Okay, Hollywood. We need to talk.
It's really great that you are finally understanding that the BBC does television a lot better than you all do. No one expected that the American version of The Office would rock so much (perhaps even harder than the original), and you are to be applauded for not only for not screwing up a terrific concept, but both improving on it and giving me John Krasinski. If I have not said it before, thanks for that part especially.
However.
I read today that ABC is doing a pilot called Football Wives, clearly based on the delicious British series Footballers' Wive$ and its spinoff, Footballers Wive$: Extra Time. I have sung hosannas to that show on many occasions and there is no guiltier pleasure for me than watching Tanya Turner swish her severe bob or Jason leer over everything with breasts or making rude comments about wussy-ass Donna's awful teeth. Granted, I haven't been as able to get into Extra Time, but as far as I know those characters have yet to bear any hermaphrodite babies or throw Snow White-themed weddings featuring a wedding party composed entirely of little people dressed in breeches. Kids today just don't respect the example of their elders. Elders who are, in any language, fucking awesome:
Anyways, Hollywood, I have a huge problem with your developing this new, weakened adaptation. Exporting a sitcom of mild depression and workplace misery onto America television is not a huge problem, but translating soaps is fraught with peril (much like the unholy extramarital union of Donna and Salvatore Biagi, played by an actor so little affect he could best Hayden Christensen in the International Most Wooden Male pageant). We already have trashy daytime and nighttime soaps in America, and they are filled with impossibly scheming, beautiful men and the bitchy, be-sequined women who scratch them with acrylic nails because they caught the men nailing the babysitter. However, in Footballers' Wive$ we get to SEE him nailing the babysitter. In the bathroom stall of the local club. With full-frontal nudity. And when the wife finds out, first she snorts a big ol' load of coke from her acrylic pinky fingernail before she uses it to claw his eyes out.
Such scenarios obviously cannot happen in America because, unlike the heathen British who clearly want a nation full of sexually active deviant Satanists, America Cares About The Children. Which means our TV shows have no casual and unnecessary nudity, no explicit drug use, no sexual abuse of comatose piggish soccer club owners and (even though Jack Bauer can torture everyone with brown skin in order to save Los Angeles) no woman's breasts have ever caught on fire just for the sheer fun of it. In other words, Hollywood, your TV mostly sucks.
Hollywood, how can you possibly translate the trashabulous glory of Footballers Wive$ to suit the sexually puritanical standards of America, a country that is okay with suspending teenagers for daring to say the word "vagina" in front of other people, lo, the End of Days is nigh?! Tanya Turner practically says "vagina," usually in a less delicate manner, in every other sentence. Right before she'll choke a bitch out.
So I'm already pretty steaming mad over this, Hollywood, but do you know what REALLY frosts my cookies?
You cast James Van Der Beek in the Ian Walmsley role.
James Van Der "Ah. Don't want. Yer life." Beek.
Hollywood, do me a favor. Piss off, eh?
Friday, March 09, 2007
Thursday, March 08, 2007
the power of the interwebs
My Dad discovered Google last night.
Well, to be fair, he discovered the concept of Googling oneself last night. He was aware of the existence of Google before, but, lovable Luddite that he is, still insists on using Altavista and Ask Jeeves when he needs to search for something. And he also uses an abacus in restaurants to calculate tips. Okay, not that last one. But you get my point.
This magical discovery came about because my long-lost cousin emailed him out of the blue last week. To be more specific, the community theater group my family used to work with emailed him to say that someone had emailed them wondering if the name on their webpage happened to be his Uncle Steve and how one might get in touch with him today.
There's a whole other story to be told about this family member and that whole side of the family and that's why someday I'm going to sit down and write the whole damn thing because it's a Southern Gothic novel meets the Vietnam War and really, it needs to be committed to paper.
Family historical drama aside, my dad couldn't believe that the cousin had tracked him down. "I don't get it," he told me. "Our last two Christmas cards to them have come back return-to-sender. And how on Earth did he find me through the theater?"
"Well," I replied, "if he knew your name, and he knew you lived in Ann Arbor for a long time, that page probably came up when he Googled you. That's how I would try to find someone."
Sure enough, as we tried it over the phone, there it was: my father, playing a 1920s reporter in a community theater production of The Front Page was the first hit when you Googled his name and hometown. There was his full name and several pictures. Long-lost relatives found in five seconds.
"This is neat!" my dad exclaimed over the phone. "Tee-hee!" (Yes, my father says "tee-hee." It is so cute). "Look at that!"
"Dad, haven't you ever Googled yourself before?"
"Can I do that?"
"Sure! It's not like the Internet Police are going to show up and arrest you for being a curious narcissist. Everybody Googles themselves."
"Okay, so how do I do this?"
"Just type your name in the search engine. Oh, and use quotation marks around it."
"... Well, look at that! I'm an Australian rugby player! I'm a British dentist! I scored 34 points in a Finnish professional basketball game!"
"See, it's fun! I'm a photographer and write really awesome comic-strip art and work at Whaddaya Know?"
"... It's kind of sad when people who have our names lead more interesting lives than we do."
Oh, innocent father of mine. It's just one of the many ways the Internet disappoints us. I'll never tell him about my experiences in Match.comland.
Well, to be fair, he discovered the concept of Googling oneself last night. He was aware of the existence of Google before, but, lovable Luddite that he is, still insists on using Altavista and Ask Jeeves when he needs to search for something. And he also uses an abacus in restaurants to calculate tips. Okay, not that last one. But you get my point.
This magical discovery came about because my long-lost cousin emailed him out of the blue last week. To be more specific, the community theater group my family used to work with emailed him to say that someone had emailed them wondering if the name on their webpage happened to be his Uncle Steve and how one might get in touch with him today.
There's a whole other story to be told about this family member and that whole side of the family and that's why someday I'm going to sit down and write the whole damn thing because it's a Southern Gothic novel meets the Vietnam War and really, it needs to be committed to paper.
Family historical drama aside, my dad couldn't believe that the cousin had tracked him down. "I don't get it," he told me. "Our last two Christmas cards to them have come back return-to-sender. And how on Earth did he find me through the theater?"
"Well," I replied, "if he knew your name, and he knew you lived in Ann Arbor for a long time, that page probably came up when he Googled you. That's how I would try to find someone."
Sure enough, as we tried it over the phone, there it was: my father, playing a 1920s reporter in a community theater production of The Front Page was the first hit when you Googled his name and hometown. There was his full name and several pictures. Long-lost relatives found in five seconds.
"This is neat!" my dad exclaimed over the phone. "Tee-hee!" (Yes, my father says "tee-hee." It is so cute). "Look at that!"
"Dad, haven't you ever Googled yourself before?"
"Can I do that?"
"Sure! It's not like the Internet Police are going to show up and arrest you for being a curious narcissist. Everybody Googles themselves."
"Okay, so how do I do this?"
"Just type your name in the search engine. Oh, and use quotation marks around it."
"... Well, look at that! I'm an Australian rugby player! I'm a British dentist! I scored 34 points in a Finnish professional basketball game!"
"See, it's fun! I'm a photographer and write really awesome comic-strip art and work at Whaddaya Know?"
"... It's kind of sad when people who have our names lead more interesting lives than we do."
Oh, innocent father of mine. It's just one of the many ways the Internet disappoints us. I'll never tell him about my experiences in Match.comland.
Tuesday, March 06, 2007
the internet agrees that my last job was insane
* Now with more contest! Check out the comments to learn more *
I realized this morning that I've been in my current job for over a year now. That's the longest I've held any job before. They don't appear to be firing me any time soon. They even appear to rather like me. I could get used to this. It's a tremendously pleasant change from my other postgrad jobs, both of which left me as such a quivering ball of neuroses and stress at the end of the day that I both developed ulcers and a raging hostility towards all aspects of contemporary American politics.
This morning I also learned that a conversation I submitted during my previous job is now the number two classic quote on www.overheardintheoffice.com. As in, of all the idiocy that has been documented on that site, all of the bored office drones voting on which is the most idiotic of them all found my experience to be the second jaw-droppingly, snorting-out-loud stupidest, most ridiculous conversation there.
WOW. That, even given my rather insane employment history, kind of stops me cold.
Dear Lord Baby Jesus, I am so grateful to be in my current job. A job where strangers on the internet do not react to my office goings-on with a collective "dude, that shit is fucked up."
And in case you were wondering, as of February 2006, Desmond Tutu's email address is the one thing Google can't help you find. Well, that and your SANITY if you're trapped in a job where your boss asks you to Google Desmond Tutu's email address.
I realized this morning that I've been in my current job for over a year now. That's the longest I've held any job before. They don't appear to be firing me any time soon. They even appear to rather like me. I could get used to this. It's a tremendously pleasant change from my other postgrad jobs, both of which left me as such a quivering ball of neuroses and stress at the end of the day that I both developed ulcers and a raging hostility towards all aspects of contemporary American politics.
This morning I also learned that a conversation I submitted during my previous job is now the number two classic quote on www.overheardintheoffice.com. As in, of all the idiocy that has been documented on that site, all of the bored office drones voting on which is the most idiotic of them all found my experience to be the second jaw-droppingly, snorting-out-loud stupidest, most ridiculous conversation there.
WOW. That, even given my rather insane employment history, kind of stops me cold.
Dear Lord Baby Jesus, I am so grateful to be in my current job. A job where strangers on the internet do not react to my office goings-on with a collective "dude, that shit is fucked up."
And in case you were wondering, as of February 2006, Desmond Tutu's email address is the one thing Google can't help you find. Well, that and your SANITY if you're trapped in a job where your boss asks you to Google Desmond Tutu's email address.
Monday, March 05, 2007
exhausted/awesome
I have transcended exhaustion and moved onto that blissful, slightly delirious stage that can only come the Monday after an epic weekend. An epic weekend that ended with trading shirts with the extremely queeny guy behind me in the middle of "Filthy/Gorgeous" at the Scissor Sisters concert. You'd think that at the tender age of twenty-five I'd still cling to a small loose thread of modesty, but you would be quite wrong. Besides, not counting the drummer and possibly of one of the roadies, there was not a single straight man in all of 9:30 Club last night.
I really can't say enough good things about a live Scissor Sisters show. Jake Shears is a ridiculously charismatic leading man and Ana Matronic last night was literally the most beautiful woman I think I've ever encountered. I spent a significant portion of the concert just gawping at her magnificent boobs. She is newest winner of the Angelina Jolie Memorial Women I'd Go Gay For Award.
I vaguely remembered seeing the Scissor Sisters at V Festival last fall, but I only caught their last three songs after running across the length of Pimlico following The Who's hour-plus set. Don't get me wrong, I love The Scissor Sisters, but seeing them after seeing The Who absolutely destroy the mainstage with their four decades of badassery was like getting the chance to sleep with Adam Brody right after getting sexed up by Brad Pitt. Any other chance you'd be salivating, but the timing and setting was all wrong and dulled what should have been a perfect experience.
Therefore, I was very glad to be able to see them headlining their own show. Particularly when it closed out a weekend involving reckless deployment of leggings, the (all-too-brief) return of Libby, a deeply vile drink involving both Peach Schnapps and Pop Rocks and five hours of revisionist Cold War historiography at Tryst over $4 pots of tea and bean salad.
Aren't I just the most precious little hipster?
I really can't say enough good things about a live Scissor Sisters show. Jake Shears is a ridiculously charismatic leading man and Ana Matronic last night was literally the most beautiful woman I think I've ever encountered. I spent a significant portion of the concert just gawping at her magnificent boobs. She is newest winner of the Angelina Jolie Memorial Women I'd Go Gay For Award.
I vaguely remembered seeing the Scissor Sisters at V Festival last fall, but I only caught their last three songs after running across the length of Pimlico following The Who's hour-plus set. Don't get me wrong, I love The Scissor Sisters, but seeing them after seeing The Who absolutely destroy the mainstage with their four decades of badassery was like getting the chance to sleep with Adam Brody right after getting sexed up by Brad Pitt. Any other chance you'd be salivating, but the timing and setting was all wrong and dulled what should have been a perfect experience.
Therefore, I was very glad to be able to see them headlining their own show. Particularly when it closed out a weekend involving reckless deployment of leggings, the (all-too-brief) return of Libby, a deeply vile drink involving both Peach Schnapps and Pop Rocks and five hours of revisionist Cold War historiography at Tryst over $4 pots of tea and bean salad.
Aren't I just the most precious little hipster?
Wednesday, February 28, 2007
boomshakalakalaka
Going to work this morning, I had a seven-song iPod-on-Shuffle-mode streak that was so wonderful, so perfectly, serendipitously organized that it must be documented. Future generations of twentysomethings will study it in Hipster 101 as the ideal iPod Shuffle Songs Run. It's been over four hours now and I'm still grinning at its awesomeness.
Song #1: "Don't Feel Like Dancing," Scissor Sisters
Is there a better song to hear first thing in the morning, especially if you hate mornings in general and particularly this one because you were up all night reading declassified NSA memos as pertain to CIA involvement 1953 Iran coup? I'm incapable of listening to this song without wanting to strut and shake my ass, preferably both at the same time. Why the Scissor Sisters didn't blow up in the U.S. when this song came out, yet the Pussycat Dolls inexplicably continue to sell albums, is something I will never understand.
This song was also a great omen, as I was waiting to hear back about a Craigslist ticket for Sunday's sold-out show at 9:30 Club. When I got to work today I was greeted with an email saying that not only was the ticket mine, but I would be buying it at purchase price. Since tickets were going for a lot more than that, I can only conclude that whatever Divine Power has been watching out for me lately heard me humming along under my breath as I dance-walked down East Capitol and decided a reward was in order.
Song #2: "Delirious Love," Neil Diamond
I've been listening to this song obsessively lately, ever since seeing it in an episode of Scrubs. Its got everything a good pop song needs: a catchy tune with a bouncy run of notes, strummy guitar sliding and excellent lyrics that everyone can identify with:
"Neither one of us stopping to figure out
What the roll and the rockin' was all about
All we knew was that we couldn't get enough
You and me in the heat of delirious love"
Neil effing Diamond. God love him.
Song #3: "I Believe," Spring Awakening soundtrack
I wrote about this show when I first saw it in December, and can't possible say enough good things about the production and this album. Simplistically, it's a coming of age story set in 1891 Germany mixed with a rock concert. The songs, most of which could easily pass for stand-alone rock songs, serve as comment on the script and the action, very different from traditional musical theater where the songs advance the plot. One could easily imagine artists from Joni Mitchell to Fountains of Wayne performing individual songs in their own right. This song, which closes Act One and is performed as the two teenage leads lose their virginity, is my favorite moment in the show-- stylized and abstract but achingly beautiful and honest, framed by this beautiful gospel-inflected number.
And two "first-time" songs right in a row? What are the odds?
Song# 4: "Chips Ahoy" The Hold Steady
I defy anyone to listen to this song and not be singing along "Whoa-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh!" by the end. It can't be done. I love this album and am beyond disappointed that I can't go to Bonnaroo to see them in action. Don't get me started on how dumb I was to turn down a free ticket to their show at Black Cat last November just because it was Thanksgiving and I was five states away. Wuss.
Song #5: "One Mint Julep," Ray Charles
If you've ever wondered "what does jazz organ sound like?" this song will provide the answer. And the answer is "spectacular."
In the aftermath of the Great iPod Meltdown of 2006, I ripped about 4,000 songs from my sister's iPod. She has... interesting taste in music. I'll give her credit for getting me into Rubyhorse and DeVotchKa, but I had to delete a lot of obscure showtunes and "comedy" from her library (my hatred of Dane Cook really deserves another post). I'm still discovering songs I've never heard even though they've been on my iPod for months. This cover from his greatest hits album was one of them, and it will be making more regular appearances-- it's very bossa nova and Quincy Jones-esque, perfect for having Alan Ginsberg over for some fondue in your shag-carpeted conversation pit. Love it.
