Cookie Girl Does America

Hang On To Your Hat

2012-01-16T21:11:00.002-06:00

As long as there is one upright man, as long as there is one compassionate woman, the contagion may spread and the scene is not desolate. Hope is the thing that is left to us, in a bad time. I shall get up Sunday morning and wind the clock, as a contribution to order and steadfastness.

Sailors have an expression about the weather: they say, the weather is a great bluffer. I guess the same is true of our human society—things can look dark, then a break shows in the clouds, and all is changed, sometimes rather suddenly. It is quite obvious that the human race has made a queer mess of life on this planet. But as a people we probably harbor seeds of goodness that have lain for a long time waiting to sprout when the conditions are right. Man's curiosity, his relentlessness, his inventiveness, his ingenuity have led him into deep trouble. We can only hope that these same traits will enable him to claw his way out.

Hang on to your hat. Hang on to your hope. And wind the clock, for tomorrow is another day.

(E.B. White-- in a letter, via Letters of Note)

Stories from the Census: Southern Hospitality (Part I)

2011-07-10T18:27:00.002-05:00

I hope my mother does not read this blog.

That is to say: I have to admit that sometimes, during the Summer of the Census, the heat just did me in. It addled my brains. It made me make decisions that I would now classify as "poor."

But it was 102 degrees outside all summer, and I was carrying that stupid polyester messenger bag the whole time, and no one ever answered their door, and I was just so damn hot I could have cried.

I knocked on door after door after door. Night came, and morning followed. The fortieth day of enumerating. With a slight delirium settling upon me one afternoon, I banged on one more apartment door and pressed my forehead against a nearby post.

The door swung open, and my eyes met a navel. I gazed upward: a swath of dark skin stretched over a protruding ribcage. Upward again, to crying eagles and Gothic lettering and barbed wire tattooed across a skinny chest and collarbone. Upwards further, to a toothless grin.

"Hey, lady!" said a mildly creepy and very tall man.

I smiled. I showed my badge.

"Census lady!" he said. "Come on in."

Here are things I did not do:

1. Peek my head inside with trepidation

2. Smile and decline sweetly

3. Accept, but then remain safely just inside the doorway

4. Pass GO

5. Collect $200

There was no hemming, hawing, or waffling about like I had done during my first dozen home visits. It was hot and my flesh was melting off of my body. "Oh, thank you!" I said and positively leapt through the doorway into the cold air of the apartment...

Stories from the Census: Knocking on Heaven's Door

2011-04-18T18:49:00.001-05:00

Despite my official U.S. Census Bureau messenger bag and awesome clipboard, not everyone knew exactly what I was doing walking their neighborhoods and knocking on their doors. The following is a list of people that folks mistook me for during my time as an enumerator:

1. Police Officer

2. Apartment Staff Member

3. IRS Agent

4. Washing Machine Mechanic

5. Jehovah’s Witness

6. Resident’s Girlfriend

7. Resident’s Baby Mama

8. FBI Agent

9. Plumber

10. Girl Scout

11. Doctor

12. Salesperson

13. Pool Repair

14. Mormon

Can’t make this stuff up, folks.

Stories from the Census: Orange You Glad You Came In?

2011-03-18T11:23:00.005-05:00

I had only been enumerating for a couple of days when I had to make my first Maybe-I’ll-Die, Maybe-I-Won’t judgment call.

I had been assigned to the Yacht Club, an apartment complex I can assure you is (nearly as) sophisticated and swanky as it sounds. The clubhouse is cleverly decorated with buoys and portholes; the sign on the property manager’s office reads “Captain’s Quarters.” In the hundred-degree June heat, I crossed bridges over frothy green ponds and festering streams. I broke through clouds of gnats and mosquitoes. This place was the real deal.

I reached an apartment and took a moment to compose myself. Beads of sweat formed on my forehead and humidity was trickling down my back. The nylon strap of my stupid itchy official messenger bag dug into my shoulder. I sighed and swatted the air. It was barely noon and already miserable. I rapped smartly on the door. “U.S. Census Bureau!” A few moments, and it opened.

“Helloooo,” chirped a little woman with Richard Simmons hair. Her big brown eyes—one looking straight at me, the other resting vaguely on something in the distance—peered out at me from the cool dark of the apartment. “It ees so hot. Will you like to come inside?”

