In which we feed the geese

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Way back in 1995, my family took a day trip to Wheaton Village.  We visited the glass museum, watched the artists at work, window-shopped in the stores, and took the train ride. 

We also had a nice picnic lunch.  Sandwiches, juice boxes, cookies, standard stuff.

As we were eating, a fluffy little gosling, all alone, waddled over to us.  He looked up at us with big, sad eyes, and let out a little, forlorn, "Peep?"

We've fed the ducks -- and geese -- when we've gone back the creek, and they've always been greedy but relatively sedate.

So we threw a little crust of bread the gosling's way.  He gobbled it up cutely, then raised his head and screamed, "HONK!"

All his friends and family came swooping in.  An entire flock of geese swarmed us, demanding tribute.  Vicious things.  One started gnawing on my shoe.  Another actually bit my father on the rear end.  It was as if we had stepped into a Hitchcock film.

Eventually, we started throwing bits of sandwich as hard as we could in one direction, then took our belongings and ran in the opposite direction.  It worked.

By the way, the reason I remember it was 1995?  For dinner that night, we got Happy Meals at McDonald's, and my prize was Ferdinand the Duck from the movie Babe.  Despite Ferdinand being a duck, I deemed the toy a souvenir goose.  (Yes, I was 12.  They were cute and I was a collector. Shut up.)

The good

Lesson learned: Don't feed the geese!

In which I hyphenate

I've been Laura Grow for 25 years.

Chris has been Christopher Nyberg for almost exactly one month less.

I respect personal choice, and while I have a problem with unexamined tradition, I do like tradition that's been evaluated.

That's sort of the problem. I've evaluated the traditions behind a woman taking her husband's name.

Now, let me say this up front -- if you've chosen to take your spouse's name, that's great. It's your decision and I have to assume you've thought it through and made the best choice for you. What follows only addresses what's right for me.

Name is identity, especially when you're a writer. So please, explain to me why Chris's identity is worth more than mine?

Why should I stop being a Grow and start being a Nyberg? I mean, yes, I am becoming a Nyberg, but no less than Chris is becoming a Grow. And while our children will someday be Nybergs, they will no less be Grows (and S[-----]s, and H[--------]s, and P[----]s, and O[-----]es, and... any of the other names I don't even know, that have been forgotten purely because their bearers were female).

I decided a long time ago, and stand by my decision, to either hyphenate or keep my name, depending on how it sounds. My last name is a verb, after all; there are certain combinations that just wouldn't work.

My name works nicely with Chris's, though. I like the sound of Grow-Nyberg.

Makes monograms difficult, though. See, any monogram using N as a centerpiece is just inaccurate. You could do my monogram as LNC, but that wouldn't be my name. You could go the maiden-name monogram route and have LNG, but that eliminates my middle name and proves that my last name is worth less than his. And our joint monogram would either be a giant N -- inaccurate -- or our initials together. LNC or CNL.

Either way, inaccurate again, because it's not my name.

Chris and I discussed this, and we decided that, where possible, we would use the three-letter monogram, but have the center letter be a hyphen. That's right. Our preferred monogram is G-N. Or G-N, if you like (if you can't tell, it's an oversized hyphen). I was worried about accuracy, but Chris pointed out that yes, he will be as much a Grow as a Nyberg (even if he's not hyphenating), and ours will be the Grow-Nyberg household.

I'm not going to be an N, you see. I'm going to be a G-N.

The good

In addition to having Chris on my side as I gently flout tradition, I really like the look of this. Now we just have to figure out a way to get it on the registry information.

Please note that all but two of the surnames have been censored. Chris has given his express permission for his full name to be used.

In which I profit from ill-gotten goods

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When I was very small, there was nothing I wanted for Christmas more than a Cabbage Patch Doll. It was the early-to-mid-80s. Everyone wanted a Cabbage Patch Doll. It was my generation's Tickle Me Elmo. Better -- no two are alike, you know, and you can register your doll's name with the Adoption Agency.

Of course, there were none to be found. Anywhere.

My mom got her hands on a pattern and made me a fake; I honestly don't know if the head she used was official or a knock-off, but the doll looks good except she has no Xavier Roberts tattoo on the ass, and the shoes from official outfits don't fit her feet.

My dad had a friend who knew a guy who worked near a guy who sold the dolls in a parking lot. They "fell off a truck," if you will. They were insanely overpriced. My dad used this tenuous connection and got one.

When I found out about this, years later, I felt incredibly guilty.

My third birthday was very exciting. Not only was I a big girl, but the new baby would be coming soon. From what I can piece together from vague memories and stories, one of my uncles gave me, as a birthday present, a tiny pink bear that squeaks when you squeeze it. I asked someone to read the tag; he was "Made in Edison, NJ" so I named him Edison. I also proclaimed that I was going to give it to the baby. I saved it 'til my brother was born, took it to the hospital, and gave it to my mom for him.

When he came home, I took it back.

