Miss Peach

Match Me

2007-02-17T12:29:00.000-05:00

I finally did what I kept saying I needed to do. I joined Match again.** I have done this before, and I hated it. Sweet mother of GOD, did I hate it. But I didn’t really try to meet people through it; I really sat back to see what came my way. Obviously, that wasn’t the best approach.

After watching it work well for friends, I decided to try again, with the intention of signing on more often and really giving the whole system a fair shake. I signed up on Sunday, and once I was finally up and running, I had to leave for dinner so didn’t have time to check out profiles. So on Monday, around lunch, I decided to sign in and just see if anyone had reached out to me.

I’ll just post the meat of the email I got, because I really can’t paraphrase:

"I really enjoyed reading your profile and love your photos. I know this is over the edge, but I am a nice guy who enjoys going out as a tranny girl. Oddly, as a male I am not effeminate at all and enjoy being one of the guys with my friends... When dolled up, I am very cute and fun and relatively normal!! I am 100% straight, so I only am interested in dating women. Hope to hear from you!"

You do have to hand it to him for being so upfront and honest. But let’s just say this isn’t exactly making me like match any more.

This morning, I decided to go through and send out some emails to people. And there are some interesting guys on there, but this is the overarching theme: I like to be fit. (See photo of me running/playing tennis/hiking/white water rafting, etc.) I travel a lot. (See exotic photo of me petting baby cheetahs, riding camel, with foreign cityscape in the background.) I like fine wine and good food. (See photo of me opening bottle of wine.) I am reading either Freakonomics or From Beirut to Jerusalem. I want to be with some one who is pretty, fit, smart, attractive, passionate, open-minded, outgoing, hot, nice, adventurous, and has a nice rack and/or ass. Interested? Send me an email and be sure to include a picture of yourself!

Which—totally understandable. We all want to be attracted to a potential date. But if you’re trolling for a hot piece of ass, maybe an online venue isn’t your best bet. I suggest you hit up one of the many fratty bars on the Upper East Side where the hot, just-graduated sorority girls from Rutgers hang out.

The whole thing just smacks of uber-alpha males to me. I am man, I am in control of my destiny! I will have a hot girlfriend and trek through the wilds of Thailand! Me run long distance very fast! Me like to ski down steep hills with many rocks! Me like to take risk! Don’t let that fool you though. I’m also totally sensitive—I have nephews and we watch SpongeBob together, and I really enjoy going out to a good dinner/good museum/good play. Blech.

I’m still not convinced this is the way for me to meet someone. But I have spent cold, hard cash on this endeavor, so I will swallow my snarky reactions and borderline bad attitude and persevere. Just, erm, not with the tranny.

**Thank you, GG, for the awesome profile, and sorry I can't link from my post for some reason, but if you don't know GG, click on Red Red Whine on my blogroll. You won't be disappointed!

Coordination is Not My Strong Suit

2007-02-01T10:39:00.000-05:00

Ohmygod.
Work is really busy.
Also, life is busy. I went on a vacation! A real, true vacation! As in, not to visit my parents or attend a wedding!

I went to Colorado and I skied for the first time in 12 years. Which, though I couldn’t wait to get there, had me in a full-on freak-out state for the week leading up to the trip.

I am not the most coordinated person. I fall over standing up. My college housemates would sometimes just watch me and laugh, because I would constantly knock into things and fall over for no real reason. So the whole going-to-stay-with-a-former-coworker-and-her-new-husband-to-ski-for-the-first-time-in-over-a-decade was a little daunting.

I was envisioning a variety of scenarios, but I’ll just share with you the following ones, which received the most detailed, sick imaginings on my flight west:
1) I panic at the top of a hill and spend hours talking myself down (this happened once—I was 10, and my friend Nelson led me to the top of Golden Eagle, which was not just a black diamond but a DOUBLE BLACK DIAMOND. I still hold this against him. That time, I located a ski patrol member and she kindly brought me down, and Nelson got an earful from both our mothers afterwards. Holy Mother of God, that was terrifying.) Anyhoo, given the lapse in time since I last hit the slopes, I was waiting for this to happen atop either a beginner or intermediate slope, so that not only would it be supremely annoying to my companions but also utterly mortifying.
2) I no longer remember how to ski at all, and I wind up in ski school for two days. This more for the embarassment factor than anything else.
3) I fall and break something.
4) I careen out of control, smack into a tree, and break something (a la Arnold Schwarzenegger).
5) I careen out of control, smack into a tree, and die (a la Sonny Bono).
6) Another skier or snowboarder smacks into me and either maims or kills me.
7) Worst case: I smack into another skier or boarder and either maim or kill them.

Verdict: Skiing really is like riding a bike. I am happy to report that none of the preceding scenarios occurred. I graduated from beginner to intermediate slopes after my first run on my first day. And, to make things even better, I only had one fall the whole time!

It was in the café, while I was getting hot chocolate the afternoon of our first day on the mountain.

I went down so hard that the sound quite literally stopped all movement in the room for a good 30 seconds. I was fine, just mortified. (I trust that anyone that has ever worn ski boots will understand how easily this can happen and not make fun of me.)

I’ve got the ski bug again. This is an expensive habit. I’m therefore looking for friend with either a home in the mountains or access to a home in the mountains. I will provide the entertainment. As in you can watch me fall on my ass regularly. Oh! And, like my friend’s husband, when I pull on my old-school ski pants (it’s been 12 years, my gear is retro, okay?), you too can point at me, start laughing, and inform me between gasps that I kind of look like Napoleon Dynamite. (I know that sounds mean, but it wasn’t. It was just hysterically funny and had me crying with laughter pre-skiing.) And I’m a good cook, so I’ll make dinner every night. In fact, made a killer pork tenderloin last night that would be just fabulous for an apres-ski dinner.

Any takers? Hellooooooooooo? Anyone?

Clearly, I Need an Older Brother or Sister

2007-01-06T11:06:00.000-05:00

A few weeks ago, my assistant (who is really less an assistant and more like a little sister--she's awesome, firstly, and really funny, and she's only five years younger than me, so our relationship is really coworker-y and whatnot) and I went out drinking. She had had a really rough run of things at work--overloaded, stressed, and dealing with a lot of not-so-nice people, some in the office, some out. After she hit her breaking point one evening in my office, I decided that what she (and I) really needed were some drinks. So we tromped down a few blocks to engage in some pre-holiday merriment, which turned into several glasses of wine. Because, as you all know, drinking copiously is the only way to solve a problem effectively.

When we finally got up to go, I headed outside and she stopped into the restroom, so I found myself waiting for her in front of the bar. There was a guy standing there, kind of a portly finance type, in a suit with slicked hair, Jersey accent (he was on the phone), and visible wedding ring. When he hung up the phone, he turned to me and started asking questions: what I did (he guessed fashion, which, no and why that? Weird.), where I was from, who I had come to the bar with, etc. I was giving polite but vague answers, as he struck me as slightly smarmy. My assistant came out, and we started to walk to the corner when he offered us a ride, which we politely declined. Then he looked at me and said, "My god, you just... you really remind me of a girl I knew in school who I couldn't get up from my desk for!"

And this is where my innocence shined through, where I became the youngest 27-year-old on earth, where my young assistant became the older, wiser, world-weary party in the group, where, once again, being an only child with no older siblings to pass along knowledge or music or advice bacame evident. My response? "What does that even mean?" My assistant turned to me and replied, "Oh, MIss Peach. I'll tell you when you're older."

And then in dawned on me. And then all the wine and appetizers we'd had started churning in my stomach, and I felt a little woozy. Because EW. Ew ew ew ew ew ew. Ew ew.

And then he laughed and offered us a ride on his way home to HIS WIFE AND CHILDREN IN NYACK.

At least I can call 'em early on in the conversation, right? Smarmy, indeed!

New Year, New You

2007-01-05T14:20:00.000-05:00

It's a New Year, so here's to a New Friday Five. I know I said I don't really go for resolutions, but goals are important, and maybe if I say them out loud (or commit them to the internet), I'll feel more inspired to follow through. And it's not like I'm declaring anything unsurmountable here. I'm hoping I can look back in a year and know I did what I set out to do. So here goes:

1) Learn more about my computer and how to use it properly. I switched to a mac too long ago to be as clueless on certain aspects of it as I am. (I have yet to master the art of opening a PDF on it. That’s great, as about two-thirds of the documents flying around in my work inbox are PDFs, and if I’m out or on the road, I have to be all “Hey, brililant, wonderful, way to smart for this crap assistant! Want to read that to me over the phone? Because I am a MORON. You don’t hate me, right? Sorry! It'll be fast, promise!” Sigh. So there’s that. Also (I’m just going to lump all technology-related items together here), I want to use my camera more and take better pictures so that I don’t have paralyzing moments of self-doubt before uploading to Flickr, thinking everyone will see me for the very pedestrian and lame photographer I am. Wait, maybe I should work on not worrying what people think of my Flickr photos, huh? Hm. That too. Cool. Oh! And upgrade to photoshop, preferably without having to pay the ten bajillion dollars it takes to get it. I love my iBook, don’t get me wrong, but if I hadn’t switched from a PC, I could have both Photoshop AND Picasa for free. Motherfucker. So if anyone has Photoshop for Mac that they can share with me, I promise to reward you with many, erm, books? I can hook you up with books. And lots of good will, effusive thank yous, and undying gratitude. And I’ll make you a mix if you want. I’d almost consider putting out for photoshop, actually. Is that bad or something? Stop looking at me like that!

2) Write more. Think more about what I write. Plan what I’m going to write before I write it. Write down my ideas for posts when they hit me, or shortly thereafter, rather than finally sitting down to execute and going, “wait, what was the really inspired, semi-brilliant idea I had on the subway today?” Stop writing only when the inspiration strikes, or when I feel the need to get something up and so wind up with this. Write more like this. And try to make things half as entertaining as the five bloggers who first inspired me to start blogging: her, her, him, her, and her. (And I also aspire to write like the rest of my sidebar, and others I read regularly but haven’t blogrolled because you know what? Dooce has got all the loving she needs from the internets.)

3) Read more. This is almost a ridiculous resolution because my job is largely reading, but I absolutely don’t do enough of it. I want to stop going straight for the TV when I get home. I want to read more for fun, rather than only for work. I hope to remind myself what it’s like to devour a book, to love what I’m reading so much that I turn off the phone and seriously contemplate cancelling plans so that I can keep reading. Added bonus: this will help me with work. And make me better at cocktail conversation. And keep me from feeling like such a fraud at said cocktail parties.

4) Travel. I haven’t left the country in FIVE YEARS. That’s just stupid. I can’t believe I haven’t done any far-flung travel in that long. I’ve been really good about getting around our fine, fine nation, and that’s great. There’s plenty to see here, and I’ve enjoyed learning more about the US and seeing places I’d never been before. But travelling to other countries and experiencing other cultures is so eye-opening and enriching, and I love doing it so much, that I’m really angry with myself for not doing more of it. I’m single, I have few responsibilities, and I have an unbelievable amount of vacation time. I have little money, of course, but I’ll happily search for deals, and I’m a fan of hostels. I’m thinking Costa Rica, I’m thinking Argentina, I’m thinking Europe or Asia or even India, which I have been dying to visit for three years now. Realistically, it’ll be Europe or Central/South America this year, but I have got to make it happen. Any willing partners out there? My travel buddies have informed me they want to a) go to the southwest, which I’ve done ten times so am not really interested, b) are saving for law school, and c) wonder if they can bring their boyfriend, would that be okay?

5) Get outside more. Not just here in NYC, by walking in Central Park or along the Hudson, or taking the Staten Island Ferry just to be on the water. But also by engaging in outdoor activities. I haven’t played tennis in probably 6 years—but I played for my entire life (well, from like 4 years on), including on our high school team and while attending several tennis camps. Point is: I’ve got a skillset I’m not using, one that I worked hard to attain, and one that I really enjoy using. Or did at one time. So I’m thinking that a permit for the courts in Central Park is a must this spring/summer/fall. And this will provide an excellent excuse to purchase a cute tennis skirt or two. Score! Also, I want to ski again. That’s another sport I did for just about my entire life until ten years ago. It’s an expensive sport, so it’s tricky to swing. And I’m also a bit of a snob about it, as I grew up skiing in California and Colorado, so the midwest and east coast resorts are incredibly unappealing to me (The ice! The severe cold! The ice! The limited size of the mountains! DID I MENTION THE ICE? Because it paralyzes me. I just stand there on my skis, looking at it, going, “I am going to kill myself. I am going to slip, fall, and tumble headlong into a tree, and die tragically.” And then I freak out and take six hours to get down while my ski buddy takes a nap at the base of the run.) Anyway, the good news is I booked a flight to Denver two days ago (crazy deals, my friends!) to visit a friend and go skiing for two days. Joy! So this is pretty much guaranteed to happen. If the snow would just fall in the mountains and stop landing squarely on the plains and in Denver, huh?

The Year That Was

2007-01-02T18:03:00.000-05:00

I’m not big on resolutions. I find I break them. It’s not that I can’t affect change in my life—I definitely can and I have. It’s just that I don’t see why I should put all into play on January 1. Sure, it’s a fresh year and therefore a symbolic time for a fresh start. But it just seems super gimmicky to me—I’ll make it happen when I’m good and ready to, okay? Not because we’re making a new trip around the sun. Also, I find it’s a crap day to begin given that roughly nine out of the ten of us are hungover on New Year’s Day. That’s not exactly the day to begin hitting the gym and eating right and volunteering, now, is it?

Anyway, before I start looking forward, I thought I’d look back. Some highlights of 2006 included:

Good domestic travel—I went to Newport, RI with my mom, where we discovered it’s super touristy, that customer service and friendliness of the waitstaff isn’t something they’re known for, and that all tour guides there suck, but we had much fun regardless. I also went to Cape Cod for the first time, for a friend’s wedding. It rained the whole time, but I realized that it’s a beautiful place that I’d love to go back too, and reaffirmed my pretty deep hatred of the Hamptons and a commitment to always, always have a rain plan for a wedding (unless it’s in southern California, as it never rains there. Unless I one day actually get married there. Trust me, if so, it’ll rain, and I won’t have a rain plan).

Speaking of Cali, I made several trips there—kicking off the year with my two best friends in San Francisco and then spending three days in Napa to cap it off, which was great. I went to Disneyland with Dan and Darren, where I accidentally rammed a 6-year old and snapped at a waitress. Apparently, I’m not so good in big crowds. Lesson learned. I spent one sun-soaked, beautiful week in Michigan playing with my family and old friends there, wound up dancing on a stage with a tambourine, sailed a lot, played golf moderately well, and was once again centered by my favorite place on earth. My best friend took me to Delaware twice, where I learned that though she may be coupled-up, she will always be my rock and soulmate, despite how incredibly different we are from each other. I visited Austin (and Texas, for that matter) for the first time, and vowed to go back as often as possible after tasting the margaritas there. YUM. I spent a weekend in DC with Meggie, Darren, Nabbs, and Malia which was great, and that city has great margaritas too, guys. For reals.

Hm. It seems I also took to judging cities by their margaritas. Fitting for a girl known to some as the Tequila Queen!

Good progress in my “career”—I realized that I do like my job after a few really shaking experiences here at the end of 2005 that made me question what I do and who I do it with. I came back from some really awful times to book some amazing media (including two visits to see Jon Stewart, wahoo!) and pull off some very solid campaigns, if I do say so myself. I worked on a few projects that meant a whole lot to me, and I did them well, I think. I established some great professional relationships, and came to the conclusion that this isn’t just a job, but an education as well. (Let’s just say I’ve learned more about art history, psychology, history, and literature here than I did in college.) I think I have, more or less, hit my stride here, and the promotion I got in July cemented that for me. The new year is filled with even bigger challenges for me at work, but I have incredibly supportive, smart, great supervisors and coworkers should help me get through it all. In short, I realized that, for now, I’m in the right place doing the right thing. Check back with me in a month though. February is crazy-month for me, and I’ll likely freak out and decide this is all wrong and I need to do something about it RIGHT THIS SECOND OH MY GOD HELP! Fun times!

Some knocks in the personal life department—it was a fairly up-and-down year on this front. Friends moved away. I miss them. Others coupled up which caused a lot of navel-gazing and woe-is-me-ing on my part. August was pretty brutal—no one was around, ever, and I was alone for what felt like every second I wasn’t at the office, which wasn’t much but felt like all the motherfucking time. I felt like I was falling way short in the life department, which isn’t a conclusion I’ve ever come to before, and I had a really hard time grappling with it all. I went on some super crappy dates. I did Match with the level of enthusiasm I usually reserve for a trip to the dentist. I went from the “eternally-single-and-just-fine-with-it” girl to the “holy-fuck-I-need-to-find-someone-to-date-or-I’m-going-to-wind-up-alone-with-twelve-cats” girl. This phase sucked. I think I’m largely through it, though it’d be just super to finally meet someone I’m interested in. I want to want to go on a third date. I think I’m going to make that a resolution. I don’t know how the hell I can resolve to do that if I keep meeting the people I’ve been meeting, but I can try!

The up side of this, though, is the blog, and meeting all of you. I keep forgetting I just started this in February because it feels like it’s such a part of my life at this point. I haven’t been super consistent, and I’m terrible at responding to email in a timely manner, but I’ve loved getting to know you all through the blog and emails. You all are a big part of my life now, more than you know. Since none of my non-bloggy friends (save Darren, Dan, Renee, Megan, and FWOL) know I blog, and since I don’t really want any of them to find out, it’s tricky to talk about you all, but I do it all the time. Some of my older friends wonder how I’ve suddenly acquired new friends in places like Baltimore, Philadelphia, Minneapolis, Richmond, Boston, the suburbs of NYC, and others that I’m neglecting to note, but they know about you all. So thanks, guys, for listening to me whine and opine, for being there for me to lean on, for encouraging me when I’ve been down, for cheering me on when I’ve struggled, and for laughing with or at me as is appropriate. Overall, it’s been a good year, and despite my neverending ambivalence about blogging and inability to continue doing it regularly, the blog has a lot to do with it.

I think whatever resolutions I'm making can wait. At least until tomorrow!

Happy New Year!

2007-01-01T13:58:00.000-05:00

I wish you all nothing but love, laughter, happiness, and all good things in 2007!

I'm not speaking to Costco

2006-12-18T15:00:00.000-05:00

I'm home in California, taking two lovely and blissful weeks off of work, hanging with my parents and catching up with old friends. It's funny coming home--I didn't grow up in this house, or in Orange County, where my parents now live--we lived 45 minutes north of here in Los Angeles, and it's always a little strange to come "home" to this area. I have mixed feelings about it here, which I will undoubtedly post about--along with the fact that I literally swooned in Gelson's (grocery store) about a half hour ago when I saw my first carton of Knudsen's milk (I grew up drinking that, and for some reason, seeing the cartons now make me all nostalgic. How a carton of milk can inspire such deep-seated emotional responses is a little baffling though.)

But there are more important things to address, and by things I mean thing, and by that I mean how Costco totally pissed me off yesterday.

I love warehouse stores. They are awesome. I find the concept of a three-gallon tub of mayonnaise to be disgusting, but, yes, please, hook me up with a flat of bottled water! The toilet paper! The paper towels! Ahhh. It kills me. It's actually almost masochistic for me to go there, because I literally torture myself thinking, "if I didn't live in New York, I could get 85 rolls of toilet paper for around what a 10-pack would run in the city!" And then I get all annoyed I can't take advantage.

My parents frequent the local Costco, and over the years, I have purchased a full set of Henckel knives (yes, a FULL SET) for $120. Seriously. How insane is that? I now have fabulous knives--and all for less than what two would have cost at Williams-Sonoma. Score! That is probably my best buy there, ever, so it's not worth getting into the others. But I've also bought coffeemakers, DVDs, books, printers, and lots of medicine. Advil, Airborne, Delsym... ahh.

So yesterday, my mom needed to run over there for a few things, and never one to miss a chance to score some deals, I accompanied her. Also, I have wanted the DVDs of all three seasons of "Arrested Development" for months now, and I decided that it was time to purchase them. They'd still be pricey, but less so there, and frankly, having access to the Bluths whenever the fancy strikes is kind of priceless, don't you think?

Except COSTCO DOESN'T CARRY THEM. They have the boxed set of the entirety of "The West Wing" (which I loved and, if I had any storage and money to burn, would totally buy). They have the boxed set of "Six Feet Under" too. There were about six thousand copies of "You, Me, and Dupree" and "The DaVinci Code". There were the Bogey boxed sets, and the three-pack romantic comedy sets, and many more beyond that. But no "Arrested Development".

Let me explain why I am so pissed off about this. I understand they can't carry everything. I actually know all about how their merchandising is structured, and how to remain on sale, x units have to move nationally per week, and how the distributions aren't always national. And I can understand that maybe, that's why it wasn't available in ours. Granted, the show is set in Orange County, not far from this particular Costco, but whatever. Fine. I'll accept it.

But that was until I noticed the complete first season of Fox's smash hit show, "Prison Break". And boxed collections of "Northern Exposure". And sets of "One Tree Hill" and "Veronica Mars"--but not "Gilmore Girls". Seriously? What sent me over the edge, though, was the first season of Jennifer Love Hewitt's show "Ghost Whisperer". What the hell? Who is choosing what goes into those stores? Is that show even still on? Does merchandising ever, I don't know, consider what might sell? Also, what is wrong with Fox? Why are they issuing these shows? And why aren't things like "Grey's Anatomy" and "Lost" at Costco?

I'm baffled. Also, their wrapping paper selection blew and they didn't have any socks for women. I did get a set of W.C. Fields DVDs for my dad, as he is a huge fan, so I guess that was nice. But Costco is on notice. If you see him around, can you tell him I'm totally not talking to him? If he's lucky, he'll see me in March, but I can't make any guarantees.

In Which I Share More About My Digestion Than You Ever Wanted to Know

2006-12-12T14:37:00.000-05:00

On Friday night, I went to a friend’s apartment for wine and to hangout. It was fun—she just ended a long-term relationship so there was lots of life talk, lots of philosophizing and analyzing, and lots of wine. LOTS. I’m talking two bottles, and then we finished off what was left of a third (like a half-glass each). I’m aware that’s a bottle and smidge each. I was slightly horrified when we totaled it up.

I was also pretty hungover on Saturday. I had to go out that night to a birthday party, and come 5:30, my attempts at not eating too badly were keeping me from any semblance of a happy recovery from the festivities of the night before. So I gave in and ordered a turkey burger and fries from our local spot, and ate half the burger (I don’t know what seasonings they used, but they were not good) and about half the fries.

I haven’t had fries in, oh, about two months. I’ve had the odd fry here and there, but I haven’t actually had more than 5 at any given time. Well, word to the wise, because apparently your body loses the ability to digest them. People, I have never had such stomach issues in my LIFE. I was dying. My stomach felt like it had tied itself into a double-knot. I couldn’t sit or lay comfortably. I finally found that tossing my left leg over the left arm of the armchair was the only solution. (I couldn’t stand up straight either.) I kept drinking more and more water in an attempt to dilute the offending fries into oblivion, but that just gave me the look of a starving Somalian child, as my stomach was legitimately distended. Meanwhile, I had a birthday party to attend, and needed to leave in about 20 minutes. So I’m sit/laying there, in horrible pain, all dressed up and ready to roll, but completely unsure as to how I would actually get up, get into the elevator, and get downstairs.