I paused. This is how government workers die, right? One second, an innocent lady is smiling and nodding her curly head at you; the next, her paranoid anarchist brother is leaping out from behind the couch with an ice pick and a psychotic grudge against his former mailman.

Another bead of sweat slid into my eye and blurred my field of vision. I still did not move, but my good eye met hers. Humankind is good, right, at the core? “Sure,” I said. “Thank you so much.”

The apartment was cool, dark, and damp. “Will you like to sit down, please?” she said, gesturing towards the couch. A mustached man nodded toward me and muted the television.

She scurried to the kitchen and pried the lid off of a shiny blue tin. Tissue papers rustled as she fished out tiny tea cookies and put them on a plate. Ice clinked in a glass. A can of orange soda cracked open and fizzled. She scurried back with a little feast and set it on the coffee table. “For you,” she said.

Going through the interview questions as usual, I nibbled on cookies and learned that her accent was Salvadorian. That she lived in the apartment with her father. That she was thirty-five. Finally, I turned to the back page and asked the standard wrap-up questions. “Can you verify your name? Is this the address at which you were living as of April 1, 2010? Is there anyone else who lives here who has not been counted on this survey?”

She stopped. She looked from her mustached father to me to the muted television to the orange soda, back to me. She smiled sheepishly.

“Well, yes.” She blushed. “My boyfriend, he lives here too, usually.”

My business pants were on, of course, and cohabitation is not exactly shocking (thanks, MTV/Friends/sexual revolution/Census questionnaire that offers “Unmarried Partner” as an option). “Okay, we’ll put him on the survey, too.” We started to go through the questions again.

Then, Question 2b. “What is his date of birth?” She giggled. “Well, he’s… 21.”

“Okay,” I said.

“I like younger men,” she said.

“Oh,” I said. “Okay.”

I asked the wrap-up questions again. Yes, her name was right. Yes, she was living here on April 1. No, no one else besides the three of them lived here. “Okay, thank you so much for your time,” I said, “and for the cookies!”

She jumped up again, scurrying into the kitchen one more. I heard drawers opening and tissue papers rustling. As I stood to leave, she came back around the bar into the living room. We walked to the door and I turned to say goodbye.

“Here,” she said, pressing a plastic baggie full of tea cookies into my hands. She smiled and nodded enthusiastically, her Richard Simmons curls shaking like little fronds as I walked out of the dark of the apartment and into the blinding, gnatty heat of the afternoon.

Stories from the Census

2011-03-09T14:41:00.004-06:00

The thing is, I haven’t always been a grown-up with a full-time job and insurance.

First, I was a baby. And then for a long time, I was a student. I was very good at being a student, and I loved it, and I never wanted to stop, because what if I wasn’t good at anything else? But then the University of Tulsa ejected me from its warm nurturing bosom, and I had to start figuring out how to be a grown-up.

It was what I like to call a “process.”

But if there’s one thing I know about being a grown-up, it’s that it’s very expensive. Money is a must. And as my parents failed to teach me any practical skills for participating in the underground economy (carjacking, drug-dealing, etc.), I had to find some legitimate way of getting my hands on some cash.

Luckily, the year was 2010: the year of the Olympics, an oil spill, a lunar eclipse, and Dwayne Johnson’s breakout role as the tooth fairy in… Tooth Fairy. It was also the year of the 2010 Census.

In short: desperate for work, I passed the Census test (“How would you put the following names in alphabetical order?”) with flying colors and was offered a job as an enumerator (yes, a door-knocker) for the summer.

I soon learned that when you knock on strangers’ doors, strange things can happen. That’s why they’re called strangers. I would like to share a few of those stories with the World Wide Web in the coming weeks. I hope you're ready!

Summer Plans

2011-02-24T16:20:00.007-06:00

You ever been in a hammock before? They're real neat new-fangled things you tie up to trees and swing in all summer long. Like this:

We have two very nice, strong hammocks. Only we don't have perfectly-positioned trees. Or hammock stands.

Luckily, Miss Ruby and I have plans to use the hammocks anyway. Like this:

Everyone wins, there's no weight limit, and there's no chance of falling off and hurting yourself.

I Am This Happy

2011-02-14T10:06:00.003-06:00

(via)

A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to Work

2011-02-08T09:32:00.006-06:00

Well, three funny things, actually.

