My first time

Everyone has a first time, and you never forget it. Here's my first-time experience.

Wait – before I tell you, I want to mention that I just recently tracked down my high school boyfriend (thanks, Facebook!) after being out of touch for about 30 years. As a result of my mini-stalking project, we exchanged a few messages and updates, and then we each disappeared again. I was pleased to discover that was fine with me. The whole thing felt comfortable enough: friendly, no regrets, no recriminations, no unfinished business, etc. But of course it was this reconnection that dredged up the distant memory of my "first time" to the surface. And since then that memory has been swirling around and around in my brain, sometimes keeping me from concentrating on business at hand as I relived those moments like they were yesterday. Could I have behaved any differently? Should I have? That first time! Never to be corrected; never to be forgotten.

So, my experience. Wait – I should point out that this wasn't just my high school boyfriend; he was my Major High School Boyfriend. Just so you know where MHSB fit into my universe.

Okay, so: MHSB was one year ahead of me. At the end of his senior year, his family held a graduation party at his house. Of course I was invited. And I was a little nervous. I already knew MHSB's parents and older brother, and plenty of friends would be there; but so would MHSB's extended family. Would I be introduced to loads of relatives? If so, how? MHSB was heading off to college and I still had a year of high school left. Had we even determined between ourselves what we each expected from our relationship during the upcoming year of separation? Would I be expected to talk at length to MHSB's family, and be on my best behavior during the entire party?

My mother sent me off to the party with this advice: "Try all the food, it should be very good." MHSB was Italian, you see. It was expected that MHSB's mother would be a good cook.

What do I remember of the party? Not much beyond the "first time" part. A crush of strangers. Some awkwardness between MHSB and myself when I arrived. But there was the buffet table, so I made my way through the crowd with MHSB at my side.

Heeding my mother's advice, I took a little of everything, even the unfamiliar things. MHSB and I found a place to stand and we started to eat.

I recognized some chicken and pasta. Mmm, good! Mom was right. Then I put a small forkful of something white and mysterious into my mouth, and it was as if stars started exploding overhead. The flavor, the texture, the fragrance! Was it grain, vegetable, or something else? Specialty food imported from Italy for the occasion? A century-old recipe handed down in MHSB's family from the Old Country? (His family's Old Country, not mine.)

MHSB's mother (Mrs. Italian) was making her way towards where MHSB and I were standing, and I couldn't contain myself. I pulled her over and said, "Mrs. Italian, what is this? It's delicious! I've never had anything like it!"

Mrs. Italian peered at my plate. "What's what?"

"This!" I jabbed gently at the white mystery with my fork.

She looked at MHSB, then looked at me. "That's rice."

Rice? I knew rice; that was not rice.

"Rice! But – How is it prepared?"

She spoke clearly and slowly. "With butter." She must have sensed my confusion. "Haven't you had rice with butter before?"

"Yes!" I said. "Well... I guess we have Minute Rice at home."

"Minute Rice!" She patted my arm and her laughter trilled out into the room. As she walked away giggling, I heard her say again, to no one: "Minute Rice!"

Like I said, you never forget your first time. It's possible my boyfriend's mother never forget mine, either. 

A moment out of time

Just spent this Saturday morning – okay, part of the afternoon – sipping coffee and listening to a CD of Artur Rubinstein playing Chopin Nocturnes while reading my just-arrived December issue of Popular Mechanics.

I wonder if a brain scan would somehow reveal how that felt: Like the perfect combination of cozy familiarity (piano music) plus the jolting unfamiliarity of coming upon new technology and advances I don't entirely understand. Add to that the contentment of being doubly nourished, mouth and mind: drinking coffee just how I like it, and pushing my brain to a new level of understanding of the world. Then there was the pleasure of doing three of my favorite things at the same time: drinking coffee, reading, listening to music.

Meanwhile, the daily newspaper sits unread, some pots need to be scrubbed, and the floor needs to be vacuumed. And I don't regret how I spent this morning (okay, part of the afternoon), at all.

I'm back, part two

Where have I been? What do you mean, where have I been? Where have YOU been?