Somehow, someway, with the help of some tums and more water and a lot of me just willing it to go away, it finally passed. This entire experience has, however, caused me to rethink having children. Maybe I’ll just adopt. SWEET MOTHER OF GOD, I thought I was going to die. I imagine this is what it’s like having a baby in your stomach. Gaaah.

Flash forward to last night: I bolted from work relatively early because I was sure I was coming down with a cold. When I get sick, soup is about all I want. Chicken broth with anything works—I was so broke in college I once nursed myself through a cold on generic broth alone. I didn’t have any on hand at home last night, though, so I decided to order wonton soup from a spot near my apartment—it’s fresh and chock-full of spinach and veggies and the wontons are fabulous. In order to get them to deliver it, however, I had to order something else, so I went with the steamed veggie dumplings. They are deeeeee-lish.

Well, I haven’t had Chinese food in about as long as I hadn’t had fries, and good god, it’s SALTY. I couldn’t taste the salt, but I know it was in there, because my fingers were sausages when I went to bed. My solution was, again, to drink as much water as I could to flush the sodium out of my system. So I’m sitting on the couch, pounding water, watching a Lifetime movie called “The Christmas Wedding” starring Sarah Paulsen that was crappy, even by that station’s standards, and my hands and feet are swelling. I finally just went to bed. Which was great—I needed the sleep. I just didn’t get it, because I kid you not, I had to pee ever hour on the hour all night long. It should have stopped around, oh, 2 or 3, but I was so thirsty still, I had to drink more water, which perpetuated the cycle until I had to get up for work.

Tonight, I plan on eating dry toast and a banana. No more fun food for me. It’s blandsville from here on out.

Profile Me, Please

2006-12-05T18:22:00.000-05:00

Stefanie recently posted about the profile Guiness Girl wrote for her. It was a great profile. I jokingly asked Guinness Girl if we could talk and... well, apparently the old adage "Ask and you shall receive" DOES work, becuase today she sent me a fabulous profile. Check it out:

I am the kind of girl who adores champagne but isn't above drinking a cold can of beer. I've been described as "the perfect mix of kind and funny", "easygoing", "friendly", "if you were a band, I'd wear your t-shirt", and "as full of shit as [my] father". Although people often comment on how friendly I can be, I'm no shrinking violet, either - I love the F-word. I never forget who I am, which keeps me grounded even when things get crazy in my life. You can throw me in nearly any social situation and I can handle it (no, that's not an invitation to challenge me!). I'm definitely a glass half-full kind of girl - I love the infinite possibilities that life offers with all its choices. I think everyone has an interesting story to tell. I have a great group of friends and a fantastic family, and I value them above all else. I'm a hard worker and get satisfaction out of doing a good job, but I'm no workaholic.

I have a deep and abiding love for made-for-Lifetime-Television-for-Women movies, but I also love college football (Go Michigan!) and I get sucked into March Madness every year, even though my teams are often chosen as favorites simply because their rival is the alma mater of a girl I hated in elementary school. I cannot keep plants alive. I'm a big fan of fun and crazy music on road trips, but for my daily commute, NPR's the way to go. I make a mean guacamole that goes perfectly with margaritas and lime-kissed Tostitos, if I say so myself.

As for who I'm looking for, I'd love to meet someone to have fun with; someone who is laid-back and open-minded and interested in a variety of things. Kindness is key, and a sense of humor is a must as well. There's nothing better than being with someone who makes you laugh until it hurts. Modesty is always appreciated - as is confidence, and conviction/passion is very sexy. Guys who are rude to the waitstaff at restaurants need not apply.

Thank you, GG! Also, who thinks she should start a little side business? I do!

A Literary Friday Five

2006-12-01T16:22:00.000-05:00

I recently picked up The Sportswriter by Richard Ford. He’s won a Pulitzer for his fiction, and several people I know (who, I should say, have literary taste I trust without question) have said I should to read him, and that The Sportswriter is the place to start. So for Thanksgiving, I took a copy with me to the midwest, along with a book about the Anglo-American tradizzzzzzzzzzzz and a novel called Love and Other Impossible Pursuits, which appealed to me because I liked the title.

I didn’t actually start The Sportswriter until last night, on the subway downtown to meet someone for dinner. I wanted to start with Love and Other Impossible Pursuits, because I just needed something accessible and fast, and Ford’s Pulitzer made me think he might be a struggle to get into. Love… was fine, and quick, and achingly sad at times. And unexpectedly informative about Central Park. But by the time I finished it, I only had another day of break, and I spent it doing other things. Like watching football. NFL football. I hate the NFL. But I was in Ohio with a slew of alpha males, and that is what Americans do over Thanksgiving. They watch ESPN and theorize on the merits of the BCS system, and who am I to question such a fine national tradition?

I’ve now read a mere 30 pages of The Sportswriter, and I don’t understand how I haven’t read this before. I’m blown away by this book. It’s straightforward. It’s true to life. Things are stated in a way that make you stop and think, “this man is a phenomenal writer.” But it isn’t show-offy. I can’t stand authors who insist on two metaphors instead of one, or whose sentences seem to need diagramming before they can be processed and understood. And you won’t (well, from what I’ve read) find that here.

I haven’t read a book in a long time that has made me ask myself why it is, exactly, that I don’t carry highlighters around in my purse. This is a question I’ve now asked three times in 20 hours.

So here is my Friday Five. Five great lines/passages from the first thirty pages of The Sportswriter by Richard Ford.

1: “I do my work and do it well and remain expectant of the best without knowing in the least what it will be.”*

2: “A woman I met at the college where I briefly taught, once told me I had too many choices, that I was not driven enough by dire necessity. But that is just an illusion and her mistake. Choices are what we all need. And when I walk out into the bricky warp of these American cities, that is exactly what I feel. Choices aplenty. Things I don’t know about but might like are here, possibly waiting for me. Even if they aren’t. The exhilaration of a new arrival. Good light in a restaurant that especially pleases you. A cab driver with an interesting life history to tell. The casual, lilting voice of a woman you don’t know, but that you are allowed to listen to in a bar you’ve never been in, at a time when you would otherwise have been alone. These things are waiting for you. And what could be better? More mysterious? More worth anticipating? Nothing. Not a thing.”

3: “Sometimes we do not become adults until we suffer a good whacking loss, and our lives in a sense catch up with us and wash over us like a wave and everything goes.”

4: “I suppose our life was the generic one, as the poet said… We paid bills, shopped, went to movies, bought cars and cameras and insurance, cooked out, went to cocktail parties, visited schools, and romanced each other in the sweet, cagey way of adults. I looked out my window, stood in my yard sunsets with a sense of solace and achievement, cleaned my rain gutters, eyed my shingles, put up storms, fertilized regularly, computed my equity, spoke to my neighbors in an interested voice—the normal applauseless life of us all**.”

5: “I know that you can dream your way through an otherwise fine life, and never wake up, which is what I almost did. I believe I have survived that now and put dreaminess behind me, though there is a resolute sadness between X and me that our marriage is over, a sadness that does not feel sad. It is the way you feel at a high school reunion when you hear an old song you used to like played late at night, only you are all alone.”

Thank god it's Friday. More time to read. Especially since we're getting 60 mile an hour winds here tonight. Wheeeeee!

* Possible tagline?
** Definitely a tagline coming to this site soon.

Three Cheers for Haloscan

2006-12-01T13:55:00.000-05:00

Haloscan commenting and trackback have been added to this blog.

Yep. They have. And it seems to have worked. PHEW!

Yay! I'm Not a Pariah!

2006-11-28T21:23:00.000-05:00

It's been called to my attention that my comments aren't working. Thank God, because let me tell you, I was starting to wonder if I had done something to offend everyone. I was afraid you all had gotten together and decided to boycott posting comments. Or that I had just said things that were so boring, no one could even muster up a, "hey, um, what a post!" It was lonely over here!

I'm planning to ad Haloscan back in to remedy, and hopefully soon. So, uh, if you've got anything you HAVE to tell me, email me. Because I'm sure you're just burning up with a need to contact me. Especially since I declared Meredith Baxter Birney to be royalty and all.

Better to Be Safe Than Sorry

2006-11-22T11:26:00.000-05:00

An admission: I love Lifetime television. My roomate and I knew living together would work out when we sheepishly admitted this to the other. (One of the joys of sharing an apartment with her is the lack of judgment when I suggest seeing what's on Lifetime.) We actually gave blogging a try as a team a few years ago and called the blog “Apartment 3A: Where everyday is just another Lifetime movie”. The idea was to recap Lifetime movies and also just generally blog, and let me tell you—recapping is an art best left to the professionals. Also, she wasn't so much into the blogging thing, and we just never got it going. But it was a fun concept. We titled every post after a Lifetime movie, and wondering, “Do I want to call this post ‘Armed and Innocent’ or ‘Victim of the Night’?” is much more fun than you think it’s going to be.

I have no idea why I like Lifetime movies. I know they’re awful, have bad film quality, make little sense, and are mind-numbingly stupid most of the time. But there’s nothing better than, say, a Tiffani Amber Thiessen marathon on Sunday after a late night out on Saturday. Truly. I defy you to show me something I like better.

Also, I love the ridiculousness of them. I mean, come on—as if Gerald McRaney could ever in real life bag a young, pre-Melrose Place Josie Bissett! And the titles kill me. I still laugh out loud when I remember the night Darren, making fun of me and my love of the station, imitated what a meeting to determing the titles might sound like:

Supervisor: “OK, so what’s this one about?”
Assistant: “Well, there’s a girl, and she’s fifteen, and she gets pregnant.”
S: “OK, call it ‘Fifteen and Pregnant’*. Next?”
A: “Jean Smart’s younger lookalike plays a single mom, who gets involved with a man** and her daughter catches them having sex, and…”
S: “Let’s go with ‘Sex and the Single Mom.’ Next?”

Now that I'm admitting to my ultimate guilty pleasure (and I hope you don't lose too my respect for me here), I thought I'd share the wealth of knowledge I've accrued through years of regularly tuning into Lifetime and Lifetime Movie Network. Since I'll be on hiatus until next week when I'm back from stuffing myself with turkey, I thought, well, what about an early Friday Five?

Top Five Lessons I’ve Learned from Lifetime Television (which can totally happen because these are based on TRUE STORIES, people. True. Stories.)

1: If your boyfriend wants to marry you, but he’s already married, that's a bad sign. If he then decides you should secretly marry while he finds a way to drive his wife to divorce him, and then uses a fake name to put on the marriage license because, you know, polygamy is illegal? Probably not a keeper.

2: Don’t let your neighbor fix up your house before you move in. He will install hidden cameras in the bathroom and bedroom and then watch you get out of the shower naked and do things with your husband that should really be kept between man and wife. Incidentally, there STILL isn’t a law against this, do you even believe it??? After all her crusading too.

3: If you have a very mysterious ailment, that leaves you ill, weak, and with some freaky rash that kind of resembles what I imagine one’s skin would look like just before the thing in The Grudge and The Grudge Two promos pops out, and the entire medical community in your city is unable to diagnose it, something peculiar is up. If you then divorce your husband and he remarries and then his new wife gets it? It’s probably a tip off that he’s sociopath and is poisoning you both. With Selenium. And he’s been buying old radios and scraping the old selenium off the batteries or whatever. So, I’m extrapolating here, but I’d just steer clear of any guys with a penchant for old radios. Just in case. Can’t ever be too careful. (In this particular movie, the first wife was played by Marg Helgenberger, and all I could think of was how her characters get totally screwed by outside parties in movies! Erin Brokovich, anyone? Also, her ex was played by John Ritter which, well, bad casting. He is Jack, and he can never be evil. Only a little too goofy for his own good.)

4: It’s totally possible for an older, widowed, bookshop-owning woman*** to fall in love with a semi-retarded gardener who ends every sentence with “that’s for sure,” and for them to get married. In order for them to fall in love, she needs to teach him to read of course, and everyone will just overlook the fact that she is OLD ENOUGH TO BE HIS MOTHER and also? That her developmentally delayed lover's dad totally had the hots for her for a while and hit on her at least once, which, ew.

5: If a child in the neighborhood goes missing and winds up dead, it’s always the cute, boyish, overly helpful soccer coach next door, and not the ex-con down the block. How many times do you people need to see this played out on the Lifetime Movie Network before you figure it out? It is always who you least suspect. Always.

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone!

*Incidentally, the 15-year old was played by a young Kirsten Dunst.
**Played by Jake from Melrose Place! Lifetime is where all the formerly hot, now C-list stars of defunct Aaron Spelling series go to die.
***Played by Meredith Baxter-Birney, who is and always will be like royalty to me.

Swallowing My Pride

2006-11-20T12:17:00.000-05:00

NOTE: This post will conclude all football talk on this blog for this calendar year, and unless a rematch takes place on 1/1/2007, until next year this time.

What happens when I trash-talk?

I get my comeuppance.

Michigan lost by a mere three points, and it was slightly crushing to watch it unfold. Again, I’m not a huge football fan, but I learned enough about the game in high school and college to be able to slip back into talking about it like I actually know what is happening on the field. (Dig a little about things like, oh, what team is ranked #3 in the country, and you’ll find I’m useless). So with my limited knowledge of the game, my feeling is that the officials called a 1st down for TOSU that was not legit—with the naked eye it was pretty clear to me that they didn’t make the yardage. And then they took away a Michigan touchdown for holding, which was wholly legitimate. But I think we got a little, teensy-weensy bit robbed on that 1st down, which led to TOSU scoring, and set us further back.

Regardless, we needed to win, and we didn’t. TOSU outplayed us. Here’s to a rematch on New Year’s Day, when we will (hopefully) crush TOSU once and for all. In a Bowl Game. For the title of BCS Champions. May it shake out to be a rematch!

Since I keep noting that I’m not an actual football fan, it probably seems strange that I get all hyped up about one specific game. Sure, it’s a huge, storied rivalry, but we have huge rivalries with Notre Dame, Michigan State, and Penn State, too, and I don’t really care about those. Why do I care so much about the TOSU game?

Because my pride rides on it.

Years ago, my uncle struck a bet with me, since he (and most of my family) are big TOSU fans. (They can’t help it—they’re from Ohio. And you know what they say about not being able to pick your family.) The terms are this: if Michigan wins, they have to wear a Michigan jersey/hat/etc to Thanksgiving dinner. If Michigan loses, yours truly is bedecked in TOSU paraphenalia.

It’s been a long few years since Michigan last won.

In 2004, I was forced to wear a shirt with Calvin peeing that said in big block letters ANN ARBOR WAS A WHORE and a necklace made of Buckeyes. Luckily, my cousin had just learned to read and started sounding out the shirt (“Annnn Arrrboooor was a wh…”) when I whipped that sucker off, as I had no desire to explain to a six-year-old what a whore was.

Last year, my uncle somehow found a Brutus the Buckeye coon hat. I spent dinner sweating in a furry Buckeye hat that Daniel Boone might have worn, were he a TOSU fan in the age of synthetic materials. That was coupled with a t-shirt that read WOLVERINE TASTES LIKE CHICKEN. For Christmas, I received a lovely frame with a photo of my uncle and me, wearing the hat and shirt.

This year, it’s been suggested that a full-on Brutus the Buckeye ensemble will surface. And by full-on, I mean something akin to what the Brutus mascot wears at the games. If it were any other member of my family threatening this, I’d laugh and consider it a mere joke. But my uncle—well, he’s a little nuts, in a hilarious and extremely loveable way, and I really wouldn’t put it past him. As a friend who has met him a few times said when I told her this year’s proposed ensemble: “The thing is that with Uncle Miss Peach, he could very well have a full Brutus the Buckeye costume ready for you, and tell you to suit up come dinnertime. In fact, I think you’re screwed.”

So this Thursday, I will once again be at the mercy of TOSU fans. The good news is, a cousin on their side of the family bet them that Texas would beat TOSU, and they didn’t, so for once I won’t be the only one at the table. Misery does love company. And wine. Lots of wine.

We’ll Miss You (and a Friday Five)

2006-11-17T18:02:00.000-05:00

Late-breaking news, on the eve of the rivalry that rules my year (if it can even be said that a college football rivalry can rule anything in my world, given I’m really not THAT big a sports fan):

Bo Schembechler, Football Great of Michigan, Dies

Rest in peace, Bo. You were a true legend, and garnered deep-seated respect even from a student like me, who made it to most games at some point during the game most seasons during her tenure at the school. (In other words, I’m a bit of a Michigan football fan, but in that I love the school, not the game itself.)

May we, ahem, kick some ass tomorrow—and do it in a sportsmanly, classy way, to pay proper tribute to your legacy.

Which brings me to my Friday Five:

Five Reason Michigan is Better Than The Ohio State University:

1: We are the University of Michigan, a name which befits the inclusion of the ‘the’ at the beginning. There is no earthly reason for OSU to insist upon being called THE Ohio State University. It makes them sound douchey. Which, come to think of it, they are.

2: We’re smarter, when you look at admission standards, school rankings, success of graduates and whatnot. TOSU is a good school, don’t get me wrong. But Michigan is better. (I asked my roommate, who went to Ohio University, whether she applied to TOSU, and she snorted with what I’d describe as a note of disdain. I asked why, and she said, “I went to OU. If you can go to OU, you don’t apply/go to TOSU.”)

3: Not only are we smarter, but we’re just as good at sports. And our stadium is better than theirs. It’s called the big house and is the largest sports facility in the United States. So, um, there. (If I was saying this right now, I’d probably stick out my tongue and make a blowing noise.)

4: We’re pretty civil. I have never heard that a memo like this has had to be sent to TOSU students heading to Ann Arbor for a game. I could be mistaken, but I somehow doubt that.

5: Further to number 4: We don’t feel the need to make up t-shirts that say things like “Ann Arbor was a whore” and “Muck Fichigan” and “Michigan Sucks”. (And check this out.) Do you know what people say about fans who wear those kind of shirts? Inferiority Complex. (The most slanderous t-shirt I saw in a U of M store? “Harvard: The Michigan of the East”. Note that I’m not saying we’re cooler.)

So, in conclusion: Hail to the Victors, the Ohio State University, and Go Blue.

Doing My Part

2006-11-06T18:17:00.000-05:00

Have you heard? Election day is tomorrow. Control of the Senate and Congress may be up for grabs. Will Harold Ford prevail in Tennessee? Has Angelides truly run a piss-poor campaign that will lose him the gubernatorial election in California, as my mother claims? (Actually, yes, we really don’t need to wait to find out on that score I don’t think.) Will it be Kean or Menedez in New Jersey? Will Allen’s racist slip-up cost him, or will it be Webb’s salacious literary turns that decide the future senator of Virginia? And, please, someone, tell me! What will all of this spell for 2008?

I’m dead positive we won’t have to wait for long for all the annoying pundits (I’m looking at you, Mary Matalin and James Carville) to weigh in on all of this and more.

Anyway, yes, election day, and time for me to vote, even if the New York elections are pretty much a foregone conclusion. It’s my duty as a citizen, and I like to follow politics here and there. Also, it’s really fun to pull the lever thingies on the positively ancient machines here in New York. I like to think of it as just a little extra weight training for my morning, really, given they're practically rusted shut.

When looking up my polling place today, it occurred to me that I didn’t even know who was running against Spitzer for Governor. I decided it was time to study up. (The Republican candidate is someone named John Faso, and I legitimately have no idea who he is. Though the Green Party candidate is Malachy McCourt which, come to think of it, I did hear about, and hey! He’s an author and he's Irish! Rock on! And, erm yes, I know I said I follow politics, but I meant on a more national level. Or something.)

Anyway, as I scrolled through everyone running, I decided I needed to brush up on what the party abbreviations meant since I had no earthly idea what NCR or RVC or FDM stood for. There was a handy index of 2006 Party Abbreviations, so I took a look. And, wow. I never knew there were so many choices. They don’t call this the land of the free for nothing, let me tell you. I read on.

So, you’ve got your Republicans, Democrats, Independents, blah blah blah. Then it got interesting. Working Families? Huh. Didn’t know about them. I suppose it’s a worthy cause, to be for working families, but I don’t know—maybe it’s a euphamism for something else. Which could also easily go for the North Country Reform party or the Rising Voices Coalitions. What does that even mean, Rising Voices Coalition? Then there’s the Right to Life, Socialist Workers, and both the School Tax Relief and Taxpayer Relief parties. I get the first two and, eh, not really my thing; I’d need to research what exactly the “relief” would be comprised of in the third and fourth.

On to the totally ambiguous titles: Unity, Freedom, Growth, and Integrity parties. Well, doggone! I’m for all of those things. But I suspect that there’s more to these than meets the eye. So, I don’t know. I’m wasn’t ready to change my alliances just yet.

But then—then it got specific. And I have to tell you—I started to think about things in a new way. The name, well, the name was so clear; the mission, stated! There was no confusion whatsoever, and that clarity—well, it spoke to me, in a way no other party’s name ever has or could. It seized me, people, and I thought, yes! You are right! I agree! Frankly, I couldn’t agree more! Why, I complain about this at LEAST once a week! So, yes, count me in!

Bottom line: I’ve been successfully recruited. To the RENT IS TOO HIGH party.

God, I love this city sometimes.

Re-Do

2006-10-27T18:27:00.000-04:00

When I was in school, fall was the season of re-invention. New clothes, new school supplies, new resolutions to do all my reading and actually pay attention in math class. New Year's only took on significance for me after I graduated from college.

I still see fall as the time to make some changes, though, and this year I've decided to re-do the blog. I'm still planning more renovations, and I've already managed to lose my comments, but hopefully all will be rectified soon. You can't have it all, or so they say.

In the meantime, I'm off for a little happy hour action. Have a great weekend, everyone!

Dame Judi Dench

2006-10-23T16:41:00.000-04:00

Say hi to my new roommate:

I’m not exactly a cat-lover, and given Judi Dench doesn’t pay rent or help with the cleaning or the bills, I still haven’t quite figured out how Gen talked me into agreeing to her. (Incidentally, Gen also managed to get me to agree to keeping the litterbox in the living room. She should really become a negotiator or something because if you knew me with cats, you’d know what a feat this is.)

I have always hated cats. I think they’re dirty, sneaky, and not very nice. I hate their claws and the fact that they scratch poles to sharpen them. I am completely disgusted by the fact that you don’t ever bathe them—they lick themselves clean. I’m going to let that sink in. They LICK THEMSELVES CLEAN. To add to that, every allergy test I’ve had has indicated I’m off-the-charts allergic to them. (I was barred from sleepovers at cat-friendly homes for most of elementary-school.) I’m a dog lover through and through. I know the two aren’t mutually exclusive, but I love love love dogs. And I hate hate hate cats.

