Roast Beast

Re: the title. When I was little, my father called roast beef "roast beast" for years, and I was probably five or six before I realized that wasn't really what it was called. I was even older before I realized why he called it that.

Anyway, I was reading this Slate article on Christmas movies when I came across this quip by Emily Bazelon, which may just rank as the greatest childhood memory of ever:

"When I was little, I used to turn off the animated How the Grinch Stole Christmas before the redemptive last five minutes. Without the ending, the movie is the ultimate fantasy for a Jewish kid with a case of Santa/tree/carols envy—Christmas, canceled."

I totally want to be this woman's friend.

Perhaps This Will Become a Regular Feature

Person you haven't thought about in a long time:















Dido.

Especially in a non-Eminem context. I heard "White Flag" on the radio yesterday, and it was surreal. She was a good listen for a mellow kind of mood, kind of Aimee Mann-ish. I always liked "Hunter."

Holly Jolly

I spend my days in a whirr of "last week of classes" mania, soon to be replaced by the "finals week" variety. In my spare time, though, I think about Christmas. I have this weird masochistic side that unabashedly loves Christmas shopping. More than that, though, I adore the music, the still-white snow, the smells...all that good sentimental stuff.

Hmm...in a materialistic vein, this is where I would do all my shopping if I were not A) broke and B) lazy. I don't know what it says about me that I find weaving in and out of mall pedestraffic in a desperate bid to score a deal at Target easier than sitting in my easy chair, stealing the Internet, and clicking buttons. Somehow the latter seems like more work to me. It probably has something to do with my intense fear of credit cards.

Anyway, Rare Bird Finds is absolutely amazing, and someday it will replace Barnes and Noble as my go-to source for gifts.

And this is what I want for Christmas. It occurs to me that I have never plugged the good people at Spiderweb Software before, so here goes. If you have any nerdly inclinations at all, Spiderweb makes the stellar Avernum and Geneforge games. (I've never played Exile, but if you're familiar, it's the guy behind those, too.) They're fantasy RPGs, which aren't generally my thing, but they're so well-written and original that I've remained sharewarely devoted for years. The demos are massive, and each game costs $25, which I could never afford, but now they've got discounted trilogy packs of the first 3 games in each series. I can't wait to get the Avernum trilogy, either as a much-hinted-at gift from my parents, or on my own terms when my scholarship money comes through in January. It will make me happy forever--thank you, video games.

This effing semester cannot be over soon enough.

Memory

Thing you haven't thought about in a long time:











Space Jam.

Winter Wonderland

Living in South Dakota means that one event comes like clockwork every year: the storm that heralds the beginning of the six-month winter. That day came today. I checked the radar at Weather.com at about noon today, and I discovered that South Dakota was in the middle of a Great White Splotch.

I knew the Great White Splotch was coming, and last night I arrived home at 3 in the morning, pulling into the alleyway that leads to my apartment garage. I knew the plow would be coming through today, and I couldn't park on the street. Each apartment in my building has a space in the garage, plus one space in the driveway off the alley. You can imagine my late night/early morning rage when I discovered a neighbor's pickup in my driveway space, deftly taking up one-half of my spaces while blocking the other half. Sleepy and grumbly, I scribbled a polite note: "Please don't park in this space. Thanks, I appreciate it," and tucked it under the windshield wiper. I drove to my boyfriend's house, unlocked the door, and found that he had chained the latch. I thanked the powers that be for skinny arms, jammed my arm through the opening up to the elbow, unhooked the chain, and crawled into bed.

I spent the Great White Splotch Day at my boyfriend's house, watching movies and playing Geneforge 2. After he went to work this afternoon, I maneuvered my car through the drift-filled streets of the city, wipers squeaking merrily as they brushed off the still-falling snow. I arrived home, pleased that my space had been vacated. No harm done, I thought.

So this evening, I trekked through the thick white sludge again, off to Wal-Mart to buy a decent pair of boots and a snow shovel. I spent about an hour roaming the store and debating between two pairs of boots. I paid for my merchandise and carefully drove home.

But of course. Another car in my driveway spot, again blocking the garage. Irritated and unsure of the owner, I placed an identical note on this windshield. I parked in the street since the plows weren't yet running. I went inside, sat down in my living room, and within 15 minutes heard someone clomping down the hall and up the stairs. I began to curse the thin walls and ceilings of my 80-year-old building when the same person began stomping around upstairs. I ignored it, but the cats became uneasy when the upstairs neighbors dropped something heavy. And then another heavy something. And then another. I heard the couple laughing and talking loudly, and then I bristled when I heard a male voice say, "So fucking write her back: 'Sorry, I already paid my rent and I'll park wherever the fuck I want.'"

Now, honestly, I think I'm a pretty good neighbor. I don't cook stinky food, I only vacuum during daylight hours, and I break federal law as I tuck my neighbor's junk mail into his mailbox ever since he filled out a change-of-address card incorrectly. Long story short, I conveniently ran into the couple an hour later as they were leaving (in their other car, which was parked in their driveway spot). I put on my best Friendly Neighbor smile and asked cheerily, "Hey, do you guys know who owns this maroon car?"

They hemmed and hawed a minute before the girl acknowledged that it was hers. "Well, the plows are going to be out in a couple of hours; would you mind moving it?" She feigned polite confusion and asked, "Oh, is this your space?"

I responded in the affirmative, and she and her boyfriend huddled and chattered at one another. "Here's the thing," the girl finally told me, "We have three cars." I shrugged and held my tongue rather than informing them that they ought to have considered this when signing a lease for an apartment in South Dakota that had only two off-street spots (which, in itself, is a luxury in a college town). "Sorry, but I can't park in the street tonight. Plows, you know."

They chatted in low tones again, and she asked, "Is it okay if we just pull it into the garage spot?" "Sure," I said sweetly, "but I can't guarantee when I'll be up tomorrow, and I don't want to block you in."

Again they conferred. "Um, then can we park behind you?" "Oh, I've got more errands to run tonight," I said, thinking up a couple to change the white lie to truth. "I'll be in and out, and I can't be blocked in myself, you see." I was growing impatient with this idiotic selfishness, but Friendly Neighbors don't show such emotions. Finally, she sighed and said, "Okay, we'll move the car." Damn right you will. I smiled, thanked them sweetly, and told them I had to run to the grocery store. As I pulled out of the alley a block away, I did a little victory dance in my seat. And now, dear reader, I sit in my warm little house, car in my warm little garage, and a beautiful empty driveway behind it.