Rebecca, Dan and Brett WHO??

It's been days now, and I have not. been able. to get. Rebecca Romijn out of my mind!

But not for the reason given by most males 13 and older.* My reason is because I just learned her last name is pronounced "romaine," like the lettuce.

Oh, you already knew that? Yes, apparently everybody knew that – even people who don't know how to spell knew that, which just seems unfair.

Thanks to her appearance as a judge on Project Runway, I am now much the wiser. Who is this "Rebecca Romaine?" I had wondered idly, attending to my Sudoku, as Heidi Klum once again busily pretended to have talent.

Rebecca Romaine turned out to be that celebrity I'd always thought of, the few times I did think of her, as Rebecca Ro-MIDGE-in. That's Ro-MIDGE-in, as in "rhymes with whoa, pigeon!".

Well, this discovery just bowled me over. You could have knocked me over with a feather.

In the spirit of live and learn, I offer these BONUS PRONUNCIATION TIPS to help you avoid public humiliation:

1. Those Phoenix area restaurants that look to be named "Majorlee's Sports Grill" are actually named after some sports guy.

You should pronounce it "Marley's Sports Grill." Unless you want your family to rename it Majorlee's in your honor, and bring it up whenever the discussion turns to the subject of local restaurants. Or sports. Or a relative, whose name really is Marley. Or whenever they feel like having a good laugh at you, for no particular reason.

2. On the subject of sports, that guy who doesn't know how to retire pronounces his name "Brett Farv."

Isn't that wild? It is not pronounced "Brett Fa-VRAY," even though that is exactly how it looks; and it is certainly not pronounced "Beret Fa-VRAY," which is how I like to think of it when I am feeling especially jaunty.

So speak out now with confidence! No need to thank me.

*That's right, I'm offering you NO LINKS! Do your own search, you lazy good-for-nothing bum – as if you don't already have this staring at you on your computer, or this bookmarked for easy access, or filled out one of these ages ago, and have the resulting stack hidden in your underwear drawer.

My Eunice Kennedy Shriver moment

Today's news is that Senator Ted Kennedy passed away, but I am still thinking about his sister, Eunice Kennedy Shriver, who died two weeks ago on August 11.

When Shriver created the Special Olympics in 1968, I was 11 years old. I don't remember hearing about it then and I've never known anyone who's participated in it. Even so, I know that the very existence of the Special Olympics, and its influence over time in changing people's opinions about the mentally disabled, had a huge impact on me.

When I arrived in Albuquerque from New York in the summer of 1989, I was desperate for a teaching job. (At that time I had one year of teaching experience to my credit.) Despite numerous interviews and good feedback, I had no solid prospects for work. In Albuquerque, currently employed teachers weren't required to announce their intentions to return to work until right before the school year started. The best I could hope for, with one year of out-of-state experience, was to get hired in mid-September or October, after the school year had begun.

Three months of unemployment wasn't going to work for me. When I saw a help wanted ad in the local paper for teachers at the Los Lunas Hospital and Training School, I called for an interview. I wasn't sure what kind of school it was, but I'd always been fond of hospitals. "Training" sounded like a good thing, too.

My biggest concern was that Los Lunas was an 80-mile round trip drive, with most of it on I-25. New Mexico highways were death traps masked in asphalt – I may have been new in town but I already knew that. New Mexico drivers had (and have) an extreme fondness for driving drunk; even the driving instructors do it! (Things may have improved somewhat since I left the state. But maybe not.)

The few locals I knew told me the commute would be the least of my problems: Didn't I know that LLH&TS was "the mental hospital"? (It hadn't officially been called that since 1955.) Why would I want to work there?, they asked.

I didn't know for sure that I did want to work there, but I had no reason not to look into it. I give full credit to Eunice Kennedy Shriver for my nonchalance.

The man who interviewed me at LLH&TS was a doctor or a director or both; I don't remember. The interview took place in his office and it went well enough that I earned a tour of the facilities.

