferred. While I was dreaming of, and then eventually in, Hollywood, my cousins were getting degrees and returning to town to work and get married young. If I were an anthropologist, I would note that the culture there is very family-oriented: there’s a strong emphasis on getting married, settling down, and raising kids in the Christian, morality-centric manner in which one was raised themselves. Careers are not unimportant, but the choices are limited. You can work for State Farm, teach or coach at a public school, work at one of the few downtown businesses, or farm, and that’s pretty much it. It’s just not as crucial to do something you’re passionate about, when you’re faced with limited options.

Back in the day, I always thought I just brought books for the 6-hour car ride and any random downtime – it wasn’t until I was 14 that my mom commented, surprised, that I actually hadn’t spent the entire trip with my nose in a book this time. After that, I realized that my own natural antisocial tendencies were amplified by cornfields, and made an effort to pay more attention. The problem was, for most of my life, I felt very much like an outsider in Illinois: an anthropologist visiting a fascinating new tribe. I don’t mean to imply that I see myself, or my chosen way of life, as superior in any way, because it is not. I have a ton of admiration and respect for my relatives in Flanagan. But the choices and the mindset I’ve encountered in Illinois for my whole life have always seemed very “other” to me: interesting, viable, and Not My Thing.

However. It took awhile, but I’ve finally caught up with my Illinois family in terms of status. In my 25th year, I find myself married, a homeowner, and a soon-to-be mother. My career has become less important to me than it used to, thanks to a combination of familial entanglements and geography, and suddenly I find myself daydreaming about teaching my daughter to build Lego towns and wondering when Tyler and I will be able to afford a bigger house. I’ve spent hours online at home, trying to figure out via customer reviews which stroller is the safest, and I spend a good deal of time worrying about how I’m going to keep the dogs exercised in the winter and how on earth my husband and I will be able to keep seeing movies in the theaters when the baby is born.

It is important to note here that I am not sorry or regretful about where I am. But I have to say, beginning with meeting Tyler, this is all very unexpected for me. And on Saturday night at the party for my grandparents’ 55th wedding anniversary, there was definitely a moment where I looked around me and thought, “whoa.” There were kids running around everywhere, kids I adore, and I was one of three pregnant women. The conversations revolved around kids’ sports and morning sickness and what the big Christmas presents are going to be this year and the relative value of Diaper Genies. Not to mention how many more kids everyone wants to have. When I expressed my dislike of being pregnant, one of the other moms told me having a baby is even worse, and then I joked “Yeah, but at least then you can drop the kid off at someone’s and go have a drink already.” Needless to say, I didn’t get much of a laugh.

I should have felt like I finally belonged, like I had as much right as anyone to talk about day care and Webkinz and teething, but I think I felt more out-of-place than ever. Here I am, owning a house, in a happy marriage, and expecting a child, and I felt like the dumbass little sibling who everyone expects to fail at their latest ridiculous endeavor.

As I type this, I’m realizing that what it comes down to, mostly, is that I know I’m not wired to be the kind of mom my sister, aunts, and cousins are. I can put on a good show: buying the right brands and read customer reviews on Target.com and laying out plans for discipline and education, but at the end of the day I’m just wired differently from the women in my family. And they’re all fantastic mothers. Does that mean I’m going to be a bad mom? And even if I’m not, even if I’m just different, is everyone in my family, all those great mothers, going to think I’m a bad mom?

And yes, it’s normal, and yes, completely predictable, but I’m also at a crossroads in terms of who I, Melissa, am going to become. I’m not ready to end my story yet, to switch parts from leading lady to the “mom” character who hangs in the background. I’m not ready to coast on the position I’m finally at, nor am I ready to let go of the dreams I’ve always had, despite their mounting impracticality. And at the same time, I can’t stand the thought of being a crappy parent.

We’ll see, I guess. But I’m troubled about all this. I want to be an amazing mom who raises an amazing little person, but I don’t want to stop being who I’ve been. I want to be near my family and yet have a high-powered Hollywood career, and I want to be in a marriage without losing my sense of myself as an individual. Clearly, I can’t walk this tightrope much longer - at some point, some things are going to have to give.

Happy Wednesday!
I’ve been out of touch for a few days now, due to being in Chippewa all weekend and pretty crazed trying to get ready for the GRE. I took the test last night, and did okay – not as good as I think I could have, had I started studying earlier, but hopefully good enough to get by. Most of all, I feel an enormous sense of relief that the exam is over and done with. Last night at my house it was just like the last day of finals, with much “who cares what I got” celebrating and high-fivery. (Of course, I’m married and pregnant, so celebrating now consists of lying on the couch watching my backed-up TiVo and eating Famous Dave’s takeout, but still. Yay.) I’m not out of the woods yet on the applying-for-grad-school front, since I still have to actually, you know, fill out the applications and write all my personal essays, but applications and essays are at least familiar ground, unlike, say, math.

