Dear Rachel,
Hey Fatty! Remember when you made a New Year's Reservation to work out more? How's that going? PS- walking to the kitchen for a left over Reese's Easter Egg and then eating it and a cadbury caramel egg doesn't count.
Love,
Everyone
Okay but seriously. This is a problem. I have been to the gym about three times in the past month (that is a very generous estimate) and now that Boyfriend's office is no longer on the way to the train, I have no excuse to walk anywhere. On a really rough day in the office I get some stair climbing in, but those tend to also be the days I eat four or five two-bit "all butter" cinnamon rolls. Rendering all fake attempts at exercise null and void.
Bikram is a blog post that must be written because my thoughts on it are too pretentious for just my own mind.
But things are turning around for every one's favorite couch potato. One of the best ladies this side of Ohio is starting a personal training business and she's taken on me as one of her first clients! I've only met with her once, but if that half-session was any indication, this is going to be insane.
The session itself was actually really fun in a torturous sort of way. I am not quite sure how anyone can be that gd cheerful about squats and yet, there she was - a ray of pulse, pulse sunshine. I knew it was a work out, but its hard to be sad when others are so happy.
The next day was a different matter. Despite taking a bath to sooth my poor muscles and some advil - I was in so much pain that I was pretty sure the next logical step was double amputation. There was nothing about life that wasn't painful. I'm sure it didn't help that I spent the next two days adventuring with my mom and then working with kids. But seriously - it was ridiculous
At one point on Friday, as one of the kids in my program decided to make a run for it (as they are wont to do since I spend my time torturing them with books and free food), I finally had to call out for him to stop and I explained, "seriously, I cannot chase you anymore."
This moment of honesty and pathetic-ness stopped him in his tracks. He realized I was not kidding and came back.
I'm pretty much all back to normal now and super stoked for my next torture session. 2 of these monsters a week, plus a gym workout? Doubtful, but maybe, just maybe I'll put the Peeps down and get serious.
Wednesday, May 11, 2011
Tuesday, May 10, 2011
the number one
Here is one of the things I ponder as I am panicking about parts of my real life:
How much of my e-mail goes to a complete stranger?
My email address is MyfirstnameMylastname1 (at) my not at all the most popular domain on the planet (dot) computers. Or is it communications? Whatever.
This is super annoying because obviously I really wanted MyfirstnameMylastname (at) blah blah blah but it was already taken. Which is Weird because according to some other stupid website there are only like three people in the world with my name (this is probably not true but it makes my point better) - how did one of them get to it first? What a jerk for being more tech savvy than me.
And I had a few other options I could have used but I got the crazy idea in my brain that the best idea was to just stick a 1 on the end and continue in my bitterness.
Obviously, I now know that this was a dumb idea. Why? Because sometimes its hard for people to comprehend what I mean when I say, "my email address is Myfirstname Mylastname and the number one at..." I do not know any other way to say it. And yet, it trips people up constantly. Maybe its because I spell my name out for them (you will spell it wrong the first time...it's cool, but you will) and so they are in the spelling zone so that when I say, "the number one" they mentally go, "okay. t-h-e-n-u, oh wait what? eff this."
And then there are those who read it or just hear me say it without writing it down who forget the crucial one and so the email never gets to me. Instead it goes to someone else with my name (who has like, zero google hits, btdubs) and she get all the cool free things and awesome potential adventures. Or whatever I'm missing.
Anyway - I hope she is enjoying all of the best things that I am imagining exist for her but not me (Bears tickets, for sure. And probably a job interview or two). She probably has like the awesome version of my life. I hope she's grateful.
How much of my e-mail goes to a complete stranger?
My email address is MyfirstnameMylastname1 (at) my not at all the most popular domain on the planet (dot) computers. Or is it communications? Whatever.
This is super annoying because obviously I really wanted MyfirstnameMylastname (at) blah blah blah but it was already taken. Which is Weird because according to some other stupid website there are only like three people in the world with my name (this is probably not true but it makes my point better) - how did one of them get to it first? What a jerk for being more tech savvy than me.
And I had a few other options I could have used but I got the crazy idea in my brain that the best idea was to just stick a 1 on the end and continue in my bitterness.
Obviously, I now know that this was a dumb idea. Why? Because sometimes its hard for people to comprehend what I mean when I say, "my email address is Myfirstname Mylastname and the number one at..." I do not know any other way to say it. And yet, it trips people up constantly. Maybe its because I spell my name out for them (you will spell it wrong the first time...it's cool, but you will) and so they are in the spelling zone so that when I say, "the number one" they mentally go, "okay. t-h-e-n-u, oh wait what? eff this."
And then there are those who read it or just hear me say it without writing it down who forget the crucial one and so the email never gets to me. Instead it goes to someone else with my name (who has like, zero google hits, btdubs) and she get all the cool free things and awesome potential adventures. Or whatever I'm missing.
Anyway - I hope she is enjoying all of the best things that I am imagining exist for her but not me (Bears tickets, for sure. And probably a job interview or two). She probably has like the awesome version of my life. I hope she's grateful.
Monday, May 09, 2011
Teaching awesome.
I just want to take this hot second and give major props to all the teachers out there.
Here is what I have learned in my few, short years on this Earth. Kids are hard to deal with. As are adults. Humans, in general, are kind of tedious. Luckily, most of us only have to deal with other adults (until we drop the proverbial ball and make wee spawn of our own) on a day-to-day basis.
Can you imagine having to deal with all nonsense adults deliver every day AND whatever cockamamy business kids are dishing out?
And, in the effort of full disclosure, allow me to mention the fact that I Really, Really like kids (in the least creepy way possible). I enjoy hanging out with kids (again, uncreepy) and have, since I was a kid, found myself working with them in a variety of ways.
"Oh! You're so good with kids. You should be a teacher."
"Oh! You're so good on the toilet; you should be a plumber."
I've only ever taught kids in awesome capacities. I teach them specific awesomeness and leave the regular learning to the true badass teachers out there.
I had this revelation a few days ago as I was walking to work, where I spend more time than I truly thought possible, negotiating, pleading, convincing, speaking sternly, bribing, and losing my mind with kids. And there are only kids in the building 6 hours a Week. And I feel like I spend all my time dealing with them. And then I thought - holy crap, teachers spend All.Day.Every.Day with kids - fighting the epic battles of education with their bare hands and bared souls.