In the hallway we passed about a dozen residents, accompanied by teachers or aides. Some of the residents shuffled slowly; others walked with an awkward, twisted gait; and a few seemed to be blind. Some of the residents looked at me, slack jawed and silent; others noticed me and called out sounds I couldn't interpret. I had not given any thought to how the residents would look or behave, and I caught my breath and kept my smile fixed.

A few minutes later we were in a large classroom. In my memory this room is packed with 50 or so older residents crowded around large work tables. But most likely there weren't more than 25 people altogether, including teachers and aides. Between the banging on the wood tables and the shouts of excitement because a stranger had walked into the room, I felt my cool start to crumble. I am chagrined to acknowledge, even today, that I was scared. The noise was overwhelming, the unfamiliarity of it all pressed in on me, and I started to cry.

My interviewer was unfazed. He led me out of the classroom – just like the aides I had seen leading residents through the halls moments ago – brought me back to his office, and handed me a box of tissues.

I blew my nose and apologized.

"That's all right," he said. "You lasted longer than a lot of other people."

He said it matter of factly, without anger or disappointment. So after a few breaths I asked him: "How do you do this?"

"I don't see that the people here are any different from you or me. We're all the same."

I don't see that the people here are any different from you or me.

I have thought about this man and his shrug of a reply many times. (We both agreed the job wasn't a good match for me, by the way.) Eunice Kennedy Shriver once said, "all human beings are created equal in the sense that each has the capacity and a hunger for moral excellence, for courage, for friendship and for love."

I never met Ms. Shriver, but I did once get to meet a man that I'm sure she would have liked.

I'm back! Where is everybody?

I forgot I had started blogging!

It just proves how well named this blog is.

Best pie chart ever

It's a pie chart! Get it? A PIE chart! C'mon, you know it's funny. I may just post this a few more times, whenever I feel like giving myself a laugh.

The problem with vacations

I'm kidding, there's really no problem with vacations. The only problem is when they're over.

Yes, when they're over and you arrive, exhausted, at your stuffy, too-familiar home. You have mere hours before your daily routine starts taking you down like quicksand.

Nearly any place is wonderful when you're on vacation. The people are nice and everything is different. Of course the people are nice: They don't get time to learn why people at home dislike you. Everything is different because you're looking through minty-fresh, touristy eyes. Even the strip malls are fascinating.

Scott Simon's essay on tourists is a good reminder that where you live is someone else's vacation spot. Hard to believe, but the precise location where you are becoming fossilized by your daily routine is in fact the very same latitude and longitude where other people are having the time of their lives.

Don't ever think you should move somewhere because it made for a good vacation.

I fell into that trap once.

As a tourist in Santa Fe, I took one look at the Scottish Rite Temple at dusk and believed New Mexico was my destiny. The pink stone and the soft curves of the building against the intense blue sky as the sun was setting were too much for my vacation-addled brain. Seven difficult years as an Albuquerque resident extended the point that Scott Simon made: Once you have to work, a fabulous vacation destination just becomes.... where you live and work.

Luckily, Albuquerque taught me a lesson. That's why I haven't moved to a small beach town south of Tarragona, Spain. While it's tempting – it was so beautiful; and all the people were so nice! – I remind myself that once I'd have to find a way to make a living (the only idea I have is to open a Jewish-style deli right off the beach), that small town would lose its vacation patina.

Albuquerque is also the reason why I haven't moved to a cabin in Sitka, Alaska. Sure, the salmon was delicious – and did I mention how nice all the people were? But I keep in mind that eating fresh salmon on vacation is one thing; gutting it every day to make a living is quite another.

The best cure for believing that one particular vacation destination is the place where you absolutely must live is to take more vacations.

Arizona Republic's latest layoffs

While the mainstream media was busy beating Michael Jackson's death and funeral to death (if such a thing is possible), here's what went largely unreported:

• President Obama's first meeting with Russian Prime Minister Vladimir Putin;

• Missiles fired by North Korea into the Sea of Japan;

• Overthrow of Honduras' President Manuel Zelaya ;

• Ethnic riots in China;

• Congress's debate over changes to health care and energy policy; and

• Our ongoing wars in Iraq and Afghanistan.