But—and here, surely, is where Gen got me—cats catch mice. And if you’ll recall, we had a mice problem last year, a problem which continues to traumatize me to this day. I literally live in fear of more mice, and if a shadow so much as crosses the room, I am standing on the couch, whimpering, making noise to scare the hypothetical little fucker out of the corner so that I know if we’ve got one or not. (Yes, it’s as borderline psychotic as it sounds.) We haven’t had any for months, thankfully, but they can always come back. They reproduce really fast and they’re small and can fit through a space the size of a dime. (Ew. Ew. Ew.)

So little Judi is sort of the lesser of two evils, as far as I’m concerned. Do I like cats? No. Do I like mice? I’m making myself physically ill just thinking about them. I think it’s safe to say that I hate mice a whole hell of a lot more than I hate cats. And that, apparently, was enough to get me to agree.

Judi’s cute, for a cat. During the first few days we had her, I thought maybe this would turn me around and I’d become a cat lover. But it’s been a week, and I think it might be safe to say that while I do like Judi and she is cute, I don’t think I’ll start buying cat calendars and posters, or begin affixing pins sporting cats sleeping on books to my sweaters. Every two days or so, Judi seems to not be able to get enough of me, and purrs and snuggles and loves me, and it’s sweet. Also, Gen got a laser pointer and watching her try to get the red dot is hysterically funny. I feel a little bad, because the poor thing will never be able to catch the dot, but it’s GREAT mouse-catching training, and since that’s the only contribution Judi can make to the household she had better be ready if it happens.

I’m sure you’re wondering how she got her name. Well, when she was born (to Gen’s mom’s cat), she looked like this:

And for some reason, she reminded Gen of Judi Dench, so that became her name, and it stuck. Gen wanted to change her name, but her sister and I successfully talked her out of it, which is good, because if she had a name like Fluffy or Socks, I don’t think I’d like her nearly as much. And this way, when she’s all grown up, I can call her “Dame”.

Don't Ask Me That

2006-10-20T16:19:00.000-04:00

For my first foray back into things here on the blog, I thought I’d address something that keeps happening to me, and has on more than one occasion had me eyeing the room for a window I could unceremoniously chuck myself out of.

Let’s start with the current trend of the empire waist. (Don’t forget that it’s pronounced ahm-peer by those in the know, such as magazine editors and the like, lest you spend a few minutes wondering what the hell your lunch companion is talking about. This will lead you to completely muddle the pronunciation henceforth into some weird hybrid of ahm-pi-eer but no one will really bat an eye.)

I’ve always thought of the empire waist as my friend. I’m one of those weird females who gains all weight in her stomach and has almost no ass and no real thigh- or leg-related issues. It’s all in the belly. (I know that to some who hate their butts and thighs they might think it’s not so bad, but try shopping for dresses with this particular physical makeup sometime, seriously. It’s a bitch. And don’t get me starting on going-out shirts.) For that reason, the recent trend leaning towards the empire waist has, until recently, made me so happy I’ve run right out and spent far too much on dresses with this waistline. Seize it while it’s here, you know? Because it’ll be all about the ass-tight mini-dress in a few months and then I will once again be fucked.

Suddenly, it’s dresses for Miss Peach! Two black ones, one with cool stripes at the bottom. Another in an eggplant color with details of funky, Pucci-esque fabric. They’re seasonless too—with sandals they work in warmer weather, boots in colder. Also, wearing them is about as comfortable as wearing a soft nightshirt. I thought I had won the dress lottery.

Flash forward to a particularly horrific work lunch with two crazy women, one of whom is legitimately insane. As soon as my colleague and I met them, Legitimately Insane Lady says, “Oh, you aren’t expecting, are you?” I, with a composed exterior, said, “Nope, it’s just an empire-waist dress,” and she apologized and we moved on to hearing about her ties to Indian aristocracy, who she lost her virginity to, and the plight of a few socialites I had to go back and Google. Seriously. So I could laugh that one off. The woman was a certifiable nutcase. She had no filter. Everyone at work told me how great I looked in the dress, so why listen to her?

Then, that evening on the subway, a woman made a big production of getting up and offering me her seat. I had my earphones on so just gave her a cursory shake of my head and did not take the seat. But, ouch. Maybe she was crazy too, but twice in one day?

Then, about a week or so later, I was at an event, wearing the dress with stripes at the bottom. It’s not as flowy as the all-black dress, so I didn’t have as many concerns about the looking pregnant thing. I was standing there stacking books on a table when the event coordinator gestured down towards the books (and my midsection) and said, “well, congratulations!” Now, the book in question had done extremely well, having just crested to the peak of it’s success, so I just looked down at the book and said, “I know, it’s so exciting to see it do so well!” and then asked a question about some inane thing as a little bit of me died. Afterwards, two friends there came over, told me they LOVED the dress, especially the bottom, as it’s so “unexpected.” They’re sweet. But a complete stranger had just congratulated me on the impending birth of my (nonexistent) child, so it didn’t really help.

OK, fine. So the empire waist makes chunky girls look preggers. Whatever. I can deal with that. I’ll just put the dresses that I overspent on and that I loved wearing into the back of my closet forever or until I lose a bajillion pounds. Problem solved. No more cute dresses, but no more being mistaken for a soon-to-be-mother. It’s a trade-off, but one I’m willing to make for my own sanity.

What I cannot deal with is what happened last night, at a cocktail reception for one of the two high schools I attended. I left after my freshman year (I’d been there since 7th grade) but have an extreme fondness for the place. I was a little apprehensive about the reception, though. I left the school so long ago, and though I’m still extremely close with a few classmates from there, they live in LA, not New York. So I was going into this without a wingman and with no idea if I would even know anyone. Normally I’m Susie Social, but this kind of freaked me out. I forced myself to go though, thinking it would be good to reconnect and hey, it’s a free glass of wine, right?

I got there, and it was okay. One classmate I remember came, aside from that I just glommed on to some girls who graduated a few years ahead of me who were kind enough to include me in conversation. About halfway through, I saw my old geometry teacher, now the head of the upper school, out of the corner of my eye. We walked towards each other, hugged, and said hi. She then gestured to my midsection and said, “now, is this your first or your second?” I was holding a glass of wine and legitimately thought she was asking how much I’d had to drink, until I realized she meant my first or second BABY. I just smiled and said, “oh, I’m not!” She then muttered something about how embarassing that was (for her or for me, I’d like to know?) and then we went on chatting.

I have to say, I held it together. But I wasn’t wearing one of the dresses. I was wearing a black skirt with a black sweater. Nothing empire-waisted or overly flowy about it. I wanted to die. I think I’ll be able to officially let go in another 12 hours, but it was awful. There was nothing to chalk it up to. Apparently I look pregnant 24/7, a fact that my lovely roommate violently disputed last night, and that the select friends I’ve told have reacted to with unequivocal denials. But still. They kind of have to say that as they know if they don’t, they’ll be on the receiving end of an unpleasant tongue-lashing.

Are these women just complete and total morons who had terrible mothers who never instructed them on social graces and did lots of drugs that have completely destroyed their filters? Regardless of if I have a belly, isn’t the going rule that you don’t ask, EVER, unless you’re SURE that person is expecting?

Going forth, I will wear no skirts or dresses, only pants. And as I blew all clothing funds on the dresses, this means I have to wear a lot of old khakis that will make me look really butch, but at least they won’t make me look pregnant. On the plus side, maybe this is why I never get asked on dates. Perhaps I’m ravishing, but men are afraid my baby daddy is going to kick the shit out of them if they approach. Or they’re just not ready to get involved with a single mother. They must take me for white trash, though, drinking lots while pregnant and all.

Hello, friends!

2006-09-12T22:57:00.000-04:00

How are you? I've missed you!

My unscheduled hiatus here will extend for another couple of weeks, I think, due to a complete lack of time and ability to think. I hope to at least catch up by reading some blogs in the interim. Right now I can't seem to focus and so I just watched the pilot of "Men in Trees" which is Anne Heche's new show and man, even in my spaced-out state, it's terrible. I'm guessing it's over in about three episodes, but only because they already filmed them. I can't wait to see "Jericho" which NPR termed something like the "worst new show, by far". Skeet, how far you have fallen since Scream.

Reason #6 why I like fall? New television programming. The drama! The formerly A-list stars attempting to resurrect some semblance of a career! Tina Fey vs. Aaron Sorkin! Who will get picked up? Which brilliant show will be critically acclaimed yet vastly underappreciated? And why is "My Name is Earl" still on the air? Really. Why? I keep trying to like it and I'd love for Jason Lee to make it, but I just can't see whatever it is that people love about that show. Any fans? Can you enlighten me?

Five Reasons I Love Fall

2006-09-01T09:51:00.000-04:00

Firstly, an update on the living situation. We worked it out. Scary Carmen called and we had a very civil conversation in which I told her 9% wasn't okay, we couldn't afford it, and would be willing to meet them at a 5% hike. She said "she'd see what she could do" and we hung up, and I swear to god she sat in her office, examined her manicure, maybe moved a few papers around, and then called me back and said it was just fine like 2 minutes later. I'm grateful they worked with us, but come on--that's just so ridiculous. Couldn't we have just done this, like, a WEEK ago and not cut a few years off of my life due to stress?

Whatever, they say all's well that ends well, right?

So! Back to Friday Five, since I took a little hiatus there.

Five Reasons Why I Love Fall:

1) The weather. It's cool but not freezing. It can be warm, but never too hot. I love walking around with a shirt, light jacket, and scarf on. And I like how you can really feel the season in the air, even now, when it's cool at night you can sense the season to come.

2) It's SO pretty. All those leaves! In such an array of colors! Growing up in California, I experienced fall through scenes on the calendar, and the only tree in my neighborhood that turned colors did so around Christmas and signaled Santa Claus to me. Every year that I experience fall I feel like I'm getting a taste of America or something. In college, I loved to drive up to northern Michigan for peak color, and last year Genoa and I went to Connecticut for a day, which was really fun. Also, a sidenote: fall leaves can be very useful for Halloween. I once had to dress up as a biblical character for a costume contest at my youth group (I think I was maybe 8?) and my mom and I had nothing except branches of fall leaves that she had bought to decorate the house with (yep, bought. Again, we lived in California.) So we taped them to my clothes and I went at the burning bush. Brilliant! AND I won the costume contest. Excellent. Not that it was about winning, it was about praising God.

3) Cider mills. Are any of you familiar with the cider mill phenomenon? I think it might be a southern Michigan thing. Anyway, they open up all over and they sell apples, cider, and donuts. My roommates and I would all pile into cars on a Saturday (before the football game, sometimes) and head to the nearest cider mill. Fun!

4) College football. It's about the only sport I can get really into, having gone to UofM, and sometimes I wind up following the season pretty closely. It's just fun to watch the games and know all the songs and remember college and indulge in a little school spirit. Also, I have a running bet with my family in Ohio on the UM-OSU game every year, which adds to it all, even though I keep losing which means I am forced to wear a hideous Buckeye thing of some sort. Last year it was a Buckeye coon hat. God help me.

5) The holidays are just around the corner. There's so much anticipation in fall--Halloween! I'm not a huge fan of that particular one anymore, but it's fun. Then Thanksgiving! One of my favorite holidays--maybe my absolute favorite. Everyone gathers in Ohio and catches up and it's just a good time. I love it. And then, when it's over, just when you think you might be sad because it's getting even colder and all, comes Christmas and New Years! And then, by the time it's all over, you're happy for a few months free from gluttonous holiday celebration.

Happy September 1st everyone--enjoy the last weekend of summer!

Squeeze Me Dry, Why Don't You?

2006-08-30T21:38:00.000-04:00

My fucking landlord has fucking gone and raised the fucking rent by 9%.

Yes, 9%. One measly percentage point under 10.

I hope you understand why I fell the need to say fuck somewhat excessively.

That... well, that's a LOT. Also, my lease? Expires tomorrow. And my "property manager"? Won't return my calls. And I'm getting threatening calls from a woman named Carmen who says we have to make up our minds about the lease by tomorrow. She sounds scaaaarrrrrryyyy, too. Oh! And she called my mom so THAT made for a lovely afternoon surprise. (In Manhattan, you have to have a guarantor on your lease until you're, like, 40 and make eighteen times the annual rent or something obscene that I will never, ever acheive.)

Me: This is Miss Peach.
My Mom: DID YOU NOT SEND BACK YOUR LEASE?
Me: Whaaa? Mom? What are you talking about?
My Mom: Well, I just got a call from a Carmen... a Carmen... oh I don't know, but she said you didn't sign a lease and if you don't by tomorrow they're going to do something and WHY DIDN'T YOU SIGN THE LEASE?????????

Me, in mind to self: I cannot believe those motherfuckers called my mother but WILL NOT CALL ME BACK.

I'll save you the whole blow-by-blow, but basically we never got our renewal agreement, and then they called at 6PM on Friday August 18th about it, and we were all "you never sent it!" and they were all "we're faxing it now!" and then I got REALLY busy at work last week and totally forgot about it until Monday. Oops. So I finally picked it up and nearly fell over. And proceeded to call our property manager every three hours all week until today I lost it on the receptionist and in the end, we have no rights b/c it's not rent stabilized. Now, it takes 45-60 days to evict a tenant so we're cool until then, and in the meantime are scrambling to look at other places.

The bitch of it is: I like my apartment. It's fairly nice. We spent time fixing it up. It's got a good layout. Our stuff fits in well. It's quiet; it's not too far from everyone and everything, and is pretty much exactly the same distance from each of our places of work. I like the neighborhood. I like that my local bar (that I rarely walk into, I should note) is "Tap A Keg: A Hell of a Joint". No, no, it really IS named that.

And now I am going to have to move because my motherfucking landlord is a greedy motherfucker.

It's enough to make a girl want to leave the city.

It Can Always Get Worse

2006-08-16T22:16:00.000-04:00

I've been working until 10PM each night this week which, while semi-painful, is fine. I'm so incredibly busy that instead of looking at my clock and going "wow, it's already 2PM" I now look out the window and think "wow, the sun has set!" And then turn back and put in another hour at least. It's all for good and I'm not complaining, just highlighting the fact that I'm highly preoccupied.

Add to this the fact that I woke up this weekend with whatever freaky disease is currently circulating on the east coast, though, and the trouble starts. I've had a really sore throat since Sunday. So sore that my tongue feels swollen and it's almost hard to swallow, but not quite. A few advil seem to keep it at a tolerable level, so I've been tossing that back regularly. I know this is not a good thing. I know sore throats are supposed to go away after about 48 hours, after which you really should go to the doctor and have it checked out. I'm aware that this might be something worse than a little old virus and, as my mother just very passionately informed me, could spread and settle in my kidneys and THEN I'd be in REAL trouble. But have I mentioned I basically work and sleep right now? And aside from the sore throat, I feel fine. And others have said they've had long-term sore throats so maybe this is just what's going around? Is this a case of seriously wishful thinking?

Anyway, this isn't my point. So to get to it: this week I had to go to the studio of an awesome show of which I am an enormous fan that airs on a comedy network and claims to be a news show. Not the one that deals in truthiness, the other one. Totally for work, but still, a serious perk of the job, I'd say. Meanwhile, there's been a camera crew shadowing my charge and I (they're filming a documentary on him, and there's a good chance I'm now going to be in the background of it. On a sidenote, I'm not happy about that, but I really don't have a choice. Why is it that I wasn't given one though? I'd like to know!) So I get to the studio for the show, it's great (is it ever not, really?), and then I head back to the office and work for another three hours. As I'm getting ready to leave, I go to the bathroom, where I discover that my fly is down. Now, I hadn't gone to the bathroom since before leaving to go to the show. Which means my FLY WAS DOWN while at the show, which is embarassing enough, but I was also ON CAMERA while my fly was down.

Sweet Jesus. The preoccupation and sickness have taken things to a whole new level.

Also, I have a date tomorrow night. A date that has been postponed and moved twice before, which has taken ages to set, and which I basically HAVE to go on despite the work and sickness and the looking like crap because if I cancel, I will never wind up going on this date. I will seem the flakiest and craziest girl, and no one buys it when you say you're sick anyway, so there's no point in cancelling. And to make this worse, the skirt I wanted to wear tomorrow is at the cleaners--I haven't been home before 10 PM, so I haven't exactly been able to pick it up. So now I need to get up early to get it. Or devise another outfit. But I really want to wear THAT one. It doesn't have a fly, so that would save me the pain of reliving my earlier experience. But then again, if it's windy, the skirt might blow up, and then what?

I really might lose my mind.

Maybe it'll be good blog material though. I'm looking really hard for the silver lining here. Wish me luck!

Tasty

2006-08-13T21:27:00.000-04:00

Five Books I Feel Guilty That I Haven’t Read

2006-08-11T14:59:00.000-04:00

Gilead: I have heard nothing but astounding reviews of this book. Also, I work in publishing, and it seems I should have read (by now), the winner of both the NBCC and Pulitzer for fiction in 2005. But I haven’t. Something holds me back. I’m thinking it’s the fact that another novelist once said to me: “That fucking book. It won the Pulitzer, right? So I should read it, right? But that kind of writing? Puts me to sleep.”

The Tipping Point: Is it just me, or is this referenced in conversations all the time? Maybe it’s just that I have friends that read and loved the book, but I feel uneducated or something because I haven’t. To be honest, it just never quite appeals to me. I can’t say I’ve ever had a moment where I’ve thought, “Yes! A 280-page book on why and how ideas/trends/behaviors become massively popular!” So it just sits there, mocking me, telling me I’m not as up on things as everyone else, reminding me of how I’ll just have to smile, nod, and say, “Oh, absolutely!” when people reference it in conversation, and feel like a fraud. (And do NOT get me started on Blink.)

A Prayer for Owen Meany: I’m about to make a controversial statement, one that has caused people to literally stop speaking to me for hours at a time (well, that’s only happened once, and it was while I was traveling in Europe and my friend and I had been together for about two weeks straight, so I’m thinking it wasn’t just about this issue). I don’t like John Irving. I do not like his books, I do not like his plot lines, and I cannot stand the fact that there is a dancing bear in a tutu in the background of every third scene. I read The World According to Garp and nearly threw the book out after Garp’s wife bites off the guy’s penis. Come ON! Then I was strong-armed into trying A Widow for One Year, which a friend claimed had changed her life. I’m still trying to figure out how that was possible. A few years ago, yet another friend was shocked that I disliked Irving, and made me tell her what I’d read. She made me promise to read Owen Meany before deciding against Irving for good, and I agreed. Actually, I don’t know if I feel guilty about not reading it, or pissed off that I promised to do so.

All these classics (I’m putting them together b/c I think the reasons why are self-explanatory): 1984, Things Fall Apart, Of Mice and Men, The Grapes of Wrath, Crime and Punishment, War and Peace, A Tree Grows in Brooklyn, Lolita, and One Hundred Years of Solitude. And I call myself an English major!

You Can Come Back Now, OK?

2006-08-08T19:33:00.000-04:00

I have a very, very lucky living arrangement. I randomly found a roommate through a friend nearly three years ago, and she seemed normal enough, and she came with a car. I was just grateful she wasn’t into, like, hard-core porn or heroin from what I could tell, and she seemed reliable. The icing on the cake was the thought of getting the odd free ride to Target.

Turns out, she and I get along really well. Gen is now probably the closest thing I have to a sister. And for an only, that’s really cool. Even though I’ve been lucky enough to be surrounded by close family friends and cousins and had a shared history with them, it’s not like I ever fought over clothes or complained about how long they took in the bathroom. To me, that’s always been the sort of thing that I never had as an only and that I didn’t think I would ever experience. I’m not saying I yearned for petty spats with a sibling; what I wanted was to be comfortable and close enough to someone to be able to be a complete brat about certain things without fearing that it would actually affect the relationship. (Aside from my parents, of course.)

These are the particular joys of sharing an apartment with Gen. I know that sounds like a backhanded compliment, but I really don’t mean it as such. I value the fact that I can—without any apprehension—say things like, “Hey, you almost done in there? I’d like to go to bed before tomorrow!” when she takes three years getting ready for bed at night, and she in turn will give me lots of grief about taking long showers. (And rightfully so. But let’s move on, shall we? After all, this is about her.)

Also, like some sisters, we have a slew of inside jokes that don’t always make sense to others. Several of these stem from either Lifetime movies (too many to even begin to list) or Arrested Development (we greet each other with “Hey, roommate” a la Buster, and also routinely inform the other that “I don’t understand what you’re saying, and I will not respond to it.” Also, we have the same ringtone for each other (mine doubles for Darren too), which is “Final Countdown”, G.O.B.’s theme song.)

And then there are the jokes that stem from three years of living together—through leaks that caused the ceiling to come in and the apartment to basically flood while I frantically built a dam of towels, to pigeons attempting to peck through the window, to trips back from Ikea with an enormous armchair hanging out the back of her little bug, to mice infestations, a traumatic move, and weird neighbors of all sorts that pepper life here. We cheer each other on in work and in life, and tend to be around when the crap happens too. A few work situations have come up in the evening that involved people screaming at me for prolonged periods of time well after I’ve gone home for the day. Gen has been around for all of them, and I can’t imagine hanging up and not having her pop up off the couch with a horrified look on her face going, “Who the HELL was that?” And I’m not sure, but I think she appreciates when I get really indignant about the fact that she has no textbooks to teach her students with. None. Zippo. Zilch. I’m sorry, but that’s NOT acceptable.

I often joke that she is half my sibling and half my spouse, and I think that’s the truth in a way. Most of my friends live alone now and couldn’t wait to part with whoever they shared a place with. They were itching to live alone. I, on the other hand, get worried that Gen will decide to move back to her hometown or in with her real sister who lives in the area, and I will be forced to either find someone else (doubtful) or find my own place (likely). I am willing to put up with the small inconveniences of living with someone else that you aren’t romantically involved with to keep hanging out (a lack of equal space in the common closets comes to mind, are you reading this G? I kid because I love. And also you have an appalling amount of seasonal decoration to store, but it is MIGHTY festive at our place for all holidays, so there’s a benefit there too). Because at the end of the day, it’s fun, and we get along, and we tend to laugh really hard together.

As a teacher, she gets the summer off. Usually she sticks around, but she’s been gone since the last week of July and won’t be back until the end of the month. And let me tell you, it was really nice to have the place to myself for the first two weeks. I’m not going to lie. It was great. I lived it up. But the novelty has completely worn off, as evidenced by my forty phone calls to her a day. I’m hoping August races by for many reasons. I won’t be so busy and feel stretched as thin as I do at work come September. Fall will be on the horizon, and as I have only one trip to the beach left, I’m ready to pack it in and start anticipating next year. I’m going to see family over Labor Day, and can’t wait to get goofy with my little cousins and hang out at the pool, having tea parties with my eight-year-old best friend (and cousin) Sophie.

But mostly, it is so that Gen will return and I will stop echoing around our place. I’m almost looking forward to the piling that will occur when I come back, and the fact that I will no longer have control over the music or the television or get to pick the couch or the chair.

Come home soon, roommate! In the meantime, I’m totally having a party AND plan on spreading out my stuff on every. single. countertop. Wheeeeeee!