Firstly: Tulsa is still recovering from a major blizzard, record amounts of snowfall, and a decided inability to plow its neighborhood streets. With these factors in mind, I decided to park my little car safely on the street half a mile from work and hoof it the rest of the way through the neighborhood.

Secondly: Shortly upon exiting my car, I immediately took a tumble on the icy road. I spilled my lunch all over the street, laughed at myself, and went on my merry way.

Thirdly: A few moments later, I happened upon a car spinning its tires and trying to get out of the middle of the road. I pushed, the tires spun. I pushed harder, the tires spun harder. The driver exited the car. Noting that he was at least 6-foot-6 and 250 pounds, we decided that perhaps he should push and I should hit the gas. Eureka! And jackpot! Off he, too, went on his merry way.

Now, these three things may not seem to be connected or interesting. If I were just going to broadcast three random-- and rather mediocre-- life events to the world, I would be posting mundane facebook status updates, not shaking the dust off of this poor abandoned blog. But as any reader of O. Henry or W. Lechner will attest, everything matters. Everything is connected. And these three events, as I discovered just an hour ago, came together to make for a very interesting revelation.

You see, I wore snow boots to work today. I also brought along a pair of regular shoes to wear around the office. It was time to take of the boots and put on the shoes. I reached into my bag and, with great apprehension, pulled out a lone shoe.

There is only one shoe.

My sweet, sweet, black patent leather shoes, the only shoes I own with ergonomic insoles and non-slip soles, my practical, grown-up, only-shoes-I-wear-all-winter, are now separated.

The left shoe now lies like an abandoned salmon on my office floor, dejectedly beached and no longer even flailing its pathetic little fins as it gapes at me. "Where is my brother?" it asks with its last shuddering flap of a gill, its slowly congealing insides, its dimming eye.

My right shoe, the beautiful black salmon, now lies in one of three places. Revisiting the events of this morning, I imagine it, too...

Waiting patiently in my little car: safely parked half a snowy and freezing mile away.

Lying shivering in the dirty mounds of iced-over snow: which, if we are to believe local meteorologists, will be joined tonight by an additional eight to twelve.

Or, the most vaguely hilarious option: staying warm and dry in the passenger seat of a six-foot-six, 250-pound stranger who has long since exited the neighborhood, my new friend who was happily sent on his merry way just hours, and a lifetime, ago.

Cookie Girl Does Cookie Girl

2010-04-29T11:14:00.006-05:00

Well, it's the day we've all been waiting for. The Cookie Girl music video is finished! Many thanks to my talented actors, friends, and cookie-eaters. I couldn't have done it without you!

Love, C.G.

"I Love You Sweatheart"

2010-02-28T22:38:00.003-06:00

A man risked his life to write the words.
A man hung upside down (an idiot friend
holding his legs?) with spray paint
to write the words on a girder fifty feet above
a highway. And his beloved,

the next morning driving to work...?

his words are not (meant to be) so unique.

Does she recognize his handwriting?

Did he hint to her at her doorstep the night before

of "something special, darling, tomorrow"?

And did he call her at work

expecting her to faint with delight

at his celebration of her, his passion, his risk?

She will know I love her now,

the world will know my love for her!

A man risked his life to write the world.

Love is like this at the bone, we hope, love

is like this, Sweatheart, all sore and dumb

and dangerous, ignited, blessed--always,

regardless, no exceptions,

always in blazing matters like these: blessed.

Thomas Lux

It's A Good Thing These Posts Are Months Apart

2009-11-09T23:10:00.005-06:00

Because when I post... oh, do I ever post.

I am thinking that next semester will be much more conducive to blogging.

But until then, did you know you can cook a salmon in the dishwasher?!?!?!??

Click here. You know you want to.

Happy Sunday!

2009-10-04T11:43:00.002-05:00

Well, That Wasn't The Plan

2009-09-28T16:48:00.005-05:00

I swung the full garbage bag in the air, only a little nervous that the macaroni & cheese box would poke a hole in it and dirty Kleenexes, apple cores, empty beer cans, and eggshells would rain down on my head.

With an expertly executed wrist-flick, I let go of the handles and watched the overstuffed cloud of a trash bag sail through the sky.

