I know but you've seen this coming right? Let's be honest- my life is way too boring for a personal blog. WAY too boring. Like, what could I talk about? Here's what I did today-
Got up at 9:40.
Ate corn.
Worked until 8:15.
Seriously. It's over. I've been spending too much time over at Creme's house anyway. If you need me, that's where I'll be.
August 20, 2008
August 4, 2008
Things I Am Learning
If you don't have a garbage disposal and you put your garbage can on the deck outside, yes it will keep the smell out of your hot summer apartment but you will also come home for the weekend to find THOUSANDS OF MAGGOTS CRAWLING ALL OVER IT.
August 1, 2008
For Michael...
Because it's Friday... and because who doesn't like to watch adorable little boys dance in their pjs?
July 31, 2008
Wow. Totally Worked.
In case you were wondering...
Kim and Aggie's tip for getting rid of fruit flies totally works! Just stuck some apple cider vinegar and a few drops of detergent in a mug, piece of plastic with holes strapped over the top and voila! Five dead flies. Endless joy. Endless shot of me clutching mug between my hands of death, laughing maniacally over the insect massacre in my kitchen.
Sigh. It's been a long day.
In other horrifying insect news, I was falling asleep on the couch last night (only cool room in the apartment- don't judge me) when I noticed a GIANT furry insect-centipede type thing crawling into the linen closet. Suffice it to say I watched that closet for a good hour waiting for it to appear and try to eat my brain. Haven't seen it since. Now doubting my sanity. Are there any cases of bugs gaslighting a person?
July 30, 2008
Old Wounds
Bodies are so strange. I mean, really. I now live in a third-floor walk-up and between moving and the regular comings-and-goings of everyday life, I must've been up and down those stairs at least 100 times in the last three weeks.
And was there even a twinge in my left knee? The left knee that got slightly banged up after yours truly was hit by a car four years ago and flopped into the middle of Beverly Blvd. like a grounded flounder? Nope, nothing.
And so now you can imagine my irritation that it's now KILLING me and I have done nothing to aggravate it whatsoever.
It must be about to rain or something. I mean, really. Stairs- nothing. Humidity- I crumble. What sense does that make? I can run in the Olympics but I'm also relegated to turning into Karen from Mean Girls, able to tell whether or not it's going to rain by my boobs.
Erm, in case you were wondering- there's an 80% chance it's already raining.
And was there even a twinge in my left knee? The left knee that got slightly banged up after yours truly was hit by a car four years ago and flopped into the middle of Beverly Blvd. like a grounded flounder? Nope, nothing.
And so now you can imagine my irritation that it's now KILLING me and I have done nothing to aggravate it whatsoever.
It must be about to rain or something. I mean, really. Stairs- nothing. Humidity- I crumble. What sense does that make? I can run in the Olympics but I'm also relegated to turning into Karen from Mean Girls, able to tell whether or not it's going to rain by my boobs.
Erm, in case you were wondering- there's an 80% chance it's already raining.
July 29, 2008
Book Report
I haven't touched my book since May.
It's really a shame too, considering how hard I was working on it until May. But then Dad's video project and the two month hole that became moving just made it impossible to continue the 11 hour-a-day-working and writing pace.
But now...finally, things have settled down. I have one more solid weekend of apartment activities (assembling bookshelves and hanging up pictures) and the place is done. Aside from the parade of fix-it men (cable box busted after a week. Thanks a lot, Comcast), my mornings belong to me again.
The only distressing part now is that what I usually deem as a blessing when it comes to writing- my incredibly short memory (meaning I can reread something I've written with absolutely no recollection of writing it. It makes editing way more effective. It means I can read what I've written as if it were written by someone else. Is that normal?) is a curse at the moment. At this point, I have little choice but to start at the beginning and read the whole thing, editing as I go. While I'm excited about that, I'm worried about how long this will take. I want this book done NOW.
Writing is so strange. I need it and yet it requires so much, sometimes more than I think I'm capable of giving. If you're ever wondering why I love my header photo so much, there's the reason.
It's really a shame too, considering how hard I was working on it until May. But then Dad's video project and the two month hole that became moving just made it impossible to continue the 11 hour-a-day-working and writing pace.
But now...finally, things have settled down. I have one more solid weekend of apartment activities (assembling bookshelves and hanging up pictures) and the place is done. Aside from the parade of fix-it men (cable box busted after a week. Thanks a lot, Comcast), my mornings belong to me again.
The only distressing part now is that what I usually deem as a blessing when it comes to writing- my incredibly short memory (meaning I can reread something I've written with absolutely no recollection of writing it. It makes editing way more effective. It means I can read what I've written as if it were written by someone else. Is that normal?) is a curse at the moment. At this point, I have little choice but to start at the beginning and read the whole thing, editing as I go. While I'm excited about that, I'm worried about how long this will take. I want this book done NOW.
Writing is so strange. I need it and yet it requires so much, sometimes more than I think I'm capable of giving. If you're ever wondering why I love my header photo so much, there's the reason.
July 25, 2008
Awesome
DRAG QUEEN ROBS BURGER KING
NEW ORLEANS -- A New Orleans Burger King recently got a visit from a drag queen with a gun, New Orleans television station WDSU reported.
Security cameras showed the man, wearing a dress with a revealing bust line and hair barrettes, climbed through the takeout window at a Burger King on May 11. He held the employees at gunpoint, demanded money, exited through the same drive-through window and drove away.
"By looking at the vehicle pull up, we can tell that's a pickup," WDSU crime and safety specialist Howard Robertson said. "And if you look at the rims -- you know that's not a Ford or GM. The other thing I wanted to look at was whether he got out the driver’s or passenger’s door to see if he had an accomplice, somebody who was driving his vehicle when he left. But he got out the driver's side."
Robertson said the thief is probably a genuine cross-dresser because his necklace matched the dress, his nails appeared to be painted and the wig was well made.
"Most of the time when somebody puts on a wig they're just trying to hide their identity by putting on something like a Halloween mask, but he's pretty," Robertson said.
Robertson said he was surprised the thief didn't cover his face, though he said it doesn't matter in this case."There's a strong possibility that this person is a cross-dresser and someone in that community will know this guy, especially if they see him on the TV, someone will know him," Robertson said.
Police said the suspect was about 6 feet 1 inch tall and weighed about 180 pounds.
NEW ORLEANS -- A New Orleans Burger King recently got a visit from a drag queen with a gun, New Orleans television station WDSU reported.
Security cameras showed the man, wearing a dress with a revealing bust line and hair barrettes, climbed through the takeout window at a Burger King on May 11. He held the employees at gunpoint, demanded money, exited through the same drive-through window and drove away.
"By looking at the vehicle pull up, we can tell that's a pickup," WDSU crime and safety specialist Howard Robertson said. "And if you look at the rims -- you know that's not a Ford or GM. The other thing I wanted to look at was whether he got out the driver’s or passenger’s door to see if he had an accomplice, somebody who was driving his vehicle when he left. But he got out the driver's side."
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"Most of the time when somebody puts on a wig they're just trying to hide their identity by putting on something like a Halloween mask, but he's pretty," Robertson said.
Robertson said he was surprised the thief didn't cover his face, though he said it doesn't matter in this case."There's a strong possibility that this person is a cross-dresser and someone in that community will know this guy, especially if they see him on the TV, someone will know him," Robertson said.
Police said the suspect was about 6 feet 1 inch tall and weighed about 180 pounds.
July 24, 2008
This One's For Liz
It's been a while since I did a dedication, which of course is the very bones of this site. While stumbling around, looking for something to write for the L.O.L.*, I found THIS which immediately made me think of Lizzie.
In case you don't know, Liz's grandmother is a hilarious old bird who enjoys hanging out at the pier in their town, sporting wacky hats and owl pins on her lapel. So of course this means whenever we see an owl, we send it to Liz.
There's a lot of lovely stuff in this gallery. The Pickled Panda reminded me of you, Becks. I think you should get a print for your cubicle. What do you think?
that's blog-speak for Labor of Love. Like it? I just made it up.
In case you don't know, Liz's grandmother is a hilarious old bird who enjoys hanging out at the pier in their town, sporting wacky hats and owl pins on her lapel. So of course this means whenever we see an owl, we send it to Liz.
There's a lot of lovely stuff in this gallery. The Pickled Panda reminded me of you, Becks. I think you should get a print for your cubicle. What do you think?
that's blog-speak for Labor of Love. Like it? I just made it up.
July 23, 2008
Newly Assembled
This took TWO HOURS. My hands still hurt from the Allen wrench madness. It's severely cute in the office nook though.
July 22, 2008
July 21, 2008
Of Swedes and Men
Raise your hand if you assembled your own office chair this morning and then sat in it and got to work?
Just me? Interesting...
Moving in has commenced. On Saturday I bought gobs of furniture from our favorite Swedish furniture maker.
Sunday I moved 31 boxes up 3 flights of stairs, one at a time (2 at a time when Liz came to help). And then went to Target and bought three more flights full of stuff.
In case you're wondering where I am for the next few days (weeks?? months???) I'll be sitting on my dusty floor, assembling shit. This is my life now.
Just me? Interesting...
Moving in has commenced. On Saturday I bought gobs of furniture from our favorite Swedish furniture maker.
Sunday I moved 31 boxes up 3 flights of stairs, one at a time (2 at a time when Liz came to help). And then went to Target and bought three more flights full of stuff.
In case you're wondering where I am for the next few days (weeks?? months???) I'll be sitting on my dusty floor, assembling shit. This is my life now.
July 17, 2008
July Birthdays
A lot of people get busy in November. I have the evidence here because July is chock full of birthdays. Because I'm tired of sending someecards, I'm going to do my best to pay homage to each and every one of them here.
July 8- Hannah (niece)
July 8- Mandy (friend)
July 13- Lee (brother)
July 13- Lo (friend)
July 15- Adam (friend/temporary roommate)
July 16- Victoria (b. friend)
July 8- Mandy (friend)
July 13- Lee (brother)
July 13- Lo (friend)
July 15- Adam (friend/temporary roommate)
July 16- Victoria (b. friend)
July 17- Jenn (sister)
I was not kidding. The birthdays do not end.
That's her on the left, next to my dad, today's birthday girl, my 2nd to biggest sister. I have a whole slew of pictures as lovely and precious as these on my computer thanks to Project Dad: The Movie. My siblings should be scared. Very, very scared.
July 30- Mark (my liege)
July 16, 2008
Sweet Lord it is HOT
Too hot to blog. Too hot to talk on the phone. Too hot to click.
But not hot enough for this. That's the wonderful thing about being online all day- a virtual watercooler replaces, you know, a real watercooler. And you don't even have to work with any of them.
So, this video comes courtesy of a shared blip on my Google Reader, aka my virtual breakroom. Enjoy. Try not to laugh too hard though- causes massive amounts of sweating.
But not hot enough for this. That's the wonderful thing about being online all day- a virtual watercooler replaces, you know, a real watercooler. And you don't even have to work with any of them.
So, this video comes courtesy of a shared blip on my Google Reader, aka my virtual breakroom. Enjoy. Try not to laugh too hard though- causes massive amounts of sweating.
July 15, 2008
A Very Good Sign
I believe in omens. I'm that type of girl.