Sandcastle by the Sea

2006-08-06T14:08:00.000-04:00

Five Ten-Cent Words

2006-08-04T14:30:00.000-04:00

I used to LOVE vocabulary lessons and tests. I like reading with a dictionary nearby so I can look up words I'm not so sure of the meanings to. I work in an industry where using prententious vocabulary is considered a virtue and not so much a pompous, obnoxious thing to do, which is nice, because I have an outlet to use the words without coming off as a colossal pain. Lucky me, and trust me, lucky you, because otherwise there's a good chance I'd be writing posts in language Jane Austen might use if not. And really, unless it's actually Pride and Prejudice or Persuasion, I'm thinking people don't want to encounter such discourse.

So, for this week's installment, I present you with five of my favorite ten-cent words. Some are useful, some are dumb, and some are just what I call FUN! (Wait, could this have something to do with why I'm single??)

1) Idiosyncrasy: this one is just fun to rattle off. Also, I have many idiosyncrasies which my roommate, if she ever read this or in the event she did could figure out how to post a comment, could tell you all about in detail. For instance, I get incredibly irritated if the sponge is left in the sink, and not placed on the counter next to the sink. And, please, keep the shower curtain pulled all the way across the tub, okay? And this is only the beginning, the tip of the iceberg, the smallest of my demands. In short: I’m annoying to live with, and my roommate should really get a medal or something. Though her propensity to pile all of my shit out of sight—which, ahem, if you can’t see it, NEITHER CAN I—might result in my being awarded a medal as well. In which case, I think both of us getting a prize for living with the other undermines the point of the award altogether, so maybe we can just pass on the whole shebang.
2) Archipelago: ooh, really fun to say as well. I don’t have an archipelago though, so I can’t really speak to my personal experience of them. I suppose if I were to write a novel or travel to, say, Alaska, I might have occasion to actually use this word in some way. I do enjoy the candles made by Archipelago Botanicals, and if I were ever to open up my own boutique or something (which I don’t plan to do, but you never know), I might name it Archipelago. And then start a chain. Ha!
3) Salacious (also, lascivious): This is a classy way to say something is dirty, and I like it. It’s particularly useful for cocktail parties because it doesn’t sound bad to say, “it’s really quite a salacious novel!” where as to say, “dude, that’s one dirty book” just doesn’t go over as well. Lascivious is really fun to say too, and it’s basically a synonym of salacious, but I have trouble getting it out sometimes. I might need the aid of a speech therapist to nail the pronunciation of that one.
4) Solipsistic: I really think of this as a fancy-schmancy way to say someone is a navel-gazer, but a navel-gazer would use it to glowingly talk about their navel-gazing behavior. I have no idea if this makes any sense to you whatsoever, but sometimes I like to toss this into conversation with certain, ah, self-impressed jackasses whom I come into contact with regularly in my line of work, and they seem to find it charming. Plus it’s fun to say. Wheeee!
5) Lugubrious: This one I love because it seems like onomatopoeia. It just sounds so sad and weighed down but it seems all to dramatic a word for such feelings. And, following in line with the others, is a shitload of fun to say. Not that I ever do, really, because it’s a little over the top.

Pick Up the Change

2006-07-31T20:30:00.000-04:00

I've been single for my entire life. Prom stressed me out, as there wasn't ever anyone in the picture. I've not had a relationship that lasted more than a few months. The first (and only) love of my life was a torturous on-and-off, ill-timed affair riddled with issues and a complete lack of communication that stretched for two long years and took as much time to get over. At this point, my friends and family don't even really inquire about my relationship status, which I appreciate more than they know. I think they've come to the conclusion that, by god, if there was someone to tell them about, I would be SHOUTING IT OUT LOUD.

I used to think that if I were to find someone, I would be the annoying girl who refers to her boyfriend constantly and is forever telling the latest cute anecdote about what he did that was just so adorable. But having spent what feels like my entire life listening to everyone else drone on about their cute relationship (it's okay to a point, folks, and then it's just plain annoying), I will probably talk so little about my beloved that everyone will think there's something very, very wrong.

All of this is a way of saying that my best friend, who has finally found someone to love and to love her back, has been incredibly good about NOT engaging in any of that. She and I were two of a kind until she met her boyfriend several months ago, and she's been an absolute dream about sharing just enough but not too much as she's fallen in love. It's thrilling to watch someone you love falling in love, especially when it's your best friend of over a decade, whom you know so well she's practically an extension of yourself, and who is that one person you want to fall in love almost more than you want to yourself.

They've been together for a while now, and I've met him several times, but it's hard to really get to know someone over drinks or dinner. So this past weekend, the three of us went to the beach for a weekend away. It was fun. It's always a treat to be out of the city in the summer, and time on the water and eating crabs pretty much tops my list of summer activities.

When I told other friends my plan for the weekend, there was much eyebrow raising and, "oh, that will be interesting"s. But honestly, I wasn't worried about it at all. This is my best friend who is so conscientious about how I feel at all times that I didn't have any qualms about being a third wheel. Sure, I knew it would feel that way at one point or another, but let's face it: I've been a third wheel forever now, and I've got it down. When the intimate gestures happen, avert your eyes. Busy yourself with whatever magazine or dish is at hand. As the evening wears on, head home at an appropriate time, feigning exhaustion. Then stay up late catching up with friends on the west coast or watching stocks of "The Daily Show" on DVR.

Maybe that sounds sad or lonely, but I've never been the type to dwell on my singledom. Do I have moments that I really really really wish I had someone? Absolutely. But I don't, and sitting around feeling sorry for myself isn't going to change that. I've never sought companionship as a way to complete myself. I'm fulfilled with my life and I'm happy and secure with who I am. I have an amazing network of friends and family, and someone is always there when I need to talk. I am truly blessed and loved, and I love many people in return. For me, that's always been the key to happiness, and I can honestly say I'm happy 98% of the time.

So when I felt deeply sad and third wheely all weekend, it took me by complete and utter surprise.

This had nothing to do with their behavior. There weren't any uncomfortable moments. I didn't ever feel left out of a private twosome. I think it had to do with several things, the first being that though I think he's wonderful and nice and kind and caring, and I know he absolutely adores her, which is the most important thing to me, we didn't exactly click. It's not that we don't get along, and even if we didn't, I can get along with the nastiest of people if need be, and would do just that for her. It was just that though we had perfectly nice interactions, there wasn't any spark. Perhaps this is because we were both unconsciously intent on making this the Best Bonding Weekend Ever After Which We Would Be Best Friends that we spent the whole time politely circling each other. But there isn't much that interests me about him yet, and while I would sooner fork my eye out than ever admit this to her, I found him to be kind of boring and small-minded. Not narrow-minded, not that at all. Just less diversified than I would want for her. Because it goes without saying that I think she is fabulous and deserves everything.

I think the larger truth here is that this marks a passing. I'm 27 now, and I know that's young, and I know I have my WHOLE life in front of me, but the fact is this: the pool is shrinking. My friends couple off at a rate that defies my mind at times. One of my closest college friends got married over a year ago, and truth be told, I miss her. A lot. Because no matter what you say about it, marriage changes friendships, especially when your husband is a cheap control freak who doesn't like your best friend from college and is frankly a jerk about letting you visit her and makes her visits to see you rather disappointing and uncomfortable.

Ahem. Let me rephrase. When you get married, you are building a life as a partnership. The open, girlfriendness of things fades, because you have chosen to spend your life with someone, and they are the central rock upon which you rely. They are the one with whom you share your secrets, the one who you protect and defend. They are your priority. And that is precisely as it SHOULD be. One of the most appealing things about committed, loving relationships to me is that idea that you always have someone in your corner. But it's tough to remain as close to your friends as you were before. It's natural. I know that. It's just hard when you aren't the married or coupled one in the equation.

I've spent most of my life surrounded by several amazing, single women--friends of my mother's who never married, an aunt who married young, divorced, and never remarried, others who didn't couple up until their late 40s or early 50s. I often joke that I have ten mothers as a result, and I am lucky for it. These women spent their holidays with us, babysat for me, taught me about life and love and books and culture. My unmarried aunt, my very own personal Auntie Mame, took me to Paris for a week for my 16th birthday, and taught me to love traveling and to always do something to make yourself happy. I have seen how good it can be to be single forever. But if I'm being honest, I have to admit that I've always found that to be sad. One of my deepest, dirtiest secrets? I live in fear that I will follow in the footsteps of these wonderful, funny, smart, witty, interesting women who have to a large extent shaped who I am today. I'm terrified I'll turn out just like them.

I've known from day one--literally, for as much of my life as I can recall--that I want children. I want a family and carpool and I actually look forward to the day to day monotony of parenting. I know I'll find moments so mindless and frustrating that I'll want to run for the hills and never come back--I've babysat, nannied, and cared for my little cousins long enough to have lived a bit of that already. So part of this aversion to being single for life is that deep-seated fear that I won't have kids. That I won't find someone to build a family with. I've thought about it, and I just don't think I'm cut out to do it alone. Never say never, but when I look myself straight in the eye, I know I don't have it in me.

But the other part is that I want someone who loves me and who I love. I want to have standing dates to weddings and events. I want to make decisions as a unit. I want to set goals--living in a certain location, taking a certain trip, buying a house or a car or a pony--with someone ELSE. I'm tired of going through security at the airport alone, struggling with my bags, worried that I'll somehow lose my laptop or forget my ID. I want a wingman. I'd like, for once, to leave my bags with someone while I run to the bathroom and get coffee, rather than forfeiting my seat and trying to cram all of my shit into the way too small stalls in every airport and train station across America. I'm sick of getting bumped from flights and staying alone in airport motel rooms, turning up the tv to divert my attention from the creepy crappiness of the room. I'd like to laugh at the absurdity of it with someone else. I don't want to be bellying up to the bar every single fucking time the slow songs play at a wedding, and I'm dead tired of my friends doing the sweet, loving deed of having their boyfriends or husbands dance with me after the first two or three. Don't stop, sweet jesus, because I will be so drunk at the end of the night it'll be seriously problematic, but no matter how well-intentioned it is, it will never stop feeling like they're taking pity on me.

And speaking of pity, that party ends now. But I don't know why I seem to find it so hard to meet someone. I really can't explain it. Apparently I don't "give off the vibe that I'm available" and I have my "man-sheild" up, but fuck if I know what that means. All I know is that I simply haven't met someone--not "that special" someone, just anyone I really want to date seriously. I've tried Match, and, wow, if something was ever NOT for me, that's it. But more about that another time. I've tried being set up, but that really hasn't taken either. And, please, don't tell me I'm not "putting myself out there". Seeing how I'm not quite sure what it is about me that isn't out there already, I find that task to be both baffling and overwhelming.

When I'm honest with myself, I know that I think things will all work out. I joke that I'll be the dog lady--I hate cats, so I'll never fall into that stereotype--but I don't think I will. Maybe that's me holding on to hope, or remaining optimistic despite reality staring me right in the face, kind of like how even though I know there's no way in hell I can make it to work in under 20 minutes, I try every single day. But right now, it's a little rough out there. I'm keeping my chin up and smiling all the time, making so many plans that I don't have time to dwell on it, expanding what little culinary skills I have and listening to upbeat music.

If there's one thing I know about myself it's that I'm pretty resilient, so all will be fine. But is it so wrong to admit that I want spectacular?

Five Reasons I Like Work. Really.

2006-07-28T12:13:00.000-04:00

It’s time again for Friday Five! Where did the week go? Well, I spent almost all my waking hours at the office, actually. My busy time is early this year. Since I like what I do mostly, it’s not too bad, but the lack of social interaction aside from in the office is starting to grate on me.

So, in an effort to be positive, I thought I’d highlight five good things about work (that don’t give away what it is I do or where I do it). Because really, it's a fun place to be, and I should remember that!

Five things that make me happy at work:

1) In the summer, when the a/c cuts off at 6:30 after chilling me a little too much all day, and I finally feel comfortable. The goose bumps go down, my eyes don’t feel quite so dry, and the papers on my desk stop their annoying flutter. And I can totally eavesdrop of the hallway conversations that I just can’t quite make out when it’s on.
2) Getting my inbox down to the twenties. This doesn’t happen every day, but with a little extra effort, I think I can get there. My ultimate goal is to keep it at a level which allows me to have the preview screen up but not have to scroll up or down to see all the pending emails. I LOVE when that happens. A little too much to be normal, I think.
3) Going out nearly every day for coffee with a colleague who cracks me up and will totally gossip about work stuff to a fun degree (though she always remains appropriate since she is technically my boss. I call it the daily dish.)
4) The near-daily check-in with my assistant in which we wind up laughing so hard we sometimes wind up with sore tummies and wet eyes. Also, the fact that we often trade emails with foul language, as in “I have the f****** pdf here” and “Why is this a**hole emailing us about this again?” Is this normal? Am I red flagged by IT? Who cares? We have fun.
5) When my boss walks out into the hall and announces that “the bar is open”. Not daily, of course. Not even weekly. But when it happens, it’s great. And I guess this technically counts as six, but whatever, it’s kind of related: opening up the mini fridge in the conference room on our corridor and, with the exception of like two times, seeing beer in there.

Better Living Through Your Friends' Chemistry With Famous People

2006-07-27T21:09:00.000-04:00

A conversation I had yesterday with a very, very dear friend, who I have been neglecting of late, and who is one of those fabulous New York ladies who always has kickass shoes on:

Me: Hey! OK, we have approximately five minutes, which I would like to spend hearing an update on your life, because I haven't talked to you in, oh, a month. Go.
Her: Well, not too much. There was a storm and my parent's deck was ruined.
Me: That sucks.
Her: Yeah. My fish is almost three!
Me: I so thought you'd kill him in, like, a week. I still consider it fish abuse that he lives next to the stove though. I definitely think he's terrified his day has come every time you get out a pan.
Her: He's a goldfish. He has no memory. Or cognitive ability, for that matter.
Me: I know. I know. But still. So, what have you been up to?
Her: Hm. Well, I'm not sure, but I think I might be dating [a musician we all know of].
Me: What?
Her: Yeah.
Me: Wait. [ambient, loungy musician's name]?
Her: Yup.
Me: Oh my God. Wait. What the hell?
Her: Yeah.
Me: I'm speechless.
Her: Yeah.
(Long pause as I let this sink in.)
Me: So here is what I demand of the situation. I demand that either you two fall madly in love, or become best friends. And then, I demand that you throw a fabulous New Year's Eve party at his fantastic apartment--because it has to be fantastic, I'm sure of at least that--and then you have to invite me.
Her: I like that you immediately turn this into something that benefits you.
Me: I'm sitting home nights. You're out galavanting with celebrities. And you told me about your parents deck and your fish's impending birthday BEFORE YOU TOLD ME YOU WERE MAYBE DATING A CELEBRITY.
Her: OK, I see your point.

People. Carrie Bradshaw exists. And I am friends with her.

The problem? According to someone who shall remain unnamed, I share qualities with Miranda. I'm really not quite sure how I feel about that.

Five for Friday

2006-07-21T12:41:00.000-04:00

I’m joining in on the fun and participating in Friday Five. There are many reasons: Stefanie has been cracking me up with her lists. I often have trouble coming up with a post. I’m too lazy for more than five (my first thought when I learned of Thursday Thirteen? “Now, why not three?”) So here you have it, the first of what should be a weekly feature.

Five foods I just don’t get sick of, no matter how often I have them (and don’t berate me for leaving Chipotle off the list, you and you.):

1) Everything bagel toasted with cream cheese and tomato (and in season, avocado): I suspect this has a LOT to do with the bagel. I love bagels. Remember back in the day when you didn’t give eating an entire one a second thought? Remember when carbs weren’t bad for you? Back then, I was an egg bagel with strawberry cream cheese enthusiast, which I blame on youth and inexperience. The combination I write about here—the one I indulge in too infrequently these days because I've learned bagels aren’t to be eaten but sparingly—is amazing. If you’re in NYC and in need of a cheap lunch, go to the Bagel & Bean on Broadway between 54th and 55th. All that and a bottle of water? Under $5. Don’t say I never gave you any good tips.

2) Grilled cheese: really, ANY grilled cheese will do. Velveeta and wonder bread? Yum. Artisinal bread with organic Vermont cheddar and some Monterey Jack (or other tasty white cheese) mixed in for good measure? Yes, please! Seriously gourmet Grilled Cheese Gillie that my favorite restaurant in northern Michigan used to serve and took off the menu? Well, I would if I could, jerks! And adding ingredients is key, too. Onions, tomatoes, and avocados (do we see a theme here?) all make fine bedfellows with melted cheese. I’m not a fan of adding ham or other meats, but I won’t judge you if you are. Scout’s honor. I can’t really point my finger at you when I’m dipping my sandwich in ketchup, now, can I?

3) Guacamole and Lime Tostitos: I believe this to be the sacred combination. It is the holy, um, duo of snack foods in my mind. I make a mean guac, if I do say so myself. The key is using fresh ingredients and not overseasoning it. Seed your tomatoes, people (and on this, my boss and I differ—he’s informed me that tomatoes should never be mixed IN the guac and merely placed on top, but I say he’s too straightlaced and should live it up a little more). I loves me cilantro, so that gets a good rough chop and into the bowl it goes. Some chopped onion, fresh minced garlic (no less than one clove, and two if you're smart), and of course the avocados. Don’t MUSH them, just roughly dice. And then fresh ground pepper and some salt and voila--perfection.

4) Anything covered in Masterpiece Barbecue Sauce: for real. Well, now, I’m sure there are some exceptions. Halibut, for instance. I love halibut, but covered in Masterpiece? Not so sure. But chicken, steak, pork, name it, I’ll do it. It’s just so sweet, but yet so spicy and tangy!

5) Tri-tip steak with Maker’s Mark sauce, sautéed mushrooms, and artichoke: I guess this is more a meal than a food, huh? Whatever, It's my list. This is a Papa Miss Peach specialty, and we have it every time I’m home. The mushrooms are sautéed in butter and cooking sherry, the artichoke is steamed, and the Maker’s Mark sauce is semi-barbecue-y but it’s got a bourbon kick too. What’s a tri-tip, you ask? Some cut my father likes because—and I really do quote here—“It takes a least a scotch to cook the sucker.” Aw, that’s my pa!

Talkin' Dirty

2006-07-19T20:20:00.000-04:00

I feel the need to preface this post by clearly stating the following:
--I really am a polite girl with good manners, who was well-raised. I like pearls and monograms, for god's sake.
--I really didn’t know what any of this was until at most a month ago. Really!
--Even though I’ve been referred to as the “tequila queen” and a “lush”, and I’m drunk twice in this story, I really don’t have a drinking problem. Really!
--If you are under 18, I think it might violate a law to read this.

You’ve never been more excited to read a post from me, have you? Dirty bastards!

Last week, Darren and I had dinner and drinks, which isn’t anything unusual. We went to the Emerald Inn which is always delightful. We drank some beer. Well, actually, we drank a lot of beer. So many that the waitress actually brought us a free round, which makes it a very successful evening in my book. And suffice it say that when we left, we were both a little inebriated.

We began to head towards the subway when the conversation turned towards strange sex practices, because Darren was telling me about his coworker who is working on an urban dictionary. (I can only imagine the crazy-ass Google hits I’m going to get after this post.)

Darren and I rarely talk about anything like this, so it was funny in and of itself that we had strayed near the topic. But we had, and he immediately mentioned the Dirty Sanchez—a move that Meg had actually once explained to me (I suspect it had to do with the aforementioned urban dictionary, though I again am not sure why we were talking about that, especially since we had met not more than 10 minutes earlier, but it was my birthday and I was again drunk). So, yeah. The Dirty Sanchez. Ewwwwwwww.

Well, this inevitably led to discussion of other disgusting moves. Like, say, the Donkey Punch. Which, what the hell? If you’re that calculated about it—and if you don’t have a problem punching your partner in the head—methinks you have some problems. And that’s just for starters. The other thing I learned about was the Chili Dog. That one put me over the edge. Who thought that up? Secondly, what is wrong with you?

All of these are just disgusting. Is anyone even really partaking in them? (Please don’t answer that.) They’re sick and they’re unsexy. They are absolutely, pointlessly dumb. And every single one degrades women in a really despicable way. But my main objection, to the chili dog in particular?

The cleanup. Seriously. Consider it.

*I really can’t tell my mother about this blog now, can I?

Stop, Thief!

2006-07-15T12:13:00.000-04:00

I've had a running joke with my extended family for about 21 years now, one that tends to take place at a restaurant in Michigan that we've been going to once a year for as long as I can remember. The Dam Site Inn opened in 1953 and is about a half hour away from where we go. My great-grandparents, Pop and Caroline, were their first and only customers on opening night back then, and the story goes that Pop gave the owner a talk about how he had to hang in there, people would come and they'd turn a profit. There used to be a picture of Pop and Caroline on the wall, but apparently there was a fire decades ago and the photo burned. (All of this has been handed down to us by my father and uncle, so I can't vouch for it. I think it's the truth, but they aren't the most reliable storytellers.)

There are many reasons why I love the Dam Site, and few have to do with the food. (By the way, they have a lot on the menu, but should you find yourself there, the chicken dinner is really the only thing to get.) Firstly, it's in the middle of nowhere. It's fun to pile all 22 of us into various cars and head out there for dinner. When I was little, we had CB radios in the cars for some unknown reason, and I vividly recall my cousin Keith wishing me a happy birthday over it that at the time (I had just turned 6) made me think that the DJ on the radio was giving me my own little shout-out.

Secondly, the place hasn't changed since it opened. It's hard to tell on the photos in the site, but the bar, for instance, is exactly the same as it was in 1953. It's so outdated now it's hip. They have all these funny old-school glasses that anywhere else I would call crappy, but there I call cool. It's very mod-in-the-50s, and it's a style I notice restauranteurs and bar owners spending a fortune on emulating here in NYC. They should really just go to the Dam Site, take some photos, and go to it.

Another--and this may be my favorite--funky thing about the place is the sign by the entrance to the lounge/hostess area, which is a message board (one of those ones with ridges that you fit the white plastic letters into) resting on an easel. It's in an ornate gold frame with glass and reads "WELCOME ALL YOU LOVELY PEOPLE". If I ever get married, I'm totally either borrowing or replicating that sign at the reception. No one will get the joke, but I don't care. I love it.

And then--the mints. The mints! They're those unwrapped old-school chalky white ones, and there's nothing better than grabbing and handful for the ride home. They're actually kind of disgusting, but it's tradition, so you have to have them. I'm now the recipient of half-chewed ones from my little cousins who bite into them and then spit them out, which is a time-honored tradition I once took part in.

Now, for the food. Firstly, they serve a relish tray that is a toss-back to times long gone. It's got leeks and radishes in a vase-like holder on top, and then there are all these little compartments surrounding it on the bottom which contain: corn relish, pickled watermelon rinds, canned peaches, pickle rounds, beets, and a few other things I cannot remember. And they serve you a basket of crackers--an assortment of saltines, ritz crackers, and other out-of-the-box varieties. And then the chicken dinner. It's good--it's fried chicken, and peas, and mashed potatoes, which are fine. But the noodles and the biscuits are to DIE for. It's gotten to the point where I have one small chicken breast and then just eat the noodles and biscuits. And since it's all you can eat, we always get a ton more biscuits right towards the end, and then take them back for breakfast. Warmed up with butter and jam... yum. My perfect breakfast.