It is so amazing the work that teachers do. The completely thankless task of getting kids to learn things despite their kicking and screaming. And, lets be real, there are some sweet teaching gigs out there but - they are few and far between and the more I see the inner workings of the school systems, the more I think that a sweet teaching gig is quite the golden ticket. Most of the people I know who are teachers, teach kids who have gotten it in their brains that they have something better to do? As if you shouldn't be incredibly grateful that instead of spending all day in a field or a coal mine somewhere, you get to learn how the world works and all of the awesome potential you have as an educated part of it.
Again, as I am reading this I am trying to make sure I don't make any one too mad- I am not trying to dig on kids, there are kids out there who totally get it. Who love learning. Who drink in books and geometry proofs with a spoon. I know. I know some of those kids. And they're totally awesome and man, do I hope they get to be in charge someday.
But there is a part of me who wants the other kids to be in charge too. The kids who struggle and fight every single day. Those are the kids who need amazing teachers to paint a picture of the world, even if it is one color at a time.
So thank you, to all the awesome teachers I know. You are amazing. And I figured I would wait until the Monday after teacher appreciation week, to let you know how much I mean it.
Here is what I have learned in my few, short years on this Earth. Kids are hard to deal with. As are adults. Humans, in general, are kind of tedious. Luckily, most of us only have to deal with other adults (until we drop the proverbial ball and make wee spawn of our own) on a day-to-day basis.
Can you imagine having to deal with all nonsense adults deliver every day AND whatever cockamamy business kids are dishing out?
And, in the effort of full disclosure, allow me to mention the fact that I Really, Really like kids (in the least creepy way possible). I enjoy hanging out with kids (again, uncreepy) and have, since I was a kid, found myself working with them in a variety of ways.
"Oh! You're so good with kids. You should be a teacher."
"Oh! You're so good on the toilet; you should be a plumber."
I've only ever taught kids in awesome capacities. I teach them specific awesomeness and leave the regular learning to the true badass teachers out there.
I had this revelation a few days ago as I was walking to work, where I spend more time than I truly thought possible, negotiating, pleading, convincing, speaking sternly, bribing, and losing my mind with kids. And there are only kids in the building 6 hours a Week. And I feel like I spend all my time dealing with them. And then I thought - holy crap, teachers spend All.Day.Every.Day with kids - fighting the epic battles of education with their bare hands and bared souls.
It is so amazing the work that teachers do. The completely thankless task of getting kids to learn things despite their kicking and screaming. And, lets be real, there are some sweet teaching gigs out there but - they are few and far between and the more I see the inner workings of the school systems, the more I think that a sweet teaching gig is quite the golden ticket. Most of the people I know who are teachers, teach kids who have gotten it in their brains that they have something better to do? As if you shouldn't be incredibly grateful that instead of spending all day in a field or a coal mine somewhere, you get to learn how the world works and all of the awesome potential you have as an educated part of it.
Again, as I am reading this I am trying to make sure I don't make any one too mad- I am not trying to dig on kids, there are kids out there who totally get it. Who love learning. Who drink in books and geometry proofs with a spoon. I know. I know some of those kids. And they're totally awesome and man, do I hope they get to be in charge someday.
But there is a part of me who wants the other kids to be in charge too. The kids who struggle and fight every single day. Those are the kids who need amazing teachers to paint a picture of the world, even if it is one color at a time.
So thank you, to all the awesome teachers I know. You are amazing. And I figured I would wait until the Monday after teacher appreciation week, to let you know how much I mean it.
Wednesday, May 04, 2011
Rek-you-wha?
In the midst of being a zombie with lists - I also became a person with a plane ticket to Iceland.
Iceland!!
It won an epic Facebook comment battle to be my June vacation of choice (maybe some other time, Costa Rica).
I am incredibly excited (we leave in 49 short days!) and also incredibly overwhelmed by how little I know about the next stamp in my passport. There are some things I do know:
1- It will be daylight 22 hours a day while I'm there. As someone who prefers total darkness when she sleeps - this is going to be an interesting experience for my circadian rhythms. But it also means that we will get so much more done. So many travels I've had - you feel the need to stop looking at things once it becomes dark outside. It makes sense (seeing how hard it is to look at things without light). But here, we could essentially be taking touristy photographs all day long.
2 - Apparently Iceland is one of the safest places in the world. The cops don't carry guns, everyone hitchhikes and people leave their doors unlocked (okay maybe not that last one, but...yeah) after recent events, this will be a hard thing to truly swallow as real, but I am still excited to be in a place where people are truly trusting.
3 - Geysers, Volcanoes, Glaciers, Lagoons, Fissures, Fjords, and the place where the earth's plates are splitting. My brain is going to explode from all the geographical buzz words. Having never experienced any of these things - I am so stoked to learn about all the amazing things the Earth has going for it.
Planning an Iceland trip, getting all my actual work done and being unzombafied means that blogs might take a back seat. They'll still exist, but they won't be the diamonds and sapphires of wit and wisdom you are so accustomed to. More the precious gemstones you purchase in the fancy locked case at Claire's.
Iceland!!
It won an epic Facebook comment battle to be my June vacation of choice (maybe some other time, Costa Rica).
I am incredibly excited (we leave in 49 short days!) and also incredibly overwhelmed by how little I know about the next stamp in my passport. There are some things I do know:
1- It will be daylight 22 hours a day while I'm there. As someone who prefers total darkness when she sleeps - this is going to be an interesting experience for my circadian rhythms. But it also means that we will get so much more done. So many travels I've had - you feel the need to stop looking at things once it becomes dark outside. It makes sense (seeing how hard it is to look at things without light). But here, we could essentially be taking touristy photographs all day long.
2 - Apparently Iceland is one of the safest places in the world. The cops don't carry guns, everyone hitchhikes and people leave their doors unlocked (okay maybe not that last one, but...yeah) after recent events, this will be a hard thing to truly swallow as real, but I am still excited to be in a place where people are truly trusting.
3 - Geysers, Volcanoes, Glaciers, Lagoons, Fissures, Fjords, and the place where the earth's plates are splitting. My brain is going to explode from all the geographical buzz words. Having never experienced any of these things - I am so stoked to learn about all the amazing things the Earth has going for it.
Planning an Iceland trip, getting all my actual work done and being unzombafied means that blogs might take a back seat. They'll still exist, but they won't be the diamonds and sapphires of wit and wisdom you are so accustomed to. More the precious gemstones you purchase in the fancy locked case at Claire's.