I actually think, sometimes, that the Universe tries to talk to me through my iPod. Like when it's on Shuffle? And I'm wondering if I should stay or should I go now? And it plays Modest Mouse's "Float On"?
Think I'm crazy? Join the club, grab a piece of cheese.
Anyway... got apartment keys this morning. And you should've seen my face when the landlord handed them to me on a very specific, randomo keychain. Especially for a whiskey-loving girl like myself.
Well, hullo Jack. Here to welcome me to the neighborhood, are you? How thoughtful. How oddly comforting.
I actually think, sometimes, that the Universe tries to talk to me through my iPod. Like when it's on Shuffle? And I'm wondering if I should stay or should I go now? And it plays Modest Mouse's "Float On"?
Think I'm crazy? Join the club, grab a piece of cheese.
Anyway... got apartment keys this morning. And you should've seen my face when the landlord handed them to me on a very specific, randomo keychain. Especially for a whiskey-loving girl like myself.
Well, hullo Jack. Here to welcome me to the neighborhood, are you? How thoughtful. How oddly comforting.
July 14, 2008
I Don't Know What This Is
But I'm down.
http://www.drhorrible.com/
On the agenda for this week:
Monday- Find Liz and Adam's tape measure.
Tuesday- Get keys to new apartment! At 8:30AM! Go home and sleep until work starts!
Wednesday- Get cable/internet/phone installed at new, empty apartment. Inform the cable man that it is imperative I have working cable before I move in. I AM THAT PERSON.
Thursday- Go sit in empty apartment in morning. Measure important spaces for Ikea trip on Saturday. On list: Everything. Already my credit card is starting to weep tears of blood.
Friday- Rent massive cargo van. Proceed with caution.
I also have a gazillion birthdays this week- my brother, Lo, Adam, Vic, Jenn...It never ends. Why do so many people get busy in November?
http://www.drhorrible.com/
On the agenda for this week:
Monday- Find Liz and Adam's tape measure.
Tuesday- Get keys to new apartment! At 8:30AM! Go home and sleep until work starts!
Wednesday- Get cable/internet/phone installed at new, empty apartment. Inform the cable man that it is imperative I have working cable before I move in. I AM THAT PERSON.
Thursday- Go sit in empty apartment in morning. Measure important spaces for Ikea trip on Saturday. On list: Everything. Already my credit card is starting to weep tears of blood.
Friday- Rent massive cargo van. Proceed with caution.
I also have a gazillion birthdays this week- my brother, Lo, Adam, Vic, Jenn...It never ends. Why do so many people get busy in November?
July 11, 2008
LA LA LA
I'm sitting at my desk and there's a specific Stickie on my desktop that is taunting me. I feel a little guilty about my aborted "Things I'll Miss" list about leaving LA. Surely I can do better than just #12.
So, here goes.
#11. Gilbert's
The first restaurant we went to when we visited LA, looking for jobs and apartments, and still the best Mexican food ever. I would sell you for a tostada right now. Pack your bags.
#10. Pavilions
A supermarket made the list. I know, I know. But I was seriously obsessed with my neighborhood s'market. They were so nice! And it was so cheap. Walking into the far crappier chain of markets in Chicago (I'm sorry but it's true. My DC friends will understand when I say it makes Giant look like Whole Foods), I felt a pang for my old hangout. And Vic's car died in the parking lot once and even though we lived a block away, we still ate bread and drank a bottle of wine we got in the store, waiting for the tow truck. Oh, memories.
#9. Sunset Blvd.
Specifically- Sunset Blvd. at 10am on Sunday morning, taking the long way home from Amanda's. Especially that windy part between Beverly Hills and Westwood.
#8. Del's
Some dive bars make you laugh at the sheer thought of them. Even though it played home to one of my most embarassing karaoke moments EVER (cue running out of bar), I know my friend Beal is probably there right now, engaging in purely shady behavior.
#7. My Mini Cooper
#6. That 5 Hour Drive to Vegas
Long, hot and totally worth it. Whenever people ask me if I'm flying, I laugh. That last hill before you see the lights of Vegas? One of my favorite spots in the world.
#5. California travels
I love me some mid-west right now but I am a travel bunny and California is heaven. San Diego, La Jolla, Santa Barbara, Santa Ynez Valley, Monterey, Carmel, San Francisco, Yosemite... Sigh.
#4. The proximity to Mexico
I never got to Mexico. But I like knowing it's there if I need it.
#3. Weather
#2. "The movies"
As a child of the movies, especially classic movies, LA was a dream come true. To walk the streets of Bogart, Tracy, Hepburn, and Lombard? I loved being a part of that. Forget all the bullshit. Movies are magic and they're made in LA.
#1. My kids- obviously and for obvious reasons
They made LA home.
Vic, Little, Beal, Michael, Marty, Amanda, Trendz, Becks, Buck, Lo and Eric, Hope and Josh.
So, here goes.
#11. Gilbert's
The first restaurant we went to when we visited LA, looking for jobs and apartments, and still the best Mexican food ever. I would sell you for a tostada right now. Pack your bags.
#10. Pavilions
A supermarket made the list. I know, I know. But I was seriously obsessed with my neighborhood s'market. They were so nice! And it was so cheap. Walking into the far crappier chain of markets in Chicago (I'm sorry but it's true. My DC friends will understand when I say it makes Giant look like Whole Foods), I felt a pang for my old hangout. And Vic's car died in the parking lot once and even though we lived a block away, we still ate bread and drank a bottle of wine we got in the store, waiting for the tow truck. Oh, memories.
#9. Sunset Blvd.
Specifically- Sunset Blvd. at 10am on Sunday morning, taking the long way home from Amanda's. Especially that windy part between Beverly Hills and Westwood.
#8. Del's
Some dive bars make you laugh at the sheer thought of them. Even though it played home to one of my most embarassing karaoke moments EVER (cue running out of bar), I know my friend Beal is probably there right now, engaging in purely shady behavior.
#7. My Mini Cooper
#6. That 5 Hour Drive to Vegas
Long, hot and totally worth it. Whenever people ask me if I'm flying, I laugh. That last hill before you see the lights of Vegas? One of my favorite spots in the world.
#5. California travels
I love me some mid-west right now but I am a travel bunny and California is heaven. San Diego, La Jolla, Santa Barbara, Santa Ynez Valley, Monterey, Carmel, San Francisco, Yosemite... Sigh.
#4. The proximity to Mexico
I never got to Mexico. But I like knowing it's there if I need it.
#3. Weather
#2. "The movies"
As a child of the movies, especially classic movies, LA was a dream come true. To walk the streets of Bogart, Tracy, Hepburn, and Lombard? I loved being a part of that. Forget all the bullshit. Movies are magic and they're made in LA.
#1. My kids- obviously and for obvious reasons
They made LA home.
Vic, Little, Beal, Michael, Marty, Amanda, Trendz, Becks, Buck, Lo and Eric, Hope and Josh.
July 10, 2008
Nephew Walks On Moon...
Or really just walks. But still. As Buzz and Neil can attest, all that matters is that first, single step.
Revel in the sheer cuteness of my nephew Aidan as he entertains himself enormously by standing up, sitting down and clapping for himself. I hope he's always so proud of his accomplishments. However, I hope, in the future, that he's wearing pants for said accomplishments.
If you, for some bizarre reason that I don't understand at all, don't want to watch five whole minutes of this (and my sister's baby voice), the money shot is at 3:07.
Other things to note:
- That face Aidan makes when he laughs? The nose scrunch? That is purely my sister's face when she laughs. Whenever he does it, I get that funny little hitch in my chest.
- He can only suck his thumb when he's got Blue, that blue stuffed dog of his. The best is when he simultaneously draws Blue to his chest with one hand and his thumb into his mouth at the exact same time. Score another point for Pavlov.
- I mean, really. My sisters breed giant children. Also I am opposed to the Donald Trump hairstyle he's been sporting but he's not my baby so I have no say.
- Isn't he cute? You can't have him, he's mine.
Revel in the sheer cuteness of my nephew Aidan as he entertains himself enormously by standing up, sitting down and clapping for himself. I hope he's always so proud of his accomplishments. However, I hope, in the future, that he's wearing pants for said accomplishments.
If you, for some bizarre reason that I don't understand at all, don't want to watch five whole minutes of this (and my sister's baby voice), the money shot is at 3:07.
Other things to note:
- That face Aidan makes when he laughs? The nose scrunch? That is purely my sister's face when she laughs. Whenever he does it, I get that funny little hitch in my chest.
- He can only suck his thumb when he's got Blue, that blue stuffed dog of his. The best is when he simultaneously draws Blue to his chest with one hand and his thumb into his mouth at the exact same time. Score another point for Pavlov.
- I mean, really. My sisters breed giant children. Also I am opposed to the Donald Trump hairstyle he's been sporting but he's not my baby so I have no say.
- Isn't he cute? You can't have him, he's mine.
July 9, 2008
Is This It?
OMG, Petunia Face tagged me like a month ago and I've been in the black hole of moving. Better late than never right? Right??
I've never done a blog tag before. Forgive me my ignorance, the absence here of sure footing.
1. What did you do 10 years ago?
Grimace. Ten years ago, I was somehow surviving the summer between junior and senior year of high school. I imagine there was a lot of letter writing to my best friend Kate, who lived far far away in Boston. We had just moved, again, this time to the sweet little condo in Amityville. We would move one more time before I graduated from school, three doors down from No. 8 to No. 11. I'm pretty sure if I were 16, I was doing a lot of writing, a lot of sulking, a lot of SNL watching, a lot of daydreaming about college and leaving NY. I was quite the lonely teenager. So far this game is very depressing.
2. Five items on your to-do list today
Hmmm. Send Mandy a birthday card. Online marketing for Culture Clique. I have a super gnarly presentation at 2 (LA time). Later will be "So You Think You Can Dance" with Mark and the kids. Buy wine. Life is so much better at 26 than it was at 16.
3. Snacks I enjoy
Pink lady apples and yogurt covered pretzels.
4. What would you do if you were a billionaire?
I would write. Write, write, write. I'd buy a massive farmhouse in Connecticut and a little cottage in the English countryside. I'd have dinner tonight in Paris and then stay the rest of the week, practicing French with my tutor. I'd adopt a slew of sheepdogs, the big shaggy ones like Nana in Peter Pan. I'd commission Zac Posen to design me a line of dresses in size 10 only. Buy my parents a villa in Italy. Buy my oldest sister, a social worker/single mom, the house of her dreams. Buy my niece a princess. Buy my nephew a pony. Make my second oldest sister take care of said pony. Then buy her the entire Banana Republic Summer Collection. Oh, and pay off Kate's med school bills. And buy Mandy a store. And Vic a pirate ship. And Trendz a dinosaur from Jurassic Park. God, there's so much to do.
5. Places I would live
Connecticut, the English countryside, Italy (anywhere in Italy), Savannah, Austin, Nashville and Seattle. And maybe a lighthouse in Maine.
6. Bloggers I am passing the challenge on to are:
Sumeba Miyako- Cause she lives in a tropical island in Japan and I don't.
I've never done a blog tag before. Forgive me my ignorance, the absence here of sure footing.