Having had my head buried in a GRE study book for the last week, I don’t have too much else to report. I had an extremely nice, though quite busy, weekend with my family. I got to see a ton of my niece and nephew, which was great, and I spent some time with friends, cousins, grandparents, etc. My mom and I also went shopping for maternity clothes, and I was surprised to see how many people were already out Christmas shopping. I’m a Black Friday girl myself – more on that another day – and with the economy the way it is, I didn’t expect everyone to be out quite so early, but more power to ‘em.

On the television front, we’re getting to a point where the original 13-episode show contracts are running out, and the networks have to decide what they’re keeping and what they’re tossing, which is a scary time for any fans of “on-the-bubble” shows. “Terminator” “Life,” and “Chuck” all appear to be safe for now, having been picked up for the rest of the season, but I’m concerned about “Pushing Daisies,” ABC’s most creatively brilliant show. “Daisies” has suffered from chronic low ratings since it returned this fall post-strike, until about the only thing going for it is that most of ABC’s other sophomore shows are experiencing the same fate – low ratings all-around will make it harder for the network to decide what will get the ax. But “Pushing Daisies” is a fairly expensive, niche kind of show, so it’s not looking good.

On the bright side, if “Daisies” dies, show creator Bryan Fuller will return to writing “Heroes,” a program that’s been floundering terribly in his absence. I’m not even going to go into what-all is wrong with “Heroes,” since it would take me the rest of the day, but let’s just say it needs a major overhaul, but quick. Other shows I’m concerned about: “30 Rock,” doing better this year but not outstanding, “Dirty Sexy Money,” an extremely fun guilty pleasure on Wednesdays, “Fringe,” which is doing fine ratings-wise but criminally not meeting its creative potential.

I’m sad to see that “Lipstick Jungle” will most likely be cancelled in the next week or two. The show was a flop on Wednesdays, so NBC moved it to the death slot of 9 PM on Fridays, where it, predictably, has done even worse. I’ve really been enjoying the show, mostly because of Brooke Shields’ character Wendy, whose high-powered film exec career I want really, really badly. Maybe it’ll be good for me to cut ties to that one. One show I love that’s in no danger at all is “The Mentalist,” which is the top new show of the season, and deserves it, too. It’s a CBS procedural (because the network rarely makes anything else) but lead character Thomas Jayne (Simon Baker) is so much fun, you don’t even care. Tyler and I were in stitches (do people still say that?) last night when Jane, as a reformed fake psychic, investigates a case at a casino, where he easily wins about half a million dollars throughout the episode thanks to his talents at reading people. Other shows I’m loving this season: “Supernatural,” of course, “Grey’s Anatomy,” which has been picking up steam after a so-so last season, “The Big Bang Theory” and “How I Met Your Mother” which put the funny in Monday night’s busy lineup, “House,” for pretty much the same reasons I like “The Mentalist,” and “True Blood,” though I still haven’t figured out if I like the show for itself or because I’ve enjoyed all the books.

I always thought of myself as having a good vocabulary. Not because I work at it, or because it comes naturally, but because I am a big reader, and people who read a lot tend to pick up words.

So I’ve always been pretty confident about vocab…until, that is, I started studying for the GRE. If you’ve never taken the test, the GRE is two sections, basically Math and English, and nearly all of the English questions involve the use of ridiculous words. Seriously – whether it’s finishing sentence construction, choosing an antonym, or even reading comprehension, you’re expected to know a staggering number of words that NOBODY EVER USES. These are not words that appear in books, even textbooks. They do not come up in casual conversation, and they’re not something you’d learn in, say, school. Want some examples? Opprobrium, obdurate, prevaricate, ameliorate, specious, perfidious, inchoate…those are all English, folks. If you’ve ever used the word “inchoate” in a sentence, come see me and I will smack you on the head, because you need to get out more.

To make it even MORE fun, a number of these words have multiple meanings, which you are expected to know. And there’s no guarantees that any of these specific words will show up on the GRE, and there’s no list somewhere of every big word that MIGHT show up on the GRE, which means that even if you make it your quest to learn every big word in every study book at Borders, you may be completely screwed on test day. Fantastic.

I’m not even going to get into how terribly I’m bombing at the math section, being a) not mathematically inclined and b) not enrolled in a math class for almost eight years. That’s just too depressing to think about. My point is, English is supposed to be my sport, so to speak. And yeah, I can complete a sentence, and find perfect antonyms, and my reading comprehension kicks quite a bit of ass, if I do say so myself. But those skills are pretty useless if I don’t, you know, KNOW ANY OF THE WORDS.