Tuesday, May 03, 2011
Tug tug
I moved to Chicago in an October, which means I was here for almost an entire year before I got to experience a Chicago summer. Its amazing I got through it, because Chicago winter is the worst, but Chicago summer makes it all worth it.
I loved my first Chicago Summer. I don't remember very much of it, but I do remember spending a lot of time lusting after the boats in Belmont Harbor.
"Next Summer, I am going to make a friend with a boat." was my declaration. Its a pretty ridiculous request, but not completely without merit. There are a lot of boats in Chicago and they all seem to have owners. Surely I would meet one who liked me enough to let me ride around and drink on his boat.
We are standing on the precipice of my fifth summer in Chicago and I have yet to make a boat friend. I'm starting to get frustrated. Much like my green river fears - I am terrified that I am going to leave Chicago never having had a friend who I share similar interests with and makes good conversation and also happens to own a boat on the Lake of Michigan.
There are many girls who feel like the conversation piece is not really necessary and while I can sympathize with the unspeakable urge for boating, it seems almost like very mild form of prostitution to not at least pretend like you want to talk to this person.
I know people who know people who own boats, but its not the kind of relationship where I can just wake up on a sunny Saturday morning and know my plans without even getting out of bed (honestly - if I knew someone with a boat I would probably never do anything else during the Summer). Making these connections essentially useless, except for giving me a taste of the good life and then leaving me a cracked out junkie, crying for more.
I find the lake to be pretty gross and unappetizing as a swimming location (this is my East Coast snobbery coming out. Give me the Atlantic or give me death, people) but for some reason the bacteria can't affect you if you enter the water from a water slide or even just a dive off the back of someone's pontoon. I don't know how it works, but I'm sure there is some science to back it up.
It's also really just my WASPy nature. I am meant to be on the bow, decked out in seersucker and a souvenir captain's hat while drinking a Rolling Rock (pony bottle sized) and discussing the finer points of Bon Iver's new album. Don't hate the player, hate the genetic game, my friends.
Just like all four years previously, as I've watched the boats creep back into their little boat nooks, I've begun scheming just how this is going to be my year to make all my nautical dreams come true.
I cannot make a personal ad not sound creepy (mid-20's girl ISO someone with boat to quote 30 Rock, talk about the New Yorker and drink local beer with...on your aforementioned boat), there are not-so-nice names for girls who sit around the harbor waiting for an invitation, and at this point, I don't really have the bikini body or the shameless self-promotion for that, and I've tried asking all my current friends, but they're all the same friends I had this time last year. I should win bonus points for being a good and loyal friend, despite the fact that they have nothing to offer me from Memorial Day - Labor Day.
I'm left being nice to everyone I meet and trying to find something to talk about, just on the off chance that after we discuss our shared enjoyment of Margaret Atwood books they'll say, "Hey, do you want to come on my boat sometime?"
I find that this increasingly happy and friendly makes me almost completely blend in with my Midwestern surroundings. And then I figured it all. These people are only so nice, because they're just hoping someone will invite them out on their boat.
Well played, Midwest, well played.
I loved my first Chicago Summer. I don't remember very much of it, but I do remember spending a lot of time lusting after the boats in Belmont Harbor.
"Next Summer, I am going to make a friend with a boat." was my declaration. Its a pretty ridiculous request, but not completely without merit. There are a lot of boats in Chicago and they all seem to have owners. Surely I would meet one who liked me enough to let me ride around and drink on his boat.
We are standing on the precipice of my fifth summer in Chicago and I have yet to make a boat friend. I'm starting to get frustrated. Much like my green river fears - I am terrified that I am going to leave Chicago never having had a friend who I share similar interests with and makes good conversation and also happens to own a boat on the Lake of Michigan.
There are many girls who feel like the conversation piece is not really necessary and while I can sympathize with the unspeakable urge for boating, it seems almost like very mild form of prostitution to not at least pretend like you want to talk to this person.
I know people who know people who own boats, but its not the kind of relationship where I can just wake up on a sunny Saturday morning and know my plans without even getting out of bed (honestly - if I knew someone with a boat I would probably never do anything else during the Summer). Making these connections essentially useless, except for giving me a taste of the good life and then leaving me a cracked out junkie, crying for more.
I find the lake to be pretty gross and unappetizing as a swimming location (this is my East Coast snobbery coming out. Give me the Atlantic or give me death, people) but for some reason the bacteria can't affect you if you enter the water from a water slide or even just a dive off the back of someone's pontoon. I don't know how it works, but I'm sure there is some science to back it up.
It's also really just my WASPy nature. I am meant to be on the bow, decked out in seersucker and a souvenir captain's hat while drinking a Rolling Rock (pony bottle sized) and discussing the finer points of Bon Iver's new album. Don't hate the player, hate the genetic game, my friends.
Just like all four years previously, as I've watched the boats creep back into their little boat nooks, I've begun scheming just how this is going to be my year to make all my nautical dreams come true.
I cannot make a personal ad not sound creepy (mid-20's girl ISO someone with boat to quote 30 Rock, talk about the New Yorker and drink local beer with...on your aforementioned boat), there are not-so-nice names for girls who sit around the harbor waiting for an invitation, and at this point, I don't really have the bikini body or the shameless self-promotion for that, and I've tried asking all my current friends, but they're all the same friends I had this time last year. I should win bonus points for being a good and loyal friend, despite the fact that they have nothing to offer me from Memorial Day - Labor Day.
I'm left being nice to everyone I meet and trying to find something to talk about, just on the off chance that after we discuss our shared enjoyment of Margaret Atwood books they'll say, "Hey, do you want to come on my boat sometime?"
I find that this increasingly happy and friendly makes me almost completely blend in with my Midwestern surroundings. And then I figured it all. These people are only so nice, because they're just hoping someone will invite them out on their boat.
Well played, Midwest, well played.
Sunday, May 01, 2011
Musings on Being Burgled
This is not a fun post to write and for the past four days, I've avoided writing it. I kept telling myself it was far too cliche to blog about getting robbed but I keep writing it in my head. The sentences are swirling and they won't leave me alone until I put them out on the internets (stupid sentences).
My life has become just a series of lists. A list of lists. Of things that were taken of value, of things that were taken but are worthless, of things that weren't and should of been, of things that weren't and could of been. The past few days I have not really felt like a person, but rather just a zombie with things. Or rather, without things. Without a little camera, without a rolling suitcase, without a TV, without laptops, without nearly every piece of jewelry I've ever owned.