1. What did you do 10 years ago?
Grimace. Ten years ago, I was somehow surviving the summer between junior and senior year of high school. I imagine there was a lot of letter writing to my best friend Kate, who lived far far away in Boston. We had just moved, again, this time to the sweet little condo in Amityville. We would move one more time before I graduated from school, three doors down from No. 8 to No. 11. I'm pretty sure if I were 16, I was doing a lot of writing, a lot of sulking, a lot of SNL watching, a lot of daydreaming about college and leaving NY. I was quite the lonely teenager. So far this game is very depressing.
2. Five items on your to-do list today
Hmmm. Send Mandy a birthday card. Online marketing for Culture Clique. I have a super gnarly presentation at 2 (LA time). Later will be "So You Think You Can Dance" with Mark and the kids. Buy wine. Life is so much better at 26 than it was at 16.
3. Snacks I enjoy
Pink lady apples and yogurt covered pretzels.
4. What would you do if you were a billionaire?
I would write. Write, write, write. I'd buy a massive farmhouse in Connecticut and a little cottage in the English countryside. I'd have dinner tonight in Paris and then stay the rest of the week, practicing French with my tutor. I'd adopt a slew of sheepdogs, the big shaggy ones like Nana in Peter Pan. I'd commission Zac Posen to design me a line of dresses in size 10 only. Buy my parents a villa in Italy. Buy my oldest sister, a social worker/single mom, the house of her dreams. Buy my niece a princess. Buy my nephew a pony. Make my second oldest sister take care of said pony. Then buy her the entire Banana Republic Summer Collection. Oh, and pay off Kate's med school bills. And buy Mandy a store. And Vic a pirate ship. And Trendz a dinosaur from Jurassic Park. God, there's so much to do.
5. Places I would live
Connecticut, the English countryside, Italy (anywhere in Italy), Savannah, Austin, Nashville and Seattle. And maybe a lighthouse in Maine.
6. Bloggers I am passing the challenge on to are:
Sumeba Miyako- Cause she lives in a tropical island in Japan and I don't.
July 7, 2008
Lesson #1 about Working From Home
Wearing a tube top and taking a video conference call makes you look naked. So there's one of my real life nightmares basically come to life.
Just thought you should all know.
Just thought you should all know.
June 30, 2008
Update
Lord. Ok.
I no longer live in Los Angeles. Why is moving so exhausting and how does it take over your life completely for a month? Suffice it to say, I have mucho to say about the experience.
But right now, I'm just going to take a minute and update my profile to say Chicago. I'm going to relish the small, sweet, simple change in a few letters and thus the greater change my life has taken recently.
Until tomorrow...
I no longer live in Los Angeles. Why is moving so exhausting and how does it take over your life completely for a month? Suffice it to say, I have mucho to say about the experience.
But right now, I'm just going to take a minute and update my profile to say Chicago. I'm going to relish the small, sweet, simple change in a few letters and thus the greater change my life has taken recently.
Until tomorrow...
May 29, 2008
#12
What I'll Miss About LA- 12 Things with 12 Days to Go...
#12- My Youth
How maudlin is that? It's true though. As we speak, the Tree House is being packed up (well, not by me as clearly I'm typing). It seems to be resisting the whole process, if I were to be honest about it. There is no way Vic and I have accumulated so much junk in four years. I swear, the apartment itself is letting us know its displeasure by spitting out old papers and knick-knacks and Mardi Gras beads and bobby pins from INSIDE THE WALLS. That has to be it.
Vic is slowly moving her things into her new apartment across the alley. She's already turned her back on pretty much all of our furniture for pretty new things. She's actually paid full-price for a couch that's never been used. I don't think she's paid full price for a new object EVER.
So her pretty new apartment is being filled with pretty, new, adult-grownedup things. And I'm doing my damnedest to get it all back to Goodwill (time to go home now) or sold for profit which is looking unlikely. I have pretty much the same plan for my Chicago apartment. Mainly furniture that doesn't make my mother cry in the rental car on her way back to the hotel.
This means that the Tree House is in pieces. The other night, Vic and I packed in our matching sailor hats. I mean, if that doesn't say it all- I don't know what does. Here we are, picking out things from Crate & Barrel, all the while musing to each other, "Do you want the sombrero?" (No.) "What about the Roswell white board?" (Yes.) "Is this my signed Soul Decision CD or yours?" (It was hers. Dammit) "Why do we have two copies of The Cutting Edge?" (Please. I know why.) "Remember when Habs threw up in the bathtub?" (I missed that, thankfully.)
And just to drive the point home, today I went to the dry cleaners. The DRY CLEANERS, people. It's been so long that when I laid out all of my DCO clothes, I found a bra that had gone missing last October. When these clothes are clean, I will have doubled my wardrobe. All the while I kept thinking about that old Mitch Hedberg joke: "This shirt is 'dry-clean only'...which means it's dirty." Which made me chuckle to myself. And made me feel better that at least if I'm becoming an adult, I'm an adult who still thinks nothing can't be cured with a Mitch Hedberg line.
#12- My Youth
How maudlin is that? It's true though. As we speak, the Tree House is being packed up (well, not by me as clearly I'm typing). It seems to be resisting the whole process, if I were to be honest about it. There is no way Vic and I have accumulated so much junk in four years. I swear, the apartment itself is letting us know its displeasure by spitting out old papers and knick-knacks and Mardi Gras beads and bobby pins from INSIDE THE WALLS. That has to be it.
Vic is slowly moving her things into her new apartment across the alley. She's already turned her back on pretty much all of our furniture for pretty new things. She's actually paid full-price for a couch that's never been used. I don't think she's paid full price for a new object EVER.
So her pretty new apartment is being filled with pretty, new, adult-grownedup things. And I'm doing my damnedest to get it all back to Goodwill (time to go home now) or sold for profit which is looking unlikely. I have pretty much the same plan for my Chicago apartment. Mainly furniture that doesn't make my mother cry in the rental car on her way back to the hotel.
This means that the Tree House is in pieces. The other night, Vic and I packed in our matching sailor hats. I mean, if that doesn't say it all- I don't know what does. Here we are, picking out things from Crate & Barrel, all the while musing to each other, "Do you want the sombrero?" (No.) "What about the Roswell white board?" (Yes.) "Is this my signed Soul Decision CD or yours?" (It was hers. Dammit) "Why do we have two copies of The Cutting Edge?" (Please. I know why.) "Remember when Habs threw up in the bathtub?" (I missed that, thankfully.)
And just to drive the point home, today I went to the dry cleaners. The DRY CLEANERS, people. It's been so long that when I laid out all of my DCO clothes, I found a bra that had gone missing last October. When these clothes are clean, I will have doubled my wardrobe. All the while I kept thinking about that old Mitch Hedberg joke: "This shirt is 'dry-clean only'...which means it's dirty." Which made me chuckle to myself. And made me feel better that at least if I'm becoming an adult, I'm an adult who still thinks nothing can't be cured with a Mitch Hedberg line.
May 21, 2008
Moving Update
Boxes mailed to Liz: 13
Offers on bed: 3 (1 is possibly a money laundering scam and doesn't count)
Offer on car: 1 and since rescinded (this is devastating. I need to sell it NOW! What do I do?!)
Drives down Sunset Blvd: 1 (possibly the last time. I remember when we moved here four years ago. Sunset Blvd was magic to us. Like "living in adult playland" as Vic used to say.)
Moments of "Omigod, I cannot believe I saved this for four years- what is WRONG with me?!": Oh, thousands. The best has to be the friggin' HAMMOCK I bought for $30 when I started my job even though I don't have a backyard or conceive having one for at least five more years. I mean, really.
Offers on bed: 3 (1 is possibly a money laundering scam and doesn't count)
Offer on car: 1 and since rescinded (this is devastating. I need to sell it NOW! What do I do?!)
Drives down Sunset Blvd: 1 (possibly the last time. I remember when we moved here four years ago. Sunset Blvd was magic to us. Like "living in adult playland" as Vic used to say.)
Moments of "Omigod, I cannot believe I saved this for four years- what is WRONG with me?!": Oh, thousands. The best has to be the friggin' HAMMOCK I bought for $30 when I started my job even though I don't have a backyard or conceive having one for at least five more years. I mean, really.
May 19, 2008
Dear E!
You and I are done.
First, there's this.
I mean, really. I go away for a few months and look what happens. No one cares about this woman, E! No one except maybe her kids. MAYBE.
But then there was this. This has really done it. You cannot be serious.
You know how I feel about Denise Richards, E!, don't pretend like you don't. You heard me every single time I swore at the television when a story about her and Richie Sambora popped up, every time I flipped through the TiVo guide and saw Starship Troopers playing. Even Drop-Dread Gorgeous, which I adore, is home to her vacant stares and flat line-reading.
I have news for you, E! When even your pubescent little brother has the wherewithal to tear his eyes away from this seriously beautiful girl and declare that she is the worst actress in the history of mankind and is so bad that she's RUINED his beloved James Bond movie.... dude. That is some seriously bad acting. She cannot even look directly into the camera for this photo. Does she have a lazy eye? Omg, is she blind, E!? Because I have to admit, if it came out all of a sudden that Denise Richards is stone-cold blind and has been fooling the public for over a decade, well then, that is pretty damn cool and maybe worthy of a pause from yours truly.
Because that would bring it to the level of THIS.
So yeah. Until Sonora Webster gets her own reality show, consider you and I finito but good.
Sincerely,
Me
First, there's this.
I mean, really. I go away for a few months and look what happens. No one cares about this woman, E! No one except maybe her kids. MAYBE.
But then there was this. This has really done it. You cannot be serious.
You know how I feel about Denise Richards, E!, don't pretend like you don't. You heard me every single time I swore at the television when a story about her and Richie Sambora popped up, every time I flipped through the TiVo guide and saw Starship Troopers playing. Even Drop-Dread Gorgeous, which I adore, is home to her vacant stares and flat line-reading.
I have news for you, E! When even your pubescent little brother has the wherewithal to tear his eyes away from this seriously beautiful girl and declare that she is the worst actress in the history of mankind and is so bad that she's RUINED his beloved James Bond movie.... dude. That is some seriously bad acting. She cannot even look directly into the camera for this photo. Does she have a lazy eye? Omg, is she blind, E!? Because I have to admit, if it came out all of a sudden that Denise Richards is stone-cold blind and has been fooling the public for over a decade, well then, that is pretty damn cool and maybe worthy of a pause from yours truly.
Because that would bring it to the level of THIS.
So yeah. Until Sonora Webster gets her own reality show, consider you and I finito but good.
Sincerely,
Me
May 16, 2008
Sometimes
I think about how much I'm really going to miss working in this office...
Like now for instance...
Like now for instance...
There are SO many horrifying things happening right now...
Like this.
I love Bittman. Batali and his sweaty, smelly crocks are all right. But Paltrow? Please, God. Why are you doing this? You know how I feel about the sound of her voice. The smug expression and equally smug sound bites on magazine covers. "I Simplify Everything." Yeah, it's amazing how simple things can get with bazillions of dollars.
You remember when I wrote this letter, God? Did you think I was kidding?
Dear Gwyneth,
You and I started off fine. I found you precious in movies like Emma, Sliding Doors, The Talented Mr. Ripley, Seven. I coveted your long blond hair and sweet British accent. Then I found out you aren't British but I didn't begrudge you! Oh, no, quite the contrary. Any child of Blythe Danner is a pal of a mine.