But, wait, I started off by talking about the joke right? Sorry about that. So when I was about 6, my uncle started sticking salt or pepper packets in my jacket, which of course scandalized me because it was stealing. Over the years, it escalated to butter packets and silverware. I finally got back at my cousin's boyfriend by slipping a spoon into his jacket, and he didn't find it until the next time he put that jacket on, for a wedding 9 months later. Nice payoff! But as hard as I'd try to be on guard, my uncle, dad or cousins always got me. Two years ago, they loaded my purse with the chalky mints, and when I say loaded, I mean they put hundreds in there. That bag still has white dust coating the inside.

So this year, my guard was up, and I put my purse directly under my feet at the table. At the end of the night we all went outside to mill around before piling in the cars. We got out there, and I opened my purse to get my phone, where I found a foot-long pepper mill from the table. I was speechless, grabbed and held it up, and looked at my family with my mouth open, and they all burst out laughing. Apparently Ayden, my 4-year-old cousin, had been sent under the table to put it in my purse.

I need to get back at them next year, so all or any suggestions welcome. And no, I didn't return the pepper mill. What was I going to say, "This somehow wound up in my purse!"? Plus, I kind of wanted to keep it. That was a feat!

I'm So Far Behind, I'll Never Catch Up

2006-07-08T10:47:00.000-04:00

I still haven't even posted my recap from Impromptu Blogger Meet-Up 2006... Things have been busy. In the past two weeks I have:
--Been thrown a surprise party by my fabulous friends, early enough that I had positively no idea anything was up.
--Been given a pig kazoo at said party, which will officially go down as the best gift ever.
--Been promoted and given many new responsibilities at work, which is both thrilling and terrifying and means I'll be even busier, but good stuff nonetheless.
--Built a sandcastle with my adorable 4-year-old cousin, who, when we put the flag in the top, wrapped his chubby little hands around my neck, buried his head in my shoulder, and sighed, "You're beautiful."
--Been informed by my uncle numerous times that I am "full of as much shit as your father", which in my family is one hell of a compliment.
--Hit a golf ball at my father, by accident of course, which missed his head by maybe three inches, eliciting the response, "Hey, whatever happened to fore?"
--Gone sailing.
--Gone motorboating.
--Eaten too much ice cream. (Well, when I tally it up, it sounds like too much. But I think I speak the truth when I say you can never truly have too much ice cream.)
--Celebrated my actual birthday with my extended family of 15 adults and 5 children under 8, complete with a rousing round of Pin the Tail on the Donkey. When you've all had a few cocktails, trust me, this is as much fun for the adults as it is for the kids.
--Danced on stage with a tambourine to a local (and legendary) band, along with my friend's sister, while all 40 people we came with cheered. Um, fun. And, yes, there was some beer involved.

I'm on vacation with my family up in northern Michigan, and have been for a week now. The weather is beautiful, my family is hilarious and healthy and fun, and I've been reconnecting with old friends as I do every year at this time. I'm so happy and lucky to have a place and people like this in my life, and I can already feel the lump forming when I think about leaving on Monday. That starts two phases. One: reentry, where I hate my life and walk around the city wondering why the hell I'm not a teacher so that I can spend all summer here. Two: countdown to July 4, 2007.

I'll be back next week, rested, tannish, and dreaming of Up North. See you then!

Tired, and therefore catty

2006-06-20T22:05:00.000-04:00

I've got some serious blogger block going on here. I'm really busy and therefore just haven't had time to really consider anything aside from where my next cup of coffee is coming from or the fact that I was supposed to [meet someone in the lobby/meet someone at a restaurant/be at the meeting/dial into the conference call/turn in that letter] five to ten minutes ago. It's that kind of mania.

The good news is that I'm not miserable or angry about it all, as this kind of pace tends to result in. I'm somehow finding it all fun. But the side affect seems to be that when I finally get home from work, all I can do is watch bad tv. It's practically an affliction at this point, but it's all my brain can absorb properly (though tonight I seem to be fine watching this, which isn't exactly light viewing). Anyway, my point is that while I realize I'm a little late to the table with this, I just have to comment on last week's Dateline interview with Britney Spears anyway. Because, really. Bad.

Britney, I am here to tell you that it is never appropriate to have your bra hanging out of your shirt on national television. Now that we've established that, let's also note that gaining back America's sympathy and respect NEVER starts with a too-small-in-the-chest shirt with a hot pink bra hanging out and denim mini. And that is if you aren't pregnant. Wearing said ensemble whilst being like 7 months pregnant takes it to a whole other level.

Also, your hair gave away the fact that you are an emotional wreck long before you said you were. It looks like a peroxided rat's nest. And your shoes and jewelry were just no good. I just can't even find the words.

Bottom line: you are far too rich to be running around in said getup. Call your stylist and try to get back on track, please. I feel for you, what with the paparazzi following you around and the media villifying you for being a bad mom, and you not being able to leave the house and all, but I can't take you seriously in that getup. And after Matt told me how much you are worth, it's very clear to me that there's really no excuse. You have a bevy of assistants at your disposal, you can buy any item of clothing you want, and yet you show up to your Dateline interview in that? It is up to YOU to set a good example for the young girls of America, and I have some real concerns about that hairstyle going national.

Speaking of fashion no-nos, I would like to take a page from FWOL's book and comment on a few alarming trends I've been noticing on the streets of NYC of late. So, ladies:
1) If you are a full A-cup or bigger, make no mistake, you really do need a bra. Seriously. It's FINE to wear one of those built in bra tanks or something, but tossing on a loose tank or sundress with no support up there really just isn't appropriate. It makes me want to shake my head, cluck my tongue, and say something like, "did you LOOK in the mirror before leaving home?" Like it or not, your breasts have certain... sexual properties, and nipping out all over town is just really unseemly.
2) If you are a C or D-cup, you ALWAYS need a bra. Lady walking down Broadway on Monday around lunchtime, I SAW your really tight and low cut tank and lack of any sort of fortification, and I'm telling you: you weren't fooling anyone. And you are far to old to plead ignorance. Unacceptable. Especially as I had just eaten.
3) The saying is thus: the HIGHER the hemline, the LOWER the heel. And the LOWER the hemline, the HIGHER the heel. I just feel the need to clarify that, b/c I've been seeing a lot of minis with stiletto heels, so I think you've all got it backwards.

Good god. I truly am turning into my mother. It's only a few months before I start answering calls from her by loudly clearing my throat and trilling, "Bon-swaaaar?"

Holiday

2006-06-13T11:55:00.000-04:00

As my roomate noted, work seems to be something I'm squeezing in between long weekends these days. Lucky me. I've been in and out of town, and now have a most welcome houseguest--a friend who lives in Alaska. That's really far, y'all. She departed Anchorage at TWO O'CLOCK in the morning with a short layover in Seattle, and didn't arrive in NYC until FOUR O'CLOCK PM the following day. All this for our friend's wedding. May someone someday have such deep affection as to make that trip for ME.

Now that I'm absolutely buried under piles of work and entertaining an eskimo, I have to further extend my little vacation. I will be back to regular-ish posting this weekend or next week sometime. I'm sure you're all just holding your breath!

Mr. Mayor, Please Put On Your Thinking Cap

2006-05-30T15:46:00.000-04:00

Thursday morning, as I was getting ready for work (and running WAY late, as is always the case), a jet flew overhead so low and was so loud that I quite literally dropped, ducked, and had a mild panic attack in my bedroom.

Another jet went overhead afterwards, but it wasn’t as loud. About ten minutes later, another, though also not quite as loud. At that point, I turned on NY1, our all New York news, all the time station, to see if something had happened (no way was I going to go get on the subway if a plane had crashed into midtown) and they were in the midst of showing Wednesday night’s lotto numbers so I figured all was fine. Maybe there were wind conditions that required a shift in flight paths to go over my apartment? And forced the planes to fly really low? By this point, I was really late, so I ran out the door, hopped on the subway, and got off by the Park as I normally do.

I heard another plane, so I looked up, and sure enough there was a jet circling around the Park at a pretty low altitude. I’ve now decided the whole thing might be related to Fleet Week, which was upon us.

Maybe I’m being uptight, but let’s all just concede that if you feel like buzzing a major city in the USA, New York is probably not the one to pick, given what happened here a few months short of five years ago. Who authorized this? Who thought New Yorkers wouldn’t mind the sounds of roaring jet engines overhead in the morning? What city official though, “Yeah! Let’s celebrate [whatever the hell it is they were celebrating] by having low-flying jets around Central Park!!!” Is this person trying to make me lose my mind?

It’s enough that I just push all normal concerns out of my mind every time I get on a bus or on the subway, every time I hear a flurry of sirens, every time a “CNN Breaking News” alert hits my inbox. And I’m a very calm and rational person. I grew up in LA among floods, fires, earthquakes, and the Rodney King riots. When shit goes down, I know you just point yourself towards home, stay calm, and enact one of your seventy-thousand contingency plans. (And despite my semi-apocalyptic state of mind, I truly don’t sit around obsessing about all of this once the plan is, erm, set. Point being: am I a little grim? Yes. Am I slightly crazy and often paralyzed by potential disaster scenarios? Really, I'm not.)

When I got back yesterday from a blessed weekend away, my roommate mentioned that our NPR station aired a small piece about the planes--apparently city phonelines were inundated with complaints and panicked calls. Turns out it WAS for Fleet Week, and those planes? Were BLUE DEVILS. Or something like that. I'm just slightly flabbergasted that this was approved, and that they didn't think to, I don't know, warn the people of this city beforehand. Especially given that they've banned hot coffee from the subways, citing "safety". Because definitely, the next terrorist will be throwing scalding coffee at riders at random. Yep. Definitely.

Hm, I'd better start on a contingency plan for that one, hadn't I?

Forgetful Jones

2006-05-24T18:03:00.000-04:00

This is actually a nickname my father had for me when I was younger, based on that Sesame Street character that forgets everything. Like him, I had trouble remembering things, like my graphing calculator and books for homework and school shoes. (How I lost my penny loafers, I will never know.) I was always leaving one book or another that I needed in my locker at school, and we lived 45 minutes and three freeways away. There was NO way I would have told my mom about it—this is one of those things that would have really set her off, and I would be in, as we call it in our household, “big T trouble”.

My father, however, could usually swing by my school on his way home from work, and so I’d call him at least once a week, whisper, “Dad? It’s Miss Peach. Don’t tell Mom, but I forgot X textbook in my locker and I have a quiz tomorrow. Will you pick it up for me?” He became quite friendly with Willie, our school’s gatekeeper, who would apparently greet him by saying, “So, which book did she forget today?” The other amusing part is that as an only child, my dad always found it to be hilarious that I would identify myself—because who else called him dad?

The other side of this, though, is that my parents also call me “old elephant brain”. Not exactly the most charming name, I know, but it is dead on—I have an uncanny ability to remember faces and names, or where we parked the car, or what someone was wearing to a certain event. This has been extremely helpful to my mom, who apparently relied on my four-year-old self to find the car after we’d been at the mall, and who will still call me on the way to a party to ask what Susie’s mom’s new husband’s name is, again?

So given that I rarely forget a name or a face, it follows that I find it extremely annoying that others don’t have such a memory. Now, I know I’m probably a bit more sensitive to it since I have this knack for remembering, but I’ve long suspected that I must be completely forgettable. In fact, I’m positive it’s actually the case. I now present you with a mere handful of the many experiences that confirms this:

We moved to St. Louis just before my sophomore year of high school, and though I spent three years in school there, there’s a whole group of my classmates who have no idea who I am. No, it isn’t because of how big my school was, because there were 80 people in my class. AND I was one of two new kids that year. Everyone should know who I am for that fact alone—you always know the new kids.

When I was in London, during my junior year of college, I was in some club and ran into Dan, who I’d never been close with but who I not only had classes with, but was on a committee with for two years in high school. I saw him in a stairwell, and was enthusiastically saying hi and asking how he was when he cut me off and said, “I’m sorry, but who are you again?” I reminded him and he seemed to feel bad, and when I told my friend we laughed for a good twenty minutes about it, but truth be told, it really bothered me.

Flash forward to my first year after college—I was at a bar in NYC with the same friend I’d been visiting in London, and another one of our friends, both from St. Louis—and we ran into Andrew, another classmate from the Lou. He said hi to my two friends but completely ignored me, and finally my friend said, “Andrew, you remember Miss Peach, don’t you?” AND SHE HAD TO INTRODUCE ME TO HIM.

I could really go on, but I think I’ll just cap this with today’s addition to the list:

We’ve had a temp in the offices for a while now, and he looks SO familiar to me. I immediately placed him as a guy who I went to college with. Then I thought maybe I was wrong, so I just let it slide. But today, he wore a shirt emblazoned with our alma mater’s name, and it all became clear. He had to be the guy I was thinking of. We had a bunch of mutual friends, my roommates and I would go see his band play periodically, we always went to the house parties he and his roommates threw… in other words, lots of overlaps and much time spent together in group settings.

So, finally, at the end of the day, I went up to him and asked if he went to our school, and he said he did, introduced himself, and asked my name. There was not so much as a glimmer of recognition. Not a hint that he remembered me. And the last time we hung out, I expressly remember being quite drunk and singing the high part of some song he was playing because I was the only one present who could come within any recognizable distance of that note.

I also remember him wincing when I tried to hit it.

And if that didn’t make any sort of lasting impression, I really don’t know what would.

Or I Could Just Wear a Lifevest All the Time

2006-05-16T21:46:00.000-04:00

I don't understand why people are suddenly falling off of ships left and right. It's like an epidemic. Did the railings get smaller or something?

This just makes one thing completely clear to me, and that is that I will not be going on a cruise anytime soon. I'm not exactly what you'd call coordinated. There's a reason I always wear flats and try to avoid ice skating and rollerblading. I don't have what you call balance or grace, despite the fact that I was born on a Tuesday and so am supposed to be chock-full of it.

I was reminded of a particularly klutzy moment from my past when, a few days ago, a friend emailed around a review of a restaurant where possibly the most embarassing event of my life took place. I was out with friends for dinner, three of whom I've known since high school and one girl who I had just met. We had finished the meal (during which we had all shared a bottle of wine, which would calculate out to ONE glass for me, thank you very much), and asked for the check. It came, and I leaned down to the right where my purse was sitting on the floor to get my wallet, and all hell broke loose.

Now, a word about the physical space: this was a tiny restaurant with a tiny back patio, where we were seated. The patio had small stone tiles on the floor that were reminiscent of cobblestone, so it wasn't exactly an even floor. And the chairs were those rickety wood violin-backed four legged ones you'd find at a "classic" italian place with red-checked cloths and drippy candles in wine bottles.

So, I was saying. I leaned down to the right, and the chair leaned with me... except it didn't stop leaning when I went to sit back up. It kept going. The legs all sort of folded under to the left, and I kept trying to ground myself with my right leg but I couldn't keep my footing. This is just so typical of me. Once I start going down, I just can't stop, and this was no exception. And because my friends couldn't do a thing, they apparently all covered their eyes, winced, and looked the other way while huddling into each other for support.

I went down--ALL the way down--to my right. But I didn't hit the ground. Nope, not me. I hit the guy sitting at the table next to me. And I apparently hit him at exactly the right angle, because he then started going over to his right, and he couldn't get his footing either. So he went over, but remember, this is a really small New York restaurant. So he didn't hit the ground either. He, of course, fell into the guy sitting next to him. And that guy? The guy on the end of the row of tables? He tried to stabilize himself by grabbing the table. And rather than stop the fall, the table went down with him.

At this point, you could have heard a pin drop on that patio. I was still on the floor, completely dumbstruck and incapable of doing anything except wondering whether my friends would understand if I just got up, left the restaurant, and waited for them down the block, and thanking god I hadn't worn a skirt that day. My best friend, god bless her, examined the chair and discovering the legs were loose and loudly proclaiming the chair faulty.

I don't think I have ever loved anyone more than I did her at that moment.

The guy I fell into was SO pissed at first. He looked at me with the nastiest look I think I have ever received. But when my friend declared the faulty chair, he suddenly became so nice and gave me his chair and stood to wait for a new one. I apologized profusely to him but I couldn't even bring myself to address the man on the end who now had his dinner on him. I turned to the table of girls who were trying their best not to break into fits of hysterical laughter and focused on keeping myself from bursting into tears while one of them quickly dealt with the bill.

I'm either resilient or used to mortifying myself in public, because by the time we got onto the street I was over the rock in my throat and was able to laugh along with them, to the point that we all wound up crying from the hilarity of it all. And the best part is that the one girl there who I hadn't met before dinner has since become somewhat of a friend, and every time something comes up about that night or that restaurant, her response is, "I remember they had an excellent goat cheese tart, but that is, funnily enough, the only thing I remember about that night!"

And now that you've seen what I'm capable of on terra firma, I think you'll agree that, clearly, putting myself on a ship where I'm surely going to be having a few drinks here and there is not a good idea. I'd be overboard in a minute. And I'd probably find a way to take whoever decides to travel along down with me.

Jerry

2006-05-11T19:28:00.000-04:00

My godfather, better known to me as Uncle Jerry, passed away yesterday morning. It’s so strange and sad to think of things without him. I haven’t yet sorted out my thoughts.

Jerry was my father’s best friend and mentor, and our families have a shared history that I cherish now that I’m no longer living at home in a way I couldn’t as a teenager. We spent Christmas together every year; when his oldest daughter got married (years ago; Jerry’s youngest is roughly 10 years older than me) it was as if someone in our family was getting married. Whenever I went home, we saw Jerry and his family. They’re as much a part of California to me as anything else.

Jerry gave me books every year for Christmas and my birthday, and though at the time I’m sure I didn’t appreciate them, they were a large reason I became a lover of books. Now that I work in book publishing, I look back I can see that line, that connection back to Jerry and those copies of Madeleine L’Engle books that he and his wife gave me when I was 8.

He loved to sail. He had a boat he kept in Marina Del Rey, a small Catalina with a tiller, and I’ll always think of him on the boat, hat on his head, hand firmly on the tiller, racing whoever was nearby out of the harbor or past that next buoy.

My mom and I were talking today about him, and how over the past several months he hadn’t been lucid, really. He retired about a year and a half ago, and then had surgery on his foot that rapidly aged him for reasons we don’t understand. You would swear he’d had either a stroke or Alzheimers, yet the only two things the doctors seemed to be able to rule out were those two conditions. I think we all believed that with more tests, they’d discover the problem and right whatever was wrong. We truly thought they’d discover his potassium levels were off and prescribe vitamins and he’d be back, or something equally simple—Jerry was brilliant, and witty, and sweet, and generous, and so quickly not present that it had to be something utterly simple and fixable. It wasn’t anything big—no tumor, no neurological disorder, no disease for which he had the telltale signs and symptoms—that it somehow logically followed that whatever it was, was a simple matter of chemical or mineral balance.

My mom was telling me that he had rallied for a bit over the past week—he went for a walk with his walker, something he hadn’t done in months; he said “thank you for taking care of me” to his wife on their way back from a doctor’s appointment a few days ago. And he had this conversation with his youngest daughter, who got engaged about a month ago to a man named Seth. They were sitting in the house, and she was gauging his memory.

“Who am I?”
“Jill.”
“And what will my new name be?”
“Seth.”
And then he looked her in the eye, smiled, and put his hand over her left hand and engagement ring.

How Do You Say "Unfaithful" in French?

2006-05-08T21:54:00.000-04:00

I srudied abroad for a semester in college. The benefits of this-and the amazing people I met and things I learned-could fill an entire blog in and of itself (and I wish blogging had been around at that time). There were some really moving things that happened, some absolutely hilarious moments, and some downright scary experiences. One particular conversation has stuck with me for some reason; I've hesitated to write about it because there isn't really a point or a punchline. But so much in life doesn't have either, so why hold back?

Oh, and, ps, this is a really long post.

I was traveling with Sarah, one of my best friends, and a random girl who had been on her program named Kat, for two weeks before we all headed back to the US for the summer and our senior years of college. Kat was from Texas and that's about all I know about her. She was very nice, but she traveled with us because it was convenient for her, and we never really connected as a threesome. I feel bad about that--not that it was my doing, but it must have been a little strange to be with two girls who were good friends with a long history as you traveled around, seeing something new (and often amazing) every day. But for the most part, it worked out. We met in Nice to start the travels; then Kat wanted to go to Florence, which Sarah and I had already seen and felt we shouldn't go back to. So we separated--Sarah and I hopped a train to Lake Como instead--and planned to meet in Venice before heading off to Budapest.

When Sarah and I arrived in Venice, we spent some time looking for Kat. I recall stopping at several internet cafes so I suspect we were just communicating via email. Somehow we found her (we were slightly annoyed, as whatever plan we had set hadn't worked and we'd blown an afternoon trying to find her while she sightsaw around Venice) and went to the train station--we had all locked our stuff in the lockers there for the day, and had about 15 minutes to grab it and hop the only direct train to Budapest. Sarah and I got our packs and turned expectantly to Kat, who was staring open-mouthed at her empty locker.

Kat hadn't properly locked the locker, and someone had made off with her entire pack: all her clothes, shoes, extra money, mementos, everything. It was devastating, and also supremely annoying. I felt terrible for her and also couldn't stop wondering how she'd messed up a very easy lock that had directions written in fifteen languages with pictoral explanations alongside each step. (This explains part of why the threesome didn't work.) We went to the station's police office and filed a report, but I held out little hope for any resolution. I'd been pickpocketed in Paris; I knew that 99% of the time it was a completely lost cause. There was little violence to worry about when I was there, but man, you could go broke being pickpocketed in some way, even if you were vigilant and street smart.

None of us spoke Italian and though the officer on duty spoke a bit of English, the lack of either party's fluency in either tongue let to a lot of yelling-Kat subscribed to the idea that if you just SAID SOMETHING LOUDER THEY WOULD UNDERSTAND EVEN IF THEY DIDN'T SPEAK THE LANGUAGE. I understood her frustration, but was mortified by her reaction. Sarah and I eventually stopped trying to help and just sat there agape, feeling bad for her and guilty that we were trying to figure out how many days this would shave off of our planned travels. Could we still do Budapest, Krakow, and Munich? Was it worth scrapping Budapest and maybe stopping in Vienna since we had to switch trains there anyway in our travels? Would we make full use of our Eurorail passes if we switched it up?

Self-centered, much? We both still feel a little bad about that.

Anyway, I still don't understand how this happened, and all I can think is that someone was watching over Kat. She must have had a whole big barrel of good karma and luck stashed somewhere, because apparently a station worker had realized that Kat's locker wasn't secure and had taken her pack to the baggage check area, where we got it and found everything intact. All I have to say is: luuuucky.

By this point we had missed the train, and had to take an overnight train to Vienna, switch stations, and catch a connection to Budapest. We had two hours to kill, but weren't about to put our bags back in the lockers. So we put together a picnic and settled on a bench near the station awaiting our train.

