Day Trip Down Memory Lane

It's been a long time since I was a student at the University of Missouri-Columbia. Just ask my daughter Madeline.

Mizzou wasn't exactly high on her list of collegiate destinations. At 4:30 this morning, it wasn't on mine either. But I'd registered us to attend Meet Mizzou Day, and by god, we were going to meet it, even if it would require speeding most of the way there. (Except through Fulton. Never speed through Fulton, trust me.)

Despite our late start, we managed to get to the Memorial Union pretty close to 8 a.m. As we hustled to the check-in station, I squinted up at the ornate clock tower. It was prettier than I remembered. Impressive, even. Not that Madeline noticed. For one thing, I embarrassed her by chatting with the greeter. And by making a restroom stop. And by asking a question at the Honors College table. How she suffers.

After a 30-minute introduction by a recruiter and two students, Madeline and I found a campus tour guide outside the Union. Her name was Ashley, and both of her shoes were untied, which I promptly pointed out when she asked if we had any questions before our tour. Madeline was not pleased.

We've taken several college tours, so Madeline and I were expecting the backwards-walking routine. But Ashley didn't care for walking backwards. Perhaps she'd tripped on those shoelaces before so really, who could blame her. Besides, the campus was treacherously packed with other tour groups Meeting Mizzou. We paused at the corner of the famous quadrangle long enough for Ashley to explain the origin of The Columns, a majestic row of six survivors of a long-ago campus fire. I was looking forward to a walk around the Quad, but Ashley decided to shake things up and head right back toward the library. 

"Do you want to go in the library?" she asked. Her tone implied the obvious answer was "no." So we headed to another building to check out a classroom. It wasn't as cavernous as the lecture halls I remembered from my academic glory days. And hey, the class was equipped with those clicker thingies that allow you to select an answer to a question and immediately see the class results on a screen. Madeline is accustomed to seeing such results on an active board at Kirkwood High School. Mizzou students see them on their own laptops and iPads. Still, this was progress! Mizzou didn't have a Mac Lab until I was a junior. Yes, I'm That Old.

Ashley rounded us up for a quick peek at The Shack, a reincarnation of a storied hangout of Mizzou alums even older than me. The Shack was destroyed by fire before I had the chance to enjoy it, but now we could see it rebuilt, complete with an area to carve your name into the wall. Just like the olden days. Cartoonist Mort Walker used to hang out at The Shack, so there was a statue of his creation Beatle Bailey in the foyer. "Who's Beatle Bailey?" Madeline asked. Sigh.

Next we briefly checked out the bookstore. Then our tour group headed for the gymnasium, where we spent an inordinate amount of time milling about. Basketball courts, racquetball courts, the Pump Room, a swimming pool that rivals hotel amenities, another swimming pool that Michael Phelps proclaimed had "fast water" and yet another pool outdoors that marks the spot of a former campus watering hole. And no, not the boozy kind, an actual watering hole where Mizzou students had once refreshed their horses.

After a quick tour of a dorm, we headed back to Memorial Union. I didn't bother asking Ashley questions because frankly, I didn't want to trouble her. 

"What now?" Madeline huffed. The girl does not care for exercise, and our tour had worn her out. According to the schedule, we had two hours to burn before the Honors College session, so I led her back to the bookstore. Boring. Then I asked for directions to a cafeteria where we could have a free meal. Embarrassing. Once we found it, we sat outside for a bit, thinking that the doors didn't open till 11. Wrong. And Embarrassing. Madeline cheered up when she found out that once you hand over your ticket, college cafeterias provide an all-you-can-eat gorge fest. "I can see why freshmen gain so much weight," Madeline acknowledged. Our chicken quesadillas were prepared to order and surprisingly delicious. I had a Diet Pepsi, while Madeline opted for grape juice. Then we both had soft-serve ice cream. We tried to have more soda but to be honest, we were just too full. So we headed back out into the sunshine. Madeline was upbeat until she found out I wanted to revisit the Quad.

"Whyyyyyyyyy?" she beseeched me. "I'm tired! I don't wanna." I literally had to grab her arm and pull her there. For me, it was worth it. The Columns and grounds are so inviting, an opinion obviously shared by the many students flopped in the grass with their Shakespeare's pizza and frisbees. Madeline didn't care for frisbees. Or grass. Or sunshine. Or at that moment, me. Still, I dragged her to one of my favorite buildings, Pickard Hall. There's a plaster cast gallery of famous Greek statues on the first floor, and a tiny gift shop upstairs. I snapped photos blissfully until Madeline asked, "WHY are you taking pictures of naked people?"