And then...when did we go wrong, Gwyn? It must've been after the Brad breakup, the Affleck breakup, Shakespeare in Love, the pink Oscar dress...It seems unfair to put all of this on your relationship with Chris Martin but I think that's where the trouble began. It's like when one of your friends get married and where they were only mildly irritating before, now they're now insufferable and you feel the urge to set fire to their townhouse whenever you drive by. Um, or so I hear.
So now I find myself unable to hear you speak. You talk about macrobiotic diets and you smugly tell reporters you never would've exposed yourself to the media the way Jennifer Aniston did, blah blah blah, and you refer to Anthony Hopkins as "An-tony" during an award presentation and suddenly I can't enjoy even Shakespeare in Love because your pretension has seeped in and stained everything, and it all has the stench of an Elizabeth Arden commercial or whatever that is that you're stumping where you roll around in wildflowers and play with puppies and your own happiness and, ugh, I'm too busy sitting in my own vomit to continue this any longer.
Please stop calling me. Accept that this is over. I don't want to come over and listen to any more new Coldplay tracks. I don't want to listen to you talk about how milk causes cancer. I'm not interested in what Moses did on the potty yesterday. The fact that I had to write that sentence at all is so wrong. You are all so wrong.
Sincerely,
Judi
I guess I have to be more graphic. The mere mention of her fills my throat with bile. Cease and desist immediately.
I love Bittman. Batali and his sweaty, smelly crocks are all right. But Paltrow? Please, God. Why are you doing this? You know how I feel about the sound of her voice. The smug expression and equally smug sound bites on magazine covers. "I Simplify Everything." Yeah, it's amazing how simple things can get with bazillions of dollars.
You remember when I wrote this letter, God? Did you think I was kidding?
Dear Gwyneth,
You and I started off fine. I found you precious in movies like Emma, Sliding Doors, The Talented Mr. Ripley, Seven. I coveted your long blond hair and sweet British accent. Then I found out you aren't British but I didn't begrudge you! Oh, no, quite the contrary. Any child of Blythe Danner is a pal of a mine.
And then...when did we go wrong, Gwyn? It must've been after the Brad breakup, the Affleck breakup, Shakespeare in Love, the pink Oscar dress...It seems unfair to put all of this on your relationship with Chris Martin but I think that's where the trouble began. It's like when one of your friends get married and where they were only mildly irritating before, now they're now insufferable and you feel the urge to set fire to their townhouse whenever you drive by. Um, or so I hear.
So now I find myself unable to hear you speak. You talk about macrobiotic diets and you smugly tell reporters you never would've exposed yourself to the media the way Jennifer Aniston did, blah blah blah, and you refer to Anthony Hopkins as "An-tony" during an award presentation and suddenly I can't enjoy even Shakespeare in Love because your pretension has seeped in and stained everything, and it all has the stench of an Elizabeth Arden commercial or whatever that is that you're stumping where you roll around in wildflowers and play with puppies and your own happiness and, ugh, I'm too busy sitting in my own vomit to continue this any longer.
Please stop calling me. Accept that this is over. I don't want to come over and listen to any more new Coldplay tracks. I don't want to listen to you talk about how milk causes cancer. I'm not interested in what Moses did on the potty yesterday. The fact that I had to write that sentence at all is so wrong. You are all so wrong.
Sincerely,
Judi
I guess I have to be more graphic. The mere mention of her fills my throat with bile. Cease and desist immediately.
May 14, 2008
Please Buy My Shit
The move to Chicago is in full swing. Right now I'm so overwhelmed at the thought of everything I have to do (sell furniture, sell car, pack boxes, ship boxes, clean apartment, paint apartment God) in two and a half weeks that I'm finding it difficult to breath.
In two weeks, we will be out of our home for three years, The Tree House, and Vic will be settling into her new place across the alley in Neighbor John and Neighbor Jen's old building because apparently she has to follow John's life to the letter (lest you forget that he used to live in our old apartment a couple of years ago and is responsible for our decrepit dish rack and the world's crappiest shower head amongst other things). And I will commence sleeping on her new hardwood floor and living out of my giant suitcase for two weeks.
But at least by then (June 1 aka 17 days, 10 hours, 10 minutes and 28 seconds to go- not that I'm counting) I will be pretty much done. The boxes containing all my measly belongings will be packed and dutifully mailed to Liz and Adam. The furniture, painstakingly collected over 4 years and countless thrift stores, will all be sold/given away. The Tree House will be as barren and empty as the first few weeks we rented it, when we were living half a mile away with He Who Will Not Be Named and were sneaking out at night to go visit it, to sit on our new living room floor in the dark and talk about how wonderful it would be when we finally moved all of our stuff in.
I'm listing all of my furniture for sale here too for any LA friends who are interested in my second/third/fourth/infinite hand stuff.
Look at that beautiful bed. Wouldn't you KILL for a beautiful bed like that? I realize most people strip the bed in cases like this but I so rarely have the opportunity to show off my Calvin Klein bedspread, aka the most expensive thing in my possession and no, it's not for sale.
In two weeks, we will be out of our home for three years, The Tree House, and Vic will be settling into her new place across the alley in Neighbor John and Neighbor Jen's old building because apparently she has to follow John's life to the letter (lest you forget that he used to live in our old apartment a couple of years ago and is responsible for our decrepit dish rack and the world's crappiest shower head amongst other things). And I will commence sleeping on her new hardwood floor and living out of my giant suitcase for two weeks.
But at least by then (June 1 aka 17 days, 10 hours, 10 minutes and 28 seconds to go- not that I'm counting) I will be pretty much done. The boxes containing all my measly belongings will be packed and dutifully mailed to Liz and Adam. The furniture, painstakingly collected over 4 years and countless thrift stores, will all be sold/given away. The Tree House will be as barren and empty as the first few weeks we rented it, when we were living half a mile away with He Who Will Not Be Named and were sneaking out at night to go visit it, to sit on our new living room floor in the dark and talk about how wonderful it would be when we finally moved all of our stuff in.
I'm listing all of my furniture for sale here too for any LA friends who are interested in my second/third/fourth/infinite hand stuff.
Gorgeous! Spectacular! The best purchase I ever made on someone's driveway!
It kills me to part with this chair. It's small and squeaky and I would carry it on my back to Chicago if at all possible.
Look how chic and classy! And dusty! I promise to wipe this bad boy down, should you be interested in taking it home with you.
Look how chic and classy! And dusty! I promise to wipe this bad boy down, should you be interested in taking it home with you.
May 12, 2008
May's Reign of Terror Continues
My grandmother passed away on Wednesday.
She was 94 years old. When my father wrote his eulogy, he gave it to me to read since I was his back-up plan, should the funeral service leave him too emotional to deliver it himself (I'm the usual go-to in these situations since I have a weird and kind of unnerving ability to maintain my composure in such circumstances). He told me that he wanted the people at the service to come away with an impression of his mother's whole life- rather than what we would more naturally focus on, which is the last twenty or so years of her life.
My grandmother was a strong, complicated smart-ass, for lack of a better word. Putting her next to my mother's mother, who is now 95, was always a study. My maternal grandmother is the epitome of sweetness, absorbing the world's joys and sorrows with an almost childlike innocence. Gram, on the other hand, was more likely to swear and ask you for a scotch on the rocks. Obviously, this isn't a complete picture of who she was but it's the one I've had in my head for practically my whole life. Hence my dad's dilemma.
And it worked. It painted the picture for who she was, for the near-century she was on this earth. In a strange way, it makes her more real to me- this 3-D picture I have of a woman who loved to dance, who dumped her fiance to marry my grandfather, who once socked the leader of a neighborhood gang who threatened my dad when he was 12, who, with the help of her siblings, helped raise my father's cousin, left motherless at childbirth, and remained devoted to him throughout her life. She shrugged off the Depression as no big deal. She worked in a chocolate factory and she was a lunch lady after my grandfather died.
Real is good. Perspective is good. We all want to live to an old age but we forget what that brings with it- that we can so easily be reduced to who we are at an old age, rather than who we've been our whole lives.
Unfortunately, with it comes yet more sadness and a little regret that we didn't ask the right questions or keep the whole picture in mind when we had the chance.
She was 94 years old. When my father wrote his eulogy, he gave it to me to read since I was his back-up plan, should the funeral service leave him too emotional to deliver it himself (I'm the usual go-to in these situations since I have a weird and kind of unnerving ability to maintain my composure in such circumstances). He told me that he wanted the people at the service to come away with an impression of his mother's whole life- rather than what we would more naturally focus on, which is the last twenty or so years of her life.
My grandmother was a strong, complicated smart-ass, for lack of a better word. Putting her next to my mother's mother, who is now 95, was always a study. My maternal grandmother is the epitome of sweetness, absorbing the world's joys and sorrows with an almost childlike innocence. Gram, on the other hand, was more likely to swear and ask you for a scotch on the rocks. Obviously, this isn't a complete picture of who she was but it's the one I've had in my head for practically my whole life. Hence my dad's dilemma.
And it worked. It painted the picture for who she was, for the near-century she was on this earth. In a strange way, it makes her more real to me- this 3-D picture I have of a woman who loved to dance, who dumped her fiance to marry my grandfather, who once socked the leader of a neighborhood gang who threatened my dad when he was 12, who, with the help of her siblings, helped raise my father's cousin, left motherless at childbirth, and remained devoted to him throughout her life. She shrugged off the Depression as no big deal. She worked in a chocolate factory and she was a lunch lady after my grandfather died.
Real is good. Perspective is good. We all want to live to an old age but we forget what that brings with it- that we can so easily be reduced to who we are at an old age, rather than who we've been our whole lives.
Unfortunately, with it comes yet more sadness and a little regret that we didn't ask the right questions or keep the whole picture in mind when we had the chance.
May 6, 2008
Whoa Google
What is up with the quotes today? Usually random, check out today's pessimistic puppies:
Geez, Google. It's not exactly like I turn to you for sunshine but still...
The capacity of human beings to bore one another seems to be vastly greater than that of any other animal.
- HL Mencken
- HL Mencken
Geez, Google. It's not exactly like I turn to you for sunshine but still...
May 5, 2008
I Just Love It
when one image of me is enough to give a person the whole big picture of who I am. Picture this:
Me walking up the four flights of steps to my office. Eating a giant Mrs. Fields chipwich.
While walking up, huffing and puffing through bites of vanilla ice cream and chocolate-chippity goodness, I passed a woman who works in the office. We gave each other a "she who takes the stairs" nod. I realized this woman now knows everything vital about me.
She knows I shop at H&M.
She knows I prefer to take the stairs for weight/slight claustrophobia issues (why else does a woman take the stairs?)
She knows I think that my taking the stairs entitles me to a giant cookie. While I'm walking up the stairs.
I mean, really, what else do you need to know?
Me walking up the four flights of steps to my office. Eating a giant Mrs. Fields chipwich.
While walking up, huffing and puffing through bites of vanilla ice cream and chocolate-chippity goodness, I passed a woman who works in the office. We gave each other a "she who takes the stairs" nod. I realized this woman now knows everything vital about me.
She knows I shop at H&M.
She knows I prefer to take the stairs for weight/slight claustrophobia issues (why else does a woman take the stairs?)