A perfect arc: big white poof, skinny fluttering yellow handles, tiny silver glint sparkling in the morning sunlight.

Tiny silver glint?

My keys.

"Goodbye, goodbye!" they jingled and giggled as they sailed into the dumpster.

Update: A Trip To The Dentist

2009-09-26T09:02:00.001-05:00

I may have mentioned my love/hate relationship with oral hygiene (as in: I love brushing my teeth/my dentist hates me).

I had to go back to the dentist on Wednesday to get a cavity filled. Despite being a total masochist, my dentist actually does a pretty good job of numbing your mouth before he starts drilling around in there. A really good job, actually. As in, "this should wear off in about two to eight hours" (eight?!).

The point is, I left the dentist's office at about 5:00 with a totally numb left side of the face. Mouth, teeth, lips, cheek-- numb. Left nostril? Definitely not responsive. Left eye? Yup. A little droopy.

That means it was time to play my favorite post-dentist game. It's called "Look In The Mirror And Try To Smile Even Though Your Face Is Really Droopy On One Side!"

It's hiiiilarious!

Because you try to smile, but you only can with half of your face, which is hysterical, so then you laugh, but you're only laughing with half of your face, which is even more hysterical, and then you laugh even harder, because you look like a total freakazoid, and the cycle goes on and on until the toilet flushes and some lady comes out of the stall in the public restroom and, refusing to make eye contact, washes her hands and darts outta there at lightning speed.

Smooth, Part II

2009-08-17T11:25:00.005-05:00

Scene: On the dance floor at Caravan Cattle Company. A middle-aged Jordanian MAN with an... um... exotic scent is two-stepping with WHITNEY.

WHITNEY: So, what's your name?

SAMAL: I go by Sam, but my name in my country is Samal.

WHITNEY: Samal?

SAMAL: Don't say that!

WHITNEY: [terrified she has said something profane in his language] Oh no, why?!

SAMAL: Because you will break my heart.

Fact

2009-08-04T10:41:00.003-05:00

Adventures in Dog-Sitting: A Haiku

2009-07-30T14:10:00.005-05:00

why, standard poodle,

are you the size of a horse?
so terrifying!

On a related note, if you say poodle a lot it is really funny.

Poodle poodle poodle poodle poodle poodle poodle poodle poodle poodle poodle poodle poodle poodle poodle poodle poodle poodle poodle poodle poodle poodle poodle poodle poodle poodle poodle poodle poodle poodle poodle poodle poodle poodle poodle poodle poodle poodle poodle poodle poodle poodle poodle poodle poodle poodle poodle poodle poodle poodle poodle poodle poodle poodle poodle poodle poodle poodle poodle poodle poodle poodle poodle poodle poodle

hahahahahhahaha

I am glad I have a blog. Aren't you?

Oh, Wally: Musings on a Greyhound Bus

2009-07-27T16:00:00.007-05:00

The Greyhound bus was really my only way to get to Kansas City one fateful Thursday afternoon. My mom was horrified, but I was up for an adventure. After all, I had survived a night-train journey on one of the Top Six Best Places To Lose Your Valuables. Surely a five-hour trip through the Bible Belt would be okay.

(While relating this story to someone at work, she told me a terrifically terrifying story of having to stop on the shoulder of the highway during a 20-hour Greyhound trip. Why? To wait for an ambulance to come pick up a drunk bus-riding bum. The bum had recently collected $50 from a group of drunk bus-riding college students. They paid him to swallow a plastic spoon. Which he did.)

Anyway, I hopped aboard and made a few new friends. Among the most notable were the aspiring rapper (we talked about his new album and about Chicago) and the baby (we talked about trucks and what color they were).

I also met Wally.

Wally wandered up and down the bus like Forrest Gump on the first day of school. But a five-hour trip to a different state is rather unlike a five-mile trip down the dirt road, and we all averted our eyes in hopes that Wally would choose another seat so we could stretch out in peace.

Turns out, I am the Jen-nay to this particular wandering Forrest Gump. He walked by the seat, lingered... and then went for it. "Can I sit here?" he said, sitting down. Um, okay.

Wally, it turns out, is "well-versed" in many interesting topics: music, sociology, art, literature, politics.

Wally is, however, not-so-well-versed in self-editing, taking breaths in between sentences, taking turns while talking, or SHUTTING UP.

