In which I draw perhaps the first comparison ever between a successful modern author and Top Ramen

Back when I was still dating my last boyfriend, I had a dream about him one night in which he told me he'd taken up smoking. In the dream, I was not so much angry as baffled. "Who takes up smoking at 34?!?" I asked (ever the logical realist that I am). Smoking is something you try out in high school or college, and if you're still doing it at 34, it's because of a habit formed long, long ago. Nobody starts smoking at 34, right?

I feel like I'm in a similar spot myself at the moment. Tonight, at age 34, I had Ramen noodles for the first time.

Don't ask me how I got through four+ years of college and all of my 20s without ever dropping ten-cent packets of Top Ramen in my grocery cart. Apparently I was far too fixated on 69-cent Kraft Macaroni & Cheese or the delicacy that were the English Muffin pizzas my senior year roommate introduced into my life. In any case, for whatever reason (Fear of poverty? Devil-may-care attitude toward my slightly elevated blood pressure? Fondness for Noelle?), I bought Ramen for the first time ever last week.

Newsflash, in case you weren't aware: a valid student ID is not required to purchase Ramen noodles. Who knew? Oh, right. Most of you, I guess.

I know there are a hundred different ways to eat Ramen, and maybe I need to look into them to understand all the hype. Because to me, it was just noodles in a salty broth. Tasty enough, sure, and well worth the mere 20 cents I paid for that meal, but frankly, nothing special, I have to say. Either people speak so highly of Ramen because of their long-term emotional attachment to it, or I am doing something very wrong. If you've got any suggestions, feel free to weigh in, because I've still got forty cents worth of noodles in my cupboard to experiment with.

Let's see. What else have I been up to lately, aside from experimenting with mundane groceries? It has been a stupidly busy couple of weeks, and I considered compiling a bulleted list of everything I've done post-work-hours in the past 15 days or so, but I fall back on the bulleted list post of laziness far too often, so let's just fast forward to this weekend, shall we?

This weekend, I went to the fourth annual Twin Cities-area Lebowskifest, which is not so much a full-blown "fest" as a modest gathering of fewer than 20 people in a west suburban home, but it was a fun time anyway. I will probably eventually post my photos from the night on Flickr, though I'm uncertain whether I should make them all public or not. It was a The Big Lebowski-themed costume party, of course, and I decided to go as a White Russian, which means I showed up in white pants and a white t-shirt on which I used iron-on transfer paper to affix bright red and gold hammer and sickle symbols that were appropriate enough for the evening's festivities but might be taken out of context if posted on these here interwebs. I'd hate to have my hopes for public office dashed by the unfortunate surfacing of photos of me in Communist garb. Then again, the likelihood of my running for public office is probably just about as high as the likelihood of my becoming a card-carrying Communist, so I suppose I'm probably safe. My late-night costume change into a t-shirt bearing Jackie Treehorn's obscene doodle (the hostess's boyfriend brought a stack of said shirts to distribute to anyone willing to wear them) might actually conflict with Flickr's terms of use, however, so maybe at least that photo should remain private.

Today I finally saw the much-hyped Sex & the City movie, and, formulaic and predictable as it was, I still enjoyed it more than this evening's Top Ramen. People, I actually teared up no fewer than three times in the course of that movie. Please tell me I'm not the only one who did so, OK?

Oh, and in far more notable news, I finally finished the book that has been sitting in my sidebar for no fewer than two months. Long ago, I started (and then just as suddenly stopped) doing this thing where I posted less-than-ten-word reviews of the books I had read. I think I'll pick that up again for Bel Canto, except I'll provide my review in just one word:

Meh.

It may have won an Orange Prize and a Pen/Faulkner Award, but I still don't understand all the fuss. I suppose you could say Bel Canto is like Ramen noodles: beloved by many; misunderstood and underappreciated by me.

And finally, I'd be much remiss in failing to follow up on that quasi-contest I held last week. Thank you all for sharing your tales of kindred spirit-esque ineptitude and alarming gracelessness. It is a tough call which one of you had the best injury to beat my balloon-incident and bathroom-cleaning woes. So many of you had such very excellent stories, but I'm going to have to say the three-way-tie prize goes to the following:

1. Liz, who tripped on her lawn mower and ended up with $16,000 worth of surgery to insert a plate into her arm,
2. Poppy, who set herself on fire while making tea (apparently not even using a gas burner with an open flame),
   and
3. Metalia, who recently gashed her leg with a vegetable. (Note to self: Consider this one more reason you've never actually had an artichoke.)
   

Unfortunately, there are no real prizes in this little contest, aside from my sincere amusement and gratitude. So thanks for that, friends. So nice to know we klutzes aren't alone.