She knows I think that my taking the stairs entitles me to a giant cookie. While I'm walking up the stairs.
I mean, really, what else do you need to know?
May 1, 2008
Love Is...
Love is weird. It is. It's so weird. You're walking around, doing your thing, everything's fine. Get the mail, make the calls, get in the car, eat, sleep, laugh, poop, cash or credit, everything status quo. And all the while, in your heart (in the symbolic figurativeness of your heart, that is. And I'm pretty sure "figurativeness" is a Jade word), there's this tiny miniature version of your mom, your little brother, your best friend, all the people you love who love you back. And they're just hanging out in there, relaxing, watching you go about your day from the inside. I imagine there are a lot of bean bag chairs involved.
And you don't really notice them, this small colony who, I'm sure if you were to take a peek and check on them, are super friendly and happy to be with you so they smile and wave a lot. They're just, you know, there. Always. You don't question it, the same way you don't question the air or how it's possible you can run further today than you could yesterday or why VH1 always seems to air Best Week Ever at the exact moment you want to see it. You get used to them being there. You feed them (with phone calls and letters and visits and Chipotle and field trips and TV on a Wednesday night) and you tend to them whenever you can- you tuck them in if they've had too much to drink, you lie for them to their boss, you listen, you ask questions, you comfort, you laugh. A happy colony, all in all, one big happy family. You carry them with you and you realize that there's a mini version of you, too, in all of them. I mean, that's love, right? Without the sonnets and the exclamations and the cheesy Adult FM songs.
And then something happens to one of them. They get sick. And suddenly you notice your own stomach doesn't feel so hot. They fall down hard but it's you who's got a hitch in your step. They cry and you feel your own tears start to gather. They prick and you bleed too. You and your poor bleeding heart. They're a mess and now you're a mess too because you're not a doctor, you're not God, you don't have the prescription, or the code, or the magic words but hell, at least if they're stuck in that hole at least you can be there too right? Misery ... company.
And because you're a mess- a bleeding, crying, vomity mess, and because you're lucky enough that other people are carrying YOUR miniature ass around, they start not feeling so hot. And sure, it's all to a lesser degree, but hurt is hurt and other people start feeling it and their people start feeling it and at some point, someone looks around at all the tears and pain and asks, "Is this really worth it?"
And the answer is always yes. Always. Because you might be curled up in your bed, wishing it was over, your insides a twisted jumble and your head too tired to think, but that colony inside is always moving, always working. They're the back-up team, the reserves. They assess the damage, they wipe their own tears for you away, they roll up their sleeves. They fix you in big ways at first. They pull a crank and get you to move your legs, they pry your eyes open, they force you toward the shower. And when it looks like you can manage at least the heavy mechanics, they get out the word to their bigger counterparts. And they show up. They make the phone calls, tell you bad jokes, come over uninvited, send you junk food in the mail, give you a kiss when you're not expecting it, take you to the beach, tell you you're losing too much weight, and tell you what's been happening to make them hurt, so you can listen and nod and feel again. So you can be for them all that they are for you. It seems so little but it's enough.
Yeah, love is weird. And sometimes, like now, it just hurts, a land mine right there in the pit of your stomach, waiting for something, anything to set it off and send the people you love, the ones you carry with you, scattering for cover. To leave you reeling and lost. Again it starts, it starts again. But once you've seen it through and know what it's about, how it works, that you'll be ok- do you ever wonder again, "Is this all really worth it?"
No. Because it always is.
And you don't really notice them, this small colony who, I'm sure if you were to take a peek and check on them, are super friendly and happy to be with you so they smile and wave a lot. They're just, you know, there. Always. You don't question it, the same way you don't question the air or how it's possible you can run further today than you could yesterday or why VH1 always seems to air Best Week Ever at the exact moment you want to see it. You get used to them being there. You feed them (with phone calls and letters and visits and Chipotle and field trips and TV on a Wednesday night) and you tend to them whenever you can- you tuck them in if they've had too much to drink, you lie for them to their boss, you listen, you ask questions, you comfort, you laugh. A happy colony, all in all, one big happy family. You carry them with you and you realize that there's a mini version of you, too, in all of them. I mean, that's love, right? Without the sonnets and the exclamations and the cheesy Adult FM songs.
And then something happens to one of them. They get sick. And suddenly you notice your own stomach doesn't feel so hot. They fall down hard but it's you who's got a hitch in your step. They cry and you feel your own tears start to gather. They prick and you bleed too. You and your poor bleeding heart. They're a mess and now you're a mess too because you're not a doctor, you're not God, you don't have the prescription, or the code, or the magic words but hell, at least if they're stuck in that hole at least you can be there too right? Misery ... company.
And because you're a mess- a bleeding, crying, vomity mess, and because you're lucky enough that other people are carrying YOUR miniature ass around, they start not feeling so hot. And sure, it's all to a lesser degree, but hurt is hurt and other people start feeling it and their people start feeling it and at some point, someone looks around at all the tears and pain and asks, "Is this really worth it?"
And the answer is always yes. Always. Because you might be curled up in your bed, wishing it was over, your insides a twisted jumble and your head too tired to think, but that colony inside is always moving, always working. They're the back-up team, the reserves. They assess the damage, they wipe their own tears for you away, they roll up their sleeves. They fix you in big ways at first. They pull a crank and get you to move your legs, they pry your eyes open, they force you toward the shower. And when it looks like you can manage at least the heavy mechanics, they get out the word to their bigger counterparts. And they show up. They make the phone calls, tell you bad jokes, come over uninvited, send you junk food in the mail, give you a kiss when you're not expecting it, take you to the beach, tell you you're losing too much weight, and tell you what's been happening to make them hurt, so you can listen and nod and feel again. So you can be for them all that they are for you. It seems so little but it's enough.
Yeah, love is weird. And sometimes, like now, it just hurts, a land mine right there in the pit of your stomach, waiting for something, anything to set it off and send the people you love, the ones you carry with you, scattering for cover. To leave you reeling and lost. Again it starts, it starts again. But once you've seen it through and know what it's about, how it works, that you'll be ok- do you ever wonder again, "Is this all really worth it?"
No. Because it always is.
April 30, 2008
Cheer Vol I
The universe is conspiring to knock me on my ass today. I literally cannot speak to anyone without hearing yet something else that should send me into the fetal position. Death, illness, hospital stays, IV drips, people being cruel for unknown reasons. But I will not succumb! Mark my words.
I've always been brilliant at cheering myself up- it's a solid habit to develop and one of those rare things about myself that I've always been grateful for. I can remember the moment I figured it out too- in college, stuck in the doldrums for what must've been very dramatic reasons at the time (as all college depression tends to be. So much drama). For some reason I thought "Maybe I can snap myself out of this." So I started jumping on my bed (my roommate was out I think. I probably wouldn't have done it if she was hanging around. At 18, I was very self-conscious. Obviously such things dissolve in time. Is that a good thing?)
It worked. In no time I was laughing. I must've looked deranged. And I'm at work and unless I start leaping on my rolly chair, which will doubtlessly leave me cracking my head on my desk and with a serious concussion, I have to resort to Youtube, chocolate chip cookies and anything that makes me laugh.
So, here we go. Volume I. More things to come.
I've always been brilliant at cheering myself up- it's a solid habit to develop and one of those rare things about myself that I've always been grateful for. I can remember the moment I figured it out too- in college, stuck in the doldrums for what must've been very dramatic reasons at the time (as all college depression tends to be. So much drama). For some reason I thought "Maybe I can snap myself out of this." So I started jumping on my bed (my roommate was out I think. I probably wouldn't have done it if she was hanging around. At 18, I was very self-conscious. Obviously such things dissolve in time. Is that a good thing?)
It worked. In no time I was laughing. I must've looked deranged. And I'm at work and unless I start leaping on my rolly chair, which will doubtlessly leave me cracking my head on my desk and with a serious concussion, I have to resort to Youtube, chocolate chip cookies and anything that makes me laugh.
So, here we go. Volume I. More things to come.
April 29, 2008
For Manna
When you're blinded by the pain
can't see your way through the rain
hold still
a revealing voice says 'love is very near.'
Thinking of you...
can't see your way through the rain
hold still
a revealing voice says 'love is very near.'
Thinking of you...
These are a few of my fav-or-ite things...
Do you know of my love of The Ausiello Report? Well, you do now. You also now know that I think Jessica Walter is a dagdum genius and while I'm scratching my head over Aunt Becky as the new Cindy Walsh, a part of my sweet little Full House heart is praying that John Stamos will somehow become involved now.
90210 Scoop: Jessica Walter to Play the Drunk Granny!
Jessica Walter by Jeff Vespa/WireImage.com
To recap: Tabitha is the grandmother of the show's central teens, siblings
I don't know about you, by my excitement about this show just swelled tenfold.
This Just In: Dirt's Ryan Eggold has snagged the role of Ryan "the teacher."
Related:
• Hilary Duff Out, Degrassi Teen In at New 90210
• Exclusive: Lori Loughlin Is 90210's New Cindy Walsh
April 28, 2008
Just Once
I'd like to see a movie where the single girl isn't so immersed in depression about not having somebody that her friends have to stage interventions...to find her somebody.
I'm referring to Must Love Dogs, which I sort-of-accidentally-not-really TiVoed on Saturday and watched on Sunday in a feverish bout of PMS-induced "nesting" that resulted in three loads of laundry, a loaf of homemade bread, two homemade pizzas, a batch of chocolate chip cookies and not one, not two but THREE different versions of fresh pasta. And yes, it's incredible to me as well that I not only managed to do all that but also watch a movie and work up a rant at the same time. Clearly, "I Am Woman" should be playing somewhere in this post.
If you find yourself in a similar predicament and it's a choice between Must Love Dogs and Britney Spears: THS the April 2008 version, go with Britney. Far less damaging. Relatively speaking.
I seriously feel for Diane Lane. This is an actress I adore, one who's had a fascinating film career, who appears to be aging spectacularly and (dare I say it?) naturally, married to equally yummy Josh Brolin who will always be a Goonie in my adoring eyes. She's not even that irritating in skin care commercials. And yet here she is again, playing a woman so hang-dog and lost about being alone that she could barely get herself out of her pajamas and bedspread cocoon.
Under the Tuscan Sun is a little easier to take, especially since she manages to pull herself up and actually, you know, get a life BEFORE the trusty romantic epilogue. But Must Love Dogs? Girl, your sisters should not be throwing an intervention to get you a guy. That is the least of your issues. When one of those sisters retorts that she can't possibly be interfering with your life, because you have no life? That is cause for alarm. Maybe this whole thing would be easier if you could pull it together.
Unfortunately, there's no romantic comedy cliche involving the revelation that there's a life to be had, pursued even, via solo. Running through the rain? Yes. Got that very realistic angle covered at least. Thanks to the movies, when I realize I love the guy and he's already leaving for the train station, I will know exactly what to do.
I guess for everything else I'm on my own. Ironic when you think about it, isn't it?
I'm referring to Must Love Dogs, which I sort-of-accidentally-not-really TiVoed on Saturday and watched on Sunday in a feverish bout of PMS-induced "nesting" that resulted in three loads of laundry, a loaf of homemade bread, two homemade pizzas, a batch of chocolate chip cookies and not one, not two but THREE different versions of fresh pasta. And yes, it's incredible to me as well that I not only managed to do all that but also watch a movie and work up a rant at the same time. Clearly, "I Am Woman" should be playing somewhere in this post.