Song #6: "Life is a Song," Patrick Park
Or as it will forever be known, "That Song from the Last Episode of The O.C." I haven't watched since the lesbian story arc, but thanks to this site I've been able to keep up with the music. I am completely that girl who hears a song on Grey's Anatomy and instantly tries to track it down and that site has dramatically trimmed my Googling, leaving time for important things like feeding my seventeen cats or cross-stitching affirmations on pillows.
Cliched associations aside, this is a good song. With simple acoustic guitar and a focus on the lyrics, it perfectly captures that slightly melancholy optimism that is adulthood. Accepting inevitabilities can be freeing, and this song reflects that simple message with quiet grace.
By now I was on the Metro barreling towards work and was crossing my fingers that the streak would continue. I rarely make it for even six consecutive songs, usually skipping past something I like but am not in the mood for or am really embarrassed I like and don't want anyone to hear me listening to (cough!soundtracktoBatBoy:TheMusical*cough!*) . Would the seventh song, the one I would listed to as I got off the Metro and walked into my office, thereby setting the tone for the rest of the day, be as good as the ones that preceded it?
Um. Yes.
BoomshakalakalakaboomshakalakalakaUHN!
Song #1: "Don't Feel Like Dancing," Scissor Sisters
Is there a better song to hear first thing in the morning, especially if you hate mornings in general and particularly this one because you were up all night reading declassified NSA memos as pertain to CIA involvement 1953 Iran coup? I'm incapable of listening to this song without wanting to strut and shake my ass, preferably both at the same time. Why the Scissor Sisters didn't blow up in the U.S. when this song came out, yet the Pussycat Dolls inexplicably continue to sell albums, is something I will never understand.
This song was also a great omen, as I was waiting to hear back about a Craigslist ticket for Sunday's sold-out show at 9:30 Club. When I got to work today I was greeted with an email saying that not only was the ticket mine, but I would be buying it at purchase price. Since tickets were going for a lot more than that, I can only conclude that whatever Divine Power has been watching out for me lately heard me humming along under my breath as I dance-walked down East Capitol and decided a reward was in order.
Song #2: "Delirious Love," Neil Diamond
I've been listening to this song obsessively lately, ever since seeing it in an episode of Scrubs. Its got everything a good pop song needs: a catchy tune with a bouncy run of notes, strummy guitar sliding and excellent lyrics that everyone can identify with:
"Neither one of us stopping to figure out
What the roll and the rockin' was all about
All we knew was that we couldn't get enough
You and me in the heat of delirious love"
Neil effing Diamond. God love him.
Song #3: "I Believe," Spring Awakening soundtrack
I wrote about this show when I first saw it in December, and can't possible say enough good things about the production and this album. Simplistically, it's a coming of age story set in 1891 Germany mixed with a rock concert. The songs, most of which could easily pass for stand-alone rock songs, serve as comment on the script and the action, very different from traditional musical theater where the songs advance the plot. One could easily imagine artists from Joni Mitchell to Fountains of Wayne performing individual songs in their own right. This song, which closes Act One and is performed as the two teenage leads lose their virginity, is my favorite moment in the show-- stylized and abstract but achingly beautiful and honest, framed by this beautiful gospel-inflected number.
And two "first-time" songs right in a row? What are the odds?
Song# 4: "Chips Ahoy" The Hold Steady
I defy anyone to listen to this song and not be singing along "Whoa-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh!" by the end. It can't be done. I love this album and am beyond disappointed that I can't go to Bonnaroo to see them in action. Don't get me started on how dumb I was to turn down a free ticket to their show at Black Cat last November just because it was Thanksgiving and I was five states away. Wuss.
Song #5: "One Mint Julep," Ray Charles
If you've ever wondered "what does jazz organ sound like?" this song will provide the answer. And the answer is "spectacular."
In the aftermath of the Great iPod Meltdown of 2006, I ripped about 4,000 songs from my sister's iPod. She has... interesting taste in music. I'll give her credit for getting me into Rubyhorse and DeVotchKa, but I had to delete a lot of obscure showtunes and "comedy" from her library (my hatred of Dane Cook really deserves another post). I'm still discovering songs I've never heard even though they've been on my iPod for months. This cover from his greatest hits album was one of them, and it will be making more regular appearances-- it's very bossa nova and Quincy Jones-esque, perfect for having Alan Ginsberg over for some fondue in your shag-carpeted conversation pit. Love it.
Song #6: "Life is a Song," Patrick Park
Or as it will forever be known, "That Song from the Last Episode of The O.C." I haven't watched since the lesbian story arc, but thanks to this site I've been able to keep up with the music. I am completely that girl who hears a song on Grey's Anatomy and instantly tries to track it down and that site has dramatically trimmed my Googling, leaving time for important things like feeding my seventeen cats or cross-stitching affirmations on pillows.
Cliched associations aside, this is a good song. With simple acoustic guitar and a focus on the lyrics, it perfectly captures that slightly melancholy optimism that is adulthood. Accepting inevitabilities can be freeing, and this song reflects that simple message with quiet grace.
By now I was on the Metro barreling towards work and was crossing my fingers that the streak would continue. I rarely make it for even six consecutive songs, usually skipping past something I like but am not in the mood for or am really embarrassed I like and don't want anyone to hear me listening to (cough!soundtracktoBatBoy:TheMusical*cough!*) . Would the seventh song, the one I would listed to as I got off the Metro and walked into my office, thereby setting the tone for the rest of the day, be as good as the ones that preceded it?
Um. Yes.
BoomshakalakalakaboomshakalakalakaUHN!
Tuesday, February 27, 2007
seventy-two hours
Things about the last three days that have been deeply awesome:
- Al Gore, Al Gore, Al Gore. I have adored him ever since I volunteered for his campaign my freshman year of college and if by some miracle he were to run again, I would quit my job and sell my condo and hand out leaflets on a street corner for him. And I hate people who hand out leaflets on corners. Watching him be the King of the Oscars last night was tremendously enjoyable and validating. I love everything about him. This deserves its own post. That post will be coming soon.
- Accidentally throwing back too many beers at happy hour on Friday with S and her friends, getting to exactly the stage of tipsiness that makes people feel not at all guilty about blowing sixty dollars on oysters and boulliabasse.
- Emma's potluck on Saturday (I made Thai veggie stir-fry) and hosting my own dinner party on Sunday (with gruyere chicken gratin, asparagus and dark chocolate fondue).
- Waking up at noon on Sunday to six inches of perfect fluffy snow and taking a break from shoveling to have a snowball fight with the kids cleaning the sidewalk across the street. Because throwing things at innocent children is totally what God intended with the whole "day of rest" thing.
- Ragging on the Oscar red carpet. Remember the episode of 90210 where Donna Martin dressed up as a mermaid for Halloween at the college party (also where Kelly Taylor taught us that if you wear black lace and a tight-lipped smile to a frat party then you are totally asking to get assaulted; wow, that show really advanced the feminist movement)? And remember how Donna hobbled around the entire time and couldn't really move because she was swathed into an insanely bejeweled and unflattering glittery number and her big ol' wig was just plopped on her head and kept flopping in the way? Well, Beyonce was the Armani version of that outfit at the Oscars last night.
I look at her and think HIPS. HIIIIIIIIPS. I'm fairly sure that's not what she was going for. But I'm so glad she did it, because nothing is more fun than wearing my glasses and ratty old jeans from high school, getting tipsy with a bunch of girlfriends and yelling rude things about highly groomed celebrities at the television. Oh, and snorting chardonnay through my nose when Ryan Seacrest said "there's a lot of Wang on the red carpet tonight!" It's class all the way at EJ's place.
Things about the last three days that are not so awesome:
- Putting on work pants this morning and being absolutely horrified at what seventy-two hours of eating like it was my last meal before execution has done to my own midsection.
- The continued presence of web sidebar ads for Open Water 2. If the DVD came out four days ago, why exactly is it still being splashed all over every trashy entertainment website I read? While I generally love anything having to do with Center Stage, including but not limited to pronouncing it "the BAH-lay," the Jamiroquai-heavy soundtrack and Peter Gallagher's eyebrows, there is something really creepy wound around Susan May Pratt's neck in that ad and I really don't want to constantly see her open-mouthed expression of utter terror on top of the squid's tentacle or whatever that thing is.
- So my new building has a no-pet policy. I have a pet. I have a little baby girl kitty who I adopted from an animal rescue group. Giving up Sadie is not an option, but neither can I give up my apartment for her. This is actually something fairly serious to me, certainly more so than unpleasant popup ads, and though there's no way Sadie is not making the move with me I'm nervous about the execution of sneaking her into my new home. Yes, I've been known to do things like quit my "dream" job and go be a homeless bum in Prague, but I'm a pretty rule-abiding person. Even though it appears to be a toothless policy-- it's not a co-op, so they can't kick me out-- starting my residency there by breaking said policy is hardly ideal.
- I'm really pretty sure that Helen Mirren is having better sex than me.
- Al Gore, Al Gore, Al Gore. I have adored him ever since I volunteered for his campaign my freshman year of college and if by some miracle he were to run again, I would quit my job and sell my condo and hand out leaflets on a street corner for him. And I hate people who hand out leaflets on corners. Watching him be the King of the Oscars last night was tremendously enjoyable and validating. I love everything about him. This deserves its own post. That post will be coming soon.
- Accidentally throwing back too many beers at happy hour on Friday with S and her friends, getting to exactly the stage of tipsiness that makes people feel not at all guilty about blowing sixty dollars on oysters and boulliabasse.
- Emma's potluck on Saturday (I made Thai veggie stir-fry) and hosting my own dinner party on Sunday (with gruyere chicken gratin, asparagus and dark chocolate fondue).
- Waking up at noon on Sunday to six inches of perfect fluffy snow and taking a break from shoveling to have a snowball fight with the kids cleaning the sidewalk across the street. Because throwing things at innocent children is totally what God intended with the whole "day of rest" thing.
- Ragging on the Oscar red carpet. Remember the episode of 90210 where Donna Martin dressed up as a mermaid for Halloween at the college party (also where Kelly Taylor taught us that if you wear black lace and a tight-lipped smile to a frat party then you are totally asking to get assaulted; wow, that show really advanced the feminist movement)? And remember how Donna hobbled around the entire time and couldn't really move because she was swathed into an insanely bejeweled and unflattering glittery number and her big ol' wig was just plopped on her head and kept flopping in the way? Well, Beyonce was the Armani version of that outfit at the Oscars last night.
I look at her and think HIPS. HIIIIIIIIPS. I'm fairly sure that's not what she was going for. But I'm so glad she did it, because nothing is more fun than wearing my glasses and ratty old jeans from high school, getting tipsy with a bunch of girlfriends and yelling rude things about highly groomed celebrities at the television. Oh, and snorting chardonnay through my nose when Ryan Seacrest said "there's a lot of Wang on the red carpet tonight!" It's class all the way at EJ's place.
Things about the last three days that are not so awesome:
- Putting on work pants this morning and being absolutely horrified at what seventy-two hours of eating like it was my last meal before execution has done to my own midsection.
- The continued presence of web sidebar ads for Open Water 2. If the DVD came out four days ago, why exactly is it still being splashed all over every trashy entertainment website I read? While I generally love anything having to do with Center Stage, including but not limited to pronouncing it "the BAH-lay," the Jamiroquai-heavy soundtrack and Peter Gallagher's eyebrows, there is something really creepy wound around Susan May Pratt's neck in that ad and I really don't want to constantly see her open-mouthed expression of utter terror on top of the squid's tentacle or whatever that thing is.
- So my new building has a no-pet policy. I have a pet. I have a little baby girl kitty who I adopted from an animal rescue group. Giving up Sadie is not an option, but neither can I give up my apartment for her. This is actually something fairly serious to me, certainly more so than unpleasant popup ads, and though there's no way Sadie is not making the move with me I'm nervous about the execution of sneaking her into my new home. Yes, I've been known to do things like quit my "dream" job and go be a homeless bum in Prague, but I'm a pretty rule-abiding person. Even though it appears to be a toothless policy-- it's not a co-op, so they can't kick me out-- starting my residency there by breaking said policy is hardly ideal.
- I'm really pretty sure that Helen Mirren is having better sex than me.
Friday, February 23, 2007
crushing hopes
I can barely remember the last time I had a really good crush.
In the last year I've dabbled in dating, sex, lust, drama, romantic indifference, affection and love but can't recall a single genuine crush in the fray. There hasn't been an exciting stomach-flippy, giggle-inducing man in my life, however peripherally, in a sadly long time.
I came to this realization, in true tragic single girl form, watching TV last night and realizing that no one, but no one I have encountered in the last year has a grin that makes my knees buckle like John Krasinski or Jeffrey Dean Morgan can. Has the world-- and by "the world," I do mean the "quantity of crushable men in the greater District area"-- really decayed so much that I am more turned on by television than by a breathing, flesh and blood male?
The last crush I remember having was in the fall of 2005. He was a friend of a friend who introduced himself by asking who I lost my virginity to. He had one of those grins that tells you right away that he loves trouble, that this will be a battle of wills and that he gets off on being adversarial. It was all very Taming of the Shrew, with Thomas Pink instead of breeches. Running into him at bars, Nats games and parties in the months that followed felt exactly what a good crush should feel like-- all tingly and teasing, banter that practically crackled with electricity and rushing back to clusters of girlfriends to breathlessly report on the nonconversation. Never wondering if he'd hurt me or I'd get bored with him or if he'd get along with my friends, just enjoying flirting with the cute boy.
My high school philosophy teacher once told me "the kiss is always best just before it happens." Meaning that, the anticipation of something, the moment when you're on the brink of inevitable, is really the thing that makes it great. The actual event, however good, is always a slight letdown from whatever you had elevated it to in your mind.
Now, I rarely embrace my inner girly-girl. You will find very few books with covers featuring scrawly drawing of heels or shopping bags on my shelves. Pink makes me look bloated. I am the only girl I know who doesn't find Justin Timberlake particularly sexy (falsetto voices creep me out, okay? A man should not speak in a higher pitch than I do!). I generally think of myself as a woman, not a girl.
But this woman is due for some giggling and silliness and sexual brinkmanship. For some harcore flirting with a cute stranger accompanied by stupid after-the-fact grinning, the kind where my girlfriends say things like "you can't stop smiling!" And if a Jeffrey Dean Morgan lookalike would like to play the role of "Object of Crush," well, then, that'd just be the buttercream icing on the cupcake.
The crush: so hot for Spring 2007.
In the last year I've dabbled in dating, sex, lust, drama, romantic indifference, affection and love but can't recall a single genuine crush in the fray. There hasn't been an exciting stomach-flippy, giggle-inducing man in my life, however peripherally, in a sadly long time.
I came to this realization, in true tragic single girl form, watching TV last night and realizing that no one, but no one I have encountered in the last year has a grin that makes my knees buckle like John Krasinski or Jeffrey Dean Morgan can. Has the world-- and by "the world," I do mean the "quantity of crushable men in the greater District area"-- really decayed so much that I am more turned on by television than by a breathing, flesh and blood male?
The last crush I remember having was in the fall of 2005. He was a friend of a friend who introduced himself by asking who I lost my virginity to. He had one of those grins that tells you right away that he loves trouble, that this will be a battle of wills and that he gets off on being adversarial. It was all very Taming of the Shrew, with Thomas Pink instead of breeches. Running into him at bars, Nats games and parties in the months that followed felt exactly what a good crush should feel like-- all tingly and teasing, banter that practically crackled with electricity and rushing back to clusters of girlfriends to breathlessly report on the nonconversation. Never wondering if he'd hurt me or I'd get bored with him or if he'd get along with my friends, just enjoying flirting with the cute boy.