Its not so much the things, its the memories that they inspire. My heart is broken that I won't be able to wear my big pink ring for T-bone's wedding. The rings we bought to cement our love, and because we could. Because we were young and stupid and we could do whatever we wanted. The ring that means just that. The cuff bracelet from South Africa. The ruby slipper from Granny, which every one thought looked like a letter from the Hebrew alphabet, that reminded me I was never far from home. I'm even going to miss all the stupid lightship basket jewelry. While I never wore it - just seeing it hanging there reminded me of my favorite place. The bears bracelet. The bracelet from when Boyfriend got mugged in Jamaica. My gorgeous Murano glass ring and new Turquoise necklace - things that barely had a chance to become memories.
I do have to make a confession, I have been telling everyone that I am now, "a girl who does not own a single pair of earrings." which is delightfully hyperbolic but not entirely accurate. They took my jewelry box and jewelry out of various little boxes on my dresser (I am a girl who loves little boxes, I take after all the women in my Mother's family that way) but they did not take my necklace tree (so I have like 10 necklaces to my name). Just the earrings in the basin of it. There were ones hanging from a branch of the tree that both managed to hold on through the terror. So I have one pair of earrings. The pearls my Big Cuz gave me when I was in her wedding. I haven't worn them since. Maybe I should start? Meh, I don't really wear earrings anymore because my lobes are crazy sensitive. It doesn't take away from the fact that I feel so strange not owning earrings or bracelets or rings (I now own exactly one of each).
While I am a pretty big failure as a girl, I am quite proud of my jewelry collection. Its weird to know that as of Wednesday I'm starting almost all over. Its all just very weird. To feel as though a part of my ladyhood - a superficial silly part to be sure is just kind of not there anymore. Earrings. Who knew how much I attached them to femininity.
I learned a lot about how my brain works. First of all - I cry a lot when there is no one near by to calm me down. In terms of fight or flight - I still maintain (though it has never been truly put to the test) that I am hands down a Flight, but with the caveat of post stress fortitude and determination. Once I got home and knocked off the waterworks, I could not just sit and wait for things to happen. I needed to be doing - even if that doing is going through all the dumpsters on my block hoping that the robbers had realized that the things in my jewelry box that they had taken were (to them) valueless, and had abandoned them not too far away. There was some calmness in the dark alley by myself. The moments that I felt like I was doing something, were far preferred to sitting and waiting for someone else to take action.
Also - let's be totally effing serious. My cat is fine. My stupid, noisy cat did not take this opportunity to escape in to the great big world. And for that, I am beyond thankful. I am curious how she handled these intruders. She is not one to shy away from anyone, really. She has learned that the click of the deadbolt means there is someone home to snuggle and feed her and so she tends to jump off whichever piece of furniture she's on and run to meet you. Did she do that when they pried open the deadbolt with a crowbar (PS, we got a better deadbolt)? Did she meow at them because she wanted food? How does that not humanize you? How does that not make you think twice? How far gone into the depths of ambivalence that a cat trying to show you affection doesn't stop to give you pause?
What about pictures? I've always (and still do) wonder how seeing family pictures and scribbled notes on yellow post-its does not affect the need to steal. Does it make them more angry perhaps? "How dare these people have happiness and a television? It is my right to have at least one of these things that belongs to them?
The truly scariest thing was seeing our bedroom torn apart in a quest for hidden treasure (which they did not manage to find - a fact that fills me with bittersweet joy). I am not a modest girl by any means, and I used to pay people to do my laundry (this is not weird, btw, everyone in New York does it - its normal and awesome, like most of NYC). But the thought of someone touching my clothes gave me this sensation of exposure and discomfort that I wasn't really expecting. For the first day and almost a half I couldn't even go into our bedroom because the feeling kept returning.
And there are silver linings to every cloud. For years I have been begging Boyfriend to have a sleepover party with me in the living room. We own two fold out couches and I had never slept on either of them. I have often mentioned how much fun I think it would be to pull out one of the couches and get out the sleeping bags and fuzzy throws and watch TV and sleep in the living room All Night. Why I want this, I cannot actually tell you - but I do. And Boyfriend refused to oblige (why sleep on an uncomfortable fold out when your actual bed is about 60 feet away is his far-too-logical thinking). But the night after it all happened, he gave in. Neither of us got much sleep - with every noise jerking us both awake - but it was a small glimmer of happiness. Also, we left it out of the rest of the week. As Boyfriend quickly discovered how awesome it is to have a bed in the living room.
We're going to be okay. They just took things. They did not take how much we love each other, or the strength we find together to get through the bad things. And they certainly did not take away my ability to write in really hokey cliches. Thank goodness.
My life has become just a series of lists. A list of lists. Of things that were taken of value, of things that were taken but are worthless, of things that weren't and should of been, of things that weren't and could of been. The past few days I have not really felt like a person, but rather just a zombie with things. Or rather, without things. Without a little camera, without a rolling suitcase, without a TV, without laptops, without nearly every piece of jewelry I've ever owned.
Its not so much the things, its the memories that they inspire. My heart is broken that I won't be able to wear my big pink ring for T-bone's wedding. The rings we bought to cement our love, and because we could. Because we were young and stupid and we could do whatever we wanted. The ring that means just that. The cuff bracelet from South Africa. The ruby slipper from Granny, which every one thought looked like a letter from the Hebrew alphabet, that reminded me I was never far from home. I'm even going to miss all the stupid lightship basket jewelry. While I never wore it - just seeing it hanging there reminded me of my favorite place. The bears bracelet. The bracelet from when Boyfriend got mugged in Jamaica. My gorgeous Murano glass ring and new Turquoise necklace - things that barely had a chance to become memories.
I do have to make a confession, I have been telling everyone that I am now, "a girl who does not own a single pair of earrings." which is delightfully hyperbolic but not entirely accurate. They took my jewelry box and jewelry out of various little boxes on my dresser (I am a girl who loves little boxes, I take after all the women in my Mother's family that way) but they did not take my necklace tree (so I have like 10 necklaces to my name). Just the earrings in the basin of it. There were ones hanging from a branch of the tree that both managed to hold on through the terror. So I have one pair of earrings. The pearls my Big Cuz gave me when I was in her wedding. I haven't worn them since. Maybe I should start? Meh, I don't really wear earrings anymore because my lobes are crazy sensitive. It doesn't take away from the fact that I feel so strange not owning earrings or bracelets or rings (I now own exactly one of each).