Here’s my question: what’s the point of this difficult language thing? How is it useful to test our reaction to words the vast majority of the English-speaking world has never heard of? I mean, if nobody knows these words, how would ANYONE score well on this test, therefore making it a suitable analysis of one’s verbal skills?

Really, the best you can do is memorize as many of these words as you can, and hope those are the ones that appear on the test. But that makes the whole thing a little bit about chance, a little bit about skill, and a LOT about one’s memorization skills, which seems awfully stupid to me, and kind of a waste of my study time. Like I didn’t have enough to worry about trying to re-learn the freakin’ Pythagorean theorem.

There is one positive thing I’m really taking away from all this, though. For years, cultural and literary analysts have been whining and moaning about the “dumbing-down” of the English language. I can’t remember how many of my English professors used to mourn the language set of Shakespeare and Milton, convinced that we are all slowly turning ourselves back into cavemen because we don’t speak with such eloquence anymore. At the time, I was sympathetic, sad that the analysts might just be right our culture. Now, though, I’ve changed my mind, and I’ll tell you why: there are too many words. Way too many. I think if English speakers were to completely lose the use of the word “prevaricate,” the world would really only be a better place. Where the GRE would make a lot more sense.

Last night, thanks to a wedding-related gift card, I had my first visit to a spa.

I shouldn’t say it was my first visit, actually. I’ve been to spas before, on shoots for work, so I get the general idea about quietness and peace and Eastern philosophies and free tea. But this was the first time I was there actually getting a treatment – in this case, a prenatal massage – and it was kind of a strange experience. First, I was late for my appointment because I had forgotten I was almost out of gas and had to stop. So I had to run in all flustered and didn’t have much time to collect myself before going in. Plus, the whole deal with spas is that the people in them always look like they spend a lot of time getting spa treatments themselves – they’re all well-groomed, exfoliated, perfectly made up, and flawlessly dressed. Then I come running in all tired and fat with no makeup and my hair flying all over because it needs a trim…this is not a relaxing experience. Here’s a tip, spa owners: it doesn’t help us clients to start the day with an inferiority complex because of your hot receptionists (or does it? Is it all a ploy to make us feel inadequate so we spend jillions of dollars on treatments? If so, bravo, spa owners).

Anyway, I showed up…unsettled, and generally feeling a lot more like “the help” than the glamorous client. Then my masseuse led me to back to a tiny dark room with a bed in it, where I was instructed to get off the clothes and climb under the covers. Odd. (She used my name a lot too – I assume to be calming, but it just reminded me of that episode of “House” where Cameron reads a self-help book and tries to use everyone’s first names in every sentence.) When she returned, the masseuse carefully explained everything she was going to do (“fine, fine, get on with it”) and then, to my surprise, walked to a corner of the room, picked up a stick, and banged on the lamp with it. Apparently, the glass lamp doubled as a gong, for it did make a great big deep gonging noise. I thought it kind of odd that she made a point to tell me all about how she was going to wait to put oil on her hands until after she touched my face, but neglected to explain why she’s pounding on a lamp.

The massage itself was exactly what I’d expected, which was a little disappointing, actually. It’s kind of like the first time you get a manicure, and you’re expecting it to be kind of magical, to feel all pampered, when really it’s just a lady painting your nails for you. Or in this case, rubbing oil on your back. Except for the gong-lamp, the Asian-inspired Muzak (again, EXACTLY what you’d expect), and sheets that are way nicer than mine, it was pretty much the kind of back rub I give Tyler all the time. Not that it was crappy – I just give a really good amateur backrub, and this wasn’t all that different. The whole time, I was trying to tell myself to relax and “free my mind,” or whatnot, so I could get the whole experience, but in actuality I was thinking more about what TV shows I was going to watch later, taking Max to the vet early this morning, whether my new boobs would look good in a princess cut dress, and so on. Seriously, mind was wandering, but very active.

When she was done, the masseuse banged on the lamp again (why??!) and stepped out so I could get dressed. It’s not the first time I had to find my clothes in a strange place in the dark, but it’s been awhile, and was just kind of a surreal moment. The chakra-soothing music continued to play, the candles all around me were flickering, and I was wishing I hadn’t worn such a dark, difficult to see bra.

I don’t know. I wouldn’t say that massages, or especially prenatal massages, are a waste of time or money (this experience, by the way, cost my gift certificate almost $100), but like manicures and straight-irons, I prefer to take care of it myself. (Or, in this case, whine until Tyler does something.) There are a lot of people who really find spas a meaningful and valid investment, but I just don’t think I’m built for it. Give me a SoCo and diet Coke, the remote control, and a full TiVo, and I can relax ‘til the cows come home, but this was not me. Although I’m starting to think it would be more fun if I had a great big gong-lamp as well.