My high school philosophy teacher once told me "the kiss is always best just before it happens." Meaning that, the anticipation of something, the moment when you're on the brink of inevitable, is really the thing that makes it great. The actual event, however good, is always a slight letdown from whatever you had elevated it to in your mind.
Now, I rarely embrace my inner girly-girl. You will find very few books with covers featuring scrawly drawing of heels or shopping bags on my shelves. Pink makes me look bloated. I am the only girl I know who doesn't find Justin Timberlake particularly sexy (falsetto voices creep me out, okay? A man should not speak in a higher pitch than I do!). I generally think of myself as a woman, not a girl.
But this woman is due for some giggling and silliness and sexual brinkmanship. For some harcore flirting with a cute stranger accompanied by stupid after-the-fact grinning, the kind where my girlfriends say things like "you can't stop smiling!" And if a Jeffrey Dean Morgan lookalike would like to play the role of "Object of Crush," well, then, that'd just be the buttercream icing on the cupcake.
The crush: so hot for Spring 2007.
Wednesday, February 21, 2007
nesting with a twist
Now that the contract is signed, the financial matters are all squigged away and I've set a date for closing, I can get on the real fun of finally being a homeowner:
Decorating!
I'm a nester, and the way my home looks and feels is incredibly important to me. However, I'm not a terribly patient person and my interior design ethos thus far has been "OOH! Shiny! Colorful! Me want!" I'm also unable to commit to a color palate and as a result, my bedspread, runner carpet, dishes and soap dispenser all have a similar bright multi-stripe pattern that looks great but admittedly there is a lot going on. Looking at a rug probably shouldn't be that exhausting.
Since deciding to buy I've been allowing myself to peruse Craigslist for the items I know I'll definitely need (futon, bigger TV) and will probably wind up getting (new dressers and bookcases). Luckily my seller has great taste in paint colors and except for the burnt-sienna kitchen (which is either going to become pale lime or soft yellow, I haven't decided) I won't need to change much of what she's already done.
A brief post-college stint working at Restoration Hardware left me wary of having an expensive, blandly tasteful home that looks like something out of a catalog (it also left me with the sad realization that with the many problems facing the world today, residents of Georgetown still manage to invest a shocking amount of emotion in their drawer knobs). On the other hand, while I really love and admire Amy Sedaris, I can't see myself living in a home decorated with reconstituted pantyhose plant hangers. There must be a balance, something that says "I am an individual with a lovely home" as opposed to "Either remove your shoes before stepping in here or never return" and "Mind the chair made of discarded dryer lint! Aren't I just the kookiest?"
I really want to make this a home, something comfortable and tasteful that will inspire me to behave as if I am worthy of my surroundings. A place to have people over for gimlets and coq au vin and old movies as well as a place to moan on a futon while watching hangover television.
Or at least that was what I wanted, until I found this poster:
Decorating!
I'm a nester, and the way my home looks and feels is incredibly important to me. However, I'm not a terribly patient person and my interior design ethos thus far has been "OOH! Shiny! Colorful! Me want!" I'm also unable to commit to a color palate and as a result, my bedspread, runner carpet, dishes and soap dispenser all have a similar bright multi-stripe pattern that looks great but admittedly there is a lot going on. Looking at a rug probably shouldn't be that exhausting.
Since deciding to buy I've been allowing myself to peruse Craigslist for the items I know I'll definitely need (futon, bigger TV) and will probably wind up getting (new dressers and bookcases). Luckily my seller has great taste in paint colors and except for the burnt-sienna kitchen (which is either going to become pale lime or soft yellow, I haven't decided) I won't need to change much of what she's already done.
A brief post-college stint working at Restoration Hardware left me wary of having an expensive, blandly tasteful home that looks like something out of a catalog (it also left me with the sad realization that with the many problems facing the world today, residents of Georgetown still manage to invest a shocking amount of emotion in their drawer knobs). On the other hand, while I really love and admire Amy Sedaris, I can't see myself living in a home decorated with reconstituted pantyhose plant hangers. There must be a balance, something that says "I am an individual with a lovely home" as opposed to "Either remove your shoes before stepping in here or never return" and "Mind the chair made of discarded dryer lint! Aren't I just the kookiest?"
I really want to make this a home, something comfortable and tasteful that will inspire me to behave as if I am worthy of my surroundings. A place to have people over for gimlets and coq au vin and old movies as well as a place to moan on a futon while watching hangover television.
Or at least that was what I wanted, until I found this poster:
I think I now want a home that inspires people to say things like: "The flesh tones bring to mind the top shelf liqueurs of a border bistro." This poster is going to be the centerpiece of my new, adult den.
Tuesday, February 20, 2007
x equals kicking some ass
The GRE? She is my bitch.
It's peculiar. I've done a lot to be proud of (and a not-small amount to be ashamed of) in my adult life, but the most satisfying moment of my entire weekend was sitting at that computer wearing dopey noise-blocker headphones, swaddled in my grotty Universiteit van Amsterdam sweatshirt and realizing that I STILL KNEW THE QUADRATIC FORMULA AND WAS CAPABLE OF SOLVING FOR X IN MULTIPLE STATES. I was really ridiculously proud of this, maybe a bit more so than of buying a condo. Hell, anyone can email a realtor and a lender, but can everyone out there multiply radical fractions? Shit no, soldier.
Math and I have always had a nasty relationship. Knowing from an early age that I would never work in a field that would require me to know what a factorial is or to care about the density of anything except a stupid colleague, I would cheerfully have ignored math for all of my days. Except, math, in the form of mandatory graduation requirements from the state of Michigan, sensed my disinterest and set out to destroy me via its most powerful weapon: impact on my high school GPA. Alphabetically listed, my record is a series of unblemished As - English, Drama, History-- until we get to "Math," which, bored with the distinguished company it keeps, skips straight on down to C territory. No sense wallowing in the B range when we can infect more insidiously, right?
So after math destroyed my chances of getting into a great college, it almost took away college for me, period. It was second semester, senior year, and I'd been accepted to my first-choice college for four months. I'd officially stopped caring about anything related to school, my hometown, pretty much my entire life up to that point and was now living entirely in my head. Trig class, in particular, was spent staring out the window mentally decorating my dorm room and fantasizing about striding down the marble halls of the Capitol, stiletto heels clacking as I breezed through the history-laden halls on my way to a Very Important Meeting where my opinion would Matter.
Since trigonometry is founded on the principles of triangles and not superiority complexes, it shouldn't have been a shock when I found out I was failing. But of course it was. Seeing an actual "E" (we didn't use F; some bullshit about how it's bad for self-esteem or whatever) on my midsemester report snapped me back into reality. Well, what really did it was my mother filling my head with horror stories of students whose college admission she'd personally revoked based on their senior grades. It was a brilliant strategy on her part. She never actually had to finish the story, saying "... and after I revoked his admission he went to community college, dropped out the first semester and now works at the car wash on Stadium and Hill." The merest hint that I wouldn't be able to leave my hometown come August was enough to make me pay a tutor out of pocket to teach me everything I needed to know about sines and cosines to finish the year.
As in all relationships cemented under fear and threat of physical duress, math and I have warily circled one another ever since then. I bust it out pretty much only when I have to calculate a tip, and in turn, it's been generous enough to leave me pretty well alone. I managed to graduate from college never having taken Calculus, a loophole in the graduation requirements that is probably the main reason I still give money to my alma mater. I even managed to avoid math as I prepared for the postgrad world, choosing to take the LSAT and instead spend months practicing logic problems (which, in a Stockholm syndrome kind of way, I found myself really liking by the time I took the damn test).
But then I decided law school was not for me and that I would get my master's in an arcane social science instead. Wait, you mean there's a MATH section on the GRE? I am DONE with that shit! I shoveled out that brain space long ago to make room for Herodotus and Thucydides!
The last several months have been full of probably not enough GRE studying. There was lots of sitting with Kaplan and Princeton Review GRE books in my lap, vacantly watching Instant Star or reruns of Scrubs but the actual studying, the kind that involves taking practice tests and writing out vocabulary words and algebraic formulas, didn't really begin until I went to Michigan to take care of my Dad. Like, um, a month ago. I work well under pressure, what can I say?
Apparently, I work best under the kind of pressure that leaves the scholar curled in the fetal position mumbling "IcantdothisIcantdothis," because when my score popped on the screen on Saturday it took every ounce of self-control in my exhausted body not to go "EEEEEEEEP." Because not only did I score much higher than I needed to get into my program, my math score was forty points higher than my verbal.
I'm pretty sure that this means we should all be preparing for the apocalypse, and I highly encourage you to get your affairs in order, tell your loved ones that you love them and start praying to whatever God you worship. Because the day that I do anything math-related better than anything involving big words and being a windbag is truly a sign that we are living in the End Times.
It's peculiar. I've done a lot to be proud of (and a not-small amount to be ashamed of) in my adult life, but the most satisfying moment of my entire weekend was sitting at that computer wearing dopey noise-blocker headphones, swaddled in my grotty Universiteit van Amsterdam sweatshirt and realizing that I STILL KNEW THE QUADRATIC FORMULA AND WAS CAPABLE OF SOLVING FOR X IN MULTIPLE STATES. I was really ridiculously proud of this, maybe a bit more so than of buying a condo. Hell, anyone can email a realtor and a lender, but can everyone out there multiply radical fractions? Shit no, soldier.
Math and I have always had a nasty relationship. Knowing from an early age that I would never work in a field that would require me to know what a factorial is or to care about the density of anything except a stupid colleague, I would cheerfully have ignored math for all of my days. Except, math, in the form of mandatory graduation requirements from the state of Michigan, sensed my disinterest and set out to destroy me via its most powerful weapon: impact on my high school GPA. Alphabetically listed, my record is a series of unblemished As - English, Drama, History-- until we get to "Math," which, bored with the distinguished company it keeps, skips straight on down to C territory. No sense wallowing in the B range when we can infect more insidiously, right?
So after math destroyed my chances of getting into a great college, it almost took away college for me, period. It was second semester, senior year, and I'd been accepted to my first-choice college for four months. I'd officially stopped caring about anything related to school, my hometown, pretty much my entire life up to that point and was now living entirely in my head. Trig class, in particular, was spent staring out the window mentally decorating my dorm room and fantasizing about striding down the marble halls of the Capitol, stiletto heels clacking as I breezed through the history-laden halls on my way to a Very Important Meeting where my opinion would Matter.
Since trigonometry is founded on the principles of triangles and not superiority complexes, it shouldn't have been a shock when I found out I was failing. But of course it was. Seeing an actual "E" (we didn't use F; some bullshit about how it's bad for self-esteem or whatever) on my midsemester report snapped me back into reality. Well, what really did it was my mother filling my head with horror stories of students whose college admission she'd personally revoked based on their senior grades. It was a brilliant strategy on her part. She never actually had to finish the story, saying "... and after I revoked his admission he went to community college, dropped out the first semester and now works at the car wash on Stadium and Hill." The merest hint that I wouldn't be able to leave my hometown come August was enough to make me pay a tutor out of pocket to teach me everything I needed to know about sines and cosines to finish the year.
As in all relationships cemented under fear and threat of physical duress, math and I have warily circled one another ever since then. I bust it out pretty much only when I have to calculate a tip, and in turn, it's been generous enough to leave me pretty well alone. I managed to graduate from college never having taken Calculus, a loophole in the graduation requirements that is probably the main reason I still give money to my alma mater. I even managed to avoid math as I prepared for the postgrad world, choosing to take the LSAT and instead spend months practicing logic problems (which, in a Stockholm syndrome kind of way, I found myself really liking by the time I took the damn test).
But then I decided law school was not for me and that I would get my master's in an arcane social science instead. Wait, you mean there's a MATH section on the GRE? I am DONE with that shit! I shoveled out that brain space long ago to make room for Herodotus and Thucydides!
The last several months have been full of probably not enough GRE studying. There was lots of sitting with Kaplan and Princeton Review GRE books in my lap, vacantly watching Instant Star or reruns of Scrubs but the actual studying, the kind that involves taking practice tests and writing out vocabulary words and algebraic formulas, didn't really begin until I went to Michigan to take care of my Dad. Like, um, a month ago. I work well under pressure, what can I say?
Apparently, I work best under the kind of pressure that leaves the scholar curled in the fetal position mumbling "IcantdothisIcantdothis," because when my score popped on the screen on Saturday it took every ounce of self-control in my exhausted body not to go "EEEEEEEEP." Because not only did I score much higher than I needed to get into my program, my math score was forty points higher than my verbal.
I'm pretty sure that this means we should all be preparing for the apocalypse, and I highly encourage you to get your affairs in order, tell your loved ones that you love them and start praying to whatever God you worship. Because the day that I do anything math-related better than anything involving big words and being a windbag is truly a sign that we are living in the End Times.
Friday, February 16, 2007
bad employee
It all really hit me last night walking home from B's after greasy Chinese from Tony's and a half bottle of crappy champagne. I didn't have time for any of those things, for conversation or dumplings or Cook's. In the last five days I've bought a condo, crammed for the GREs, given up my apartment, written a paper proposal and liquidated resources that have been in my family for six decades. It was all going smoothly, but the speed was overwhelming and felt out of my control. As I picked my way through the frozen slush, trying not to slip on the black ice, I couldn't focus on the task of walking home without falling because there was so much crowding my brain.
I got home and looked around at my apartment, crammed full of books and bakeware and scarves and realized I was leaving this home I've been in for two years. That I had twenty-nine days to keep living my normal life and somehow pick it up and move it two miles west. And I fell apart.
Panic attacks are awful. Your heart starts to race and your vision blurs so that even as you bend your head down to gasp for breath you dart your eyes up, trying to get a lock on something right in front of you that seems to be zooming away. I knelt down in my entry way, my dirty pants hems soaking my butt as my shoulders heaved, shout-whispering "IcantdothisicantdothisicantdothisICANTDOTHIS."
I eventually got it together enough to stand up and lock the door behind me, then began pacing my apartment. It was like the photos on my fridge and the furniture and even Sadie were there in a conspiracy to make things impossible. Everything around me was spiraling away and closing in at the same time. I started pacing back and forth, erratically sitting down Indian-style and beginning to put things in piles. Start packing! I won't these tank tops before I move! Wait, I haven't worn these tank tops in six years! Why do I still own them? What kind of person doesn't give her unworn clothes to charity? Wait, don't start packing now, you idiot! I should study for the GRE! I completely screwed up the geometry section of the last test I took! FUUUUUUUCK I'm going to bomb the GRE and not be able to get into my program and then what the hell did I buy a place for because it traps me in DC and I'm wasting all this money and FUUUUUUUCK.
Repeat until 4 AM.
I always feel terribly when I call in sick to work for mental health days. I do it maybe twice a year, which is twice more than a good employee probably should. But I had to do it today. I woke up at 6:30 after a long night of freaking out, and I was a damn wreck. Puffy, red-rimmed eyes anchored by circles so dark it looked like I'd been punched. I was utterly, bone-achingly exhausted. Shockingly, a fourth consecutive night with less than four hours of sleep had not exactly left me anywhere close to satisfied. I was still shaky and nowhere closer to tackling any of the things that made me freak out the night before. They were all still there AND the GRE was now two days away.
I emailed my boss, went back to sleep and woke up feeling even worse. Now I'd managed to fail at the one thing that was entirely in my control-- being a good employee. I put myself ahead of the good of my group, and no matter how much I rationalize it, that I needed this day, that I needed to get my shit together because there would be no way to tackle both my many Friday work meetings or the test on Saturday feeling the way I was feeling, I didn't feel right about it. Once I had enough clarity to see beyond my own needs, I saw how selfish it was to take a day for myself at a critical time. Mostly, I just really, really hated letting my boss down, and hated myself for doing it.