While we were waiting, a train conductor came over to us. He was Italian and middle-aged, and he seemed really agitated. He kept saying, "parlate italiano?" over and over. We didn't really respond-I knew he was asking us if we spoke Italian but my strategy in these situations was to just ignore them so they would go away, a strategy that had worked like a charm on the metro and whatnot. He started to yell, and so I looked up at him and said "no" in hopes of ending this right then. Then he looked back at me and said, "francese?" and held my eye contact, and for some reason I couldn't lie to him.

I speak conversational French but am in no way fluent. He started telling me in heavily Italian-accented, semi-broken French about how he had found a letter to his wife in their mailbox and he wanted me to translate it from English into French for him so that he knew what it said. I was taken aback and didn't really know what to do, and in my indecision I started reading it.

It's funny how language works. I spent so much of my time in France describing the words I was looking for. I can get around-order food, ask directions, inquire about tours and movie times and train schedules, and do it all with a good enough accent to be taken for a Swede. But when it comes to actual conversation, I never have the full vocabulary I need, and I wound up saying things like "angry, but with passion, and feeling inadequate, and sad about being inadequate, and mad that someone else is not inadequate, and wishing you were not inadequate" and someone would say "oui, la jalousie!" and voila! I knew how to say jealousy. (That's a bad example, because I have no idea how to say inadequate in French, and have known how to say jealousy since I was 13, and that's a terrible decription of jealousy to boot, but you get the picture).

This extended to my little translation exercise that day in Venice. The writing on the card was passionate and straightforward, but I didn't know how to faithfully translate it into French. Some of it was easy-I think it started with something like "My love, I am here in the United States and I miss you so much every moment." Okay, that I can handle, no problem. Then it got tricky. "If we were here together, we could love the way we were meant to, freely" and "I know our hearts are true and this love is real-come be with me, share the future we are meant to have and let us build our dreams together as we have always wanted." OK. Hm. That passage presented a myriad of problems--"build our dreams"? "Share the future"? These are phrases that I couldn't translate exactly, especially given my limited skills regarding French, not to mention the fact that they involved complicated tenses and conjugations (and those are not my strong suit, I pretty much speak French entirely in the present). I had to stretch a twelve-line postcard into a 15 minute explanation of the feelings behind the postcard, which had to be excruciating for the conductor because I barely made it through.

When I finished, he was silent for a beat, and then he started to talk to me. He was in love with his wife. She had been in trouble-I didn't quite catch what type or how-and he had taken her and her daughter in. They were his family now. He had done everything for them. He had given them a home and money. They were happy, or so he thought. He was alternately angry and devastated. I think he knew the guy-I got the sense this wasn't a surprise and he said something about how he thought this was finished now-and he kept walking away and then coming back to tell me another aspect of it all. It was one of the most bizarre experiences of my life. I just remember being transfixed, watching this complete and total stranger unload all of this onto me, a girl over 20 years his junior, in his second language. It was surreal. He finally stopped talking and I handed him the card before he walked away.

Kat and Sarah sat there while I explained the situation (they spoke Spanish), and I believe Kat's response was something like, "that's insane. Wait, aren't you sooooo glad I got my bag back?"

I always wonder what happened to him and his wife and stepdaughter. Did they work things out? Did she leave him? If she didn't, are they happy now? Is she quietly sad-does she feel like she owes it to him to stay, and that's why she does? Or did she go to New York to be with her lover? And if so, is she still here?

Anyway, a word of advice-if you're going to cheat on your husband with a man from another country, do not think your lover can just send you a postcard in a language your husband doesn't speak, because your husband will think it's suspect and will totally take that card and find a young tourist from the country of your beloved, and you will be busted.

Answer Me This

2006-05-01T11:30:00.000-04:00

There are a few things that have plagued me of late. These are issues I have, and I turn to you for advice, reasoning, and possible rationales. Because these are the things that keep me up at night. And I really haven’t been sleeping all too well recently.

Question Number One: Could Meg Ryan get ANY more collagen in those lips of hers? When I saw her on Oprah a few months ago, I couldn’t get over her lips. Really, Meg? You look like Goldie Hawn in that movie that I cannot remember the name of when she forces her plastic surgeon to give her more collagen, and then walks around looking like a clown. Meg, I know you’re probably surrounded by yes people. I know no one will say it to you. So I will do the deed, and take one for the team.

Your lips are too big. It hurts me to look at them! I mean, all I can think of is how tight they must feel and how you must be a teensy-weensie bit afraid to smile too big because, seriously, what if they pop? Ouch. I’m serious. I don’t think I can look at any more pictures of you. I have such a visceral reaction that I wind up wanting to toss my cookies. In fact, I’m having trouble getting my coffee down now just thinking about this cover.

Question Number Two, for all the New York City Tourists in Town Now or Ever: Why do you ask me for directions when I have earphones in and am clearly not able to hear you? There are plenty of people around without the Sign of Not Wanting to Be Bothered hanging from their ears (the white iPod earphones, for those wondering). I know you’re a little lost, but please, when we’re crossing Broadway and I am lugging a bag, listening to my iPod, and The Red Hand is flashing, don’t wave, yell, and then GRAB MY SHOULDER to ask where the nearest pharmacy is. Please, please, PLEASE just finish safely crossing the street and ask someone on the sidewalk. The cabs are revving their engines, and I don’t want to die because I’m being polite to a stranger.

Question Number Three: For the love of Jesus, Mary, AND Joseph, why is it that we still have instructions for voicemail? If I were to sit down and somehow tally up the moments I lose listening to “At the sound of the tone, please leave a voice message. When you have finished recording, you may hang up or press one for more options,” how much of my time would have been wasted? Firstly, we all have got the hang of it now. There is no need for the stern phone company lady to tell me what to do after a beep. Secondly, what other options might I have? They aren’t answering. Either they’re a) otherwise occupied and really can’t talk right now; b) without their phone; c) ignoring me and could but actually don’t want to talk to me right now; or d) in a movie (or the like) and their phone is turned off. What else are you going to do for me? Please, enlighten me. What other options can you offer?

Corollary Question to Number Three: What is the “to leave a callback number” option, and why would one use it? I mean, y’all, if you want to leave a callback number, wouldn’t you just leave it on the voicemail? I’m sure there’s some really useful, makes life easier, and super simple application for this, but I have never used it, nor has anyone ever used it on me. Though technically I would have no idea what it was, so I guess someone could have and I just wouldn’t know it.

Which begs for Question Number Four: Why are there instructions for voicemail, but not for the "to leave a callback" option that in some way explains what on earth that function is?

Seriously, they should really just put me in charge. It would make so much more sense. To me, at least.

To the Mean, Obnoxious, Bitchy Woman at Target in Jersey City Last Saturday

2006-04-28T11:40:00.000-04:00

Ma’am,

There are really a myriad of questions I’d like to ask you. I just don’t understand you. Are you always so mean? Is your hair always so long and untrimmed? Have you thought about getting it cut? Do you have a different tracksuit for every day of the week? Are you always so self-centered? So impatient? If so, I think the first thing you should learn is that the Target Greatland in Jersey City on a very rainy Saturday afternoon is really no place for you.

When you got in line behind me, and I had one water bottle in my hand, I am sorry that you assumed that was all I was buying. I don’t understand how you could, though. Nobody walks into Target and leaves with one lonely, bright pink, hard plastic water bottle. I don’t mean to tell you what to think, but there’s a second lesson in that fact.

When my roommate appeared with our cart of what, admittedly, contained a LOT of cleaning supplies, was it really necessary to loudly exclaim to your husband, “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me?” I’m no shrinking violet. I love me the f-word. Frankly, I love it so much that I’m trying to learn to love it a little less. But was it really necessary?

We ignored you. We looked at each other and rolled our eyes. Until, passive-aggressively, you got up in my roommate’s face and rudely said, “Are you together?” We, politely I thought, said we were. Which unleashed a verbal torrent which, I hope and imagine, is something one would only hear in New Jersey. I can’t remember all you said, but I vividly recall the following:

”You’ve GOT to be FUCKING KIDDING ME!”
“This is FUCKING RIDICULOUS!”
(To husband) “Can you FUCKING believe this?”
(To us), “Come on! Are you FUCKING KIDDING ME?”

Now, I’m going to give you the benefit of the doubt and assume that your anger prevented you from switching up the dialogue too much. But your verbal abuse really pissed me off. Which is why I was so pleased to hear Genoa say, “I really don’t understand what is so ridiculous about this!”

I believe this is what followed:
You: When we got in line, SHE had ONE thing, and that’s what we thought she was buying!
Me: Well, that was your wrong assumption.
You: Then SHE comes over with the cart! This is fucking ridiculous! FUCKING RIDICULOUS!
Me: Well, you’re welcome to go get in another line—there are several checkout lanes here.
You: That’s NOT THE POINT! YOU HAD ONE THING!
Me: Sorry you’re so upset.

When I turned back to my roommate, I was livid. My blood was pulsing and my face was hot and I’d by lying if I said I didn’t want to scream an obscenity (or, if we’re being honest here, a string of them) at you. But, because I try to be a good and decent human being, I held back. Until I heard you hurling yet more obscenities at us, and I turned to you and said, “You know what? I really have no interest in standing here listening to you complain. If it’s so important to you, just GO AHEAD of us. For God’s sake, just go AHEAD.” And we moved out of your way and let you go.

Whereupon you continued your bitching. And that is why I feel no remorse whatsoever—really! Not a drop! For saying the following:

“Look, stop your bitching. You’re ahead of us, you got your way, YOU ARE WELCOME!”

And then loudly saying to my roommate:
”FUCKING NEW JERSEY, RIGHT?”

It also explains why I was positively gleeful when they opened up the checkout line next to us, and we were the first ones served. That, ma’am, is what people mean when they talk about karma. Just so you know.

My best to you and yours,
Miss Peach

When in Doubt, Blame the Airlines

2006-04-23T11:13:00.000-04:00

Yesterday was my father's birthday. Happy Birthday Dad! He was supposed to fly into New York today for work, and I had a celebratory dinner planned, because, as I surely don't need to explain to you, there's no better way to celebrate your own birthday than taking your daughter out to dinner! (To quote him: "Maybe you can have some champagne to celebrate my birthday!") But he missed his flight.

I can't tell you how wildly uncharacteristic this is of him. This is a man who is punctual to fault, who once was twenty minutes late to meet me and I panicked, convinced something was seriously wrong. This is a man who will stand at the bottom of the stairs as my mom and I are getting ready for dinner or some time-oriented activity and say, "LADIES! Five minute warning! We are going to be LATE!" So you can imagine my shock when he called to tell me he wasn't on the flight and wouldn't land until midnight, so dinner was off.

After he told the news, I paused for a beat, and then said, "I don't understand, HOW did you miss you flight?" There had to be a story there, and I was going to get it. Well, the story is that they are now closing flights FORTY minutes before they leave, and he arrived in the 30-40 minute window. Which, I have to say, is also wildly uncharacteristic of him--but then again, it was an early morning flight, so I guess it's understandable. But it set my dad off. Where, he wanted to know, were the announcements? The policy has always been THIRTY minutes! He's a fantastic guy, but these are precisely the things that get him really riled up, and I send vibes of apology to whatever check-in clerk had to bear the brunt of his aggravation. But anyway--word to the wise, you all. FORTY minutes, not thirty. Don't be playing it "loose and fast" because apparently they've cut 11% of their flights and this is how it's going to be. The cost of fuel is changing everything. This is precisely why you need to book your flights to Michigan right away. There aren't going to be any seats! It's going to be a nightmare. If you want to go anywhere this summer, you had better make those plans now.

Couldn't... stop... the rant. Sorry about that. Apparently I need to book my flights for July NOW or I will not be able to get there, people. I will be going nowhere because there will be no seats and have I mentioned? It's going to be a nightmare from here on out. (He really hates the airlines and takes every opportunity to complain and declare some sort of apolcalyptic event that is completely their fault.)

Other than that, though, he's just a sweet, funny man, and a fabulous dad. He's the type of guy who, when I'm cutting something up in the kitchen, will stop and show me the proper way to chop that onion, and always let me "paint" the meat on the grill, and used to "gun it" when going up hill in his car when I was little, just because it made me laugh. He's the type of dad who, when you call him to ask which 401K to contribute too, will give you a very well-thought-through answer including the most boring (but useful) breakdown of all the types of funds and what risks go with each one. Who will sit you down when you're having a rough go of it, and will tell you a story from his life that's really analagous, and show you that even though whatever it is you're going through sucks, there's a lesson in it, and good will come of it, and then he'll give you a big bear hug and fix your favorite dinner. Who, when you get busted in high school for beer, and are forced to tell him all about it after he returns from a fishing trip, will react this way:

Mom: Miss Peach, don't you have something to tell your father?
Me: Um, yeah. Um, well, so, see, we were at a party on Friday night, and um, well, erm, Tom offered to go to the store? Because he was going to get beer? And it was the last day of exams? And so he was already going to get some beer? So we, um, Kathleen and I, we, um, yeah, well, we asked him to get us a six-pack of Bud Light? And, um, well, I guess his ID wasn't great? Because, well, he got arrested?
Dad: Yikes. Is he okay?
Me: Yes.
Mom: His mother is very angry and called here twice.
(Very audible, shaky, freaked-out sigh, excapes my lips.)
Dad: Well, what the hell does she want from us? Her son had the ID! It's not like Miss Peach forced him to go in there and use a fake ID to buy alcohol underage! He already had the ID. Clearly this wasn't the first time he used it.
Mom: I know, it's a little ridiculous.
(My palms are sweating.)
Dad: Well, Miss Peach, we do need to discuss this.
Me: Yeah. (My knees are shaking.)
Dad: You and Kathleen were going to drink a whole six-pack?
Me: Well, I mean, maybe, I mean, I don't know, we just gave him that number. I mean, we didn't want a twelve-pack!
Dad: OK. And you chose to get BUD LIGHT?
(My mouth opens, and I realize I have no idea how to respond to this.)
Dad: I mean, if you're going to go to all that trouble, you should really at least go for Miller Lite. But BUD LIGHT! Miss Peach, it's really not worth it.
(My mouth is still open, and I can't figure out how to respond.)
Mom: Charlie!
Dad: Well, it's the truth. (Shaking head and walking away) Bud Light!

Have I Mentioned that I Love National Public Radio?

2006-04-16T10:40:00.000-04:00

I woke up super early this morning despite having been out pretty late last night. I could not fall back asleep. So what did I do? What any normal twenty-something would do! I turned on NPR and straightened my room.

Which brings me to declare something. I love NPR. No, really. I LOVE NPR. In a somewhat alarming fashion. Part of this is that my job basically revolves around their programming. And up until now, I've been writing off my need to listen to NPR as a "work thing". On road trips with friends, I claim I need to know what they're covering and force a local station check periodically. When I was in Chicago last year, I insisted on listening to the local programming so that I could "know the shows". I'm all for music and fun when with friends or on the road, but do NOT ask me to go more than two hours without those sweet, soothing voices and calm, clear delivery of the headlines.

This isn't anything new, really. I grew up on it, and have a completely Pavlovian response to the "All Things Considered" theme song of stomach rumblings from listening to it on the way home every day with my mom. But my love for NPR is slightly over the top. An admission? I think the on-air talent are celebrities. Utter and complete celebrities. I once went to a luncheon where Michelle Norris was speaking just to see her in person. Yes, it was work-related, but the real reason I went was to put a face to the voice. (And much as it pains me to say this, I found her to be really annoying and borderline insufferable. But this is all a moot point, because I love Robert Siegel. The man could talk to me about the properties of iron and I would find it fascinating. And when he laughts? Oh, I love his laugh. It's just so soulful yet intelligent.)

Ahem. Pardon the swooning there.

Now, you might wonder how I took the dismissal of Bob Edwards. I didn't take it well, people. I didn't take it well at all. To be frank, I cursed out Renee and Steve every morning, and when I got the news via email at work that they were the permanent replacements, I literally flipped off the computer. I still miss Bob's soothing chatter in the morning and remember how I loved waking up to him. Nothing got me out of bed like, "SARS is on the rise in the far east, causing much concern throughout the western world. We'll hear the latest from a summit on the topic. Today is Monday, March 27th, and you're listening to Morning Edition on NPR." Cue theme music, and I was up and at 'em!

A few years ago, Linda Wertheimer called my coworker Megan. This was when we shared cubicle space, and I could hear every conversation she had. The conversation went like this: "Hello? Oh, hi! Uh huh? Hm. Oh, that's interesting. May I ask you to hold for a minute? Thank you!" and then she put the phone down, turned to me, and said, "Oh my god, that's LINDA WERTHEIMER!" And I'm not kidding when I say I squealed. Now, Meg loves NPR every bit as much as I do, so I wasn't too embarassed. But you can see how that could be a tad, well, laughable to other people.

Meg and I often take it a bit further. During the transit strike in December, for instance, we were walking from dinner to a nearby bar and discussing the utter lack of public transportation. It was all anyone could talk about here, and Meg and I were no exception. Except this is what our conversation was:

Me: Man, can you imagine how much money the cabbies must be pulling in? I mean, for me to get to work [50 blocks, roughly a $10 ride under normal conditions] costs $35! And that's WITH three other people so that we can cross the "96th Street Blockade!"
Meg: I know, I can't believe there haven't been more stories on it. I mean, the Times hasn't even covered that to my knowledge.
Me: Yeah. Frankly, I'm a little disappointed in Marketplace. WHERE is the financial coverage on this here transit strike?
Meg: Oooh, good point. I can hear that intro.
Me: I know! "Hi, I'm Kai Ryssdal, and this is the Marketplace morning report. The transit workers in Manhattan may not be getting paid, but there's money to be made amidst the transit strike currently paralyzing the country's most denseley populated city. Taxi drivers are making money hand over fist, and with no end in sight, this Christmas season could be a record-breaker for medallion holders. Stacy Vanek-Smith has the story."
Meg, laughing and picking up Stacy's part: "John Kowalczyk starts every day at the car wash on the West Side Highway, where he gets his taxi ready for the morning shift. But for the past two days, he hasn't had a moment off to clean his classic yellow cab..."

I shudder to think what the people walking past must have been thinking about us.

Is this a problem? Do I need an intervention?

Oh, and be sure to stay tuned for these scintillating forthcoming posts:
"I miss Ted Koppel. Terry Moran can't even read the damned teleprompter properly!"
"If it's wrong to DVR CBS Sunday Morning, then I don't want to be right."
"David Brancaccio is really mixing things up at NOW--how about last night's shocking report on the state of our national fisheries?!"
and the one I know you all will be clamoring for:
"Five reasons why I have an unnatural and completely inappropriate crush on Tim Russert."

Here Comes Peter Cottontail

2006-04-13T18:16:00.000-04:00

I am a big fan of Easter, and always have been. This began when I was little, when it meant getting a new Easter dress. Every year, we would go to Bullocks and I would get to pick out a pretty frock to wear to church. For a while there, when I was like 3 and 4, I wore my Alice in Wonderland dress—it was pale blue with poofy sleeves and a white apron on top that had embroidery around the edges of teapots and “I’m late, I’m late! For a very important date!” Later on, it was all about dresses that looked like drapery. I have no idea why I gravitated towards them. When I look back at those pictures now, all I do is wonder why my mom let me wear dresses made of upholstery. Oh, and I wore a hat and white lace gloves as well. When I was a little girl, I was all about being a lady.

To that end, I even took a class (with my Brownie troop, for a patch no less) called “White Gloves and Party Manners”. It was held at another Bullocks (the one in Pasadena on Lake St., for anyone who knew that area back in the early ‘80s) and a really uptight woman with a bun would sit us all around tables with china and show us how to properly eat soup. (FYI: No slurping, tilt the bowl away from you when you get to the bottom, and move the spoon away from you as you dip at all times.) I don’t remember a whole lot from the class. We still have the book somewhere and I am periodically urged to take it out and reread portions—my father likes to tease me about my manners, though I’m still pretty good about following the rules. I never remember to push my chair in after myself, but otherwise, I’m good to go.

Annnd where was I? Oh, yeah, I love Easter! I do. But as an adult it’s not as much fun—no Easter bunny, no new dresses and fun hats, no sugar highs from chocolate and big family soirees. Every year it makes me a little sad. I’ve established a tradition here which is to brunch with my best friend and spend the day with her, walking around and doing something springy, but it’s simply not the same.

So I was settling into my yearly Easter funk when I came back from a loooong meeting this afternoon, and I had not one but TWO care packages. Lucky me! The first was from my parents, who build the best ones ever. It had camisoles, a Starbucks card, a sugar scrub, cute stationary, “mad money” (My father’s trademark, five bucks to spend frivolously—I usually put it towards beer which would make my mom roll her eyes but my dad would so totally high-five me), and See’s lollipops. Yum.

And then package number two arrived. I had no idea who it could have been from and actually thought it must be work related until I opened it up and it contained:
--One package Red Vines
--One “big bag” of Cadbury Mini-Eggs (how jealous are you, Red?)
--One eggfull of Starburst jellybeans
--Two burned cds

I spent the next ten minutes trying to decipher the handwriting on the cds, which didn’t look familiar at all. I was mildly freaked out at first—who the hell would know that I love Red Vines and they’re hard to come by here, that the Mini-Eggs are my favorites, and would go to the trouble of burning me cds and not include a note? Creepy, right?

And then I stopped being a moron and looked in the box again and found the card—from my best California girl, who has been one of my nearest and dearest since 7th grade, which is why she knows all about what candy I fancy. Mystery solved.

So I made some thank-you calls, popped open the Mini-Eggs, and kicked into work mode. Today my motto was “get shit done”, so I was basically on auto-pilot, crossing item after item off my list. Which apparently includes not registering that I was popping a Mini-Egg into my mouth every minute or so.

I came to when my phone rang and realized that I had eaten a sickening amount of chocolate. That was three hours ago and I’m still unwell. My Easter funk will henceforth be known as Chocolate Poisoning, because given how ill I feel, I think it might not be a bad idea to inquire about a stomach pumping. Gah!

And look how far I have come from my ladylike beginnings. Maybe it IS time to whip out my copy of "White Gloves and Party Manners" for a refresher.

UPDATE:
PLEASE. Someone. I beg of you. Take the mini-eggs AWAY.

Train to Gay Pareeee

2006-04-10T19:49:00.000-04:00

I am positively dying to go somewhere outside of the US. I haven't traveled anywhere new in so long I practically forget what it's like. A year and a half ago, I nearly went to India for two weeks, and I bailed because I couldn't so much afford that trip. I know it's a good thing I didn't go. But still. I really do wish I had, despite the fact that it would have meant months of ramen for dinner.

Anyway, all these thoughts of travel have got me thinking back to my semester studying abroad and some of the crazy stuff that happened. I lived with an extremely dysfunctional family in Paris. Going into this would be a post in and of itself, but suffice it to say that the mom was crazy, and though the son was very nice, they both refused to speak French to me. Oh! And her daughter got arrested not once but twice while I was there, for committing check fraud with her boyfriend on an OLD BLIND WOMAN. And they were supposed to feed me two dinners a week and I got about five meals the entire time I lived with them. Anyway. They were a strange bunch.