When I was a little bit older, my parents told me this. I felt so guilty, I didn't know what to do. I loved Edison; he was part of my bedtime lineup. Still, he technically belonged to my brother and I technically stole him. Several times I gave him to my brother, missed him, asked for him back.

My brother never really cared, of course.

To this day, I don't know if that bear is rightfully mine or his. I'm 25, he's 22. That's right, it's over 20 years since I gave the bear to him. Hell if it matters at this point.

I still feel bad.

My junior year of high school, I took AP Biology. It was a tough class, but fun, too. Mr. D. was a great teacher. Excited, a little crazy, maybe the tiniest bit perverted -- just as an AP bio teacher ought to be. His favorite time of year was when he got to teach about genetic deformities in humans. He was the guy who coordinated the SAT. I'm sure you had some version of him at your school.

Anyway, after the AP exam was done, all we really had to do was finish dissecting our cats. Since everyone was pretty much under control cat-wise, we decided to have a big celebration. We called it "D-week" in honor of Mr. D. There was snack food and a cake with an edible photo on top like they do now -- of Mr. D.'s head on a swimsuit model's body. He was all flustered and pleased and embarrassed and excited like an AP Bio teacher would be.

It was widely suspected but not confirmed that much of the snack food was stolen. A few kids in the class worked at supermarkets or drugstores and "liberated" items from time to time. I didn't know for sure. I was naive. I gave people the benefit of the doubt and enjoyed the candy.

There was a raffle. I won a camera -- one of the new drop-and-load ones. I was so excited. I took a few pictures of the class, and of Mr. D.

Then someone confirmed that much of the party stuff -- including the raffle prizes -- was hot.

I was horrified. Also, pissed. There was nothing I could do. I couldn't return it to the store anonymously, since I had opened and used it. I couldn't pay for it; I didn't know where exactly it had come from. One of my classmates was pissed off, said if I didn't want it, I should let them re-raffle it so someone who didn't mind could have it.

I still have that thing sitting around somewhere. I probably won't see it again until my parents die and I have to clean out their house. I don't think I'll ever use it. I would feel so wrong. Just remembering I own it feels dirty.

If I ever accomplish anything with my life, maybe someday history will look back and deem me worthy of two dolls, a tiny pink bear, and a drop-and-load camera.

The good

Well, it looks like the Catholic education worked after all. Kidding.

Honestly, if the above is the worst that can be said about me (which I'm neither confirming nor denying), I'm in good shape. I need to remember that.

In which I celebrate Independence (and Capitalism)

Image by John_Wright via FlickrAll through college and grad school, I worked at Target during the summers and some Christmases. And every year, I worked closing on the 4th of July.

This wasn't a huge deal. Most of the traditional holiday stuff I enjoy takes place in the morning anyway, and once the the last-minute barbecue crowd cleared out, the store was quiet enough that we usually were able to leave not long after the store closed at 10:00. I don't drive, but my parents were often kind enough to pick me up.

You couldn't ask for better timing. The shopping center is located on top of a hill, and at 10:00 all the surrounding townships start their fireworks displays. If you just stand there for about half an hour, you're rewarded with a 360-degree light show. It's almost impossible to know which way to look -- which shows are professional, and which are done by a drunken crowd of neighbors? Are they just warming up, or kicking off the finale? And just when you're about ready to get in the car and go home, Pop! And you spin around and gaze in wonder for another five, ten minutes.

The good

If you have to work on a holiday, this is the way to go. Watch the parade, eat your church picnic lunch, enjoy a quiet day in and empty store, and then stand back and watch the panoramic fireworks display.

Also? Holiday pay.

In which I realize a close call

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(Note: Philly.com requires free registration (Or bugmenot). Most of the links illustrate, but are not crucial to, my entry. The grand jury report is very long and very graphic, so note that before reading.)

A few years ago, Philadelphia had its moment in the nationwide scandal involving Catholic priests abusing their young parishioners. Reading the news, I realized how close to home it had hit.

Specifically, my grade school.

I read the first 60 or so pages of the 400+ page grand jury report. I didn't go past that for several reasons: I had mass amounts of work to do, the report was very graphic and very repetitive, there were large passages of legalese.

And I recognized a name.

I went to St. Josaphat School in the Manayunk neighborhood of Philadelphia from the fall of 1992 until the spring of 1997. Father Leonard Furmanski (the second priest listed here) was the pastor of this parish from 1995 to 1998. Even though no charges came out related to my school, the report made it clear that we cannot assume these charges are all-inclusive. Most victims of molestation never report it.

When I saw this name, my first response was not to finish reading, and not to blog, but to call my best friend, who was a classmate of mine at St. Josaphat and who, with his younger brother, served as an altar boy for several years. Neither was abused (thank the deity of your choice), and neither recalls any behavior that even bordered on suspicious. I almost felt guilty bringing this up; my friend considers his altar-boy duties to be among his few pleasant memories of middle school.