I'm feeling better now, now that I've managed to get some sleep, relearn the Pythagorean Theorem and best of all, heard from my agent that the seller now wants to close two weeks later than we originally planned. This further convinces me that there is a benevolent God watching over this entire "buying a condo" thing, and I just fervently hope He continues His good works through moving day.
But my guilt at being a bad employee is still very much around, exacerbated by the guilt I feel at feeling guilty for taking care of myself. This, to any male readers out there, is why women worry about wrinkles so much. Because of specimens like me who elevate neurotic to its purest, most distilled form: Insanity.
I got home and looked around at my apartment, crammed full of books and bakeware and scarves and realized I was leaving this home I've been in for two years. That I had twenty-nine days to keep living my normal life and somehow pick it up and move it two miles west. And I fell apart.
Panic attacks are awful. Your heart starts to race and your vision blurs so that even as you bend your head down to gasp for breath you dart your eyes up, trying to get a lock on something right in front of you that seems to be zooming away. I knelt down in my entry way, my dirty pants hems soaking my butt as my shoulders heaved, shout-whispering "IcantdothisicantdothisicantdothisICANTDOTHIS."
I eventually got it together enough to stand up and lock the door behind me, then began pacing my apartment. It was like the photos on my fridge and the furniture and even Sadie were there in a conspiracy to make things impossible. Everything around me was spiraling away and closing in at the same time. I started pacing back and forth, erratically sitting down Indian-style and beginning to put things in piles. Start packing! I won't these tank tops before I move! Wait, I haven't worn these tank tops in six years! Why do I still own them? What kind of person doesn't give her unworn clothes to charity? Wait, don't start packing now, you idiot! I should study for the GRE! I completely screwed up the geometry section of the last test I took! FUUUUUUUCK I'm going to bomb the GRE and not be able to get into my program and then what the hell did I buy a place for because it traps me in DC and I'm wasting all this money and FUUUUUUUCK.
Repeat until 4 AM.
I always feel terribly when I call in sick to work for mental health days. I do it maybe twice a year, which is twice more than a good employee probably should. But I had to do it today. I woke up at 6:30 after a long night of freaking out, and I was a damn wreck. Puffy, red-rimmed eyes anchored by circles so dark it looked like I'd been punched. I was utterly, bone-achingly exhausted. Shockingly, a fourth consecutive night with less than four hours of sleep had not exactly left me anywhere close to satisfied. I was still shaky and nowhere closer to tackling any of the things that made me freak out the night before. They were all still there AND the GRE was now two days away.
I emailed my boss, went back to sleep and woke up feeling even worse. Now I'd managed to fail at the one thing that was entirely in my control-- being a good employee. I put myself ahead of the good of my group, and no matter how much I rationalize it, that I needed this day, that I needed to get my shit together because there would be no way to tackle both my many Friday work meetings or the test on Saturday feeling the way I was feeling, I didn't feel right about it. Once I had enough clarity to see beyond my own needs, I saw how selfish it was to take a day for myself at a critical time. Mostly, I just really, really hated letting my boss down, and hated myself for doing it.
I'm feeling better now, now that I've managed to get some sleep, relearn the Pythagorean Theorem and best of all, heard from my agent that the seller now wants to close two weeks later than we originally planned. This further convinces me that there is a benevolent God watching over this entire "buying a condo" thing, and I just fervently hope He continues His good works through moving day.
But my guilt at being a bad employee is still very much around, exacerbated by the guilt I feel at feeling guilty for taking care of myself. This, to any male readers out there, is why women worry about wrinkles so much. Because of specimens like me who elevate neurotic to its purest, most distilled form: Insanity.
Wednesday, February 14, 2007
pretty much the most awesome birthday present ever
I just bought a condo.
Uhhhh...
This is the part where I freak the fuck out.
But EJ, you ask, where exactly is this coming from? Don't you have a really cute, reasonably-priced apartment in DC in a neighborhood you adore that is close to a lot of your friends.
Well. If you want to get all technical about it, yes.
But this has been brewing for a while. I have my reasons, a lot of which relate to my personal finances, which, um, we really don't need to discuss on a website where I also talk about instances in which I've been semi-naked in public or discussed my really passionate feelings issues on things like feminism and leggings. But trust me, the reasons are there and this is a great investment for me and plus, this condo is so excellent, I feel as though I have finally tasted the ambrosial nectar of true love. And oh, it is sweet.
This condo was the third I'd seen since beginning my search on Saturday. Yes, you read that right. Last Saturday. My birthday. I actually rescheduled the initial showing of the condo because I was so epically hungover from my party that I had to IM a friend begging her to order me pizza because I'd lost my cell phone at the Black Cat and the thought of leaving my apartment (much less my couch) to get food was too horrifying to think about. And yes, thank you, a bank did approve me for a mortgage. Luckily my credit score does not reflect my rate of consumption for Stella and Wild Turkey, or I'd be living in a box by the Metro.
Thank God I got the pizza, slept it off and eventually made it to see this condo last night. People, it's a dream. I walked in and fell smack head over heels in love. The hardwood floors, the poky warm kitchen, the in-unit laundry (never again will I lose pillowcases on a sidewalk), the DEN next door to the bedroom... the real estate agent almost had to scrape me off the floor when I saw the DEN.
But I was nervous. It was the third place I'd seen and it was the third day of my search. The moment you dip a toe into the murky, eel-infested waters of DC real estate, you start to hear scores of horror stories from buyers who have looked for months, had to readjust their expectations and lower their hopes, found a place and got into a vicious bidding war only to be outbid and have to eventually settle on an Anacostia rat-infested basement with "growth potential" that costs as much as a four-bedroom colonial in Leesburg. And here, right away, was a place with all of my essentials, almost all of my preferences and the asking price was significantly UNDER my spending cap. IT COULD NOT BE THIS EASY.
And of course it wasn't. My heart, which by this point had leapt so high it was hovering around my tonsils, plummented to my toes when the agent told me the place already had an offer. On my apartment? Someone else put an offer on MY apartment? It's only been on the market for eleven days! I'm the only person insane enough to want to put an offer on a place so soon! And it's MY CONDO. IT'S CALLING TO ME.
The next twenty-four hours saw a blur of frantic faxes, emails, calls and one very snowy visit to a real estate office in Maryland. My luck continued when my boss, already pretty much one of my favorite people, kindly looked the other way as I did practically nothing job-related all day today. Most bosses would berate me for being gone from the office for almost three hours on a personal matter; she gave me the recipe for the Linzer torte she baked for my birthday and loaned me her springform pan so that I could make one myself. Seriously, I am the luckiest bitch around these parts.
After biting my nails down to the painful quick and taking yet another practice GRE Quantitative section (yes, I'm also taking the GRE on Saturday. Have I mentioned I'm insane?) I went home to wait for my agent to call. She'd been very optimistic that we would be attractive to the seller and that, if necessary, we'd win in a bidding war. I was convinced that the bidding war would escalate into armed conflict and that some unknown bidder would break my heart and maybe somehow manage to destroy my credit in the process.
That didn't happen. They accepted my offer of the asking price. We close in thirty days. I'm going to be a homeowner.
Sweet bejesus shitfuck.
In all seriousness, I have huge, immense thanks to give to the incomparable Velvet. Most of you already know how much this girl rocks, but did you know that she took time out of her Saturday to walk me through the scarily intimidating process of buying DC real estate, just because I bought her a cup of coffee. She made this whole crazy idea of buying a condo seem feasible and valid and I'm so very thankful that she was willing to answer all of my questions, big and small.
Now, who has some bubble wrap I can borrow?
Uhhhh...
This is the part where I freak the fuck out.
But EJ, you ask, where exactly is this coming from? Don't you have a really cute, reasonably-priced apartment in DC in a neighborhood you adore that is close to a lot of your friends.
Well. If you want to get all technical about it, yes.
But this has been brewing for a while. I have my reasons, a lot of which relate to my personal finances, which, um, we really don't need to discuss on a website where I also talk about instances in which I've been semi-naked in public or discussed my really passionate feelings issues on things like feminism and leggings. But trust me, the reasons are there and this is a great investment for me and plus, this condo is so excellent, I feel as though I have finally tasted the ambrosial nectar of true love. And oh, it is sweet.
This condo was the third I'd seen since beginning my search on Saturday. Yes, you read that right. Last Saturday. My birthday. I actually rescheduled the initial showing of the condo because I was so epically hungover from my party that I had to IM a friend begging her to order me pizza because I'd lost my cell phone at the Black Cat and the thought of leaving my apartment (much less my couch) to get food was too horrifying to think about. And yes, thank you, a bank did approve me for a mortgage. Luckily my credit score does not reflect my rate of consumption for Stella and Wild Turkey, or I'd be living in a box by the Metro.
Thank God I got the pizza, slept it off and eventually made it to see this condo last night. People, it's a dream. I walked in and fell smack head over heels in love. The hardwood floors, the poky warm kitchen, the in-unit laundry (never again will I lose pillowcases on a sidewalk), the DEN next door to the bedroom... the real estate agent almost had to scrape me off the floor when I saw the DEN.
But I was nervous. It was the third place I'd seen and it was the third day of my search. The moment you dip a toe into the murky, eel-infested waters of DC real estate, you start to hear scores of horror stories from buyers who have looked for months, had to readjust their expectations and lower their hopes, found a place and got into a vicious bidding war only to be outbid and have to eventually settle on an Anacostia rat-infested basement with "growth potential" that costs as much as a four-bedroom colonial in Leesburg. And here, right away, was a place with all of my essentials, almost all of my preferences and the asking price was significantly UNDER my spending cap. IT COULD NOT BE THIS EASY.
And of course it wasn't. My heart, which by this point had leapt so high it was hovering around my tonsils, plummented to my toes when the agent told me the place already had an offer. On my apartment? Someone else put an offer on MY apartment? It's only been on the market for eleven days! I'm the only person insane enough to want to put an offer on a place so soon! And it's MY CONDO. IT'S CALLING TO ME.
The next twenty-four hours saw a blur of frantic faxes, emails, calls and one very snowy visit to a real estate office in Maryland. My luck continued when my boss, already pretty much one of my favorite people, kindly looked the other way as I did practically nothing job-related all day today. Most bosses would berate me for being gone from the office for almost three hours on a personal matter; she gave me the recipe for the Linzer torte she baked for my birthday and loaned me her springform pan so that I could make one myself. Seriously, I am the luckiest bitch around these parts.
After biting my nails down to the painful quick and taking yet another practice GRE Quantitative section (yes, I'm also taking the GRE on Saturday. Have I mentioned I'm insane?) I went home to wait for my agent to call. She'd been very optimistic that we would be attractive to the seller and that, if necessary, we'd win in a bidding war. I was convinced that the bidding war would escalate into armed conflict and that some unknown bidder would break my heart and maybe somehow manage to destroy my credit in the process.
That didn't happen. They accepted my offer of the asking price. We close in thirty days. I'm going to be a homeowner.
Sweet bejesus shitfuck.
In all seriousness, I have huge, immense thanks to give to the incomparable Velvet. Most of you already know how much this girl rocks, but did you know that she took time out of her Saturday to walk me through the scarily intimidating process of buying DC real estate, just because I bought her a cup of coffee. She made this whole crazy idea of buying a condo seem feasible and valid and I'm so very thankful that she was willing to answer all of my questions, big and small.
Now, who has some bubble wrap I can borrow?
Monday, February 12, 2007
you say it's your fugday
I arrived in Virginia at 10:00 on a Saturday morning, an hour much better suited for sleeping, watching reruns of Felicity on WE! Women's Entertainment, or sleeping. Did I mention the sleeping? Because I missed the sleeping. But I had a transaction to conduct, and it was not the sort of transaction that one wants people to witness. Hence the early hour and the disguise.
Hidden behind giant sunglasses, hair stuffed under a ratty newsboy cap, I parked my car in the nearly empty lot and slithered into the building. I knew exactly what I wanted and I knew who would help me get it, but I really hoped that I could avoid asking for help. I was on the kind of clandestine mission that is best conducted solo.
Poking around for a few minutes, I quickly realized I was out of my league. It was the Three Bears version of shame shopping; this one too thick, that one too small, these ones oddly shaped. I was lost, and I had to ask for the way back.
"Excuse me," I murmered until my breath at the woman beside me, "are these all the leggings Nordstrom's carries?"
GAH. I said it out loud. I IMPLICITLY STATED THAT I WAS INTERESTED IN PURCHASING A PAIR OF LEGGINGS.
Of course, the saleswoman failed to take stock of my shamed tone and started booming at me in a voice more situated to selling cattle than selling hoisery. "WEEEELLL,' she hollered "we got these short ones here, what do you call those?"
"capris?"
"Riiight, we got those cap-ris here, and then we got these BIG THICK ones that are really more like wool tights because they got feet on them and-- hey, Sheila, does BPS carry leggings upstairs, or maybe Juniors has 'em?"
Oh, yes, let's involve more people! Let's involve every floor in the store! What about the haberdasher, might he carry a pair?!
"Um, actually, I think I'm fine with these capri tights to wear under my dress tonight, so I really don't think I need leggings after all. But thanks for your help."
"Honey, hold on, we got someone on the phone from upstairs! Sheila--"
"Sheila"-- more like "Beelzebub"-- hollered from behind the desk: "They got some capri leggings upstairs but all they got is extra small and small, so I don't know if that'll work for you."
Awesome. Thanks for that, friend.
Fearful of any further humiliations at the hands of clueless salesgirls, I threw my credit card at the counter and scribbled a signature on the receipt, so excited to get out of there that I didn't even notice that I spent eighteen dollars on something that later that night, I would snag on a broken beer bottle. They weren't technically leggings, after all, and I could leave with dignity somewhat intact.
I'll admit it, I've come to love the look of capri tights with short dresses. It's flattering, sassy, and if you have the right balance of shoes, dress and tights it can be pretty adorable. I looked great at my birthday and was actually comfortable (these shoes are amazing: I've never worn shoes that are both this cute and so wonderfully not painful. Buy them immediately).
I can't explain why then I'm so vehemently opposed to leggings, and why I felt such shame at even saying the word out loud. It's a negligible difference at best, and yet it's the difference between my ratty sweatpants and a Juicy Couture tracksuit. Between a tasteful, quiet Coach bag and a Louis Vuitton logo-ed tote that screams "I SPENT LOTS OF MONEY ON THIS BAG. THIS BAG WAS EXPENSIVE." Tights say "I could totally wear these to my modern dance class" while leggings say "I spent forty bucks on something that makes my ass look the hump of a beached whale."
All I know is, the day you see me in leggings is the day I encourage you to slap me upside the face with that same broken beer bottle and send me to fashion rehab. And no, capri tights are not the same thing as leggings. Says me, that's who.
Hidden behind giant sunglasses, hair stuffed under a ratty newsboy cap, I parked my car in the nearly empty lot and slithered into the building. I knew exactly what I wanted and I knew who would help me get it, but I really hoped that I could avoid asking for help. I was on the kind of clandestine mission that is best conducted solo.
Poking around for a few minutes, I quickly realized I was out of my league. It was the Three Bears version of shame shopping; this one too thick, that one too small, these ones oddly shaped. I was lost, and I had to ask for the way back.
"Excuse me," I murmered until my breath at the woman beside me, "are these all the leggings Nordstrom's carries?"
GAH. I said it out loud. I IMPLICITLY STATED THAT I WAS INTERESTED IN PURCHASING A PAIR OF LEGGINGS.
Of course, the saleswoman failed to take stock of my shamed tone and started booming at me in a voice more situated to selling cattle than selling hoisery. "WEEEELLL,' she hollered "we got these short ones here, what do you call those?"
"capris?"
"Riiight, we got those cap-ris here, and then we got these BIG THICK ones that are really more like wool tights because they got feet on them and-- hey, Sheila, does BPS carry leggings upstairs, or maybe Juniors has 'em?"