We got back to Memorial Union just in time for the Honors College session, the last item on the Meet Mizzou agenda. There were only four other kids in the room with an assortment of parents who inferred they'd like to wrap things up quickly and break for lunch. Madeline wasn't enthusiastic about another session either. At one point, I think she dozed off. As for me, this was the main event. I didn't even know Mizzou had an Honors College! The premise is that the Honors College makes a giant land grant campus like Mizzou feel like a smaller, more selective university, populated by like-minded students who favor academic pursuits. The overview was satisfying. Still, I had a few questions, like, "What's your take on Mizzou versus Missouri S&T?" My ex-husband was pushing the state school in Rolla, a town I must tell you is an armpit. Much to my satisfaction, the professor shared my preference for Mizzou, and he gave me ammunition for future battles with Madeline's dad. He said S&T focuses on engineering, which is limiting in this day and age. Mizzou gives students like Madeline the chance to apply their interest in chemistry and physics to a wide range of research opportunities with topnotch programs like medicine, journalism, law and more.

I had a few more questions. And a few more after that. Then, I hit the presenters with a whammy. "So what do you say when people dismiss Mizzou as a 'fall-back school?'" The professor emitted a strangled sort of gurgle. The three students on stage were quick to point out that they were from other states and had specifically selected to attend Mizzou. They all seemed baffled by such an assessment. As the professor regained his composure, I explained that I had graduated from the School of Journalism, so I thought quite highly of the university. But in the 80's, Mizzou had a reputation as a party school. The professor nodded, then explained something I'd never heard. The admission and scholarship requirements are published on the Mizzou website. If you meet the requirements, you know you'll be admitted. Consequently, the acceptance rate is really high. Other schools don't do that. You apply, then hope, then pray and eventually find out if you're in. Mizzou's common sense practice bites it in the butt when it comes to national rankings because the rate of acceptance figures into the system used by US News & World Report. A high acceptance rate leads to a lower rank.

Suddenly, I didn't feel guilty about potentially sending Madeline to Mizzou. In fact, I felt pretty good. Too bad she was getting surlier by the second. After a quick trot around downtown filled with cranky queries like "where are we going" and "my feet hurt" and "why do you go into shops without buying anything," we finally made it back to our Subaru. I had wanted to walk through the journalism buildings and take a look at my sorority house, but I spared Madeline the agony and headed back to St. Louis. 

See you next time, Mizzou. Perhaps in the fall of 2014.

Pure Bronze

On April 4, I attended the 30th annual Reggie Awards Gala in Chicago. According to Promotion Marketing Association, the organization responsible for the Reggies, winning an award is "one of the most prestigious honors in the marketing industry." We were told that Energy House Calls, a transmedia program I worked on for PG&E, was going to win either Bronze, Silver or Gold in the Local, Regional Market Campaigns Category (Campaigns directed toward consumers on a local or regional level, or targeted to specific geographic markets.)

Our client Steve Propper (we call him Propper) made the trip from San Francisco to accept the award and spend a long weekend. It was Propper's first trip to Chicago and while I can't go into the details because I am a lady and a gentleman, I know he had a good time. 

On the evening of the Reggies, we were a bit late for the dinner, which turned out to be stand-and-eat hors oeuvres . Resourcefully, my teammate Niki and I staked out a table in the ballroom, then ran back to the bar before it closed. Propper followed my lead and stocked up before the show–we each had three drinks in queue on our table, including two glasses each of champagne. 

When the Reggie chairwomen took the stage in their sparkly garb, Propper noted that Midwest ladies "sure like their bling." A Disney Channel performer named Coco Jones performed a few songs. That was fun. Later, a male performer whose name escapes me took the stage. Not so fun. 

After they announced that Energy House Calls won a Bronze Reggie (Propper sure wanted Gold), we headed to the lobby to pose for our photo, then ducked out to hit the bars. I can't remember the name of the first stop, but I know we spent a bit of time at a Chicago institution called The Lodge. 

I also recall re-pitching the reality TV series Propper and I had joked about during the Energy House Calls edit. Essentially, it would be a modern take on "The Odd Couple," starring Propper and an uptight roommate named Primm. We'd call it "Primm and Propper." Propper loved the idea in July, but this time, he was unimpressed. Bored, even. 

Lesson: What's funny last summer is 'so last summer.'

Of note:

The actual award is in the shape of a cash register because these awards are about more than creativity, they're about making the cash register ring. When's the last time anyone heard a cash register ring? These days, they do more of a beep-beep-boop thing, right?

I was a judge this year. I found one of the campaigns in my category lackluster at best. It still won an award. Which I must admit, tarnished the experience of winning our award.

On the drive home

Near misses with a parking garage column: 1

Dead squirrels: 1

Red lights: 4

Radio station changes: 12

Dead possums: 1

Times I spaced out: 2

Men standing in their yards, staring at pink flowering trees: 1

The Game

I told myself I’d let it go.