While I am a pretty big failure as a girl, I am quite proud of my jewelry collection. Its weird to know that as of Wednesday I'm starting almost all over. Its all just very weird. To feel as though a part of my ladyhood - a superficial silly part to be sure is just kind of not there anymore. Earrings. Who knew how much I attached them to femininity.
I learned a lot about how my brain works. First of all - I cry a lot when there is no one near by to calm me down. In terms of fight or flight - I still maintain (though it has never been truly put to the test) that I am hands down a Flight, but with the caveat of post stress fortitude and determination. Once I got home and knocked off the waterworks, I could not just sit and wait for things to happen. I needed to be doing - even if that doing is going through all the dumpsters on my block hoping that the robbers had realized that the things in my jewelry box that they had taken were (to them) valueless, and had abandoned them not too far away. There was some calmness in the dark alley by myself. The moments that I felt like I was doing something, were far preferred to sitting and waiting for someone else to take action.
Also - let's be totally effing serious. My cat is fine. My stupid, noisy cat did not take this opportunity to escape in to the great big world. And for that, I am beyond thankful. I am curious how she handled these intruders. She is not one to shy away from anyone, really. She has learned that the click of the deadbolt means there is someone home to snuggle and feed her and so she tends to jump off whichever piece of furniture she's on and run to meet you. Did she do that when they pried open the deadbolt with a crowbar (PS, we got a better deadbolt)? Did she meow at them because she wanted food? How does that not humanize you? How does that not make you think twice? How far gone into the depths of ambivalence that a cat trying to show you affection doesn't stop to give you pause?
What about pictures? I've always (and still do) wonder how seeing family pictures and scribbled notes on yellow post-its does not affect the need to steal. Does it make them more angry perhaps? "How dare these people have happiness and a television? It is my right to have at least one of these things that belongs to them?
The truly scariest thing was seeing our bedroom torn apart in a quest for hidden treasure (which they did not manage to find - a fact that fills me with bittersweet joy). I am not a modest girl by any means, and I used to pay people to do my laundry (this is not weird, btw, everyone in New York does it - its normal and awesome, like most of NYC). But the thought of someone touching my clothes gave me this sensation of exposure and discomfort that I wasn't really expecting. For the first day and almost a half I couldn't even go into our bedroom because the feeling kept returning.
And there are silver linings to every cloud. For years I have been begging Boyfriend to have a sleepover party with me in the living room. We own two fold out couches and I had never slept on either of them. I have often mentioned how much fun I think it would be to pull out one of the couches and get out the sleeping bags and fuzzy throws and watch TV and sleep in the living room All Night. Why I want this, I cannot actually tell you - but I do. And Boyfriend refused to oblige (why sleep on an uncomfortable fold out when your actual bed is about 60 feet away is his far-too-logical thinking). But the night after it all happened, he gave in. Neither of us got much sleep - with every noise jerking us both awake - but it was a small glimmer of happiness. Also, we left it out of the rest of the week. As Boyfriend quickly discovered how awesome it is to have a bed in the living room.
We're going to be okay. They just took things. They did not take how much we love each other, or the strength we find together to get through the bad things. And they certainly did not take away my ability to write in really hokey cliches. Thank goodness.
Tuesday, April 26, 2011
Little City State of Mind
My heart will always belong in a big city. Which big city is up for debate but I feel the most comfortable wrapped in the anonymity that these places provide. That being said - my heart strings are being tugged, hard, for my little-big hometown right now.
One of the top 5 things Frederick, MD has going for it is the Maryland Ensemble Theater. Truly, truly one of the most wonderful things that's been part of my life. Anyway - in my time hanging out at the MET, like a stray hoping for scraps, I got to know Rona.
Rona is just...awesome? I mean, pick some compliments out of a hat and they all work for her. In her real life she was a DJ for a local radio station (she was Rona on the Road, if you will). She's been on the same station for 17 years - up until just a few days ago when she "Left." Which is the PC way of saying the weenies running the show (which has a "new format" and a new "parent company") kicked her to the curb, but said they were sorry.
This is not the story to me though. People lose jobs all the time - especially in radio (an especially with all that "new format" business), even people who deserve their jobs, who have been doing them forever and are very good at them lose their jobs - losing jobs is just a part of life.
But the outpouring of love and support for Rona is what makes my heart rise up into my throat. How amazing to have a whole city of people shouting from the rooftops how much they love you. Especially, this city which is full of people who all seem to spend most of their time complaining about each other (don't believe me? Spend some quality time reading the reader comments on the Frederick News Post - particularly any article focused on housing developments or helping poor people - two things this town cannot seem to agree on).
This is one of these things I miss about small town living. This sense of true community - of knowing the woman who does the traffic on the radio station, of seeing people that you know on the street and not having it be a strange anomaly, but a lovely addition to the day, and to know the people who serve you coffee and work at your bank - and not just know them in those roles, but in their roles as parents and musicians and soccer coaches.
Its almost enough to make me go back to that world. That love and support cannot truly be replicated in the world of public transit and . And while I do revel in walking down the street and knowing that no one knows my business, I can see the benefits of the grass on the other side.
And to Rona who deserves whatever the eff she wants - You're a gem. And you're loved. No matter what happens tomorrow or the next day, you are truly loved. I feel like that may be better than a job.
One of the top 5 things Frederick, MD has going for it is the Maryland Ensemble Theater. Truly, truly one of the most wonderful things that's been part of my life. Anyway - in my time hanging out at the MET, like a stray hoping for scraps, I got to know Rona.
Rona is just...awesome? I mean, pick some compliments out of a hat and they all work for her. In her real life she was a DJ for a local radio station (she was Rona on the Road, if you will). She's been on the same station for 17 years - up until just a few days ago when she "Left." Which is the PC way of saying the weenies running the show (which has a "new format" and a new "parent company") kicked her to the curb, but said they were sorry.
This is not the story to me though. People lose jobs all the time - especially in radio (an especially with all that "new format" business), even people who deserve their jobs, who have been doing them forever and are very good at them lose their jobs - losing jobs is just a part of life.
But the outpouring of love and support for Rona is what makes my heart rise up into my throat. How amazing to have a whole city of people shouting from the rooftops how much they love you. Especially, this city which is full of people who all seem to spend most of their time complaining about each other (don't believe me? Spend some quality time reading the reader comments on the Frederick News Post - particularly any article focused on housing developments or helping poor people - two things this town cannot seem to agree on).