Oh, yes, let's involve more people! Let's involve every floor in the store! What about the haberdasher, might he carry a pair?!
"Um, actually, I think I'm fine with these capri tights to wear under my dress tonight, so I really don't think I need leggings after all. But thanks for your help."
"Honey, hold on, we got someone on the phone from upstairs! Sheila--"
"Sheila"-- more like "Beelzebub"-- hollered from behind the desk: "They got some capri leggings upstairs but all they got is extra small and small, so I don't know if that'll work for you."
Awesome. Thanks for that, friend.
Fearful of any further humiliations at the hands of clueless salesgirls, I threw my credit card at the counter and scribbled a signature on the receipt, so excited to get out of there that I didn't even notice that I spent eighteen dollars on something that later that night, I would snag on a broken beer bottle. They weren't technically leggings, after all, and I could leave with dignity somewhat intact.
I'll admit it, I've come to love the look of capri tights with short dresses. It's flattering, sassy, and if you have the right balance of shoes, dress and tights it can be pretty adorable. I looked great at my birthday and was actually comfortable (these shoes are amazing: I've never worn shoes that are both this cute and so wonderfully not painful. Buy them immediately).
I can't explain why then I'm so vehemently opposed to leggings, and why I felt such shame at even saying the word out loud. It's a negligible difference at best, and yet it's the difference between my ratty sweatpants and a Juicy Couture tracksuit. Between a tasteful, quiet Coach bag and a Louis Vuitton logo-ed tote that screams "I SPENT LOTS OF MONEY ON THIS BAG. THIS BAG WAS EXPENSIVE." Tights say "I could totally wear these to my modern dance class" while leggings say "I spent forty bucks on something that makes my ass look the hump of a beached whale."
All I know is, the day you see me in leggings is the day I encourage you to slap me upside the face with that same broken beer bottle and send me to fashion rehab. And no, capri tights are not the same thing as leggings. Says me, that's who.
Friday, February 09, 2007
of course, she isn't even legal yet
EJ: god, how much of a grownup am i?
EJ: i'll have to not get too drunk at my own birthday because i made an appointment with a real estate agent for the next morning
Jen: tee hee
Jen: I'm seeing a concert tonight
Jen: Margot & the Nuclear So&So's
EJ: i'm seeing alvin ailey at the kennedy center
EJ: and we're meeting for martinis first
Jen: god, you are OLD.
EJ: i'll have to not get too drunk at my own birthday because i made an appointment with a real estate agent for the next morning
Jen: tee hee
Jen: I'm seeing a concert tonight
Jen: Margot & the Nuclear So&So's
EJ: i'm seeing alvin ailey at the kennedy center
EJ: and we're meeting for martinis first
Jen: god, you are OLD.
Tuesday, February 06, 2007
your daughter is a whore and it's all paris hilton's fault
There are days when I turn on my computer, read headlines at Wonkette and the Washington Post and the New York Times and feel better about the state of humanity. Those days occur pretty rarely, though there was a significant glut of them around October and early November of 2006. Far more typical is the eye-rolling that devolves into sputtering gasping at the sheer stupidity and uselessness of what passes for much of contemporary journalism.
Given the state of the Iraq War, continuing tensions with North Korea, a massive political scandal in the administration of pretty much our only major ally, the continuing mess in what remains of New Orleans, naturally Newsweek would make this pressing issue its U.S. cover story:
"Are we raising a generation of what one L.A. mom calls 'prosti-tots,' young girls who dress like tarts, live for Dolce & Gabbana purses and can neither spell nor define such words as 'adequate?' Or does the rise of the bad girl signal something more profound, a coarsening of the culture and a devaluation of sex, love and lasting commitment?"
First of all, if you don't want your daughter to care about Dolce and Gabbana purses, you might consider not living in Los Angeles. Just a thought.
More pressingly, no, "the rise of the bad girl" does not signal something more profound. The piece goes on to say that teenage pregnancy rates are down by 35 percent since 1990 (according to the Center for Disease Control) and that adolescent drug use continues a decade-long decline. University enrollment is soaring, youth voter turnout in the 2006 election was the highest ever for a non-Presidential year and every major study shows that today's teenagers are choosing to be far more accepting when it comes to issues of race and sexual orientation than their parents ever were. Maybe some people think this is a bad idea. In my experience, these are people who pontificate one thing from their asses and then get caught doing something else with their asses entirely, something perhaps involving a male masseuse.
So there's tons of data discussing how even though Britney's cooter is hanging out for all the world to see, kids are managing to keep it together and not be led into a dangerous world of blowing rails off of hookers' asses while not doing their homework. Naturally, Newsweek mentioned this data in passing around Page 4, bookending it with anecdotal descriptions of seven-year-old girls who love Lindsay Lohan (and who will therefore do everything bad that she does) and Bad Girls of Yore, including society-destroying whores that are hugely relevant to Today's Youth like Gypsy Rose Lee, Ingrid Bergman and-- I absolutely swear I am not making this up-- the corpse of a two-thousand year old German teenager who likely committed adultery.
Yeah, that sounds like something America should be worried about. German mummy sluts.
Here's where the eye-rolling at the stupidity (mummy sluts!) segues into the seething. The headline is "Girls Gone Wild: What Are Celebs Teaching Kids?" But not ONCE in the entire piece do the authors express any concern for the virtue of America's sons. Presumably, being equipped with penises, they are also more equipped to think for themselves and are not as susceptible to the naughty lessons being taught by today's celebrities. It is our daughters who are in danger from these bad examples, our daughters who are unable to separate a song from the person who sings it and the clothes she wears, our daughters whose futures are being toyed with as they take that first step (watching the remake of Freaky Friday) towards the inevitable conclusion (passing out in the lobby of the Chateau Marmont wearing nothing but smeared eyeliner and the dual stenches of vodka and regret).
Many conservative thinkers view our sex-drenched culture as dangerous; liberals are more prone to wave off fears about the chastity of our daughters as reactionary.
Seriously? "The chastity of our daughters?" How is it possible that such antiquated, sexist language was ever allowed into a publication that fancies itself to contain "news" and "facts?" I guess I must be one of those "liberals" because I think it's disrespectful to talk about young women as if they had to be protected from the world, the better to preserve their virtue and retain their dowry.
I will grant you this: there is a crassness to a lot of pop culture that as an adult I love but that if I were a parent, I would find troubling. Oh, and also in Blindingly Obvious Truths, the sun rose this morning and it's cold out.
But where, exactly, are the guys here? Why is it that Paris Hilton is a lightning rod for everything that is wrong with America but walking genital wart Brandon Davis is never accused of leading young men astray? Why is Lindsay Lohan a slut, but no one raised an eyebrow when Matt Leinart knocked up a fellow college student in between tackling La Hilton and Alyssa Milano (oh, and dating Kristin Cavalleri when she was underage. But I'm sure all they did was talk and hold hands and drink malteds)?
It's not so much that male celebrities behaving badly never get called on it. They often do. Kevin Federline is a national joke, so much so that he's turning it into a full-time job (cheap shot alert: the first one he's ever had). But the difference is, his behavior and actions are his alone. There are no journalists wringing their hands wondering if his example will lead to a nation of boys pursuing careers as back-up dancers and babydaddies. No one is tracking the correlation between his fame and any rise in the sale of wifebeaters. This article doesn't have a single quote from a teacher, parent or media-savvy social researcher along the lines of "Diddy just had twins out of wedlock and is hanging out in clubs all night. What kind of lesson does that teach my son?"
It doesn't teach any lesson to your son, Hypothetical Person! Just like it doesn't teach any lesson to your daughter when yet another starlet forgets to wear underwear or has a sex tape "accidentally" leak out. Except for maybe, "wow, I should really never tape myself having sex. That is a bad, bad idea." Luckily, that is a lesson you could also teach them in other ways, ways not involving nightvision.
If you're doing your job as a parent, you're raising someone who doesn't take pop culture as gospel and can tell the difference between entertainment and role models. You're there to answer questions and lead by example. You teach them about consumer culture and provide a foundation that allows them to make educated choices about what they will consume. You give a daughter the same respect you'd give a son, and you'd certainly never let them read scare tactic articles like this that are just designed to fan the flames of the Mommy Wars or the Culture Wars or whatever stupid Wars we're in now.
Because for all the professed worry about young girls, this article is one of the most disrespectful, hysterical, anti-woman pieces of swill I've come across in the "mainstream" media. Really, shame on you, Newsweek. Talk about a lousy way to make a buck.
Given the state of the Iraq War, continuing tensions with North Korea, a massive political scandal in the administration of pretty much our only major ally, the continuing mess in what remains of New Orleans, naturally Newsweek would make this pressing issue its U.S. cover story:
"Are we raising a generation of what one L.A. mom calls 'prosti-tots,' young girls who dress like tarts, live for Dolce & Gabbana purses and can neither spell nor define such words as 'adequate?' Or does the rise of the bad girl signal something more profound, a coarsening of the culture and a devaluation of sex, love and lasting commitment?"First of all, if you don't want your daughter to care about Dolce and Gabbana purses, you might consider not living in Los Angeles. Just a thought.
More pressingly, no, "the rise of the bad girl" does not signal something more profound. The piece goes on to say that teenage pregnancy rates are down by 35 percent since 1990 (according to the Center for Disease Control) and that adolescent drug use continues a decade-long decline. University enrollment is soaring, youth voter turnout in the 2006 election was the highest ever for a non-Presidential year and every major study shows that today's teenagers are choosing to be far more accepting when it comes to issues of race and sexual orientation than their parents ever were. Maybe some people think this is a bad idea. In my experience, these are people who pontificate one thing from their asses and then get caught doing something else with their asses entirely, something perhaps involving a male masseuse.
So there's tons of data discussing how even though Britney's cooter is hanging out for all the world to see, kids are managing to keep it together and not be led into a dangerous world of blowing rails off of hookers' asses while not doing their homework. Naturally, Newsweek mentioned this data in passing around Page 4, bookending it with anecdotal descriptions of seven-year-old girls who love Lindsay Lohan (and who will therefore do everything bad that she does) and Bad Girls of Yore, including society-destroying whores that are hugely relevant to Today's Youth like Gypsy Rose Lee, Ingrid Bergman and-- I absolutely swear I am not making this up-- the corpse of a two-thousand year old German teenager who likely committed adultery.
Yeah, that sounds like something America should be worried about. German mummy sluts.
Here's where the eye-rolling at the stupidity (mummy sluts!) segues into the seething. The headline is "Girls Gone Wild: What Are Celebs Teaching Kids?" But not ONCE in the entire piece do the authors express any concern for the virtue of America's sons. Presumably, being equipped with penises, they are also more equipped to think for themselves and are not as susceptible to the naughty lessons being taught by today's celebrities. It is our daughters who are in danger from these bad examples, our daughters who are unable to separate a song from the person who sings it and the clothes she wears, our daughters whose futures are being toyed with as they take that first step (watching the remake of Freaky Friday) towards the inevitable conclusion (passing out in the lobby of the Chateau Marmont wearing nothing but smeared eyeliner and the dual stenches of vodka and regret).
Many conservative thinkers view our sex-drenched culture as dangerous; liberals are more prone to wave off fears about the chastity of our daughters as reactionary.
Seriously? "The chastity of our daughters?" How is it possible that such antiquated, sexist language was ever allowed into a publication that fancies itself to contain "news" and "facts?" I guess I must be one of those "liberals" because I think it's disrespectful to talk about young women as if they had to be protected from the world, the better to preserve their virtue and retain their dowry.
I will grant you this: there is a crassness to a lot of pop culture that as an adult I love but that if I were a parent, I would find troubling. Oh, and also in Blindingly Obvious Truths, the sun rose this morning and it's cold out.
But where, exactly, are the guys here? Why is it that Paris Hilton is a lightning rod for everything that is wrong with America but walking genital wart Brandon Davis is never accused of leading young men astray? Why is Lindsay Lohan a slut, but no one raised an eyebrow when Matt Leinart knocked up a fellow college student in between tackling La Hilton and Alyssa Milano (oh, and dating Kristin Cavalleri when she was underage. But I'm sure all they did was talk and hold hands and drink malteds)?
It's not so much that male celebrities behaving badly never get called on it. They often do. Kevin Federline is a national joke, so much so that he's turning it into a full-time job (cheap shot alert: the first one he's ever had). But the difference is, his behavior and actions are his alone. There are no journalists wringing their hands wondering if his example will lead to a nation of boys pursuing careers as back-up dancers and babydaddies. No one is tracking the correlation between his fame and any rise in the sale of wifebeaters. This article doesn't have a single quote from a teacher, parent or media-savvy social researcher along the lines of "Diddy just had twins out of wedlock and is hanging out in clubs all night. What kind of lesson does that teach my son?"
It doesn't teach any lesson to your son, Hypothetical Person! Just like it doesn't teach any lesson to your daughter when yet another starlet forgets to wear underwear or has a sex tape "accidentally" leak out. Except for maybe, "wow, I should really never tape myself having sex. That is a bad, bad idea." Luckily, that is a lesson you could also teach them in other ways, ways not involving nightvision.
If you're doing your job as a parent, you're raising someone who doesn't take pop culture as gospel and can tell the difference between entertainment and role models. You're there to answer questions and lead by example. You teach them about consumer culture and provide a foundation that allows them to make educated choices about what they will consume. You give a daughter the same respect you'd give a son, and you'd certainly never let them read scare tactic articles like this that are just designed to fan the flames of the Mommy Wars or the Culture Wars or whatever stupid Wars we're in now.
Because for all the professed worry about young girls, this article is one of the most disrespectful, hysterical, anti-woman pieces of swill I've come across in the "mainstream" media. Really, shame on you, Newsweek. Talk about a lousy way to make a buck.
Monday, February 05, 2007
i gotta wear shades
I'm not sure exactly what happened this weekend, but something definitely shifted. Maybe it was hanging out with all sorts of awesome people and laughing my ass off in a mutual love-fest. Perhaps it was the Fifth Annual Potomac Bedlam Showdown, complete with yours truly catching a pass and running for five whole yards before getting clobbered. Maybe it was the fun of watching the Superbowl with friends old and new and getting to be happy for people who have so much love in their lives and excited that however tangentially, I get to share in it.
But this weekend I felt really light for the first time in a long time, getting things done, kicking ass and taking names and generally being a good person on top of her shit.
I didn't realize how much of a funk I've been in lately until Sunday's lunch with a friend I haven't seen for a while. We've both been mucking through the manure of life over the last few months, dealing with sick family members and complicated encounters with not-worth-it guys. As we were filling one another in on recent events, breathlessly volleying stories like Ping-Pong balls, she paused for a moment.
"Em, I don't want to seem too-- over-reaching. And I feel bad here, because I know I shouldn't get caught up on your life from your blog. But like, recently in your writing, you've seemed pretty down."
Her candor caught me off guard for the tiniest of seconds, but I wasn't offended at all. "You're right," I mused. "I have been depressed lately." I said it with a slight air of surprise and curiosity, almost like it was a compliment. As if finally I had a name for how blue I've been.
It's funny how it takes someone else to point out something that should be obvious. Of course I've been down. Between my dad being sick and alone, winter weather doldrums, living paycheck to paycheck and the fear of being trapped since I know I'm going to be at my job for at least another year, well, yeah, shoot! It'd be easy for even a well-adjusted, organized person to feel a little lost.
I've just been so reluctant to admit that it's not normal for me to go an entire week without my sides hurting from laughter or without going out to new exhibits, concerts, meeting new people. Or that in accidentally drinking so much on a Monday that I was hungover for the next 36 hours, maybe I was not so much having fun as I was trying to self-medicate. I've been reluctant to appear self-indulgent or self-pitying, but that reluctance to do anything about how I was feeling gave me a kind of gray, sluggish approach to daily life. Like when the apartment is a disaster and you have reading to do for class and should really catch up on work email and so you don't go out with friends, but then you wind up spending the entire night eating hummus and watching 13 Going on 30 for the twenty-seventh time and go to bed at 4 AM feeling all bloated and guilty and behind on life. I've done this twice in the last month, in case you were wondering.
