MAIL TIME! and thanks to a stranger

In elementary school, my best friend and I tried to be pen pals. We sent a few letters, but it never really got going, mostly because we were in the same class for 6 years. Even though we spoke daily, I was fascinated that we had completely unspoken conversations. Granted, it lasted for two weeks, but there were things I never SAID to her that she still knew. I guess that link of non-verbal communication fascinates me.

Today, we can text and email, so urgent news is never sent by USPS. "So, my cousin is pregnant!" "Yeah, I just received her letter." "Really? It was on Facebook last month." This conversation has never happened in history.

I've always enjoyed writing letters. Everyone loves mail (unless it's credit card offers, which I distrust and shun), and I'll admit my extreme nerdiness or liberalness here: I really support the US Postal Service. I send most bills by mail, because it's an excuse to use awesome stamps, and I trust them as a quasi-governmental organization to get my mail places without a devotion to stockholders or profit margins.

Thanks to Internet, I've discovered the blogs of other people obsessed with mail. Like PostCrossing.com, where you send postcards to people worldwide. Be pen pals, or just one-timers (I might not participate if I didn't have a PO Box). I sent cards to Spain and Russia, receiving these:

Then there are people who love letters, like Emilie of Winnie's Girl blog, who held a stationary kit giveaway, which I won! and got a bunch of paper, stickers and envelopes arrived in this:

Censored so you won't be tempted to stalk me. Isn't it super-cool? She glues anything on these letters.

Emilie's site inspired me to send better mail, to both friends (who get good envelopes) and bill-collectors (who at least get a drawing on the back. Maybe it'll cheer them up from working for The Man.) This is what I sent back:

Censored so you won't be tempted to stalk her. Although she welcomes mail on her own website.

Took some time, but it was fun! And I just used magazines and stuff lying around (like those losing raffle tickets). So, thank you Emilie, for encouraging great mail!

Laura at bat

Yes, I still exist. Hunched over a tired computer chair, I constantly worry that I will be a hunchback by this time next year, just like that one teacher in high school. When I sit up to crack my neck, I'm also convinced a bone's gonna snap as I over-zealously whip my head back into neutral position.

On the rare occasion something noteworthy happens, I never know where to begin, so stories back up in my mind (or on Post-Its) instead of my diary or blog. So here's my first story:

I'm a sports reporter.

Our sports guy fell in love with the Outback during vacation last spring, so he got a work visa and left in August. Since I already cover education and was technically a high school athlete, I appeared to be a good fit for the hyper-local sports beat. Also, it's a full-time position.

I politely reminded my editor that I might need to brush up on sports lingo (I've always thought there must be a finite number or ways to say a team won or lost, and now is my chance to write THEM ALL.) Being an English major first, I checked out three books on sports reporting from the library. I've renewed them thrice since August.

My first week as a full-time reporter was spent at the nearby Little League World Series, all day every day. Since then, I've spoken to coaches, worked up the courage to approach student athlete_ (just one, so far), trolled the sidelines to decipher 2 of 20,000 field hockey penalties, and almost figured out how to write a decent* story when I don't understand -- or even HAVE -- all the game statistics.

Of course, "decent" is really in the eye of the beholder. If the fishing column says "Flatties are biting at Gulp! on the Hot Dog," do people really understand? Or are they laughing at my attempt at lingo? I might just be writing crap that people uncomfortably smile and nod at, not wanting to ask the emperor is not wearing any clothes.

Laura writing sports? Honestly, it's tricky and it's getting fun. At this point, it's a primarily a learning experience.

Hitchhikers (OR) Don't try this at home, kids

I picked up hitchhikers last week.

Preface: I'm proud to say that I lost no blood or belongings in the transaction.

A few weeks ago, I was driving to the seafood market (yes, part-time for another summer. If my work tenure was a person, it would have a 3rd-grade education by now.) I saw three blonde chicks walking along one of those back roads that eventually leads somewhere, but they were at least a mile from any reasonable destination. One girl's thumb was politely requesting a ride from the passing cars, yet mine was the first to respond.

I pulled over and asked the girls if they were seriously hitchhiking. They later told me they were from Eastern Europe, here for summer jobs, and they were hiking an hour to and from work daily, until they got bicycles.