This is one of these things I miss about small town living. This sense of true community - of knowing the woman who does the traffic on the radio station, of seeing people that you know on the street and not having it be a strange anomaly, but a lovely addition to the day, and to know the people who serve you coffee and work at your bank - and not just know them in those roles, but in their roles as parents and musicians and soccer coaches.
Its almost enough to make me go back to that world. That love and support cannot truly be replicated in the world of public transit and . And while I do revel in walking down the street and knowing that no one knows my business, I can see the benefits of the grass on the other side.
And to Rona who deserves whatever the eff she wants - You're a gem. And you're loved. No matter what happens tomorrow or the next day, you are truly loved. I feel like that may be better than a job.
Monday, April 25, 2011
in my idiocy
There are many things I am terrible at - but one of the ones that fills me with the most self-doubt is the fact that I do not know how to dress myself.
I don't know how I missed this particular boat, but I did and so here I am - precariously close the age of 30 without the knowledge of how to make clothes work.
I will say that I am trying. In the past few years I have made a concerted effort to try more than I ever have. I try more now than I did in New York. New York was over my head and not in my budget. My poor feeble-minded mind could barely wrap itself around RCN bills - and I once spent $30 on a tank top. A. Tank top. Granted, I still own and love it. But $30 then was a whole week's worth of lunch and dinner.
I have this vivid memory of visiting New York when I was still living in Maryland and seeing a tee-shirt for $29 in Dylan's Candy Store. My mother and I were aghast. $29 for a tee-shirt?! Who would ever pay such a price? Me (it turns out).
Anyway - I am finally at a point in my life where I not only have some expendable income to put towards my wardrobe, I also have developed a sense of giving a sh*t. Its weird and I'm trying to embrace it, but man it is a struggle.
Back in the day, my fashion of choice was always a funny tee-shirt and jeans. Always. I don't know why I never thought to try any harder than this. But I was happy in my tee-shirts that were essentially wearable comedy bits.
PS - I still own most of my favorite tee-shirts. I cannot bring myself to get rid of them despite the fact that I am trying extra hard to move onto bigger and better things. Some day I might become a hobo again and I at least want to be a funny hobo.
Now that I am making a conscious effort to see beyond the tee-shirts, I am running into some problems. First of all, I immediately hate everything that doesn't look like it like it came directly out of Grace Kelly's closet. My "style" can only be described as classic meets impractical meets out of your price range.
And so I am left just trying on everything, which then becomes trying on nothing because when you go into a Forever 21 or Urban Outfitters, everything can be super overwhelming. Also, primarily atrocious. Which is why when things like skinny jeans and leggings started being propagated at these stores - I resisted. Hard. These were the people who tried to also get me into bubble skirts and vests. They were not to be trusted.
Turns out skinny jeans and leggings are both excellent wardrobe staples that should be accepted and appreciated for their value of making your legs look longer and making it so you can still go on the monkey bars in skirts. If they were right about this, what else were they right about?
I've started trying to find out and its hard. Example - I need a wide brown leather belt to wear with a few different dresses I already own. I've made it past the first step - I know I need the belt, now I have to figure out where the eff to buy it and what it is supposed to look like.
I've developed this idea in my brain of "wide brown leather belt" that may not actually exist in the known universe - and if it does, I'm not sure I'll know it when I see it.
This example can also be used for just about everything - including but not limited to black knee-high boots, button-down shirts, and skirts that fit a bill more varied then "its too hot for pants."
So, I've decided that I either need to start living with girls who will tell me what to wear again, or hire a personal shopper. Or maybe just go back to the tee-shirts.
I don't know how I missed this particular boat, but I did and so here I am - precariously close the age of 30 without the knowledge of how to make clothes work.
I will say that I am trying. In the past few years I have made a concerted effort to try more than I ever have. I try more now than I did in New York. New York was over my head and not in my budget. My poor feeble-minded mind could barely wrap itself around RCN bills - and I once spent $30 on a tank top. A. Tank top. Granted, I still own and love it. But $30 then was a whole week's worth of lunch and dinner.
I have this vivid memory of visiting New York when I was still living in Maryland and seeing a tee-shirt for $29 in Dylan's Candy Store. My mother and I were aghast. $29 for a tee-shirt?! Who would ever pay such a price? Me (it turns out).
Anyway - I am finally at a point in my life where I not only have some expendable income to put towards my wardrobe, I also have developed a sense of giving a sh*t. Its weird and I'm trying to embrace it, but man it is a struggle.
Back in the day, my fashion of choice was always a funny tee-shirt and jeans. Always. I don't know why I never thought to try any harder than this. But I was happy in my tee-shirts that were essentially wearable comedy bits.
PS - I still own most of my favorite tee-shirts. I cannot bring myself to get rid of them despite the fact that I am trying extra hard to move onto bigger and better things. Some day I might become a hobo again and I at least want to be a funny hobo.
Now that I am making a conscious effort to see beyond the tee-shirts, I am running into some problems. First of all, I immediately hate everything that doesn't look like it like it came directly out of Grace Kelly's closet. My "style" can only be described as classic meets impractical meets out of your price range.
And so I am left just trying on everything, which then becomes trying on nothing because when you go into a Forever 21 or Urban Outfitters, everything can be super overwhelming. Also, primarily atrocious. Which is why when things like skinny jeans and leggings started being propagated at these stores - I resisted. Hard. These were the people who tried to also get me into bubble skirts and vests. They were not to be trusted.
Turns out skinny jeans and leggings are both excellent wardrobe staples that should be accepted and appreciated for their value of making your legs look longer and making it so you can still go on the monkey bars in skirts. If they were right about this, what else were they right about?
I've started trying to find out and its hard. Example - I need a wide brown leather belt to wear with a few different dresses I already own. I've made it past the first step - I know I need the belt, now I have to figure out where the eff to buy it and what it is supposed to look like.
I've developed this idea in my brain of "wide brown leather belt" that may not actually exist in the known universe - and if it does, I'm not sure I'll know it when I see it.
This example can also be used for just about everything - including but not limited to black knee-high boots, button-down shirts, and skirts that fit a bill more varied then "its too hot for pants."
So, I've decided that I either need to start living with girls who will tell me what to wear again, or hire a personal shopper. Or maybe just go back to the tee-shirts.
Friday, April 22, 2011
birds and the faces
My friend SOB sent me this picture and it completely made my week.