I'm not sure if it's good or bad that I got myself out of this funk without getting any professional help. On the one hand, it's nice to know that I have great friends who can help me through the tough stuff and that I'm capable of pulling myself up from a slump and willing happiness to come. On the other hand, maybe I could have gotten over that episode faster if I'd talked to someone about all the crap that was filling my head. Certainly I would have saved Blogger the pain of having to store some really maudlin entries that, dear Internet, you should be most grateful I didn't inflict on your tender eyes.
It's hard to get perspective on a situation when you're smack in the middle of it. After this weekend, I feel like I'm finally getting started with the year after all the false starts in January. I've got big plans in the works, work plans and a birthday to celebrate this weekend. Most importantly, I'll restart 2007 knowing that if I ever get that down again, I shouldn't be afraid to ask for help.
Onwards and upwards.
But this weekend I felt really light for the first time in a long time, getting things done, kicking ass and taking names and generally being a good person on top of her shit.
I didn't realize how much of a funk I've been in lately until Sunday's lunch with a friend I haven't seen for a while. We've both been mucking through the manure of life over the last few months, dealing with sick family members and complicated encounters with not-worth-it guys. As we were filling one another in on recent events, breathlessly volleying stories like Ping-Pong balls, she paused for a moment.
"Em, I don't want to seem too-- over-reaching. And I feel bad here, because I know I shouldn't get caught up on your life from your blog. But like, recently in your writing, you've seemed pretty down."
Her candor caught me off guard for the tiniest of seconds, but I wasn't offended at all. "You're right," I mused. "I have been depressed lately." I said it with a slight air of surprise and curiosity, almost like it was a compliment. As if finally I had a name for how blue I've been.
It's funny how it takes someone else to point out something that should be obvious. Of course I've been down. Between my dad being sick and alone, winter weather doldrums, living paycheck to paycheck and the fear of being trapped since I know I'm going to be at my job for at least another year, well, yeah, shoot! It'd be easy for even a well-adjusted, organized person to feel a little lost.
I've just been so reluctant to admit that it's not normal for me to go an entire week without my sides hurting from laughter or without going out to new exhibits, concerts, meeting new people. Or that in accidentally drinking so much on a Monday that I was hungover for the next 36 hours, maybe I was not so much having fun as I was trying to self-medicate. I've been reluctant to appear self-indulgent or self-pitying, but that reluctance to do anything about how I was feeling gave me a kind of gray, sluggish approach to daily life. Like when the apartment is a disaster and you have reading to do for class and should really catch up on work email and so you don't go out with friends, but then you wind up spending the entire night eating hummus and watching 13 Going on 30 for the twenty-seventh time and go to bed at 4 AM feeling all bloated and guilty and behind on life. I've done this twice in the last month, in case you were wondering.
I'm not sure if it's good or bad that I got myself out of this funk without getting any professional help. On the one hand, it's nice to know that I have great friends who can help me through the tough stuff and that I'm capable of pulling myself up from a slump and willing happiness to come. On the other hand, maybe I could have gotten over that episode faster if I'd talked to someone about all the crap that was filling my head. Certainly I would have saved Blogger the pain of having to store some really maudlin entries that, dear Internet, you should be most grateful I didn't inflict on your tender eyes.
It's hard to get perspective on a situation when you're smack in the middle of it. After this weekend, I feel like I'm finally getting started with the year after all the false starts in January. I've got big plans in the works, work plans and a birthday to celebrate this weekend. Most importantly, I'll restart 2007 knowing that if I ever get that down again, I shouldn't be afraid to ask for help.
Onwards and upwards.
Friday, February 02, 2007
the charms of the written word
In part because today is a celebration of poetry, and in part because I simply cannot have Harry Potter's pelvis at the top of my blog any longer:
A woman I know who's quite blunt
Had a bear trap installed in her...
Oh, you know. It's a base, vernacular term for "vagina"
- David Sedaris, Me Talk Pretty One Day
I've never been a big poetry fan. It's too stifling and/or pretentious for me. Whenever I read poetry or, God forbid, attempt to write it, I feel like I'm playing the part of "someone who reads poetry." Kind of like that scene in Cruel Intentions where Reese Witherspoon's pristine, virginal character is wearing a teeny tiny skirt and yet is posed sitting on a blanket under a sun-dappled tree, reading from a leather-bound book and sitting up with impossibly good posture, as if so full of self-righteousness that she is physically unable to slouch. That is the kind of girl I picture myself aping when I read poetry.
Give me the amateur charms of messy, verbose prose any old day.
A woman I know who's quite blunt
Had a bear trap installed in her...
Oh, you know. It's a base, vernacular term for "vagina"
- David Sedaris, Me Talk Pretty One Day
I've never been a big poetry fan. It's too stifling and/or pretentious for me. Whenever I read poetry or, God forbid, attempt to write it, I feel like I'm playing the part of "someone who reads poetry." Kind of like that scene in Cruel Intentions where Reese Witherspoon's pristine, virginal character is wearing a teeny tiny skirt and yet is posed sitting on a blanket under a sun-dappled tree, reading from a leather-bound book and sitting up with impossibly good posture, as if so full of self-righteousness that she is physically unable to slouch. That is the kind of girl I picture myself aping when I read poetry.
Give me the amateur charms of messy, verbose prose any old day.
Tuesday, January 30, 2007
leave all puns related to wands and engorgio charms in the comments
I think that Daniel Radcliffe will do a smashing job in Equus. It's a great play, and he is an underrated actor. He was hilarious as a bratty little horndog in Extras. However...
There was a time when the phrases "Harry Potter" and "love trail" existed far, far away from one another. I miss that time.
bershonsplosion
When I was in Michigan taking care of my Dad, I dug through what remains of my childhood possessions. After a combined nine moves since I graduated from high school, my parents and I have become expert purgers of memorabilia, ruthlessly throwing out anything not deemed necessary to survival because we know that soon we will have to carry it across state lines with our bare hands. In the snow. And all we get for Christmas is an orange and a nickel.
I'd planned on bringing back a bunch of my old drama club t-shirts for the gym, because nothing makes the Jappy girls who hog the elliptical wrinkle their noses quite like having to share air with someone wearing something reading "Theatre Guild 1996 presents Sartre's No Exit." What I hadn't planned on, however, was the awesomeness of the photos I found buried underneath my Goo Goo Dolls: Dizzy Up The Girl Tour souvenir hoodie.
Paging through them in my parents' basement, I fell on the cement floor laughing. My dad (who had just had surgery six days before) hollered down to make sure I was okay. He thought I was having a seizure.
Wouldn't you fall apart laughing if you pulled these photos out of storage?
[As a primer for what is about to happen, I suggest that you first catch up on the concept of bershon. Read it? Understand it? Did you live it too, seething with silent disdain at everything around you as you awkwardly lumbered your way through the wonder years? I hope so, because you're about to get a crash course in bershon from my adolescence.]
This is the stage crew for my high school theater group production of Much Ado About Nothing. If you want to replicate the effect, here's the formula: gather the ten most awkward misfits from every grade, dress them in black and give them power tools and walkie-talkies. Of course, even if we hadn't just finished running the show, everyone would still probably be in all black anyways. God, we were so deep.
I'm not in this photo because I was in the cast, so I'm probably backstage putting on six layers of eyeliner and white tights. Of course, I did run stage crew for a number of other plays and spent my fair share of time in blacks, listening to the Cure over the whirr of the handsaw in the workshop while waiting for my mom to pick me up after school.
I look at this picture and think "Bershonsplosion."
I'd planned on bringing back a bunch of my old drama club t-shirts for the gym, because nothing makes the Jappy girls who hog the elliptical wrinkle their noses quite like having to share air with someone wearing something reading "Theatre Guild 1996 presents Sartre's No Exit." What I hadn't planned on, however, was the awesomeness of the photos I found buried underneath my Goo Goo Dolls: Dizzy Up The Girl Tour souvenir hoodie.
Paging through them in my parents' basement, I fell on the cement floor laughing. My dad (who had just had surgery six days before) hollered down to make sure I was okay. He thought I was having a seizure.
Wouldn't you fall apart laughing if you pulled these photos out of storage?
[As a primer for what is about to happen, I suggest that you first catch up on the concept of bershon. Read it? Understand it? Did you live it too, seething with silent disdain at everything around you as you awkwardly lumbered your way through the wonder years? I hope so, because you're about to get a crash course in bershon from my adolescence.]
My first Homecoming dance. I went with three of my girlfriends from middle school, none of whom actually WENT to my high school, because I was so scared and embarrassed by life. That's me in the maroon dress (which at least five other girls were wearing that night) and that's my best best best friend Carol in the blue. Note her expression of relative happiness and contentment versus mine of utter humiliation at being forced to take a group photo, like, Mom, can we just GO already? Jeez!
Looking at this picture, I'm very angered by all the time I wasted thinking I was fat. Sweet Mother Mary, I'd kill to have those legs today. Of course, I'd be much nicer to them now. I wouldn't swaddle them in sheer nude pantyhose.
Let's move on:
Bershon: The Play
Scene One: San Juan, Puerto Rico. Our heroes are on the last day of a swanky Caribbean vacation.
EJ: God, this is so MORTIFYING. I can't believe our parents took us on this CRUISE and now want to take pictures in front of this spectacularly gorgeous ocean. What if someone from school is in San Juan and walks by and SEES me posing for this photo?!
Jenny: Nice attitude there, killer. Aren't I adorable with my little short bob and skinny limbs? I'm so lucky I haven't entered my awkward phase yet, unlike SOME people. Everyone says I'm just so cute.
EJ: SHUT UP YOU LITTLE BRAT. GOD, if you could SEE my eyes behind my John Lennon sunglasses, you'd see they were ROLLING BACK INTO MY HEAD FROM DISDAIN. Why is everyone trying to ruin my life?!
This is the stage crew for my high school theater group production of Much Ado About Nothing. If you want to replicate the effect, here's the formula: gather the ten most awkward misfits from every grade, dress them in black and give them power tools and walkie-talkies. Of course, even if we hadn't just finished running the show, everyone would still probably be in all black anyways. God, we were so deep.I'm not in this photo because I was in the cast, so I'm probably backstage putting on six layers of eyeliner and white tights. Of course, I did run stage crew for a number of other plays and spent my fair share of time in blacks, listening to the Cure over the whirr of the handsaw in the workshop while waiting for my mom to pick me up after school.
I look at this picture and think "Bershonsplosion."
This is not so much "bershon" as it is "awesome." Before I did the redesign yesterday, I was going to make this photo into my new banner with the tagline "EJ Takes Life: Reveling in Awkward Moments Since April 2005." But I think it's better for everyone if we don't have to be greeted by that photo every single day.
This is me in seventh grade. I believe that we're at start of term nature camp, and that my arm is in a sling because Ian Olson (the class bully) stepped on it during a game of what was supposed to be touch football.
I have no explanation for the glasses, perm, white denim shorts, pose or the sheer horrible awkwardness of it all.
Monday, January 29, 2007
or a pony. i always wanted a pony.
I've been so busy over the last month, I'd forgotten it's almost my birthday until my mother called last week and asked if I'd email her an Amazon wishlist. Specifically, she said "If I don't have it in my inbox there's no way I'll remember to buy you anything." Oh, how my heart sings at such warm, maternal sentiments.
So what should I ask for? I know what I want, but for some reason Amazon doesn't have a listing for "fistful of cash." Amazon really doesn't have any of the other things I'm considering asking for, which include but are not limited to:
- Tap dancing lessons
- For my father to go another 30 days without having major surgery
- A plane ticket to Austin or San Francisco for vacation this spring
- A case of El Mawby champagne
- An effortlessly perfect score on the GRE, which I am taking in three weeks
- Mothereffing inspiration, because damn, I haven't thought of anything remotely decent to blog about in, oh, foreverish
Bah.
So what should I ask for? I know what I want, but for some reason Amazon doesn't have a listing for "fistful of cash." Amazon really doesn't have any of the other things I'm considering asking for, which include but are not limited to:
- Tap dancing lessons
- For my father to go another 30 days without having major surgery
- A plane ticket to Austin or San Francisco for vacation this spring
- A case of El Mawby champagne
- An effortlessly perfect score on the GRE, which I am taking in three weeks
- Mothereffing inspiration, because damn, I haven't thought of anything remotely decent to blog about in, oh, foreverish
Bah.
Friday, January 26, 2007
what happens when too much higher education happens to otherwise fun people
Jen: think i figured out why i really don't like my clinical prof
EJ: why's that?
Jen: she's the type who mentions Woody Allen when talking about Neuroses
Jen: also, she has Anne Geddes portraits of Celine Dion and babies in her powerpoints
EJ: oh ew
EJ: in what context?
Jen: a sort of attachment theory
Jen: dyads
EJ: as examples that dissociative sociopathy is alive and well in art?
How we both don't get laid more is just beyond me.
EJ: why's that?
Jen: she's the type who mentions Woody Allen when talking about Neuroses
Jen: also, she has Anne Geddes portraits of Celine Dion and babies in her powerpoints
EJ: oh ew
EJ: in what context?
Jen: a sort of attachment theory
Jen: dyads
EJ: as examples that dissociative sociopathy is alive and well in art?
How we both don't get laid more is just beyond me.
Wednesday, January 24, 2007
my highly informed insider opinions on the state of the union
Of all my "DC Moments," my most favorite is when I watched the 2004 State of the Union from the House press gallery. It was my first week as an intern at a DC paper and I'd already thought that I'd died and gone to Nerd Heaven when I got my press pass. The SOTU invite, which was tossed off to us interns at the last minute as a afterthought, was like getting in the gates of Nerd Heaven and being greeted by a horde of angels who looked like Jake Gyllenhaal holding platters of delicious candy-coated orgasms.
I had absolutely no business being there. I brought my handy-dandy little reporter notebook, but they told me just to enjoy the show, that we didn't need to bother reporting on it. I did make the rookie mistake of clapping when Bush came in-- because, um, he's the President, and think what you will about the man who holds the office but you clap when the President enters-- but a second later learned that if you are in the press gallery, you do not clap, you do not react to anything that is being said, you just scribble. Or, if you're an intern who scammed her way in there, you stand tree-like at the back.
I did feel a mite ticked off as the speech progressed and I realized that I was attending the most ridiculous SOTU ever. My big chance to witness history as it was being made, and I got the SOTU where Bush used the podium to lecture professional athletes on steroid use. It's fantastic to re-read the speech itself three years later, since it's basically a half-hour of "stay the course, stay the course, stay the course" followed by twenty minutes of a deliciously random grab-bag of election year wedge social issues. Bush has never been particularly statesmanlike, but that night he basically just shouted nouns from the Culture Wars ("Abstinence! Defense of marriage! Patriot Act!").
Watching SOTU tonight, though, I felt better about the speech that I'd seen. After all, at least I wasn't there to witness this gem live:
“We will also fund additional research in cutting-edge methods of producing ethanol, not just from corn but from wood chips, stalks, or switch grass. Our goal is to make this new kind of ethanol practical and competitive within six years.”
I really think that if I had been in the press gallery to hear George W. Bush talk about cars running on wood chips, I would not have been able to contain my snort of derision. And if clapping is frowned upon by reporters, you know that snorting is not exactly encouraged.
It will be interesting to watch the reaction to this speech, since Bush displayed an uncharacteristic humility in talking about Iraq. He's finally moving beginning to inch toward an approach that may revive support for the war, though at huge expense to his legacy. He can never convince people like me that we had any business getting into Iraq in the first place, but he could convince me to support our continued presence there if he accepted responsibility and framed it as a moral or humanitarian issue, not a political one. Of course, Bush admitting that he was wrong to lead us into Iraq has approximately the same likelihood of Dick Cheney assfucking Al Gore while burning American flags in an abortion clinic.