If you find yourself in a similar predicament and it's a choice between Must Love Dogs and Britney Spears: THS the April 2008 version, go with Britney. Far less damaging. Relatively speaking.
I seriously feel for Diane Lane. This is an actress I adore, one who's had a fascinating film career, who appears to be aging spectacularly and (dare I say it?) naturally, married to equally yummy Josh Brolin who will always be a Goonie in my adoring eyes. She's not even that irritating in skin care commercials. And yet here she is again, playing a woman so hang-dog and lost about being alone that she could barely get herself out of her pajamas and bedspread cocoon.
Under the Tuscan Sun is a little easier to take, especially since she manages to pull herself up and actually, you know, get a life BEFORE the trusty romantic epilogue. But Must Love Dogs? Girl, your sisters should not be throwing an intervention to get you a guy. That is the least of your issues. When one of those sisters retorts that she can't possibly be interfering with your life, because you have no life? That is cause for alarm. Maybe this whole thing would be easier if you could pull it together.
Unfortunately, there's no romantic comedy cliche involving the revelation that there's a life to be had, pursued even, via solo. Running through the rain? Yes. Got that very realistic angle covered at least. Thanks to the movies, when I realize I love the guy and he's already leaving for the train station, I will know exactly what to do.
I guess for everything else I'm on my own. Ironic when you think about it, isn't it?
April 24, 2008
Tranny Cavern!
Haven't been blogging because trannies have taken over my life. First, there was being accosted by a rockerbilly tranny band outside the El Rey last night. And tonight, my forage into the world of online marketing, and subsequently the cesspool of American culture that is Myspace, led me to a circle of untold treasure.
I found a tranny on Myspace.
This is important for two reasons. 1) When you spend an hour a day trying to find people to befriend for your business' profile, so you can subsequently bombard them with reminders that your product exists, you inevitably get depressed after your 42nd profile in a row of some ghetto white girl with her ta tas hanging out and glitter banners that shout out "I cut you bitch! Live ur dreams!" (Another thing I learned from Myspace: many, many girls under 20 have babies. This whole initiative we've been trying for the last decade to get teen pregnancy numbers down? Yeah, it's not working) I would link to one but I don't want one of these girls to hunt me down. They cut a bitch, know what I'm saying?
2) One tranny does not just mean "one tranny." It means we've stumbled upon groups of trannies clustered together, living and working together as friends. And clicking on one leads to yet more trannies. Each one more glamorous and fantastic and incredible than the last. And they have pictures! I love them all! If only Christian hadn't ruined the word "fierce" for the rest of us.
Meet Syren Campbell.
She is amazing. She works in Birmingham, AL and I love her. I might just ask her to fly to LA and protect me should one of these Myspace girls hunt me down and try to mess me up. And then we'd go manicures, maybe a wax (me not her). Maybe get tickets for Dr. Phil, but not Tyra cause that bitch is CRAZY. And then we are going out on the town. We are getting drunk and no one can touch me.
The whole thing almost makes it all worth it. Almost.
I found a tranny on Myspace.
This is important for two reasons. 1) When you spend an hour a day trying to find people to befriend for your business' profile, so you can subsequently bombard them with reminders that your product exists, you inevitably get depressed after your 42nd profile in a row of some ghetto white girl with her ta tas hanging out and glitter banners that shout out "I cut you bitch! Live ur dreams!" (Another thing I learned from Myspace: many, many girls under 20 have babies. This whole initiative we've been trying for the last decade to get teen pregnancy numbers down? Yeah, it's not working) I would link to one but I don't want one of these girls to hunt me down. They cut a bitch, know what I'm saying?
2) One tranny does not just mean "one tranny." It means we've stumbled upon groups of trannies clustered together, living and working together as friends. And clicking on one leads to yet more trannies. Each one more glamorous and fantastic and incredible than the last. And they have pictures! I love them all! If only Christian hadn't ruined the word "fierce" for the rest of us.
Meet Syren Campbell.
She is amazing. She works in Birmingham, AL and I love her. I might just ask her to fly to LA and protect me should one of these Myspace girls hunt me down and try to mess me up. And then we'd go manicures, maybe a wax (me not her). Maybe get tickets for Dr. Phil, but not Tyra cause that bitch is CRAZY. And then we are going out on the town. We are getting drunk and no one can touch me.The whole thing almost makes it all worth it. Almost.
April 23, 2008
Moving Sucks Part I of Endless Parts
Seriously, moving companies need to settle down. You fill out one measly form (and then find out that a Pod costs $3,300 and subsequently have a heart attack) and whammo! I've been at work only a few hours and already have six voice mail messages and no less than 21 emails from different moving companies.
Y'all need to BACK off. Some dude just called my cell phone twice, not responding well when I hit Ignore the first time.
And if you're wondering out there why this is so frightening, let me just say that the thought of paying upwards of $1K for ANYTHING is enough to give me palpitations. Having them all jump me like a pack of rabid dogs makes the whole thing seem even worse, like they just can't wait to take my money from me.
All this for a bunch of boxes, a bed, a TV and my TiVo. If I wasn't such a sentimental packrack I would just toss it all and start over in Chicago (one of those boxes is full of old greeting cards, ticket stubs and yes, meaningful RECEIPTS. I know I have a problem- get off my back and out of my future scrapbooks)
Y'all need to BACK off. Some dude just called my cell phone twice, not responding well when I hit Ignore the first time.
And if you're wondering out there why this is so frightening, let me just say that the thought of paying upwards of $1K for ANYTHING is enough to give me palpitations. Having them all jump me like a pack of rabid dogs makes the whole thing seem even worse, like they just can't wait to take my money from me.
All this for a bunch of boxes, a bed, a TV and my TiVo. If I wasn't such a sentimental packrack I would just toss it all and start over in Chicago (one of those boxes is full of old greeting cards, ticket stubs and yes, meaningful RECEIPTS. I know I have a problem- get off my back and out of my future scrapbooks)
April 21, 2008
Thank My Lucky Stars
Libra - April 21, 2008 There is a hard path in front of you, yet you can do what's necessary and still live your life in your own special way, even if this looks easy to others. Now, more than ever, your discipline can combine with a solid work ethic to stage a significant payoff. Don't think about cashing in your chips just yet. Rewards will follow if you just keep plodding along.
I am so tired. This morning I woke up and thought it was Tuesday. Yesterday was Sunday. Confusing a weekend day for MONDAY is, I think, one of the signs that you're close to having a mental breakdown. If I were Mariah Carey, my rep would be preparing a statement about my exhausted state right now, cautious about that moment when I lose my mind completely and start stripping on TRL. You know, again.
It's nice to get some acknowledgement that you're working hard, a little encouragement, even its from your generic daily horoscope. Actually, now that I think about it- is there anything better than a little positive reinforcement from THE UNIVERSE?
I feel better already.
By Rick Levine
I am so tired. This morning I woke up and thought it was Tuesday. Yesterday was Sunday. Confusing a weekend day for MONDAY is, I think, one of the signs that you're close to having a mental breakdown. If I were Mariah Carey, my rep would be preparing a statement about my exhausted state right now, cautious about that moment when I lose my mind completely and start stripping on TRL. You know, again.
It's nice to get some acknowledgement that you're working hard, a little encouragement, even its from your generic daily horoscope. Actually, now that I think about it- is there anything better than a little positive reinforcement from THE UNIVERSE?
I feel better already.
April 17, 2008
100th Post
Hooray!
And what better way to celebrate than with fun links and a pretty new header?
The beautiful header is courtesy of Jen who lives approximately 6,431 miles away (I looked it up because I'm a medium-sized nerd) on the world's teeniest island in Japan and yet still had time to whip it up for me. Gotta love technology. I'm also going to enjoy telling people who compliment it, "Thanks. I got it from someone in the FUTURE." Like Marty McFly sent it to me or something. Sometimes that 16 hour time difference really comes in handy (in case you were wondering, the rest of the time it bites. Stupid Air Force).
That's her in the blue at my Dynasty birthday party last October. (And that's me in the black in my oldest sister's prom dress. Jealous?)
If you're wondering about the confounded blond chick in the header, you need to consult your Classic Film dictionary. That thing she's staring glumly at is a 'typewriter' and I feel your pain, Jean. Writing is such a little bitch sometimes. And it's just my luck that I can't seem to do anything else.
And what better way to celebrate than with fun links and a pretty new header?
The beautiful header is courtesy of Jen who lives approximately 6,431 miles away (I looked it up because I'm a medium-sized nerd) on the world's teeniest island in Japan and yet still had time to whip it up for me. Gotta love technology. I'm also going to enjoy telling people who compliment it, "Thanks. I got it from someone in the FUTURE." Like Marty McFly sent it to me or something. Sometimes that 16 hour time difference really comes in handy (in case you were wondering, the rest of the time it bites. Stupid Air Force).
That's her in the blue at my Dynasty birthday party last October. (And that's me in the black in my oldest sister's prom dress. Jealous?)
If you're wondering about the confounded blond chick in the header, you need to consult your Classic Film dictionary. That thing she's staring glumly at is a 'typewriter' and I feel your pain, Jean. Writing is such a little bitch sometimes. And it's just my luck that I can't seem to do anything else.
Egregious Sin About to Happen
In blog world anyway. See, I was toying with this food blog for a while but I got bored with it. I love food and cooking and blogs about food and cooking but I just don't have any interest in taking pictures of food I've made and that whole sharing recipes thing. Too lazy. I'd rather be eating. So the whole sweetly conceived idea kind of fell apart.
I have a point, I promise and I'll get to the Blog Sin part. So, I checked out Decorno's new food and diet blog Vodka Has No Carbs and I just can't get into it. And I was trying to figure out why I couldn't and how I could best explain my own relationship with food these days, when I realized- I'd already written the whole damn thing on my now defunct Food Blog.
So, yeah. I'm repurposing it here. (Cause I'd like to keep the piece, especially once I hit the all-too-scary Delete Blog on poor little Buona Forchetta). Begging your forgiveness.
PS I do occasionally repeat posts with my other blog but that's for work and I'm very tired and nobody's reading it anyway. ;) Keep my secret, will ya?
I have a point, I promise and I'll get to the Blog Sin part. So, I checked out Decorno's new food and diet blog Vodka Has No Carbs and I just can't get into it. And I was trying to figure out why I couldn't and how I could best explain my own relationship with food these days, when I realized- I'd already written the whole damn thing on my now defunct Food Blog.
So, yeah. I'm repurposing it here. (Cause I'd like to keep the piece, especially once I hit the all-too-scary Delete Blog on poor little Buona Forchetta). Begging your forgiveness.
PS I do occasionally repeat posts with my other blog but that's for work and I'm very tired and nobody's reading it anyway. ;) Keep my secret, will ya?
Oh, GIGI (originally written February 21, 2008)
If my life were a movie and Food was my costar, this would be the "Gigi" moment. I am standing in front of a chocolate fountain, just now coming to terms with something I think I've always known, deep in my heart (which, incidentally is as chubby and warm as I am). Food and I were meant to be. Who cares if Food is only, like 16, and when you think about it, it's kind of gross (wait, that's the real "Gigi").