Wally talked. the. whole. way. to. Kansas. City.

He really did. Every once in a while, he would throw in a "Geez wow I sure talk a lot gosh you probably don't want to hear this oh my haha" followed by another 20-minute diatribe on how religion is different than spirituality (and how pot-smoking ties into all of this) or on how he hates sociology because-- direct quote-- "you can't scientifically measure passion."

Oh, Wally.

I chatted in response for a while when I could squeeze in a thought or two, but finally I just sat there with glazed eyes and an open mouth. At one point, I even fell asleep-- and when I woke up, there was Wally. Informing me that I drooled a little bit.

PLEASE DO NOT WATCH ME WHILE I SLEEP, WALLY.

Anyway, Wally continued to talk and talk and make hand motions and jerk his head around and talk and talk and talk, and the five hours passed in an overstimulating and totally bizarre daze. I finally made it to Kansas City and said goodbye to Wally, wishing him luck on all life's endeavors (which included trying to get from Independence, KS to Lawrence, KS. Why he chose a 24-hour route via Tulsa and Kansas City, I will never know).

It would be the last time I ever saw Wally.

That is, until HE FACEBOOK FRIENDED ME YESTERDAY AHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

I do not know how Wally found my facebook. I do not know how Wally discovered my last name. I do not want Wally to write on my wall, look at my pictures, or tell me what he thinks about Kurt Vonnegut. (I also do not want Wally to find my blog, but that's why I've used the name "Wally." He'll never catch on.)

Smooth.

2009-07-16T23:11:00.001-05:00

Scene: Senor Tequila's, 7:00 p.m. A young lady, WHITNEY, looks around for her dinner partner, SCOTT. A waiter, JOSE, approaches her.

JOSE: Can I help you?

WHITNEY: Oh, I'm just supposed to meet someone here. Have you seen a lonely-looking boy?

JOSE: Yes.

He leads her to a small reflecting pool around the corner and gazes into it.

JOSE: Here I am.

Whiney Whitney Discusses Oral Hygiene

2009-07-13T21:53:00.002-05:00

Now if a title like that doesn't pull in the subscribers, I don't know what will. But, to be honest, here is the real reason I re-started my long lost blog:

I LIKE SAYING STUFF! SPECIFICALLY, COMPLAINING!

With that in mind, bear with me just a sec while I tell you about my trip to the dentist today:

Laying in the dentist's chair with my paper bib and my hand-held sucker thingy, I smiled the kind of smile that only belongs to someone who flosses twice and brushes thrice every single day, even during vacations (really! I love oral hygiene!).

"Looks good," the dentist says. "Have you been flossing?" Seeing as his hands are rather inconveniently inside of my mouth, I simply nod vigorously. I try to make my eyes sparkle, so as to say "Twice a day! For real!"

And that's where it all goes downhill. "We'll see about that," he says, narrowing his eyes and picking up a large, terribly sharp metal poker. It glints threateningly in the light of the lamp positioned over my mouth.

A maniacal and sadistic grin creeps across his face as he aims...

...and bears down with tremendous force, repeatedly stabbing my healthy pink gums. HACK HACK HACK. POKE POKE POKE. My once-sparkling eyes now fill with tears as he saws away.

He jabs and jabs and jabs until I am sure I have lost a quart of blood. Then, with a disapproving cluck and a sad shake of the head, Captain Obvious reports: "Your gums are bleeding."

Really, now. Well, seeing as you just repeatedly impaled them with your ADA-approved ice pick, I CAN'T SAY I AM SURPRISED, EVIL MAN.

The hygienist pops her head in the door. "You've got to come see this, Wanda," the dentist gestures to her. "Take a look at that bleeding!"

"Shooo-weeee!" she drawls. "That's a gusher! You should be flossin' every day, sweetheart."

I narrow my eyes menacingly.

"That's right," says my dentist. "Daily flossing is very important to prevent gingivitis." I point the handheld sucker thingy in his direction and flick the switch on and off threateningly. My mouth still full of tools, I assure him: "Ah DOOOOO flosh ebry day!"

But alas, no one believes me. I am doomed to a life of all of the excellent oral hygiene practices and none of the recognition.

Good thing I have a blog so I can get all these feelings out. Thanks for listening, kids.