We created the circumstances that allowed the current chaos in Iraq to start and flourish, and I happen to think that we have a moral obligation to try and fix the mess we made. We're still in Germany and Japan today because of the democracies that we imparted onto them following World War II, and those followed a war that we didn't exactly start (yes, that master's in history is coming along very well, thank you for asking). Did we really once think that America can enter a sovereign nation with no history of democratic political traditions, depose its leader, start a democratically elected government and peace out within six months? I don't remember the entire nation being stoned in the spring of 2003, but that's the only explanation I can think of now. But what the hell do I know? I'm just an ex-cub reporter who snorts when the President talks.
This is really a whole other post, but my points are that Bush is the exact opposite of a statesman and is that I'm not as partisan as you might think; that yes, I could agree with a Republican on Iraq if we could clarify exactly what the mission would be. They'll never get me on gay marriage, though. After all, if Bush ever does apologize for Iraq then Cheney would need to do that assfucking within the sanctity of marriage.
I had absolutely no business being there. I brought my handy-dandy little reporter notebook, but they told me just to enjoy the show, that we didn't need to bother reporting on it. I did make the rookie mistake of clapping when Bush came in-- because, um, he's the President, and think what you will about the man who holds the office but you clap when the President enters-- but a second later learned that if you are in the press gallery, you do not clap, you do not react to anything that is being said, you just scribble. Or, if you're an intern who scammed her way in there, you stand tree-like at the back.
I did feel a mite ticked off as the speech progressed and I realized that I was attending the most ridiculous SOTU ever. My big chance to witness history as it was being made, and I got the SOTU where Bush used the podium to lecture professional athletes on steroid use. It's fantastic to re-read the speech itself three years later, since it's basically a half-hour of "stay the course, stay the course, stay the course" followed by twenty minutes of a deliciously random grab-bag of election year wedge social issues. Bush has never been particularly statesmanlike, but that night he basically just shouted nouns from the Culture Wars ("Abstinence! Defense of marriage! Patriot Act!").
Watching SOTU tonight, though, I felt better about the speech that I'd seen. After all, at least I wasn't there to witness this gem live:
“We will also fund additional research in cutting-edge methods of producing ethanol, not just from corn but from wood chips, stalks, or switch grass. Our goal is to make this new kind of ethanol practical and competitive within six years.”
I really think that if I had been in the press gallery to hear George W. Bush talk about cars running on wood chips, I would not have been able to contain my snort of derision. And if clapping is frowned upon by reporters, you know that snorting is not exactly encouraged.
It will be interesting to watch the reaction to this speech, since Bush displayed an uncharacteristic humility in talking about Iraq. He's finally moving beginning to inch toward an approach that may revive support for the war, though at huge expense to his legacy. He can never convince people like me that we had any business getting into Iraq in the first place, but he could convince me to support our continued presence there if he accepted responsibility and framed it as a moral or humanitarian issue, not a political one. Of course, Bush admitting that he was wrong to lead us into Iraq has approximately the same likelihood of Dick Cheney assfucking Al Gore while burning American flags in an abortion clinic.
We created the circumstances that allowed the current chaos in Iraq to start and flourish, and I happen to think that we have a moral obligation to try and fix the mess we made. We're still in Germany and Japan today because of the democracies that we imparted onto them following World War II, and those followed a war that we didn't exactly start (yes, that master's in history is coming along very well, thank you for asking). Did we really once think that America can enter a sovereign nation with no history of democratic political traditions, depose its leader, start a democratically elected government and peace out within six months? I don't remember the entire nation being stoned in the spring of 2003, but that's the only explanation I can think of now. But what the hell do I know? I'm just an ex-cub reporter who snorts when the President talks.
This is really a whole other post, but my points are that Bush is the exact opposite of a statesman and is that I'm not as partisan as you might think; that yes, I could agree with a Republican on Iraq if we could clarify exactly what the mission would be. They'll never get me on gay marriage, though. After all, if Bush ever does apologize for Iraq then Cheney would need to do that assfucking within the sanctity of marriage.
Friday, January 19, 2007
glitter and hand-me-downs
The sky here today reminds me of one of my favorites lines from one of my favorite books, The Feast of Love by Charles Baxter.
"Because it's the Midwest, no one really glitters because no one has to, it's more a dull shine, like frequently used silverware. We were all presentable enough, but almost no one was making any kind of statement. Out here in Michigan, real style is too difficult to maintain; the styles are all convenient and secondhand. We're all hand-me-down personalities. But that's liberating; it frees you up for other matters of great importance; the great themes, the sordid passions."
Driving to Panera for lunch today, my father all giddy from the dual thrills of wearing pants and leaving the house, commented that it was a beautiful Michigan day. I smiled and agreed with him as I steered the Crown Vic into the slushy parking lot. It's not a beautiful Michigan day, but it is typical. As I write this now, the sky and ground are the same shade of smudged white and the sun, what little of it is lighting the scene, will probably begin to set around 3:00. The sky is as unobtrustive as a sky can be, hanging low over the train tracks and Ag College fields like a watchful parent.
I opened the car door and stepped into a pile of melted snow, soaking my left foot. When I packed I knew that these heeled boots would be all wrong and when I put them on this morning I knew I'd be lucky if I didn't fall and break my neck on a patch of black ice. But I wore them anyway. Usually, whenever I come back to Michigan I do things like this; wear three-inch heels in the dead of snowy winter or wear unnecessarily attractive outfits to run to Meijer's when we're out of flour as if to communicate to any passerby "Okay, I am sort of from here but I am certainly not from here now." My snobbery glares brighter in Michigan than it ever does in DC.
Of course, today was the first time I've worn the boots all week. The rest of the time I've been in hiking socks and sweatpants as I cook and clean and generally act like I'm the parent. I say things like "Time for your nap," and "no animal crackers until you finish your vegetables" without a trace of irony. The situation that brought me here, much like the place itself, has a way of killing my usual twisted sense of smartassness.
My mind is always quieter in Michigan. It's as if that low-hanging pewter sky blocks out all the chatter and noise that decorates normal life, both the good and the bad. This week, my mind has been even quieter than usual. It's numbed by daytime television and then sharpened into focus every time he coughs, slowly stands up and winces from the effort.
There is no glitter to distract me this week. Just hand-me-down pain and gray skies.
"Because it's the Midwest, no one really glitters because no one has to, it's more a dull shine, like frequently used silverware. We were all presentable enough, but almost no one was making any kind of statement. Out here in Michigan, real style is too difficult to maintain; the styles are all convenient and secondhand. We're all hand-me-down personalities. But that's liberating; it frees you up for other matters of great importance; the great themes, the sordid passions."
Driving to Panera for lunch today, my father all giddy from the dual thrills of wearing pants and leaving the house, commented that it was a beautiful Michigan day. I smiled and agreed with him as I steered the Crown Vic into the slushy parking lot. It's not a beautiful Michigan day, but it is typical. As I write this now, the sky and ground are the same shade of smudged white and the sun, what little of it is lighting the scene, will probably begin to set around 3:00. The sky is as unobtrustive as a sky can be, hanging low over the train tracks and Ag College fields like a watchful parent.
I opened the car door and stepped into a pile of melted snow, soaking my left foot. When I packed I knew that these heeled boots would be all wrong and when I put them on this morning I knew I'd be lucky if I didn't fall and break my neck on a patch of black ice. But I wore them anyway. Usually, whenever I come back to Michigan I do things like this; wear three-inch heels in the dead of snowy winter or wear unnecessarily attractive outfits to run to Meijer's when we're out of flour as if to communicate to any passerby "Okay, I am sort of from here but I am certainly not from here now." My snobbery glares brighter in Michigan than it ever does in DC.
Of course, today was the first time I've worn the boots all week. The rest of the time I've been in hiking socks and sweatpants as I cook and clean and generally act like I'm the parent. I say things like "Time for your nap," and "no animal crackers until you finish your vegetables" without a trace of irony. The situation that brought me here, much like the place itself, has a way of killing my usual twisted sense of smartassness.
My mind is always quieter in Michigan. It's as if that low-hanging pewter sky blocks out all the chatter and noise that decorates normal life, both the good and the bad. This week, my mind has been even quieter than usual. It's numbed by daytime television and then sharpened into focus every time he coughs, slowly stands up and winces from the effort.
There is no glitter to distract me this week. Just hand-me-down pain and gray skies.
Wednesday, January 17, 2007
putting the "ok"
To those of you who have emailed, called, IMed, whatevered, thank you for your kind words for me and for my dad. I wish that I was capable of focusing only on the good that comes from people like you; people who take time from their day to wish someone well even if the recipient of those good wishes is a stranger. It is a lovely thing you do, and I am so thankful for it.
Other things I am thankful for since I arrived in central Michigan earlier this week:
That Dad seems to be doing okayish, and that he agreed to be brutally honest with me the second he is not feeling okayish because after the events of last week he maybe has finally realized that he does not have to be the valedictorian of gallbladder surgery as well as heart surgery, because, well, at this point it would just be bragging. Right?
Snow. I had not seen snow until today. The SHAME, people. The SHAME. I used to wake a half hour early from October to March so that I could scrape off my windshield before going to first period, slogging out into the driveway in the dark because of course the parents' cars got the garage slots. And now I am not seeing snow until the middle of January? What of my roots? Have I become a wimpy Mid-Atlantic urban soul so quickly that I seriously have to ask which is better, to salt a driveway before or after the nighttime freeze? I am one missed snowball fight away from no longer being able to lay claim to a Michigan heritage here, friends.
24. Yes, I know 24 is awesome. I will watch 24. I said, I will watch it. I said, soon. Look, I work a full-time job and go to school and my Netflix queue is very full already, mkay? I will get on it, when I get the time. But yes, that premiere was excellent. Especially the last ten minutes of Hour 4. Yes, yes, very good. What, you want me to watch The Wire, too? Okay. No, not right now. Look, I will watch it when I watch it.
Playing gin with my Daddy, only to later realize I'd accidentally been cheating the entire time. Well, look, he didn't remind me that the runs have to be in the same suit, okay? I mean come on, I haven't played a card game that didn't involve waterfalls of Miller Lite since like 1999.
Other things I am thankful for since I arrived in central Michigan earlier this week:
That Dad seems to be doing okayish, and that he agreed to be brutally honest with me the second he is not feeling okayish because after the events of last week he maybe has finally realized that he does not have to be the valedictorian of gallbladder surgery as well as heart surgery, because, well, at this point it would just be bragging. Right?
Snow. I had not seen snow until today. The SHAME, people. The SHAME. I used to wake a half hour early from October to March so that I could scrape off my windshield before going to first period, slogging out into the driveway in the dark because of course the parents' cars got the garage slots. And now I am not seeing snow until the middle of January? What of my roots? Have I become a wimpy Mid-Atlantic urban soul so quickly that I seriously have to ask which is better, to salt a driveway before or after the nighttime freeze? I am one missed snowball fight away from no longer being able to lay claim to a Michigan heritage here, friends.
24. Yes, I know 24 is awesome. I will watch 24. I said, I will watch it. I said, soon. Look, I work a full-time job and go to school and my Netflix queue is very full already, mkay? I will get on it, when I get the time. But yes, that premiere was excellent. Especially the last ten minutes of Hour 4. Yes, yes, very good. What, you want me to watch The Wire, too? Okay. No, not right now. Look, I will watch it when I watch it.
Playing gin with my Daddy, only to later realize I'd accidentally been cheating the entire time. Well, look, he didn't remind me that the runs have to be in the same suit, okay? I mean come on, I haven't played a card game that didn't involve waterfalls of Miller Lite since like 1999.
Friday, January 12, 2007
breakdown on the blue line
"Ladies and gentlemen, we will be stopped at the station while the train in front of us holds for a sick passenger. Thank you for your patience."
Everyone else around the Metro car wears the resigned, vacant expressions of rush hour commuters at the end of a long day, but at this our faces fall just a little bit more. It's 6:30 and we're all tired and not feeling particularly charitable, even towards a person so sick that s/he is halting Metro with ill health.
I know I'm in a mood. Because all of my comfortable work shoes are at the cobbler I'm wearing six-year-old boots with a broken inner sole on the right shoe and am walking on a blister roughly the size of Ted Kennedy. Tomorrow is the big biannual work event I'm in charge of and maintenance couldn't be bothered to set up the space on time, so I will just have to cross my fingers that there are tables waiting for me at 7 AM.
Oh, and my father is back in the hospital and today underwent his second major surgery in less than a month and I'm taking indefinite family medical leave to go to Michigan and take care of him and am kind of incredibly scared and for the last three days have started to cry at the slightest provocation, such as when a song by Nizlopi or John Gorka pops up on my iPod or when I see a tall white man with silver hair on the street or, y'know, the act of being awake.
I am not to be trifled with today. Even by people who aren't trying to trifle with me.
I look around me and for the first time see a twentysomething guy in a suit and leather jacket sitting two seats behind where I stand. He's poking at his Blackberry, which he then sets on the empty seat next to him as he rummages in his pocket, extracting a cell phone. Yes. He is using two electronic communication devices on the Metro while taking up two seats, surrounded by fellow commuters packed into the car and almost falling on top of him as he stretches his lower half into the leg space for the window seat.
Oh NO he did not.
I start polite. I turn around and look at him smiling, almost simpering "Excuse me, is someone sitting there?" as I point to the empty seat next to him. Obviously no one is sitting there, except maybe his imaginary childhood best friend.
He stares at me for the briefest of seconds, then lowers his head and begins to poke at his cell phone keypad. It's as if I spoke in Klingon. Maybe he's deaf, I too-generously think to myself. It's my better side trying to stem the tide of my growing anger. Oh, this is going to be so fun.
"EXCUSE ME." I am loud enough that the people sitting behind him (facing the other direction) and the several passengers in the aisle space between us look at me, all probably hoping that the angry girl isn't speaking to them. "CAN YOU PLEASE MOVE OVER? THERE ARE LOTS OF PEOPLE IN HERE WHO COULD USE A SEAT."
There is absolutely no way that a hearing person in his seat could not hear me. How do I know he can hear, you ask? Because he lifts the phone to his ear and begins to speak into it. "Dude, the Metro is stuck. I'm running late."
I'm pretty sure that by this point there is steam coming out of my ears, nose and pores. I've been feeling utterly helpless and alone and impotent for days, asking myself what kind of universe allows terrible things to happen to a man like my father and a family like mine. It's not this guy's fault that Dad can't catch a break with his health or that the four people in my family now live in four different states or that I don't have someone I feel close enough to to fall apart in front of like I need to, because if I don't get the inevitable breakdown out of my system at least once during this whole mess than I run the risk of doing it in front of my family and they shouldn't have to deal with it on top of everything else. Technically, yes, he is a jerk, but an innocent bystander/jerk.
But he is going to pay for it all anyways.
"Who the HELL do you think you ARE?!" I yell at him. Oh, he's heard me now. He's resolutely staring straight ahead still talking on the phone, but the color rises in his face from his dress shirt collar. The train jolts to life and lurches into the tunnel, right on cue as I start to really get into a groove. "No, really?!" I cry. "You think you're so damn important that you get two seats while everyone has to smash into each other in the aisle? Are you really that much of a self-important asshole that your fucking Blackberry gets its own seat at rush hour? Ooh, look at the big important man with his big important toys! There are PEOPLE STANDING RIGHT OVER YOU, you shit. What the hell kind of person thinks he's soooooo special that everyone else has to stand while he gets two whole seats to himself?!"