We started out as friends, Food and I. Things were good. Hell, I'm Italian. Things were great. Then I was ten and things got a little too...out of hand. Basically, Food knocked me up. And I've been carrying that extra twenty lbs all my life to prove it. The combination of sheer appetite, hormones, too many fashion models and typical emotional stress resulted in fifteen years of a silent war with my own body. And when I mean war, I mean WAR. Full-out bloodshed. Endless casualties. Spielberg couldn't film this stuff.
It was my pop-culture-societal-values sodden Brain versus my Body and Food was the weapon of choice on both sides. Like in ancient Greece, if the God of War first instigated a battle and then turned himself into rocks and swords. I would parry with Weight Watchers and those 100 calorie snack packs. Detox juice diets. Two hour long gym sessions. Crying in dressing rooms. It would hit back with chocolate chip cookies and cream sauce. Talk of thyroids. A bag of fucking Baked Lays.
Up-down, flat-flabby, back and forth, day in and day out until fifteen (Jesus) years had eked by. And what was left? I know how many points are in a piece of pizza (7). I know how many calories I can burn when I run 5.0mph for 12 minutes (178). I know my highest weight (172) and my lowest to date (150). I can't remember all the nice things people have said about how I look but I remember all of the bad things, every single one. If you like I can reenact them for you, starting with the horror of a particularly gruesome moment in 7th grade that still makes my chest hurt (Let's not and say we did. Ever).
And now I'm 26. And I should not be this tired. But I am- I am more tired than a woman of 50 after an All-You-Can-Eat turkey buffet at the Sizzler. One day I woke up and thought, "How nice it would be to be released from this WEIGHT- not my own weight but the weight of thinking about it all the time. ALL THE TIME." Measuring and counting and weighing, hedging and guilt and agonizing. Not to mention how tired you get of thinking about yourself so much during the day (which is kind of funny considering how much I blog).
I never want to count another calorie in my life. I don't want to weigh a piece of chicken ever again. The next time I do a calculation in my head it's going to be so I can figure out the interest rate in my savings account or if I can afford a pair of Joe's Jeans, instead of whether or not I earned a cup of fat free ice cream at the end of the day.
I wanted to think about something else. I HAVE to think about something else, anything else. Forget my body- we need to start talking about my life now. I needed to get one before it got to be too late.
Thanksgiving passed, Christmas passed too. I dabbled with Weight Watchers one last time but my heart wasn't in it. I can kill at WW when I put my mind to it- I have the discipline of a drill sergeant, plus I LOVE making lists of things. And those public weigh-ins are fantastic motivators. The problem is I get bored eating the same things all the time. And I think, quite honestly, I really just hate being told what to do.
I was flying back to LA (which is itself a problem, when you feel like the largest person in a city that stretches 30 miles wide. 'Image' is King here and 'Thin' is its Queen) and was wasting time in JFK before my flight when I saw French Women Don't Get Fat, a simple blue book in the bookstore. I would've bypassed it, it wasn't the first time I'd seen it sitting around, but the line underneath it got my attention hard. "The Secret of Eating for Pleasure."
Pleasure. Eating. That sounded...familiar. I tried to tap into what my body was recalling without me and soon realized what it was...taste. I vaguely remembered taste. Something to do with salt and pepper? Right? I'd been dulled by too many years of fat free cream cheese and Jello snack cups.
So I bought the book and read it and I can tell you right now, it's not for everyone- nothing is for everyone. I told my friend about it but she'd already bought and read the book, said she did the Leek soup thing (gross) and the make-your-own yogurt thing ("Do you want to buy my yogurt maker?") But it spoke to me and not in a fad-diet sort of way- it was offering exactly what I was looking for- a way to love food and eating and not turn into one of those women who has to be airlifted off a couch. Or worse- to avoid finally hit my goal weight, only to find a life where I'm forced to maintain it by sucking down diet pills and limp McDonald's salads. Those women are incredibly grumpy. I want to be happy.
I'm a good student, I always have been. I do as I'm told because it's easier than it sounds- I avoid processed foods as much as possible (if it has more than two chemicals in the ingredients, I say no thanks- as much as I can. I mean, I did just eat half a Twix bar at the office. I'm not made of stone, people) I eat foods that are in season because, surprise! They taste better. I chew. I appreciate.
And I can cook now. What a surprise that turned out to be. I used to be a terrible cook, even with my distinguished pedigree (Hi Mama) I would try too hard while preparing for a dinner party and come up with something that was a passable mess but never as good as I imagined it would be. But I read something in Mireille Guiliano's book- it said that when you cook with the best ingredients you can find, failure is almost impossible. You'd have to be some kind of sadist to ruin it. So I tried it. I went to the Farmers Market near my house. I sprung for the $4 a box chicken stock instead of the old Swansons cans. I made Provencal Soup, Wolfgang Puck's recipe, because the ingredients are seasonal for winter.
It was so good I almost burst into tears, right there in the kitchen. I made something that I actually wanted to eat, even savor. It was FUN. I didn't hate myself afterwards. The only thing I counted was what's listed on my measuring cup. Who knew a person could live like this?! You know, other than the French.
Which brings us to where we are today. I cook as much as I can. I go to the Farmers Market when I can but I don't kill myself over (which is lovely and not a chore at all because it's outside and the insane Santa Monica people are fun to watch, elbowing people aside in their Pucci and flip-flops, pushing $1,500 strollers) Otherwise there's my favorite local supermarket (Pavilions- they are so sweet and friendly there, I swear to God. It makes such a difference) I cheat when I have to, ingredient-wise, because I am not made of money and my $30 a week budget was starting to suffer, though not as much as I thought it would but still. I am a single working girl (I've since upped it to $40 which has surprisingly made a big difference).
The only times I really eat out is when I know the place is going to be GOOD. When I eat something cheap and crappy, my taste buds betray me and let me know, "Yo, this is cheap and crappy." I ate a bowl of Instant Oatmeal the other day and could just taste the chemical sweetener. Gross. I couldn't even finish it.
I eat slower, I chew more thoroughly. Some of the French Women stuff doesn't work for me. Like "light candles when you eat" and "don't do anything but EAT". Sorry, sweetie, I'm an American through and through. I'm going to eat while I read a magazine or play Scrabulous on my computer during my lunch break. Or a book. Or watch TV. Or, you know, talk to another person. Crazy pants.
As for going to the gym, I go occasionally when I need to work something out in my brain. That's when I work out the best anyway. But I don't kill myself about it. I take the stairs at work, four flights a day- sometimes twice a day. It's a little thing but it's a difference. I walk in the morning. I sleep late when I want too.
For the first time since I was a kid, my body and I are at peace. My friends asked me what my resolution would be for New Years and I said, "I'm not going to treat my body like a whore anymore. I'm going to treat it like a princess." No more punishments, deprivation, counting, weighing, obsessing. That time is over. I've stayed a 10 since this started and I actually think I might be a 9 now. But if I'm the same? The truth is I've started to like the fact that I'm a 10. Remember when Bo Derek was a 10? When frat boy idiots judged girls and held up signs rating their attractiveness? A 10 is hot. My curves ROCK. I'm not 102 lbs like my best friend but I don't think of us in those terms anymore- I could shrink down to 102 lbs (and subsequently be hospitalized) but she'll never be tall (love ya, Vic, but it's true. I mean, we live together. I have to see you in a bathing suit occasionally. For the sake of my mental health, I only think of your appearance as Short now. I know you understand.)
Plus, it'll be nice to think about someone else for a change. Now that the guilt is gone and the war is over, there's just so many more hours in the day to devote my brain to things endlessly more worthwhile- like the people I love and the shenanigans they get themselves into. How I can help. How I can make them, and myself, laugh a little more every day. It's not the world and it certainly don't look like France but it's not a bad start either, if I do say so myself.
April 16, 2008
April 15, 2008
One Other Thing Before I Go
Can I just mention how supremely irritating it is that I can't buy Bob Seger's "Hollywood Nights" on iTunes?
Supremely. Irritating.
I'm posting this here, now, so it's there when I need it like RIGHT NOW. God. Take me out of this godforsaken place, Bob.
Supremely. Irritating.
I'm posting this here, now, so it's there when I need it like RIGHT NOW. God. Take me out of this godforsaken place, Bob.
Blog Glee
I'm sitting in my office right now, it's 9:15 at night and I want to go home but I haven't hit my two page quota for my novel and I'm stuck in a serious ditch here, people, for real. The kind of creative anguish that comes when you know exactly where you're supposed to go and for the life of you, you just cannot get there. At this point, I couldn't write my way out of a paper bag. I can't even think of a better metaphor.
Otherwise known as the Dread Middle. If you have no idea what I'm talking about, let me just tell you that it royally sucks. I mean, I stayed, I'm sitting here alone in a dark office and I have nothing to show for it today but two wasted hours, one measly, greasy page of text I'll probably chop in editing, and a few dozen movie trailers I've watched online to get myself back into the mood. (PS The summer movie situation isn't looking so hot. God, I'm such a sad sack right now. Sorry.)
Having said all that and thus whining enough to fill a full glass, can I just say that there is quite possibly nothing that could have made me feel better than to get two of my favoritest blog-treats ever, which is 1) the world's sweetest mention on my friend Jen's own fantastic blog, Sumeba Miyako, including bringing up my short and oh so sweet brush with Internet fame this past summer. Even though she's only been blogging for a few months and is such a natural at it that I sometimes get the urge to hurt her.
AND a comment from a Blogger I seriously love and read every day. Petunia Face is awesome, in case you're slow and/or have not yet gotten the memo (my friend/coworker Michael is also a fan and it's almost impossible to tear him away from Facebook and TWoP so that's a serious endorsement there) and I think with these two little pieces of blog-heaven, I might actually be able to tear my ass out of my chair now. Thank God for that. I'm starving.
Otherwise known as the Dread Middle. If you have no idea what I'm talking about, let me just tell you that it royally sucks. I mean, I stayed, I'm sitting here alone in a dark office and I have nothing to show for it today but two wasted hours, one measly, greasy page of text I'll probably chop in editing, and a few dozen movie trailers I've watched online to get myself back into the mood. (PS The summer movie situation isn't looking so hot. God, I'm such a sad sack right now. Sorry.)
Having said all that and thus whining enough to fill a full glass, can I just say that there is quite possibly nothing that could have made me feel better than to get two of my favoritest blog-treats ever, which is 1) the world's sweetest mention on my friend Jen's own fantastic blog, Sumeba Miyako, including bringing up my short and oh so sweet brush with Internet fame this past summer. Even though she's only been blogging for a few months and is such a natural at it that I sometimes get the urge to hurt her.
AND a comment from a Blogger I seriously love and read every day. Petunia Face is awesome, in case you're slow and/or have not yet gotten the memo (my friend/coworker Michael is also a fan and it's almost impossible to tear him away from Facebook and TWoP so that's a serious endorsement there) and I think with these two little pieces of blog-heaven, I might actually be able to tear my ass out of my chair now. Thank God for that. I'm starving.