[Thanks to Bob Garfield of "On the Media" for this rundown.]

With journalism in such a sorry state, I'm not surprised that my local newspaper, the Arizona Republic, just announced another round of layoffs – 100 people, including 20 from the newsroom. Not surprised, though sad.

What does surprise me, though, is the lack of public comment or observation from ASU's Walter Cronkite School of Journalism and Mass Communication. From the outside looking in, it's business as usual at our local J school: Teaching students how to become journalists.

That's fine, but unless someone starts teaching non-journalists why they should value news, access to information, and the First Amendment, pretty soon we're going to have way more journalists than we need.

Wouldn't it be great if the Cronkite School expanded its involvement with the community? Right now there's the annual Paul J. Schatt Memorial Lecture, and outreach to high school students. What about something more daring? How about taking on the challenge of creating a state-wide program to raise the news literacy of citizens?

Why not a project that educates citizens on the value of journalism, the difference between news and opinion, the importance of fact checking, what makes a source reliable, figuring out where information originates, and on and on. Let's include news judgment in there: Why would a newspaper or TV news report lead off with one story and not another? Why might one event be covered in depth (or to appalling excess), while another event might be ignored? What are the ramifications of corporate ownership of media?

Journalism needs more than practitioners to thrive; it needs critical consumers. It's like Broadway: Not everyone can be on stage; someone's got to be part of the audience.

If the Cronkite School can figure out a way to get Arizona's citizens talking about what's news and what isn't, maybe there's a chance that today's working journalists can learn the difference, too. And if we're lucky, they'll learn it before the next big celebrity death.

Reading update

I'm in one of my periodic reading logjams – books are piling up by the side of my bed and I'm not connecting well with any of them. I feel out of whack without a book to return to at the end of the day. During a magazine binge, I'm fine without a book. But this is not one of those times. 

Current logjam started with City Room, by Arthur Gelb. I'll definitely get back to it, but it wasn't the right book at the right time. After only 20 pages of City Room, I tried Maimonides by Sherwin B. Nuland. Loved holding it (it's from the Jewish Encounters series published by Schocken and Nextbook, nice & compact); reading it, not so much. More like Maimonides' travel itinerary than about him and his work, which is what I was really hoping for. I'm bummed, because I liked Sherwin Nuland's other books: How We Die (I wouldn't recommend this for everyone!) and Lost in America. Hey, maybe that's a clue to why he focused on Maimonides' whereabouts.

Dropped Maimonides only 60 pages from the end & picked up Arthur Hertzberg's A Jew in America for only a page or two. I do want to read this & will try it again, but I couldn't focus on his family tree from the old country. (I'm not especially good at figuring out my relationships with my own relatives.)  

Now here's the really odd part. Next I picked up Eat, Pray, Love by Elizabeth Gilbert. Bestseller, a must read, wonderful, brilliant, funny, insightful, etc. No interest whatsoever! Why is this? Can someone explain this to me? You'd have to know me, and have read the book, to have some inkling as to why I'm totally not interested in reading it. Read about 20 pages and flipped through the rest. It's true that I sometimes resist getting swept up in trends (one look at my shoe collection and you'd know that), but I'm ready to love reading anything, whether it's popular or not. 

Now I'm reading The Nothing That Is: A Natural History of Zero, by Robert Kaplan. The author comes out with some odd comments every so often, and it's not an easy read. But I've had the book on my shelves for two years and its time has arrived. So I guess right now I'm reading a book about nothing. 

Why blog?

I was telling a long, involved but very interesting story to my friend J recently, during one of our morning coffees. Suddenly she burst out and commanded me: "Blog! Blog! Blog!" I thought about it some, and decided I would! After all, one more blogger is not going to break the Internet (unless that blogger is from North Korea). 

When I told J about my exciting decision, and how I came to it, she pointed out that she had not in fact said "Blog! Blog! Blog!" What she said was actually "Blah! Blah! Blah!" 

Sometimes I mishear things.