I'm so worked up that I barely notice we've reached the next station. He gets up, still staring straight ahead, refusing to acknowledge me or my tirade as he parts the sea of passengers and squeezes his way to the door, leaving the two seats in contention wide open. The older woman who had been between me and the seats looks at me like she's asking for my permission to sit down, like if she does so without my consent I might bite her. Oh God. What the hell did I just do?
"Ma'am, I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry you all had to hear that. That is not me... he... people like that."
She nods silently and slides into the window seat, then pats the aisle seat next to her with her purple-gloved hand. I plop myself down and stare ahead just like the guy had moments before. I'm afraid to try and explain or say anything at all, so I take the yuppie way out and shove my iPod buds into my ears. And... and I swear I'm not making any of this up... my sister's voice suddenly fills my head.
I met a man without a dollar to his name
Who has no traits of any value but his smile...
I grit my teeth. I will not lose it any more than I already have, I will not lose it any more than I already have.
Everyone else around the Metro car wears the resigned, vacant expressions of rush hour commuters at the end of a long day, but at this our faces fall just a little bit more. It's 6:30 and we're all tired and not feeling particularly charitable, even towards a person so sick that s/he is halting Metro with ill health.
I know I'm in a mood. Because all of my comfortable work shoes are at the cobbler I'm wearing six-year-old boots with a broken inner sole on the right shoe and am walking on a blister roughly the size of Ted Kennedy. Tomorrow is the big biannual work event I'm in charge of and maintenance couldn't be bothered to set up the space on time, so I will just have to cross my fingers that there are tables waiting for me at 7 AM.
Oh, and my father is back in the hospital and today underwent his second major surgery in less than a month and I'm taking indefinite family medical leave to go to Michigan and take care of him and am kind of incredibly scared and for the last three days have started to cry at the slightest provocation, such as when a song by Nizlopi or John Gorka pops up on my iPod or when I see a tall white man with silver hair on the street or, y'know, the act of being awake.
I am not to be trifled with today. Even by people who aren't trying to trifle with me.
I look around me and for the first time see a twentysomething guy in a suit and leather jacket sitting two seats behind where I stand. He's poking at his Blackberry, which he then sets on the empty seat next to him as he rummages in his pocket, extracting a cell phone. Yes. He is using two electronic communication devices on the Metro while taking up two seats, surrounded by fellow commuters packed into the car and almost falling on top of him as he stretches his lower half into the leg space for the window seat.
Oh NO he did not.
I start polite. I turn around and look at him smiling, almost simpering "Excuse me, is someone sitting there?" as I point to the empty seat next to him. Obviously no one is sitting there, except maybe his imaginary childhood best friend.
He stares at me for the briefest of seconds, then lowers his head and begins to poke at his cell phone keypad. It's as if I spoke in Klingon. Maybe he's deaf, I too-generously think to myself. It's my better side trying to stem the tide of my growing anger. Oh, this is going to be so fun.
"EXCUSE ME." I am loud enough that the people sitting behind him (facing the other direction) and the several passengers in the aisle space between us look at me, all probably hoping that the angry girl isn't speaking to them. "CAN YOU PLEASE MOVE OVER? THERE ARE LOTS OF PEOPLE IN HERE WHO COULD USE A SEAT."
There is absolutely no way that a hearing person in his seat could not hear me. How do I know he can hear, you ask? Because he lifts the phone to his ear and begins to speak into it. "Dude, the Metro is stuck. I'm running late."
I'm pretty sure that by this point there is steam coming out of my ears, nose and pores. I've been feeling utterly helpless and alone and impotent for days, asking myself what kind of universe allows terrible things to happen to a man like my father and a family like mine. It's not this guy's fault that Dad can't catch a break with his health or that the four people in my family now live in four different states or that I don't have someone I feel close enough to to fall apart in front of like I need to, because if I don't get the inevitable breakdown out of my system at least once during this whole mess than I run the risk of doing it in front of my family and they shouldn't have to deal with it on top of everything else. Technically, yes, he is a jerk, but an innocent bystander/jerk.
But he is going to pay for it all anyways.
"Who the HELL do you think you ARE?!" I yell at him. Oh, he's heard me now. He's resolutely staring straight ahead still talking on the phone, but the color rises in his face from his dress shirt collar. The train jolts to life and lurches into the tunnel, right on cue as I start to really get into a groove. "No, really?!" I cry. "You think you're so damn important that you get two seats while everyone has to smash into each other in the aisle? Are you really that much of a self-important asshole that your fucking Blackberry gets its own seat at rush hour? Ooh, look at the big important man with his big important toys! There are PEOPLE STANDING RIGHT OVER YOU, you shit. What the hell kind of person thinks he's soooooo special that everyone else has to stand while he gets two whole seats to himself?!"
I'm so worked up that I barely notice we've reached the next station. He gets up, still staring straight ahead, refusing to acknowledge me or my tirade as he parts the sea of passengers and squeezes his way to the door, leaving the two seats in contention wide open. The older woman who had been between me and the seats looks at me like she's asking for my permission to sit down, like if she does so without my consent I might bite her. Oh God. What the hell did I just do?
"Ma'am, I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry you all had to hear that. That is not me... he... people like that."
She nods silently and slides into the window seat, then pats the aisle seat next to her with her purple-gloved hand. I plop myself down and stare ahead just like the guy had moments before. I'm afraid to try and explain or say anything at all, so I take the yuppie way out and shove my iPod buds into my ears. And... and I swear I'm not making any of this up... my sister's voice suddenly fills my head.
I met a man without a dollar to his name
Who has no traits of any value but his smile...
I grit my teeth. I will not lose it any more than I already have, I will not lose it any more than I already have.
Thursday, January 11, 2007
but he said mission accomplished
"There will be no surrender ceremony on the deck of a battleship."
- George W. Bush, 10 January 2007
Um...
...
...
George. Honey. I don't know how to put this.
Somewhere deep in space, the universe is now collapsing into a gigantic black hole of irony.
- George W. Bush, 10 January 2007
Um...
...
...
George. Honey. I don't know how to put this.
Somewhere deep in space, the universe is now collapsing into a gigantic black hole of irony.
Monday, January 08, 2007
thicker than water, but not champagne
Lordy.
I promised I wouldn't write about my family on my blog. But this weekend was apparently designed to test that promise in every way possible.
Look, it's not my fault if most of my extended family is wonderful and the remaining people are completely, one hundred percent without the ability to function in society.
The people who are wonderful are really, really wonderful. The kind of wonderful that family members only occasionally achieve, when you would want to be their friends even if you weren't related to them. They are the ones who are goofy and warm and start conversations with "So this one time in Kuala Lampur, when were on top of an elephant..." and not, for example, with pursed lips, raised eyebrows and "Wow, EJ, that sure is an interesting dress. Be careful you don't fall out there."
THANKS. Because when I've been on a plane for the last ten hours, I LOVE being greeted by you telling me that I look like a slut.
Flying to a family wedding this weekend, my flights were ridiculously messed up, and I enjoyed an unscheduled three-hour visit to the airport in Columbia, South Carolina that caused me to miss the actual ceremony. My mother's cousin picked me up at the airport, I threw on my ("interesting") dress and we booked it to the church in time for photos, the first and hopefully only time I will be in pictures for a wedding that I did not actually attend.
I went into this weekend prepared to judge. I mean, it was a wedding that basically joined their frat and their sorority. There were something like ten attendants on each side. I hadn't seen that relative getting married in five years, and the wedding was in Wichita, which, while it is home to both excellent steaks and Kirstie Alley, is not known for being a huge party town. Once we got to the reception, my judgmental predictions seemed to be coming true. Guests were drinking Bud from plastic cups and the DJ interrupted a Hootie and the Blowfish song to announce "John Smith, please come to the bar, John Smith, your shots are ready."
I also went in with clear expectations about how some of my family members would treat me. As my mother put it when we dissected the weekend later on, "Sweetie, it's not that they don't like you, it's that you represent all the choices that they prayed their children wouldn't make." You'd think I'd be offended by this, but it's so true. I don't want to get married and have lots of babies, I don't live a 15-minute drive from home and I vastly prefer the easy delights of indie pop to the coolie labor of Gilbert and Sullivan. My entire life, I've played the role of the loud bitchy single city girl who has an opinion about everything. They'll never see me as anything else and I can never make them accept me or care about me because they're too busy judging my every move.
But something strange happened this weekend. For the first time ever at a family gathering, I decided I didn't give a crap what those people thought of me. Somewhere in between the bacon-wrapped cheese cubes and my aunt wandering around with her fingers stuck in her ears to display her displeasure with the music, I stopped caring and I stopped judging my surroundings. Okay, so, if I ever get married, I strongly doubt that my husband and our bridal party will enter the reception to the dulcet strains of "In da Club," but the couple seemed to like it. So who gives a crap? What, only the people behaving like petulant children in the throes of a temper tantrum? Well, I'm not going to be associated with them, that's for damn sure.
The wedding definitely took a turn for the ridiculous after that epiphany, made all the more so because my mother was at my side about eighty percent of the time. It's one thing to acknowledge to your mother that you are human, that yes, you smoke and drink and make out with inappropriate people. I've only become comfortable admitting these activities in the last year. It's entirely another to perform them all in front of her, particularly when she is in the kitchen of the hotel room holding the afterparty, watching your uncle shotgun a Bud Lite at 4 AM. After the events of that night, there are not a whole lot of boundaries left between my mom and me. Not that there were a whole ton before.
Looking back on the wedding and the entire weekend, I feel like a line has been crossed. In some ways, I regret that my mom has now witnessed me at my most ridiculous behavior. Just as it's nice to idealize your parents as infalliable creatures, it's nice to have them think of you as somehow being untainted by life. Plus, fair or not, it's different for daughters than for sons. My male cousins have no problem palling around with their dads, and I'm pretty sure that they aren't writing diary entries or blog posts about their conflicting emotions over substance consumption in front of former authority figures.
But the thing is, she doesn't care. Most of my family members didn't care that I was out all night partying. They were just glad that I eventually made it there and wound up having a good time. Empahsis on there-- most of the snotty people in the family were too busy being snotty to even both to attend the event, and the ones that did stayed only enough to criticize everything from the flowers to the band. I may have been a silly drunk, but I was a silly drunk there celebrating the choices of a family member, which is more than can be said for the people riding their high horses into bed at 9:30. It's certainly more than they've ever done for me.
They chose to remain on the fringes the entire weekend, looking on as the rest of us hugged and gossiped and talked travel and food and wine and film. They were concerned with "propriety" and "decency" and "appropriateness," but I can't resent them because they're too lonely and angry to resent. I finally stopped taking it personally.
No, I didn't like it when one of them marched into the kitchen and acidly announced "So, EJ, I hear you had a good time with one of the groomsmen last night," in front of the entire extended family at brunch the next day. But instead of getting mad and stumbling for words , I smiled a Cheshire Cat smile and beatifically answered "It was a terrific party, thanks for including me," turned on my heel and walked away. And got some Advil. Because Lordy, did I need it.
I promised I wouldn't write about my family on my blog. But this weekend was apparently designed to test that promise in every way possible.
Look, it's not my fault if most of my extended family is wonderful and the remaining people are completely, one hundred percent without the ability to function in society.
The people who are wonderful are really, really wonderful. The kind of wonderful that family members only occasionally achieve, when you would want to be their friends even if you weren't related to them. They are the ones who are goofy and warm and start conversations with "So this one time in Kuala Lampur, when were on top of an elephant..." and not, for example, with pursed lips, raised eyebrows and "Wow, EJ, that sure is an interesting dress. Be careful you don't fall out there."
THANKS. Because when I've been on a plane for the last ten hours, I LOVE being greeted by you telling me that I look like a slut.
Flying to a family wedding this weekend, my flights were ridiculously messed up, and I enjoyed an unscheduled three-hour visit to the airport in Columbia, South Carolina that caused me to miss the actual ceremony. My mother's cousin picked me up at the airport, I threw on my ("interesting") dress and we booked it to the church in time for photos, the first and hopefully only time I will be in pictures for a wedding that I did not actually attend.
I went into this weekend prepared to judge. I mean, it was a wedding that basically joined their frat and their sorority. There were something like ten attendants on each side. I hadn't seen that relative getting married in five years, and the wedding was in Wichita, which, while it is home to both excellent steaks and Kirstie Alley, is not known for being a huge party town. Once we got to the reception, my judgmental predictions seemed to be coming true. Guests were drinking Bud from plastic cups and the DJ interrupted a Hootie and the Blowfish song to announce "John Smith, please come to the bar, John Smith, your shots are ready."
I also went in with clear expectations about how some of my family members would treat me. As my mother put it when we dissected the weekend later on, "Sweetie, it's not that they don't like you, it's that you represent all the choices that they prayed their children wouldn't make." You'd think I'd be offended by this, but it's so true. I don't want to get married and have lots of babies, I don't live a 15-minute drive from home and I vastly prefer the easy delights of indie pop to the coolie labor of Gilbert and Sullivan. My entire life, I've played the role of the loud bitchy single city girl who has an opinion about everything. They'll never see me as anything else and I can never make them accept me or care about me because they're too busy judging my every move.
But something strange happened this weekend. For the first time ever at a family gathering, I decided I didn't give a crap what those people thought of me. Somewhere in between the bacon-wrapped cheese cubes and my aunt wandering around with her fingers stuck in her ears to display her displeasure with the music, I stopped caring and I stopped judging my surroundings. Okay, so, if I ever get married, I strongly doubt that my husband and our bridal party will enter the reception to the dulcet strains of "In da Club," but the couple seemed to like it. So who gives a crap? What, only the people behaving like petulant children in the throes of a temper tantrum? Well, I'm not going to be associated with them, that's for damn sure.
The wedding definitely took a turn for the ridiculous after that epiphany, made all the more so because my mother was at my side about eighty percent of the time. It's one thing to acknowledge to your mother that you are human, that yes, you smoke and drink and make out with inappropriate people. I've only become comfortable admitting these activities in the last year. It's entirely another to perform them all in front of her, particularly when she is in the kitchen of the hotel room holding the afterparty, watching your uncle shotgun a Bud Lite at 4 AM. After the events of that night, there are not a whole lot of boundaries left between my mom and me. Not that there were a whole ton before.
Looking back on the wedding and the entire weekend, I feel like a line has been crossed. In some ways, I regret that my mom has now witnessed me at my most ridiculous behavior. Just as it's nice to idealize your parents as infalliable creatures, it's nice to have them think of you as somehow being untainted by life. Plus, fair or not, it's different for daughters than for sons. My male cousins have no problem palling around with their dads, and I'm pretty sure that they aren't writing diary entries or blog posts about their conflicting emotions over substance consumption in front of former authority figures.
But the thing is, she doesn't care. Most of my family members didn't care that I was out all night partying. They were just glad that I eventually made it there and wound up having a good time. Empahsis on there-- most of the snotty people in the family were too busy being snotty to even both to attend the event, and the ones that did stayed only enough to criticize everything from the flowers to the band. I may have been a silly drunk, but I was a silly drunk there celebrating the choices of a family member, which is more than can be said for the people riding their high horses into bed at 9:30. It's certainly more than they've ever done for me.
They chose to remain on the fringes the entire weekend, looking on as the rest of us hugged and gossiped and talked travel and food and wine and film. They were concerned with "propriety" and "decency" and "appropriateness," but I can't resent them because they're too lonely and angry to resent. I finally stopped taking it personally.
No, I didn't like it when one of them marched into the kitchen and acidly announced "So, EJ, I hear you had a good time with one of the groomsmen last night," in front of the entire extended family at brunch the next day. But instead of getting mad and stumbling for words , I smiled a Cheshire Cat smile and beatifically answered "It was a terrific party, thanks for including me," turned on my heel and walked away. And got some Advil. Because Lordy, did I need it.
Tuesday, January 02, 2007
merry and bright
Some of my favorite photos from Christmas Up North. Comments and more shots over in Flickr.
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