April 14, 2008
Oh, Mickey
There are two types of people in the world- those who love Disney World and those who have been sucked of all joy and child-like wonder and instead prefer to sit back, roll their eyes and say smug, cynical things like "I'd rather have a fork jammed in my eye repeatedly for twelve hours than go there." These are the people who jump to tell you that Disney World is a terrorist's dream. And remind you how much money you'll spend to stand on line for hours on end with hordes of screaming, sweaty children.
To which, your only recourse is to nod politely and tell them they're absolutely right while inwardly feeling deeply sorry for them, because they don't get it and they never will and there's a loss there that they cannot possibly fathom, that they don't even realize has taken place.
I'm not immune to Disney's trappings- the endless lines, the price gouging on bottled water in 90 degree heat, the strategically placed souvenir store at the end of the ride. I don't turn a blind eye to any of it. But I get it. In fact, I was a pretty skeptical kid- my mom says that I used to just stare at the characters, studying them for inaccuracies, making note of their shoes and their hands and those little grates where the person inside can see out. I'd wonder out loud why the Easter Bunny was wearing sneakers and what was he doing in the mall anyway? Things did not get past me then. So, when I say I get it, I mean I understand even more than my child self.
My niece is four and she's at the age where she believes, whole-heartedly and without a doubt in her mind, that the real Cinderella lives in this magic place, that her tall, blonde, immaculate princess-self is standing there in the flesh, just wrapped her arms around her and signed her perfect signature in the little pink book that bears her likeness. When Piglet turns the corner, her eyes widen and I'm so lost in her reaction, that for a second it IS Piglet, straight from Pooh Corner and the books in my old room. I'm almost as giddy as she is.
People talk all the time about the maniacs at Disney, how they're practically Nazi Generals when it comes to their staff and rules. I don't doubt it. But you know what? It works. From the time you step off the tram from the parking lot to the moment you pass back out through the wrought-iron gates, every single employee you pass says hello. They smile and you smile back. They wave from their golf carts as they putter by and you wave too, even though you'd look at someone like they were deranged if they tried that with you on the street.
You walk in and you're struck by the sheer brightness of Main Street. It's just as clean and white-washed and gleaming as you remember, with the kind of colors and charm right out of Burt's street drawing in Mary Poppins. There's music playing everywhere, songs you remember and your niece is singing along too, every word just as familiar to her as it is to you now. You're not distracted by people arguing, trash on the ground, graffiti, teenagers taunting people and snickering, because none of that is happening. Road rage does not exist in this place. As crowded as it is, people say "Excuse me" and pat you on the shoulder if they're come too close to your feet. They're just trying to get a look at that castle after all and who can blame them? Every princess fantasy you've ever had, even when you were older and caught daydreaming about the very real Prince William (it was always Harry for me), this was the castle in the back of your mind. Tall and blue and perfect. I didn't even post a picture of it, because the one in my head is so much clearer.
And by the time you've taken in as much as you can with your eyes and your stomach is full and your feet ache and the sky gets darker and the fireworks start, there's one last hit- right to the gut. Forget who you are during the day- swearing at traffic, stuck in an office chair all day, listening to the same pop songs over and over, complaining about bills and learning about who's health is failing and what's on your to-do list- it's gone, it disappears as soon as a singular glow of perfect, yellow light shoots across the sky, right over your head, right to that castle, into your past when you yourself were only four and you believed in fairies. Of course you did.
It's cheesy, sure, but these days you'd be a fool to turn your back on it. I say, take the magic where you can get it before it disappears for good.
To which, your only recourse is to nod politely and tell them they're absolutely right while inwardly feeling deeply sorry for them, because they don't get it and they never will and there's a loss there that they cannot possibly fathom, that they don't even realize has taken place.
I'm not immune to Disney's trappings- the endless lines, the price gouging on bottled water in 90 degree heat, the strategically placed souvenir store at the end of the ride. I don't turn a blind eye to any of it. But I get it. In fact, I was a pretty skeptical kid- my mom says that I used to just stare at the characters, studying them for inaccuracies, making note of their shoes and their hands and those little grates where the person inside can see out. I'd wonder out loud why the Easter Bunny was wearing sneakers and what was he doing in the mall anyway? Things did not get past me then. So, when I say I get it, I mean I understand even more than my child self.
My niece is four and she's at the age where she believes, whole-heartedly and without a doubt in her mind, that the real Cinderella lives in this magic place, that her tall, blonde, immaculate princess-self is standing there in the flesh, just wrapped her arms around her and signed her perfect signature in the little pink book that bears her likeness. When Piglet turns the corner, her eyes widen and I'm so lost in her reaction, that for a second it IS Piglet, straight from Pooh Corner and the books in my old room. I'm almost as giddy as she is.
People talk all the time about the maniacs at Disney, how they're practically Nazi Generals when it comes to their staff and rules. I don't doubt it. But you know what? It works. From the time you step off the tram from the parking lot to the moment you pass back out through the wrought-iron gates, every single employee you pass says hello. They smile and you smile back. They wave from their golf carts as they putter by and you wave too, even though you'd look at someone like they were deranged if they tried that with you on the street.
You walk in and you're struck by the sheer brightness of Main Street. It's just as clean and white-washed and gleaming as you remember, with the kind of colors and charm right out of Burt's street drawing in Mary Poppins. There's music playing everywhere, songs you remember and your niece is singing along too, every word just as familiar to her as it is to you now. You're not distracted by people arguing, trash on the ground, graffiti, teenagers taunting people and snickering, because none of that is happening. Road rage does not exist in this place. As crowded as it is, people say "Excuse me" and pat you on the shoulder if they're come too close to your feet. They're just trying to get a look at that castle after all and who can blame them? Every princess fantasy you've ever had, even when you were older and caught daydreaming about the very real Prince William (it was always Harry for me), this was the castle in the back of your mind. Tall and blue and perfect. I didn't even post a picture of it, because the one in my head is so much clearer.
And by the time you've taken in as much as you can with your eyes and your stomach is full and your feet ache and the sky gets darker and the fireworks start, there's one last hit- right to the gut. Forget who you are during the day- swearing at traffic, stuck in an office chair all day, listening to the same pop songs over and over, complaining about bills and learning about who's health is failing and what's on your to-do list- it's gone, it disappears as soon as a singular glow of perfect, yellow light shoots across the sky, right over your head, right to that castle, into your past when you yourself were only four and you believed in fairies. Of course you did.
It's cheesy, sure, but these days you'd be a fool to turn your back on it. I say, take the magic where you can get it before it disappears for good.
April 7, 2008
...Crickets...
I realized last night as I was drifting off to sleep, that I hadn't spoken to another soul the entire day.
Not a single person. I mean, I left two voice mail messages for people but that doesn't count. And it wasn't like I spent the whole day in my pajamas. I went to the supermarket, went to the office for a few hours. I spent quality time in the kitchen- just me, a pound of mozzarella and various carbohydrates to stuff said cheese into. I did laundry. I mean, I put makeup on and real clothes and everything. I saw sunlight.
But it wasn't until I'd closed my eyes that I realized that, other than those two voicemail messages, I hadn't spoken a word out loud. To anyone. For almost sixteen hours. No calls, texts or emails either.
It was amazing.
Ok, wait- hear me out. I am not a hermit. I have a family I'm close to, I have a solid group of friends out here and scattered all over the place and I adore and appreciate each and every one of them. You just cannot deny the importance of nurturing relationships, people to love who can love you back, supporting each other, cheering them on, letting them console you...it's what makes the world a beautiful thing. I'm sure it's what keeps me from muttering to myself on a street corner somewhere.
And yet...silence is just completely, utterly underrated. I know mothers with young children (and older too, come to think of it) understand what I mean- that craving for just five damn minutes of peace, when there's no one to answer to, no mouths to wipe, no messes to chase after. Silence can be purely selfish- its insular and requires nothing from you. Actually that's not true- it demands distance, a detachment from others and their needs- whether its for your input, your time or your company.
I know people who cannot physically bear it- the silence of being alone. I'm sure you do too- they're either on the phone or email or on their blackberry, making plans for later in the day when they can actually see another person- that's really when their lives get color, when their day takes shape- centered around interaction with other people. The idea of going to a movie or a restaurant by themselves is unfathomable. Which is funny, because the idea of spending every single day like that- wrapped up in interaction with others, is beyond my comprehension. I would snap, I'm sure of it. I'd be ok for a while but eventually you would find me in the stall of a public bathroom, hands over my ears and my eyes shut tight.
Which worries me a little. Lately I've been thinking a lot about having kids- do I want them, when would I procure one (I like saying "procure" as if they're something I can find on Overstock.com), do I really want one or am I just supposed to want one? That last question comes up the most. A huge part of me does, the part that has a massive reservoir of love and nurturing and very specific opinions about parenthood all stored up (what do you expect from a person with 10+ years of baby-sitting experience behind her?). And then the rest of me thinks I must be insane, just plain crazy. It should be no surprise that its the same part that feels like doing cartwheels when I've had a full day without a peep from another soul. No surprise but very confusing, as you could imagine.
Not a single person. I mean, I left two voice mail messages for people but that doesn't count. And it wasn't like I spent the whole day in my pajamas. I went to the supermarket, went to the office for a few hours. I spent quality time in the kitchen- just me, a pound of mozzarella and various carbohydrates to stuff said cheese into. I did laundry. I mean, I put makeup on and real clothes and everything. I saw sunlight.
But it wasn't until I'd closed my eyes that I realized that, other than those two voicemail messages, I hadn't spoken a word out loud. To anyone. For almost sixteen hours. No calls, texts or emails either.
It was amazing.
Ok, wait- hear me out. I am not a hermit. I have a family I'm close to, I have a solid group of friends out here and scattered all over the place and I adore and appreciate each and every one of them. You just cannot deny the importance of nurturing relationships, people to love who can love you back, supporting each other, cheering them on, letting them console you...it's what makes the world a beautiful thing. I'm sure it's what keeps me from muttering to myself on a street corner somewhere.
And yet...silence is just completely, utterly underrated. I know mothers with young children (and older too, come to think of it) understand what I mean- that craving for just five damn minutes of peace, when there's no one to answer to, no mouths to wipe, no messes to chase after. Silence can be purely selfish- its insular and requires nothing from you. Actually that's not true- it demands distance, a detachment from others and their needs- whether its for your input, your time or your company.
I know people who cannot physically bear it- the silence of being alone. I'm sure you do too- they're either on the phone or email or on their blackberry, making plans for later in the day when they can actually see another person- that's really when their lives get color, when their day takes shape- centered around interaction with other people. The idea of going to a movie or a restaurant by themselves is unfathomable. Which is funny, because the idea of spending every single day like that- wrapped up in interaction with others, is beyond my comprehension. I would snap, I'm sure of it. I'd be ok for a while but eventually you would find me in the stall of a public bathroom, hands over my ears and my eyes shut tight.
Which worries me a little. Lately I've been thinking a lot about having kids- do I want them, when would I procure one (I like saying "procure" as if they're something I can find on Overstock.com), do I really want one or am I just supposed to want one? That last question comes up the most. A huge part of me does, the part that has a massive reservoir of love and nurturing and very specific opinions about parenthood all stored up (what do you expect from a person with 10+ years of baby-sitting experience behind her?). And then the rest of me thinks I must be insane, just plain crazy. It should be no surprise that its the same part that feels like doing cartwheels when I've had a full day without a peep from another soul. No surprise but very confusing, as you could imagine.
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