For some reason the caption doesn't come with the picture but here it is:
Fifth-graders react as they watch real photos of a developing fetus inside the uterus while senior health educator Andy Wentling presents "Life Begins," at the Robert Crown Centers for Health Education. (Chuck Berman/Chicago Tribune) (Chuck Berman/Chicago Tribune)
And the article (which you should read because it will make this blog post make a ton more sense)
Well, first of all, Kudos to Mr. Berman. This is probably the best piece of photojournalism (that hasn't made me so miserable that I want to move to Mars) that I've seen since the picture of President G-Dubs Bush touring Fort Detrick in shoe-covering booties and one of those guests-in-surgery scrub caps (the poofy ones).
And the best part about it is its a total accurate depiction of what I (and the friends that I've polled) felt when we came face to face with sex education. In some way, this picture is incredibly comforting. My knowledge of what 5th graders know these days is limited but I am glad to hear they are still shocked/disgusted/mildly entertained by what happens when we all grow up.
I remember the first time someone explained to me how my body was going to "change," my first thought was, "Old teacher lady says Whaaaaa?" and then my second was, "me and my body have talked it over and we've decided that all this is NOT going to happen."
But, you know, it did. And I've handled it with all the awkwardness and bitterness that you would expect (although thank everything above that I got to learn from Ms. Officer instead of Mr. Boyer, who would wear the shortest of shorts and then put one foot up on a chair... I won't describe the rest, but needless to say he should have been fired...and I'm sure it was a scarring experience for the young gentlemen in my year).
When Sean sent this article to me, he had it linked from Fox Nation, a website with the tagline - "The Fox Nation is for those opposed to intolerance, excessive government control of our lives, and attempts to monopolize opinion or suppress freedom of thought, expression, and worship." Which is a statement that has just enough substance for people to use it against each other but not really enough to actually give a real point of view.
Anyway - it gave me the opportunity to read the comments generated by the readership.
Here's the thing, commenters - you really have no idea what you're talking about. First of all - everyone gets the "how a baby grows" talk together. They separate boys v. girls for the "our bodies ourselves" portion. Boys should have to know what has to happen inside a lady for a baby to come out, because otherwise they would not run to the corner store for ice cream and dino nuggets once they knocked a girl up.
Also, my Mom knew girl whose parents had told her that if she ever let a boy touch her hand she would immediately get pregnant, which is an excellent example of why we don't let parents be in charge of the "how babies are made" discussion.
And the idea that sex ed is making more teenage girls pregnant is laughable. I'm pretty sure that if you showed every single teenage girl the video they made me watch in 9th grade (the one where the baby actually gets borned), once a month for like a year or so - we would have exactly No unplanned pregnancies.
Anyway - its an amazing picture, and the organization that is going out there and making sure kids get all the information they need deserves all the support they need - if anything for making it so that normal parents can have this conversation instead:
Mom - "So uh, I guess I am supposed to have a talk with you about stuff."
Son - "Oh. Uh..."
Mom - "So you know everything you're supposed to know, right? About everything."
Son - "Yeah. I'm good."
Mom - "Great. Good talk then."
Fifth-graders react as they watch real photos of a developing fetus inside the uterus while senior health educator Andy Wentling presents "Life Begins," at the Robert Crown Centers for Health Education. (Chuck Berman/Chicago Tribune) (Chuck Berman/Chicago Tribune)
And the article (which you should read because it will make this blog post make a ton more sense)
Well, first of all, Kudos to Mr. Berman. This is probably the best piece of photojournalism (that hasn't made me so miserable that I want to move to Mars) that I've seen since the picture of President G-Dubs Bush touring Fort Detrick in shoe-covering booties and one of those guests-in-surgery scrub caps (the poofy ones).
And the best part about it is its a total accurate depiction of what I (and the friends that I've polled) felt when we came face to face with sex education. In some way, this picture is incredibly comforting. My knowledge of what 5th graders know these days is limited but I am glad to hear they are still shocked/disgusted/mildly entertained by what happens when we all grow up.
I remember the first time someone explained to me how my body was going to "change," my first thought was, "Old teacher lady says Whaaaaa?" and then my second was, "me and my body have talked it over and we've decided that all this is NOT going to happen."
But, you know, it did. And I've handled it with all the awkwardness and bitterness that you would expect (although thank everything above that I got to learn from Ms. Officer instead of Mr. Boyer, who would wear the shortest of shorts and then put one foot up on a chair... I won't describe the rest, but needless to say he should have been fired...and I'm sure it was a scarring experience for the young gentlemen in my year).
When Sean sent this article to me, he had it linked from Fox Nation, a website with the tagline - "The Fox Nation is for those opposed to intolerance, excessive government control of our lives, and attempts to monopolize opinion or suppress freedom of thought, expression, and worship." Which is a statement that has just enough substance for people to use it against each other but not really enough to actually give a real point of view.
Anyway - it gave me the opportunity to read the comments generated by the readership.
Here's the thing, commenters - you really have no idea what you're talking about. First of all - everyone gets the "how a baby grows" talk together. They separate boys v. girls for the "our bodies ourselves" portion. Boys should have to know what has to happen inside a lady for a baby to come out, because otherwise they would not run to the corner store for ice cream and dino nuggets once they knocked a girl up.
Also, my Mom knew girl whose parents had told her that if she ever let a boy touch her hand she would immediately get pregnant, which is an excellent example of why we don't let parents be in charge of the "how babies are made" discussion.
And the idea that sex ed is making more teenage girls pregnant is laughable. I'm pretty sure that if you showed every single teenage girl the video they made me watch in 9th grade (the one where the baby actually gets borned), once a month for like a year or so - we would have exactly No unplanned pregnancies.
Anyway - its an amazing picture, and the organization that is going out there and making sure kids get all the information they need deserves all the support they need - if anything for making it so that normal parents can have this conversation instead:
Mom - "So uh, I guess I am supposed to have a talk with you about stuff."
Son - "Oh. Uh..."
Mom - "So you know everything you're supposed to know, right? About everything."
Son - "Yeah. I'm good."
Mom - "Great. Good talk then."
Tuesday, April 19, 2011
Cat's meow
I need some serious, serious help.
The love of my early 20's, Hazel Buena has reacquired a habit that needs to get gone.
She has always incredibly vocal in her emotions. Whether it be love or hate, she really needs to share it with you in that incredibly insistent and yet, totally unintelligible way that cats have.