Be nice, be nice, be nice. It doesn’t matter that the hallways are clogged with revelers, heading to the parking garage where my Subaru’s waiting for me way up on the fifth level. And Mom. It’s probably okay with her if we wait indefinitely for him to wander back. She’s probably not in a hurry to return to just the two of them, rattling around their house crammed with the detritus of nearly fifty years of aimless collecting.

“He’s taking pictures of Julia,” Mom explained when I asked where Dad was. I scanned the section of the stadium where the band was seated. But of course, no one was in the seats. The Kirkwood Pioneers had just clinched the state championship and the sea of students in their spirit wear erupted liked a tidal wave, racing toward the narrow exits with whoops and shouts and the high-pitched laughter of adolescence.

Julia would be mortified, of course. If he actually found her. Trying to disguise how painful walking is now, with his toes perpetually clenched and his legs creaky with age and neglect. He’d tap on the sophomore’s shoulder sitting next to Julia and say, “Excuse me, miss, are you a movie star?” He’d laugh softly, lift his camera and ask if he could take a picture of the two of them. The sophomore would roll her eyes at her friends, discreetly so my father wouldn’t notice, then say brightly, “Sure!” Julia, meanwhile, would be shooting flaming daggers of horrified dismay straight through his stomach from her eyes. For her sake, I hoped he couldn’t find her. But I also kind of hoped he did. It would be nice to have photos of Julia in her band uniform. All the pictures that I’d managed to take were great of the other kids, but unflattering of Julia. Probably because she couldn’t bring herself to smile. I was so embarrassing.

It occurred to me that my dad may have foreseen this reaction and had found a place along the perimeter of the stadium where he’d go undetected, zooming in on Julia’s freckled face without her knowing. “Mom!” Madeline broke my concentration. “When are we leaving?” I’d made Madeline go to this game, the only one she’d attended since she was a freshman in the band. Julia wanted Madeline to see her march, but Madeline was stubborn when it came to things she did not want to do. I bribed her with a book. She could read while I watched.

“Honey, we can’t leave without Poppi,” I told her. She sank into the seat next to my Mom and reopened her book.

“Can’t you see him yet?” my mom asked. “No,” I replied, with a hint of disgust. “How long has he been gone?” “A while now,” she said, shifting her weight in the seat reserved for handicapped guests. “Maybe we should go look for him.”

“No, we should wait here, or we’ll never find him.” I snapped a little, more than I’d expected. Then I forced a smile and said, “It’s no big deal. He’ll come back.”

But it kind of was a big deal. Or I was making it one. It’s that way with my family. I love them, but they drive me crazy. Like the way they let the piles of catalogs pile up in the hallway where they’ve landed through the mail slot and onto the floor. Or my father’s habit of feeding their overweight dog Coconut from his dinner plate. Or the kitchen counter crowded with Sam’s Club boxes of muffins, ketchup packets, various loaves of decaying bread and an abandoned bowl of instant oatmeal. I learned to avoid going to their house because it inevitably triggered binge eating or depression. Or both.

Then I saw him. Hobbling along in his worn red jacket, about four hundred feet from us. “There he is,” I told my mom, and she hoisted herself up with her cane. “Finally,” Madeline mumbled, and we headed his way. But he kept walking toward us. “Stop!” I yelled. “Stop! Stop! Stop!” When he heard me, he waved. But he also looked kind of annoyed. Really, Dad? YOU’RE annoyed? “We need to go that way anyway,” I told him as I repeated in my head, “Be nice, be nice, be nice.”

Egg Karma

"Gramz called," my daughter Julia informed me as I carried in the first two bags of groceries. "She wants you to come over and clean her window."

"No," I said, scooting cell phones and serving dishes aside so I could set the bags on the counter.

"But she got egged."

I called my mom to get the details. She didn't have any idea who threw them, but she and my father heard the eggs hit their big picture window late Saturday night.

"Who would egg Gramz?" Julia asked.

"I don't know," I replied, but three candidates came to mind. Random kids. My brother-in-law. Or the young man that plays guitar and sings at my parents' church. My dad can't stand that guy. Because he sings songs the congregation doesn't know. And he looks at his feet instead of making eye contact with the congregation. One Sunday, my dad apparently hobbled up to this kid after mass and said, "I heard you dropped out of the seminary. Were you too gay, or not gay enough?"

I'm sure the shy guitar-playing shoe gazer wouldn't dream of egging my parent's house. But I couldn't help thinking my father deserved it.

Did I deserve to have to drive over and clean it up? Not really. But I did it. That window was gleaming when I left, and I wiped down the storm door too. Here's hoping the good kind of karma comes round and finds me.