Basically, yes -- they were seriously hitchhiking. And if I was 2+ miles from a boardwalk job where I'd be on my feet 'til 11 p.m., I'd probably try to catch a ride, too. Preferably from a female my age.

Luckily, I was early for work (one and only time), so I drove them all the way. They were nice, and hopefully we'll meet again sometime. Nothing good ever comes from hitchhiking stories, but I'm glad nothing bad came of it. (Still probably won't be doing it again.)

Lost in the vineyards

Local vineyards and microbreweries* are all the rage now, springing forth and delighting people of the locavore spirit. As an up-and-coming "It" Girl, I didn't want to be left in the dust.

Not that "It" Girl.

That's the one.

Of course, I still don't like beer, so I politely smile-and-nodded during a brewery tour last summer. (Tour was fun. Beer was yick -- no offense to those enterprising craftsmen. I'm just not in your marketing demographic.)

But last weekend, I had a much more enjoyable local alcohol experience. I hand-bottled wine! I'd been following a winery's website for several months when I read that they needed volunteers for bottling wine. I sent an email, wore old clothes, and helped bottle the sweetest white Riesling I've ever tasted.

And taste it I did. Volunteers could sample the stuff all day long, led by the winery mistress, herself. A small coffee bar when we arrived had Dunkin' Donuts, Bailey's Irish Cream, and everything you could possibly want in a bloody mary, from Vodka to Old Bay. I only had wine and a shot of Bailey's, but I admit to giggling heavily by the very end of the day.

It was awesome. I worked the bottling machine like a master soda jerk. You pop the bottles on six dispensers, which fill the bottle and shut off automatically. Then spin around and hand the bottles to corkmen, who used a hand press to pop in the corks. They passed the wine to ladies who capped the cork with a foil wrapper and shrink-wrapped it with a hair dryer/heat gun.

Add labels and throw it in a box. Four hours and one defective filter later, you've got 900 bottles of wine and 10 hungry volunteers.

We were paid with a lunch of veggie pizza and a souvenir bottle of fresh Riesling, which now rests in my (newly-created) basement wine cellar (on a bench behind our canned goods tupperware box).

They only do this a few times annually, but I totally want to return.

* A small brewery that makes beer in small batches. Does not refer to beer with an altered chemical composition at the microscopic level, as I previously believed.

Writing advice

Writing is hard for every last one of us—straight white men included. Coal mining is harder. Do you think miners stand around all day talking about how hard it is to mine for coal? They do not. They simply dig.

You need to do the same, dear sweet arrogant beautiful crazy talented tortured rising star glowbug. That you’re so bound up about writing tells me that writing is what you’re here to do. And when people are here to do that they almost always tell us something we need to hear. I want to know what you have inside you. I want to see the contours of your second beating heart.

So write, Elissa Bassist. Not like a girl. Not like a boy. Write like a motherfucker.

from The Rumpus "Dear Sugar" advice column

Oh yeah, it's Valentine's Day.

I sent a few valentines this year and only just realized I forgot the apostrophe in Valentine's. It's killing me.

The "holiday" is generally uneventful for me. It's a fun way to brighten up February, which is otherwise so miserable that we've confiscated two-and-a-quarter days and given them to other months. I might wear pink or eat chocolate candy, but today was particularly useless. I wore the same clothes that I wore yesterday AND in bed. That would be exciting if a hot date was thrown in the mix, but alas, he was not. I wore ugly blue PJs and a wilting white sweater. When I ventured into public, briefly wearing real pants, I pretended to yawn a lot, masking laziness as extreme sleep-deprivation.

But I kept forgetting it was Valentine's Day, too. What other excuse could I have for buying cranberry juice, four boxes of cereal and no chocolates? I did spend the last few weeks looking for a nearby performance of "The Vagina Monologues," but no success in that either.

Not to be entirely excluded from the awkward romantic finagling of Valentine's Day, I almost texted a friend to see if he wants to hang next weekend, but at the last second, I realized it's Feb. 14 and tossed the phone aside. I didn't want to scare him. I'll try again tomorrow. Further self-analysis shows that my fear has further enabled the romantic horror that is Valentine's Day. The terrorists win.

Happy St. Valentine's Day, all. Hope you had a lovely day.