As a result, I traveled a lot, which was great. One trip was to Italy with Eve and Maureen. Maureen was a nice but odd girl. Eve is still a very good friend, who also happens to be my best friend from high school's best friend from college (got it?) and we just happened to do the same program. Random! But really fun. Eve is a great girl and thank god she went to Milan with Maureen and I b/c Maureen went off her rocker at one point, something having to do with not being able to buy cigarettes I think?, and stopped talking to us. It was really strange. Anyway, Evie and I had each other to make it through, which was a good thing given what happened on our train ride home.

We took an overnight train from Milan back to Paris, so we had reserved three spots in a six-person couchette. When we got to the compartment, two girls had taken the top two couchettes-PRIME positioning-so we took the middle two and Maureen took one of the bottom ones. (Since she wasn't talking to us, there was a lot of huffing and sighing and mean stares and hair flipping.) And then Passenger Number Six arrived: a man who had awful body odor and a passport written all in arabic, and an empty backpack with one bottle of water in it. Strange, given we were on an overnight train to a city hundreds of miles away in another country, right? Eve and I were wary and discussed in the hallway how it freaked us out and what if he was a terrorist? Like, oh my god! Then we decided we were profiling and maybe he was going to start life over in Paris! Who wouldn't? So we dropped it. The train left, we all put on our headphones and went to sleep, his body odor (he was below me) wafting up and preventing slumber for a bit there.

The next thing I remember is waking up and realizing the train was stopped. I figured we were at the border or something. We stood there for a longish time, and then suddenly there were LOTS of loud footsteps in the hall coming down the car. They stopped outside our door and then there was a lot of loud pounding and men yelling "POLIZIA! POLIZIA!" in the deepest, most intimidating voices I've heard. I was paralyzed-I didn't know if I should open the door or just lay there and why the hell were they pounding at our door? Eve and I both sat up a bit and looked at each other; I could make out just enough of her face to see that she was terrified and I must have looked the same way. At this point, I was groggy and so disoriented that I had completely forgotten about Passenger Number Six and his empty backpack with one bottle of water.

Suddenly, the door busted open and I recall them literally HAULING the guy out. It happened really quickly-they basically grabbed him and he was gone in a flash. The train sat there for like another hour, and then went on without him. We all eventually fell back asleep and woke up in Paris, groggy, wondering what the hell happened. We never did find out.

So that's odd, right? But here's what gets me. I was talking to my parents a few days later and told them about it-how terrified we were, isn't that so creepy, what do they think happened? And they were both hysterically laughing at me on the phone. Now, if YOUR daughter had been on an overnight train in a foreign country and a man had been hauled off by the police, would you find that funny? I don't think so. I found it slightly disturbing that they found it oh-so-amusing. It's the one time I've wondered if they were crazy. Well, that and the time my mom got drunk on Christmas and started talking to the balls hanging from her necklace, but I later realized that she wasn't really drunk and was just messing with me. But that's another story altogether, isn't it?

2006-04-03T22:13:00.000-04:00

Haloscan commenting and trackback have been added to this blog.

So I lost all comments. Boo. But better now than later I think, and if I got that "That's great! Did you know you can make money at..." from Anonymous one more time, I was going to be very, very irritated.

The Three Bees, or My Boring Sunday

2006-04-02T23:19:00.000-04:00

My weekend was pretty low-key--it started out with wall-to-wall plans that got cancelled bit by bit as a cold slowly took over my life. I'm hoping it'll head it's merry way tomorrow, given I stayed home today to mend and sleep. Last night I couldn't sleep b/c I was all hopped up on cold meds. Is it wrong to take Delsym while the Mucinex in your system has a few hours to go? Regardless, I won't be repeating that again tonight as I would rather not think the shower curtain is moving by itself when I wake up tomorrow morning after having hallucinatory dreams.

On Saturday, Gen and I went to help our friend paint her new apartment. We're pretty good at painting, given that we've painted both our current apartment and our last one. And we've got the tools. So we're good people to have around when you need a little help on the wall color front. Our friend's apartment is lovely and now quite colorful, plus it was fun to help out. But I think being in the "move" mindset got us thinking about things we needed, and that let right to the Bed Bath and Beyond on the Upper West Side.

I usually go to the BBB in Chelsea, so this was my maiden trip to the new one on the UWS (which is infinitely closer to where I live). Yay. Our coffeemaker broke three weeks ago, and I was on board to get a new one, but I've been out of town so much that I hadn't dealt with it. So after laying on the couch all morning, nursing myself and whining a lot, I got Gen to agree to go down there with me.

The problems with shopping at Target have been well documented before, and I too have trouble getting out of there for any reasonable amount. But the thing is, at Target, things seems so necessary. Of COURSE I'm buying toilet paper. I need it! And it's so much cheaper there than the Gristede's on the corner. But BBB is all... accessories. I mean, sure, I went there to get a coffeemaker, which is a necessity (for me, at least). But then, I decided a new hair dryer was in order. And then I remembered I needed two euro sized pillows for my bed. And suddenly I was in the kitchen tool department and... I went a little crazy. At one point, I had one of those wooden citrus juicers, a lemon zester, a salt mill AND a pepper mill, a mini-whisk, kitchen shears, an avocado slicer, and a little thingie you drop in the water when you're cooking eggs and it'll tell you when it's soft or hard-boiled. Definitely all useful purchases. But definitely not necessary purchases. I walked over to the cart and Gen looked at me like I was insane, and I realized she was right. So I put all but the kitchen shears back (those we really DO need), and stuck with my original list.

But to be honest, I'm really jonesing for that avocado slicer now. I may have to go back and get it.

The coolest part about our trip to BBB though was that Gen bought a food processor/blender combo. It's two appliances in one! We didn't have either, and we spent the subway ride back discussing how many different things we were going to make with it last night. But once we got back, and I set up the coffeemaker and cleaned a bit and all that, I was so wiped I couldn't even think about cooking mac and cheese, let alone the mexican fiesta we were planning (guacamole and quesadillas and margaritas! Definitely that was the Delsym in conjunction with three Halls drops and a tea with honey talking.) So I parked myself on the couch, snacked on the perfect, oh-so-paper-thin apple slices Gen food-processed, and ordered Chinese. There's nothing like wonton soup and veggie dumplings to make a girl feel better. Nothing. Well, except your mom making you noodle soup and toast or something, but given that mine is 3,000 miles away, I'll settle for wonton soup.

Take Two

2006-03-31T11:28:00.000-05:00

Though I haven't been blogging about it, the mouse issue continues. Originally, I decided that if I couldn’t eradicate them from my apartment, I would at least eradicate them from the blog. But then Maliavale suggested a sidebar, and, well, good idea! So thanks, Maliavale!

I should also note that I’m hoping this will end up being like the previous sidebar, Most Ridiculous Law & Order Quote Heard Recently. I have no idea why, but the second that went up, I somehow stopped encountering the show altogether. I guess Gen was watching while I was gone or something, but I haven’t seen an episode in months. So, if logic follows, I will put up a sidebar, and the source will disappear. I am desperately hoping this will prove to be the case. You know, like the bathroom rule? The second you get up to head to the ladies’, your food comes. Or something.

If this works, I'll be taking sidebar suggestions, by the way. I could even do one for you! Though I'm thinking the next one will be "Credit Card Watch" and then maybe the balance will magically disappear!

Because March Madness Only Made Me Want More Brackets

2006-03-30T18:20:00.000-05:00

I've gone and gotten into March Madness again this year. I do it every year. I don't pay a lick of attention and then I'm all, hey, it's March Madness! And then my office pool sheet—which is a big to-do here—rolls around, and I have to enter and don't know who's good or bad, so I email my friend Zach who is a sports freak, and he sends me his bracket, and I copy some of it and alter a lot based on my funky, illogical, borderline ridiculous allegiances. I refused to let Duke go all the way because I hate Christian Laettner, and yes, I’m aware he played for them a long time ago. And I didn’t even let UConn get past the first round because a girl I HATED from high school went there. It’s this type of reasoning (or lack thereof) that drives my father insane. While I was home, my dad and I watched the UCLA-Memphis game—in a bar populated by solely UCLA grads, you would think, from all the screaming—and the conversation went like this:

Dad: So how far did you have BC going?
Me: Out after the first round.
Dad: To the Pacific Tigers? I mean, it went to double-overtime, but still. I wouldn’t have made that call.
Me: Bastards at BC didn’t even waitlist me.

Anyway, back to the bracket: I know its borderline cheating but trust me, I never come anywhere near winning. Until this year. Because it has been a wild ride, because no one could have called this, I am in third place. Don’t worry, I won’t win because I picked Villanova to go all the way, and they aren’t in it anymore. But it’s been such an exciting tournament (Double overtimes! One-point spreads!) that I’m already anticipating the sadness I’ll feel when it’s all over.

So, in its place, I thought I’d draw attention to another bracket. It’s decidedly more refined, but it’s really just as fun. And most of the reviews are hilarious while all are insightful at the very least. And it is just so beautifully arbitrary. And it in the first round knocked out two books that I am so pleased are gone it’s just, well, wrong.

First: On Beauty by Zadie Smith. I am going to just come right out and say it. I. Cannot. Stand. Zadie. Smith. I don’t know why. I have only ever read one of her books, but I hated every second of White Teeth with a burning, fiery passion. I read it while abroad and would sit on the Metro, read a paragraph, roll my eyes, and repeat. Thankfully, I was in France, where this type of behavior is not only tolerated but encouraged. But good god, I finally put the book down after coming to the realization that I had read three-quarters of it and I didn’t give a rat’s ass what happened to any of the characters. It was the, pardon the pun, white hot book of the moment, with its trendy different colored covers, which annoyed me too. (Don’t ask about Everything is Illuminated. It’s a more vitriolic rant than this one.) This could be a post on its own, so I’m just going to stop there.

Second: The Historian by Elizabeth Kostova. I didn’t read this. I didn’t even read the flap copy of this book. But I found it so annoying that one publisher would spend practically their entire marketing budget on one book, touting it as the next Da Vinci Code, that I hated it before it even went on sale. I know. It’s short sighted of me. But there are plenty of books I have to read, and I think I’ll be skipping this one.

But anyway, back to the Tournament of Books. Download a bracket and make your picks! My money is on Saturday by Ian McEwan or Never Let Me Go by Ishiguro. And, yes, I did look at who won the first round. But did you really think I was going to enter into a tournament involving brackets and not cheat a little bit?

Wouldn't You Like to Be My Neighbor?

2006-03-21T22:58:00.000-05:00

It's things like this that make me love New York:

Crazy Man #1 on the West side of Broadway, while holding a copy of the Bible above his head: Jesus Saves! Hallelujah! Jesus LOVES you! Hallelujah! GLORY! GLORY! GLORY!

Crazy Man #2 on the East side of Broadway: Oh, shut UP!

CM #1: GLORY! GLORY! GLORY! GLORY! (repeated without pause)

CM #2: I SAID, SHUT UP!

CM #1: GLORY! GLORY! GLORY! (continues)

CM #2: Yeah, yeah, yeah. Where WAS God when Katrina hit, huh? SHUT UP!

CM #1: GLORY! GLORY! GLORY! (repeated until I entered my building)

Annnnnd.... scene.

I'm headed to California for about a week, so things here will be quiet. I plan on not checking email, not worrying about work, and not giving into my desire to check my work email just in case something requires my immediate attention.

Oh! And eating In-N-Out, laying in the sun, going to Disneyland with Dan and Darren, requesting my favorite meals from my parents, and indulging in MUCH champagne.

So I'll come back fatter and apparently hungover.

Ah, vacation. Have a good one everyone!

A Simple Plan

2006-03-21T11:32:00.000-05:00

I, like most people, have low-level anxiety all the time. I think it’s my mind’s way of preparing—I imagine a few bad scenarios and consider what I would do and how I would feel should they come to pass. This is normal, confirmed by many psychological studies. You should check out this guy’s work. It made me feel MUCH better about it all.

As a result of this, I think, I like having contingency plans. I also assume it comes from growing up in Los Angeles and having had contingency plans for fires, earthquakes, and riots as a child. Nothing will scare you into planning mode for the rest of your life like your mom reminding you to call Grandma in Florida if there’s an earthquake and you are alone because the long-distance phone lines will have a better likelihood of working than the local ones. I was probably 6 when we worked that out. Oh, the many scenarios that ran through my little, imaginative head!

When 9/11 happened, I was reminded that it actually, really DOES make sense to have contingency plans, so I worked them out with friends here in New York. I had meeting locations mapped out for every eventuality: if I was at work and the incident was in midtown, head to my roommate’s boyfriend’s place in Gramercy. But if the incident was downtown and I was north of it, head to a friend’s place on 25th and 9th. I even constructed a very elaborate contact information sheet between several friends that had work, home, cell, parents, etc on it. You’re really impressed, aren’t you?

Most of those friends have left and I’ve become, to take a term from our head of state, a little less vigilant about things. I know that if anything happens and I’m at work, I will go to Darren’s because he lives literally around the corner from my office. But I’m not so sure what happens otherwise. But that’s okay, because I don’t know what this “incident” will be, so I have trouble preparing. I’ll just have to fly by the seat of my pants.

This doesn’t mean, though, that I’ve stopped this behavior. Let me assure you, I have several other contingency plans. Firstly, have you seen The Day After Tomorrow? Yeah. I know it’s like not physically possible, but believe you me, I’ve got a plan. It includes my roommate and I getting her car, packing into it with her sister and perhaps one other person, packing as many warm winter clothing in as we can (remember, we are reverting into an ice age in a 24-hour period—no flip-flops needed, people!). We also stock up with water, power bars, and all the cash we can get our hands on. Then, where we can, we fit in other valuables. We might need to hawk them for gas or something. Then we skedaddle over the GW bridge, and hit the first gas station we can (we’ll be packed in pretty tight, and New Jersey is ALL full-serve! That’s right—they won’t let you pump your own! Please don’t start talking about how everyone will be evacuating and no one will still be pumping gas and all that, it’s really more than I can plan for). And we get a lot of extra gas in those red containers and take those too. And then we point south and just GO. I have an aunt in Florida and friends in Texas, which are both below the line of permafreeze or whatever it’s called. So we’re totally good to go. I’d take you too, but we’ve only got a VW Beatle.

But that isn’t enough, my friends. The Discovery Channel has just opened up a whole new set of possibilities. Sunday, I watched the episode about the super tornado in Dallas and, well, I think we can all agree I won’t be moving there anytime soon. Though if I do ever move to a place with this potential, I’m so building one of those “safe rooms” into my home. Watch the episode and then tell me you wouldn’t.

And then today, on my way into work, I picked up an amNew York for some light reading, and came across an article referring to this threat (they don’t post the articles online, but it was saying that it’s going to happen, maybe even in 2006). I’ve been mulling, and I’m thinking my flushed out plan for what to do if we’re thrust into an ice age will basically work, minus all the winter clothes. Just board up the windows, pack a bag, and head west for a few days right?

Just wait until I watch the solar storm episode that centers around New York.

I Think the Margaritas Went to My Head

2006-03-15T20:47:00.000-05:00

I was at that big interactive conference over the weekend in Austin. It was interesting, provocative, mind-numbing, and I’m still processing it all. But the first thing I thought upon returning was, “I need a screen name.”

I’m slightly ambivalent about blogging, and it’s really kind of ridiculous considering I blog, albeit recently. It’s not like anyone was bugging me to do it or urging me to explore my creative side. So why do it? It struck me as the “fair” thing to do. Those blogs on the right? I read them every chance I get, and I get really frustrated when they aren’t updated for a few days. And to read about people without ever offering up anything of myself just seemed wrong to me. And thus, Miss Peach was born (the name, by the way, is based on the nickname my grandmother had for me.)

So here I am, blogging. And I’m not quite sure why, really. Because who cares? Why would anyone want to hear what I have to say? I’m not saying that so that the three people who read this will say, “oh, WE care!! We LOVE you!” (Not that you necessarily would, I’m just clarifying that this is not an insecure Miss Peach asking her theoretical boyfriend if she looks fat in these pants.) I just ultimately think it’s strange to fancy myself interesting enough—my views and stories compelling enough—for any other soul to spend time reading. Except for like my parents or future husband or something.

What is off about this, though, is that I’m absolutely addicted to the blogs I read. I want to hear everything you all have to say. So why wouldn’t I think you might be interested in what I have to say? I don’t know. Also, it’s kind of analogous to wanting to hang out with me right? I don’t think it’s weird that my friends want to get together for dinner or drinks or go see movies or shop together. That makes sense. I can be good fun to hang out with, especially after a margarita or two. But through this screen and the filter of the web, it seems odd. Then again, all you all have to go on is Darren’s endorsement of me, and we all know he’s got great taste. Because he does. Seriously. You should check out his cd collection. I get giddy just thinking of the potential additions to my music library.

But I digress: after hitting a bunch of interactive-themed panels, and discussing various aspects of the internet with people I will probably never see nor speak to again, and seeing Dooce and Kottke on a panel, I’ve been mulling. And somehow, it led me to the necessity of a screen name. Which is sort of ridiculous given that I’ve already blogged using my real name. But I don’t know—it makes me feel better somehow.

Now I’m back at square one and are you even still reading? I do have more to say on all of this, and I hope it’s a wee bit more enthralling (mildly interesting would do!). So, more to come. I definitely came away from the conference with some (perhaps baseline to you) thoughts on blogging and related topics. But it’s just way too much for one post.

And (sorry Red, I’m breaking my promise!) there’s currently a mouse barricaded in my bedroom, so really, I gotta go home and deal.

I Apologize in Advance for the Whining

2006-03-09T10:54:00.000-05:00

Let me pre-emptively state that I know I am incredibly lucky and blessed.

That said, I’m in one hell of a funk. (And I'm inadvertently hungover. Someone who shall remain unnamed fed me over-tequila-ed margaritas last night. My, they were tasty.)

But back to my point. Things are particularly… overwhelming right now. At work, things are crazy busy and the stress has officially worked its way into my dreams. It’s never fun to have your boss serve you eggs while sleeping, is it? Even if you like your boss as much as I do mine.

A week and a half ago, a good friend’s mother unexpectedly died. It’s really sad and I am finding it hard to wrap my head around it all. My friend just got married a few months ago. And then this. It’s given me a lot of pause. But what just burns me is I couldn’t be there for the funeral. Well, I suppose I could have if I’d taken time off and spent the money on the ticket, but various things (like airfare and work) kept me from doing that. So I didn’t go, and I feel bad about that. I know she knows I am thinking of her, and we’ve talked, and I sent flowers, but still. I want to be there to hug her and try to take a bit of the load off her shoulders and I just can’t. And I think the one thing I have always been—despite my many, many other failures—is a good and supportive friend. It eats away at me that I am not being one now.

And there are other issues bubbling—friendships gone awry that somehow need to be addressed, this black financial hole I’m currently in (I can make it, I can make it), my anxiety and paranoia about an upcoming work trip, and the fact that I am suddenly freaking out about my future. Well, suddenly as in the past few months. (Is this the quarterlife crisis everyone talks about?) It’s all just little crap that adds up to me waking up on the wrong side of the bed every morning of late, snapping at my lovely, kind, considerate roommate, not making time to talk to my parents and friends, and just generally not being myself. It’s a challenge to be my generally happy and optimistic self these days.

But things just started looking up. I just got this in my inbox at work from my most favorite former roommate Em, who moved to back home after a year here and who I still miss every day at least three times, and fifteen times during every Lifetime movie I watch:

eri:
it should be illegal to miss you like i do. i should be arrested.
when are you coming to live in my basement?

Funk dispelled for the moment. Sun is shining. Good friends are the best, aren’t they?

I’m off to Austin tomorrow and not back for a few days. The sun is ACTUALLY shining there and it’s 80 degrees, so I’m hoping I’ll come back renewed, refreshed, and a little pinker. And then I have Disneyland with Dan and Darren coming my way. That's a day at the magic kingdom with two of my favorite people. Seriously, what’s not to like, right?

Technical Difficulties

2006-03-06T10:25:00.000-05:00

My internet has been down at home, which is why I haven't been posting. Right now I'm posting from work which means I have .26308 seconds to write and publish. Eep!

I think our internet troubles are karma related. At our last place, we had wireless and we made it a secure network--smart for security, yes, but the real reason was that we didn't want "any of the bastards in this building bootlegging internet from us." Yeah! There were some really odd and rude people there.

Well, then we moved, and we got internet again, and made it secure again, and then realized there were a MILLION networks in the building so why pay when we can get it for free?

I think the guys downstairs are onto us, because their network keeps going all "closed" and "password protected" and then a few days later is up and running again. It seems to go down on Thursday nights and come back on Tuesday. That seems like a long way to go to kick us off the network--why not just MAKE it password protected?--so maybe they're having internet troubles too. Regardless, we don't have access at home, so we'll be calling good old Time Warner and getting set up again. Which means that in approximately 30 days, once they come out and misinstall it and we spend hours on the phone troubleshooting and then they send out another tech who figures out that the first tech never plugged in the unit (or something similarly stupid), we'll be up and running again, and things here will return to normal. Make that a mice-free normal. Yay! Intermittent posts to come in the, um, interim.

On an Oscars note: Yay, Reese and George! My obsession with George grows by the minute. He's a modern day Cary Grant (as Darren has said many a time) and I LURVE him. And I wouldn't mind being Reese if I could be a movie star, you know? Though I'd totally leave Ryan for George if I was.

What We Have Here is an Infestation

2006-02-26T23:28:00.000-05:00

Firstly: I swear. I can talk about a LOT more than just mice. I had a whole other post ready to roll and then... well, then the following occured. And I think you'll agree that there was no question as to what to write about after that.

My roommate Gen came home today after being away for a week. I thought the mice were gone. No sightings, no new droppings, etc. All was fine. I really thought we were in the clear.

Then Gen went to go to bed and, well, I just really don't know where to begin. As she was pulling down the sheets she noticed somthing on her pillow. Droppings. I'm not kidding y'all. On her PILLOW. And it gets worse. They were in her bed. Not, like, you know, ON her bed. I mean in between the sheets. At this point she leaned over to the end of her bed where the window was and noticed a ton of droppings on the windowsill. By her bed. And droppings all over it too. Obviously, there was screaming and absolute hysterical laughter b/c seriously, how else can we respond at this point?

Gen was completely freaked, and I told her she should really just sleep with me, it's fine, I would without hesitation hop into bed with her if, god forbid, the same thing happened to me. So she agrees, and we go to unmake my bed, and there is one dropping in there. And we pull back the shade on my window, and there are droppings there too. TONS of them. I mean, it's just unbelievable. So we change the sheets and wipe up the windowsill and all that and turn on the TV and the noise machine and she went to bed. I had to watch Grey's Anatomy. And my best friend had come over to watch it too. She offered to put us up, but she lives waaaay downtown and Gen works waaaaay uptown and anyway, it didn't make sense.