So much for full disclosure. It seems to be impossible to find a Philadelphian with any ties at all to Catholicism (I'm not Catholic; I just attended the schools) who doesn't know at least one of the 63 priests listed here.
It was Tom Ferrick Jr.'s column that showed me the ethical question involved.

The cardinal calls the report "very graphic" and, brother, is he right. Parts of it are strictly X-rated, but you couldn't call it salacious. Sickening is more like it, given that the perps were priests, the victims children, and the crime scenes were rectories and churches, even a confessional.

Ferrick then goes on to recommend those who can "stomach it" to read the full report. The 60 or so pages I read were brutal. I don't think there is any debate that the public certainly needs to know the identities of these attackers (at least, those that have been convicted) and, now, about the cover-up the Church has gone through to protect them. But do we need to hear that a priest raped an 11-year-old girl, then took her to get an abortion after getting her pregnant? And that is one of the milder stories.

How much should the public hear? How much is too much for the reader, or too insensitive to the victim? I applaud Ferrick's method. The grand jury report is not on the front page of the philly.com website. I could only get to it though his column. He duly warns his readers, and even after you click the link he provides, there are many choices: the report itself, a catalog of the offenders and their offenses, a directory of the biographical information on these priests, and so on. The reader can make the choice. The journalists just have to offer it.

The good

My friend was safe. Thank heaven for small favors. I wish more people could say the same.

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In which I attend a bridal shower (and drop hints in boldface)

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I recently attended the bridal shower of a distant relative. She's a very nice woman, though I should say I don't know her especially well. There were perfectly valid reasons for me going that I won't get into here; my invitation was not a point of complaint.

This was a stereotypical shower, though. And I may not be a very nice person for saying so, but I find stereotypical showers to be inane displays of conspicuous consumerism for the sake of conspicuous consumerism.

Now, don't get me wrong. I really like the idea of having a day that's jsut about you (more so than the wedding, which is -- officially, if not in practice -- equally about him, and -- in practice, if not officially -- almost as much about the respective families). You're surrounded by the people who care most about you, who are showing they care about you by taking care of you. This I have no problem with.

But let's be both honest and blunt. A wedding shower is a gift grab. That's why, traditionally, it was considered inappropriate for a member of either immediate family to host the shower (this is no longer the case in most circles). It's one thing if your best friend arranges a party to make sure you have everything you need to start off your new life. It's another thing if your mother is doing it. Yes, it's important to think the best of people, but sadly, the mother's motives are more suspect.

Honestly, I don't expect to have a shower at all. The entire bridal party (myself included, of course) is male. I'm having "bridesmen." Unless one of them decides to throw a co-ed shower -- unless it occurs to one of them to throw a co-ed shower -- I won't be seeing one from them. Which is maybe for the best, because I'm not keen on a Eagles[link] theme, even if the team colors do match the wedding colors.

That leaves the two moms. I don't know if my mother will -- she doesn't love the gift-grab thing -- but if she does, it'll probably be low-key, which I like. If Chris's mom does it, the instinct would be to have it in New York. If it was up to me, though, I'd want it in Philadelphia. My side of the family deserves something on our turf.

Back to the shower I attended. The bride was apparently surprised, which is nice but not a deal-breaker: it's not unusual to ask a bride what she likes and who she wants invited, whcih means she'd be expecting it eventually.

She was then adorned with a plastic tiara and fake veil, which she seemed to get a kick out of but which would embarass me terribly. Not my style, plus what do I do with it afterwards? I'm all out of room for clutter.

There were games. The famous couples and "what's in your purse" games just took up time that, in a smaller group, would be spent on conversation. There was a Newlyweds Game type thing where the bride had to guess the answers the groom gave to an emailed survey, which would have been really cute except for the fact that the bride had to stuff a marshmallow in her mouth every time she got one wrong. I'm not big on showing affection through humiliation. I'm told that means I have no sense of humor. What can I say?

On game I did think was fun was Bridal Bingo. You fill a bingo grid with the presents you expect the bride will get, then mark them off when she opens them. This keeps the guests interested in the presents, so they don't get bored. That would be less practical, and less necessary, in a smaller shower, wouldn't it? Still fun, though.

And I know this is a tradition, but I've also been to showers where it wasn't done and it lacked nothing: the bridal bonnet made of gift wrap and bows. I don't want one made, and I'm not wearing one. Feel free to say, once again, that I have no sense of humor, but I'm not budging.

I also don't need a full meal, although if a lot of people are travelling, it's not the worst idea. There's nothing wrong with sandwiches, though.

As for favors, they gave out really nice ones at the shower. Frankly, though, I don't plan on paying as much for my actual wedding favors as they must have for the shower favors. Your gift is not there to pay for your plate, and your favor is not there to compensate for your gift.

The good

I got a good sense of what I might want for a shower of my own, and felt better about the prospect of not getting one. I certainly didn't have a bad time, and the food and company were 95% pleasant (and can you really expect more than that?).