So now I'm going to bed. I just... I don't know what to do. I called the super-his wife basically told me that there seems to be some sort of infestation going on right now and he'll come up tomorrow night to seal up any other holes and set traps and all that. I said I'd call the managment company to demand an exterminator, and she said to go on ahead, but really they'll just call my super to come deal with it. We've filed a complaint with 311, the city's complaint line, but I just don't know what else to do. We could get an exterminator on our own, but then we'll be out of pocket and really, if this is a building-wide problem then it won't do too much. And we just moved here in September. I cannot afford to move again for, like, years. I can't afford the deposit and security and inevitable brokers fees and all that. It's just honestly not an option. So, I'm feeling super stuck and super-grossed-out and hating this place at the moment.

Gen called her sister who has a cat, appropriately named Kat Kat, and we are going to try to borrow Kat Kat for a bit here. We might even get a cat, though I'm allergic, but at this point sneezing and a Clarinex prescription seems a really small price to pay for a little piece of mind. That, and the knowledge that I'll be dogsitting Harvey for nearly a week starting Saturday-meaning I'll be out of my apartment-helps. Oh, and the thought that maybe, one day, down the line, I might just be able to laugh about all of this.

Of Mice and Women

2006-02-24T16:28:00.000-05:00

Since I seem to be mouse-obsessed (my, it is a good thing I wasn’t blogging at our last apartment because I would have had to make this a strictly-mouse-related blog I think), I thought I would share with you one of the most disturbing mouse stories I’ve ever heard. I’m sure there are worse. This story just makes me laugh hysterically while making each and every hair on my body stand on end, and for that, I love it. Plus, it didn't happen to me.

My friend K lived in an apartment above a pizza place for a year with three friends, and in that year they had THIRTEEN mice that they know of. Well, thirteen separate mice incidents that resulted in a dead mouse carcass. They called them all “Mr. Bojangles X”. So by the end, she would call me and be like, “Hey, so, yeah, Mr. Bojangles 13 is making me insane, can I come stay with you tonight?” And I, being the wonderful friend I am, said yes every time.

After that year, K and her roommates all moved—K moved in with another friend, and the other three stuck together. They had this great new apartment that was not above a pizza place, making them think their problems were over.

Well, they weren’t. They had a few mice sightings here and there, but they dealt with it, and all was fine. Annoying? Yes. But after having THIRTEEN the year before, the 3 they had in their first year at the new place seemed acceptable. But still, these three have done their mice time, so to speak. They’ve paid their dues. So they hire an exterminator, and, finally, the mice seem to be gone for good.

Fast forward to last summer. They all went to a game at Yankee Stadium with other friends to celebrate A’s birthday (one of K’s former roommates). It was a little chilly—I think this was early on in the season and summer wasn’t yet in full swing. So they all had coats with them. They get to the stadium, they get some beer, they get settled. For some reason involving a ticket mishap, they had been seated near a handicapped section and were right next to a security guard.

A, whose birthday, I believe, it was, got a little chilled. So she put on her coat, which she hadn’t worn in a good long while and which had been hanging on a coat tree in the apartment in the meantime. She puts on one sleeve, and then reaches into the other sleeve, feels something there, and pulls out a dead and decaying mouse.

A screams and throws it down, and of course the six other girls in the group freak. Beer goes flying, there’s a major commotion, everyone is just hysterical and scrambling to get away from the carcass. The security guard sees what’s happening, comes over, notices the dead mouse, and kicks it out of the way. But there was no mass to it—it’s decayed, right? Plus, in case you weren’t aware, mice don’t have backbones—so every time he kicks it, it kind of flutters up and then the breeze catches it and blows it towards the girls, who scream and shuffle away as best they can en masse. And then the security guard kicks it again, they scream, they shuffle. Kick, scream, shuffle. This is all happening really quickly, and K says the guard kicked it like 6 or 7 times. If I had been there, I think I would have, by this point, run screaming from the stadium, hailed a cab, and been halfway home.

So, finally the guard picks up the mouse and throws it away. The girls calm down, are now giggling, all is fine.

And then some jack*ss behind them, who is dipping, spits on A.

I’m pretty sure that went down as her best birthday ever, aren’t you?

Mouse Update

2006-02-23T00:11:00.000-05:00

Why is it that, when you have a mouse, people feel the need to inform you that they don't have backbones?

For example: my super was examining the hole by the furnace, which I expressed some doubt about in terms of the mouse fitting through. "Well, they don't have backbones, so they can fit through anything."

For your information, that makes me feel not one iota better. Honestly, it makes me shudder. The fact that they don't have backbones is really just incredibly freaky. It's like they're aliens.

The exterminator doesn't come until Saturday, but at least I have my snowboots. Thank god it's not summer, right? Because I'd be really, really hot if it was.

The Reason Why Everyone Should Be Lucky Enough to Have a Friend Like Darren

2006-02-21T16:08:00.000-05:00

I have a mouse.

He just ran across my apartment AGAIN. If you were here, you would have seen me stomping my feet like a tantruming three-year-old and screaming like someone was coming at me with a knife. Suffice it to say that I do NOT do well with rodents.

The especially unfortunate thing about this is that my roommate is out of town for the week. You can bet she's been getting hourly phone calls from me, in which she laughs at me and then suggests I call the super again. Generally, I handle the people we have to deal with while we live together. I do battle with the cable company, negotiate the deals with the brokers (we moved a few months ago), and provide the heavy hand that is often needed when dealing with landlords, supers, electric companies, and the like here in New York.

Gen, however, definitely pulls her weight (and then some). She sweeps weekly (praise be to her compulsive need to clean). She always gets the mail and unloads the dishwasher. She's really good about watering the plants and generally taking care of daily business--remembering we need half and half or butter or something.

And she deals with the rodents.

We had a big mouse problem at our last apartment. I'm still so traumatized by it that I have suppressed many of the memories, but they include:
*Standing on top of a barstool while she went into my room wearing clogs and wielding a broom b/c we had just seen a mouse run in there. She gave me one task: to see where it ran to so that we knew where the holes were. When it ran out of my room, I put my hands over my eyes and screamed at the top of my lungs, not catching where the thing ran at all.
*Rocking myself back and forth in the fetal position on the couch as the mouse ran around the kitchen (I heard it squeaking) until she came home, took charge, and ran it off.
*Standing on a barstool yet again as George the exterminator examined the place for the umpteenth time, finally decided to check behind the stove, and discovered an ENORMOUS hole that the fire department had made 2 and a half years earlier when the unit below us caught on fire, which George (who might as well have moved in given all the time he spent there) proclaimed to be "the New Jersey Turnpike. No WONDER you girls have so many mice!"
*Falling asleep to the "scratch, scratch, scamper, scratch scratch, scamper" of the mice in the wall behind my bed, and spending sleepless nights working up the nerve to thump on the wall and scatter them.
*Finally having a nervous breakdown one day, calling into work to take the day off, and screaming at my incredibly inept super to get his ass over there with his crew to fix everything, and personally overseeing the patching of every hole and the dispersal of every last bundle of steel wool.

So, as you can imagine, the fact that I am here for a week by myself with a mouse is pretty much one of my "biggest nightmare" scenarios. I've taken to stuffing things under my bedroom door at night in case the little guy goes foraging. I come home from work, turn on all the lights, stomp around and whistle (I am sure my neighbors below LOVE me), and then go put on my snowboots because they're the only things that make me feel safe. Last night, in between my bouts with some stomach virus, the little f*cker came out and I jumped up onto my white couch WITH MY BOOTS ON. And I haven't even thought twice about it. The fact that there's an enormous boot print on my couch pales in comparison with the fact that there is a mouse in my home.

So what exactly, you ask, does any of this have to do with Darren? See the email exchange below. All I have to say is that he is the best. friend. ever.

-----Original Message-----
From: Erinn
Sent: Tuesday, February 21, 2006 3:35 PM
To: Darren
Subject: RE:

I finally saw the mouse.

-----Original Message-----
From: Darren
Sent: Tuesday, February 21, 2006 3:38 PM
To: Erinn
Subject: RE:

Do you know where he's coming from?

-----Original Message-----
From: Erinn
Sent: Tuesday, February 21, 2006 3:52 PM
To: Darren
Subject: RE:

Yep--I think from the furnace and under the dishwasher. EW.

-----Original Message-----
From: Darren
Sent: Tuesday, February 21, 2006 3:53 PM
To: Erinn
Subject: RE:

Do you have traps?

-----Original Message-----
From:Erinn
Sent: Tuesday, February 21, 2006 3:54 PM
To: Darren
Subject: RE:

No and I'm terrified of using them. What if I come home and there's a dead or, worse, LIVE mouse there? I'd have a full-fledged nervous breakdown and I'd totally be traumatized.

-----Original Message-----
From: Darren
Sent: Tuesday, February 21, 2006 4:01 PM
To: Erinn
Subject: RE:

Get those sticky traps that don't kill them. It's creepy, but it's a lot less gross. If you catch one, give me a call, and I'll come and take care of him.

-----Original Message-----
From: Erinn
Sent: Tuesday, February 21, 2006 4:03 PM
To: Darren
Subject: RE:

You have never written anything that meant more to me than that last sentence.

And This Post is Almost as Long as the Night Itself

2006-02-21T12:37:00.000-05:00

Saturday night was my first night out in a while. I’ve met up with friends for drinks and whatnot since the New Year, but I haven’t set out to have a big night on the town in months. Because it was a three-day weekend, I decided the extra day off gave me license to get a little crazy one night, and if I made that night Saturday, I’d have two recovery days should I need them. After much back and forth on what to do, my friend Alex and I decided we’d just head out on the town and see where the night took us.

Alex and I haven’t really hung out one-on-one before—we have mutual friends and have been together many a time in group settings, but I was slightly wary that we would run out of things to talk about or find that, really, we couldn’t stand each other or something. I worried for no reason. One minute into our night, Journey came on in the bar, and we admitted our deep love for super, super cheesy 80’s music. If that doesn’t cement a friendship, I really don’t know what does.

After the initial drink, the plan was to head to an apartment party a work friend of mine had forwarded an invite to. There were 500 people invited. To a party in a New York apartment. We decided to go to see the apartment alone. It was $10 at the door, with beer and wine and DJs spinning. I decided it would either be ridiculously fun or unbearably painful, and I am happy to report it was the former. It was like being at an upscale fraternity party, without the annoying fraternity boys. It was perhaps the most diverse crowd I’ve ever seen—everything from French law students, buttoned up lawyers, and someone from the country of Lichtenstein, to punk guys and girls with nose rings and peroxide-ed mullets. I discussed the movie “Jaws”, which I should note I’ve never seen, in-depth with a boy who would have been cute had he not been wearing the most alarming beige turtleneck ever. I then met one of the hosts of the party, who commenced to absolutely freak out about the number of people there, so Alex and I got him another beer and suggested he talk with the bouncers about capacity (yep, there were bouncers). I met a French Canadian who was a caricature of a French Canadian, had a deep and meaningful conversation about the Parisian arrondissement system with a mysterious Frenchman, and discovered that because of a translational problem, half the people we had met thought that Alex’s name was Julienne. Everyone was very friendly which never happens here. Much fun was had, new people were met, numbers were exchanged. It was the best $10 I’ve ever spent to get into a party, hands down.

Afterwards, we decided we needed another drink. Hey, it was only 2:20 am! The night was young! So we went to another spot and as we were sitting, became the recipient (Alex) and witness (me) to the most elaborate and ridiculous pick-up scenario ever.

Some guy came over next to Alex and asked the bartender for pen and a paper maybe 5 minutes after we sat down. At this point, the two of us were used to striking up conversations with everyone in range, so we started talking to him and asking whose number he was getting. It was really loud in there, so I didn’t hear most of the conversation, but I gather he had been eyeing some girl all night, hadn’t gone to talk to her, and was now heading out and decided he’d just go give her his number. He wanted to know Alex’s opinion on the whole thing. There was an in-depth conversation about it, during which I can only imagine I was embarrassingly sit-dancing on my barstool to The White Stripes playing on the jukebox. The boy left, and Alex and I stared to see who he was giving his number to. He kind of hung out on the side of the bar for a moment, then turned around and walked back over and awkwardly stood behind us for a minute. Then he said, “You know what the irony is? This is actually for you.” And with that he thrust the paper at Alex and took off. We sat there, completely stunned, and then burst out laughing and couldn’t stop.

We tried calling him right there and then to hassle him, but he wisely didn’t answer. We called from my phone to avoid him actually having Alex’s number. And he did call back (seriously!) but I missed the call. But I wonder… was that the plan all along? Or did he just chicken out on giving his number to the other girl and then go for Alex? And why are boys so stupid? Can’t we all just be adults here?

So, fun night out: check. Making a new friend: check (yay!). Gaining any further insight into the dating game as it exists in Manhattan? Um, absence of check. Oh well. Two out of three isn’t so bad. And I’ll take the friend over the rest any day of the week, really!

Rachael Ray is Annoying, and Other Day-Off Musings

2006-02-20T12:48:00.000-05:00

So, it's Monday, and I have the day off (Happy Birthday, Presidents!) and am appropriately watching crap tv. I hate daytime TV--Judge Judy, soap operas, Regis and Kelly, even Ellen all leave me feeling empty and unfulfilled. (This is surprising, actually, given my deep and abiding love for Lifetime movies, but anyway). Speaking of, Lifetime doesn't start with the movies until 2PM. So I've gone to HGTV and the Food Network for the first part of my day.

The Food Network is running a Rachael Ray marathon. An admission: I cannot stand Rachael Ray. I have many of her cookbooks (get them free through work) but I never look through them, they just sit on a shelf in my office. I find her accent annoying--and normally I really don't mind the long a's at all. I have spent so much of my life in Michigan that I have come to find them endearing and comforting. But Rachael's just gets on my last nerve. I've now watched two episodes of "$40 a Day" and seriously? Her budget tips are so obvious I can't believe she actually got a show with them. "To save money, eat at family-friendly restaurants and don't drink alcohol." Wait, family friendly restaurants are MORE affordable than 5-star dining experiences? A glass of wine costs MORE than iced tea? Thanks, captain obvious!

What REALLY grates on me about her, though, is the "mmm" she gives us after tasting something. Now, I know that the most important part of cooking on TV is the tasting. I recognize that if, say, a chef cooks something on the Today Show and the host running the segment doesn't taste it (and this does happen, amazingly enough), it absolutely won't translate to the viewers and so if they're promoting a cookbook, you can bet it won't sell many copies. In other words, you need that "mmm" to communicate the eating experience and signal to people that, yep, it tastes pretty darn good. That always strikes me as so stupid (if it looks good, won't it sell? Won't you want to eat something that LOOKS tasty since it's on TV?), but the market research and sales figures prove me wrong every. single. time.

But for someone who does NOTHING BUT FOOD TV, you'd think Rachael could manage a "mmm" that's slightly less irritating and slightly more genuine. She seems to have devised a system for the "mmm" which I think I've broken down into the main steps:
1) Close eyes as you raise food to take a bite.
2) Smile while chewing.
3) Open eyes and act surprised.
4) Loudly exclaim "MMMMMM!" as you finish chewing and swallow.
5) Say something appropriately cheesy and annoying, such as "Now, THAT's what I call a good piece of cod!"

Ugh. I've permanently switched to HGTV for the remainder of the day. Or until a good Lifetime movie starts.

In addition to learning more about home decor, I'm also writing thank-you notes, blogging (clearly), and getting ready for the week. Since my roommate is out of town, I'm planning to cook a lot and just luxuriate in having the whole place to myself. I went to the fancy gourmet store many blocks away in anticipation of this, and decided to buy salmon for the week so that I could make the place smell fishy without subjecting my roommate to the lingering odors. I opted for the organic salmon, and when the fishman totaled it, it came to about $20. Ouch. But, it's three meals worth, so that's not SO bad, right? I then bought a ton of other stuff--lemons, pears, cheese (gourmet parmeggiano coming in at a cool $11, but I love good parmesan more that nearly anything else so I splurged), veggies, hummus, a red pepper that wound up costing $2.75. TWO SEVENTY-FIVE. That's ridiculous. In the pepper's defense: it's probably the prettiest one I've ever seen, and it's really big. But still! Then I got coffee ($9 a pound), yogurt (gourmet Greek kind, $5 for a large tub), and other items I needed. As I was checking out, I braced for the total. I knew it would be high, that I was paying a premium for shopping at the fancy store and I had settled on some really big-ticket items, but given the fact I wanted fish and a lot of produce, I wanted to get high-quality stuff and not green beans that make me nauseaus when I look at them like they sell at the cheaper store in my neighborhood. So, the total comes... and it's $48. Which isn't so bad given all I bought and the jacked-up prices at the store. I paid, and headed home, relieved and excited about my purchases.

When I got home and started unpacking, I looked over the receipt to see how it had been so low so that I could replicate this in the future. And even though the lady at the checkout scanned the salmon, it didn't register. I GOT $20 WORTH OF TOP OF THE LINE SALMON FOR FREE. Woo-hoo! I felt guilty for about 5 seconds until the rationalization machine kicked in. I didn't do anything shady to make this happen. She did scan it, it just didn't register for some reason. I wasn't trying to pull a fast one. The store is several blocks away and it's really cold out. It's not my fault and I'm not going all the way back with my receipt and the fish to pay. After some serious back-and-forth, I've settled on this stance. I will take my free fish, and I will not feel guilty about it!

But then, a commercial for President's Day came on, and a picture of Lincoln flashed. And it occured to me that Honest Abe would frown upon my actions, and that it's really disrespectful of me to do this, of all things, on his birthday, of all days.

Thank god it's so freaking cold out that it absolutely rules out my going back. I think it's pretty safe to say Abe wouldn't want my ears to get frostbitten, even if it meant I was doing the (technically) honest and "right" thing here. Right?

Sidebar, Your Honor

2006-02-15T22:39:00.000-05:00

You'll note that I figured out a bit of html coding. Ok, so I copied and pasted and figured out how to change the contents. Regardless, I am so totally high-fiving myself right now.

If you glance to the right, you'll notice I've added blogs I read (hi guys!) and also the most ridiculous quotes from Law & Order. I feel I should clarify that last one. I am actually not a regular viewer of Dick Wolf's Neverending Series Of Spinoffs That Are Always Filming Wherever I Happen To Be At Any Particular Time In The City. I just live with one of them. That's not to say I don't enjoy the show when it's on, or that I think it's beneath me or something. It's just not something I set out to watch.

Well, if you watch L&O (or, like me, live with someone who does), you know how ridiculous the dialogue can get. My roommate and I have taken to pausing, rewinding (all praise DVR), and rewatching some of these scenes over and over as we collapse with laughter. Sometimes they're so wacky we feel compelled to write them down. Now, my friends, I shall share them with you, because I know you care.

I don't even know what the character played by Ice-T's name is, but this particular quote is from an SVU episode where someone finds a baby in the trash, and Olivia and her partner find a homeless woman nearby who THINKS she's pregnant but actually isn't. She's so psycho that she has convinced herself she is, and somehow her body started growing a tummy. So it's a psychosomatic pregnancy. I know--that's insane right? Anyway, they head back to the station (otherwise referred to as "downtown" on the show) and tell the team this story, and the character played by Ice-T storms by, agitated, ranting that she's "Just another fruitcake with a case of baby fever."

OK, so it's a lot funnier on the show, but you can envision the humor, right?

Hmm. We'll see how long this new feature lasts.

My Thumb is Not Green

2006-02-13T22:38:00.000-05:00

I consider myself one of the lucky few who adores their parents. I really like hanging out with them. They're hilarious and fun and smart and supportive. Plus, they observe cocktail hour in a nearly Gilmore-esque fashion, and they never hesitate to pour me a glass of champagne. In fact, more often than not, my mom and I will kick a bottle together before dinner. (Before you go thinking we have a real drinking problem, you should know this only happens when I am home in California, which is twice a year at most, and also, we're Irish. We have tolerance, my friends.)

Anyway, my point is that they're great. I'd be happy to turn into them, which is a great thing, because I am definitely slowly turning into my mother.

My mom is a character. She's smart, funny, talented, and the woman has moxie. She's also very pretty and exremely personable. Sometimes people comment on how friendly I can be, and all I can think is, "you should really meet my mother." I have spent my entire life going to her doctors, hairstylists, manicurists, mechanics, chiropractors, what have you, and every time I walk in, they are excited to see me because of my mom. "We just LOVE your mother! Oh, she is the best! How IS she?" It's endearing now, but I don't think I need to tell you how that went over in high school.

The bottom line, though, is that I don't MIND that I'm slowly turning into her. Not too much at least, but the fact that I'm already on the path and only 26 is a little frightening. I'm so far managing to stay away from a few of her more annoying quirks, such as her insistence on pronouncing turqoise as "tur-qwahhss" because "it just sounds so civilized, honey". But I've definitely found myself using her expressions, which is alarming considering they comprise some seriously irritating turns of phrase including (but not limited to) "I'll see you back at the ranch" when parting ways with, say, my roommate at the grocery store. Or proclaiming the start of a meal with a perky "bon appetit!" Blech, I even annoy myself when I do these things, but I can't help it. It's genetic.

So far though, I have not managed to inherit two of her best traits: her ability to cook (seriously-the woman is nothing short of a whiz in the kitchen) and her mean green thumb. She can buy a ten dollar orchid at Trader Joe's and keep it alive for years. My parents live in southern California so, yes, part of it is the climate. But still. She has recently started growing limes and lemons and she is so successful that she just might have to open up a produce stand. She has had the same ficus tree since I was born, which has survived two cross-country moves without a single problem. It's maddening.

I, on the other hand, can't keep plants alive. I recently invested in two orchids and one of them died within a week. I have two hanging plants in my apartment and after two weeks, one of them nearly died. It was all dry and shriveled and browning. I finally just went through and cut our all the dead vines and now it looks like a bad hairstyle from 1984--all poufed and volume-y on one side with no leaves on the other side. I am, as a gardener, a failure.

I've watered, shifted, sunned, and fed them. I think the little guy will pull through but it's still too early to tell. I'm resorting to desperate measures. If I whisper nice things to it, will it bounce back? Should I invest in Miracle-Gro or some such food? Water more? Water less? Or should I just throw in the towel, stop resisting it, and actually BECOME my mother? Because, really, how could your luck NOT pick up when you start referring to umbrellas as "um-ba-RELL-as"?

Let's Try This Again

2006-02-13T01:23:00.000-05:00

I'm giving blogging a try again. We'll see how it goes. (And by we'll, I mean me.) I've decided to jump back in for purely selfish reasons--I need an outlet. Oh, and some friends of mine blog and have made some actual friends through it! Who are normal! And interesting! And that's fun! And also, I read so many every day, I feel like it's only fair I have my own. Kind of selfish to read everyone else's and then not offer up any information of your own, no?

In an attempt to stay on target, a list of goals... well, one goal really. I will post with some sort of frequency. Is once a week acceptable? In my defense--I work a lot of hours, and sometimes I can barely bring myself to converse with my roommate by the time I get home. In your defense--like you really want to read anything from me MORE than once a week?

Plus, I like to keep those expectations low and meet-able. (And really, it's bound to get better than this.)

So, um, yeah. Stay tuned.