I'm not going to say she picked up this habit from her adoptive mother, Luna, but they were a pair of noisy felines. Once Luna left for Texas, Hazel continued the ruckus in honor of her bestie moving out.
When Hazel and I moved out of the Brothel of Chaste-ness she traded in the meowing for peeing on everything, which was, despite my boneheaded claims a few months prior, actually way worse than the never ending chatter.
She gave up the peeing, and the crying to a certain degree eventually and in apartment v. 2.1 she was almost quiet, though she did really get a kick out of scratching at the bedroom door at 5:40 on a Sunday morning.
But since the move to the land of Hipster- she has become a vision of her younger, far too vocal self. It happens sometimes in the morning, but mostly at night in those clutch few hours when humans are wanting absolutely nothing more than to be asleep.
Taking 20 or so minutes to wear her out and eff with her brain with the laser pointer helps occasionally (I am writing this post with one hand, the other is controlling the most elusive and unpredictable prey that a feline has ever come in contact with) but with about as much regularity as standing in front of her and saying, "Shut up, Hazel," in a stern voice.
I need something, short of cutting out her vocal cords with tweezers and a butter knife, that will make all the meowing go away. The bacon-eating animal lover inside me thinks that water bottle spraying is very cruel, although I've been changing my tune these past few months.
It doesn't really work though because you spray her (and since its night and you want to keep yourself as semi-comatose as possible, you don't turn on any lights and so miss the cat entirely about 65% of the time) and then she just tilts her head with a look of consternation and then meows, "why would you spray me? That's not very nice," (or something to that affect). Then shakes off the damp and meows some more.
So, besides the spray bottle and Grey's Anatomy, Animal Planet style --any suggestions??
The love of my early 20's, Hazel Buena has reacquired a habit that needs to get gone.
She has always incredibly vocal in her emotions. Whether it be love or hate, she really needs to share it with you in that incredibly insistent and yet, totally unintelligible way that cats have.
I'm not going to say she picked up this habit from her adoptive mother, Luna, but they were a pair of noisy felines. Once Luna left for Texas, Hazel continued the ruckus in honor of her bestie moving out.
When Hazel and I moved out of the Brothel of Chaste-ness she traded in the meowing for peeing on everything, which was, despite my boneheaded claims a few months prior, actually way worse than the never ending chatter.
She gave up the peeing, and the crying to a certain degree eventually and in apartment v. 2.1 she was almost quiet, though she did really get a kick out of scratching at the bedroom door at 5:40 on a Sunday morning.
But since the move to the land of Hipster- she has become a vision of her younger, far too vocal self. It happens sometimes in the morning, but mostly at night in those clutch few hours when humans are wanting absolutely nothing more than to be asleep.
Taking 20 or so minutes to wear her out and eff with her brain with the laser pointer helps occasionally (I am writing this post with one hand, the other is controlling the most elusive and unpredictable prey that a feline has ever come in contact with) but with about as much regularity as standing in front of her and saying, "Shut up, Hazel," in a stern voice.
I need something, short of cutting out her vocal cords with tweezers and a butter knife, that will make all the meowing go away. The bacon-eating animal lover inside me thinks that water bottle spraying is very cruel, although I've been changing my tune these past few months.
It doesn't really work though because you spray her (and since its night and you want to keep yourself as semi-comatose as possible, you don't turn on any lights and so miss the cat entirely about 65% of the time) and then she just tilts her head with a look of consternation and then meows, "why would you spray me? That's not very nice," (or something to that affect). Then shakes off the damp and meows some more.
So, besides the spray bottle and Grey's Anatomy, Animal Planet style --any suggestions??
Monday, April 18, 2011
Book 9.1 - Blackhearts in Battersea
On my 26th birthday, as a treat, I let myself get lost in the book section of the Brown Elephant on Halsted. I have a wicked thing for used books and, left to my own devices, I will happily walk out with as many as I can carry. Because they tend to cost about a dollar a piece, its an excellent opportunity to judge things by their covers, or by the fact that you once heard someone say the title, or it has a blurb on it from another person you like, or some other absurd reason. This was an especially amazing used book adventure because I didn't just find new books - I found an old friend.
image via
In my mother's house, somewhere among the Laura Ingalls Wilder and the four copies of Me Talk Pretty One Day we collectively own is a hardback copy of this book. I don't know if its Mom's or Granny's or someone else's, but nearly all of the pictures have been lovingly colored in (apparently when my Mom was sick as a child, this was a special treat she got, it was, devastatingly, Not passed down to the future generation, probably because she did not trust us to color inside the lines) and its one of my favorite memories of childhood.
I did not even know they had come out in paperback (and on my birthday 11 years ago! How marvelous!) but this was a nice way of finding out. I snatched it out of the pile, afraid someone else's hand would get there faster, and clutched it close to my chest. Its sat on my shelf since, a friendly reminder of childhood.
On Friday at work, I was talking with one of our tutors, who is about the same age as my Mom and as wonderfully well versed in the best books of childhood. She was positively glee-ful to discover that my mother had taken the time to introduce me to all the classics. I brought up Wolves of Willoughby Chase and she talked about how much she had loved it. I mentioned Blackhearts in Battersea and how excited I had been to find a copy and it drew a blank stare.
"You never read the sequel to Wolves of Willoughby Chase?"
"There's a sequel?"
I am beyond delighted to have the opportunity to share this book with her, as there is nothing quite as good as sharing a book with someone you know will enjoy it immensely. I put it in my bookbag when I got home on Friday so I wouldn't forget it come Monday morning, but of course, since it was there, I took the opportunity to get reacquainted with Simon and Sophie and little Dido Twite on my bus rides and stolen moments waiting in line for things.
Its really good still. Its obviously more of a child's book than anything else, and so is the easiest of reads, but it is also full of danger and intrigue and phonetically-spelled cockney dialogue full of the jargon of the day. I wish words like "tosser" and "naffy" would come back into popularity and we could all talk with English accents without sounding ridiculous.
Its one of those great children's books that can draw in both boys and girls. Naturally having a male and female protagonist will help, but the girls in this book do just as much rescuing as the boys and they're just as smart and they get to wear gorgeous dresses that are described in just enough detail to let your imagination lose.
Naturally, if you've never read this Joan Aiken series, you must start with Wolves (which is every bit as good, though geared slightly more towards girls although there are some pretty vicious wolves that might pique the boys' interest) then read this one. It's a real hum-dinger.
Sunday, April 17, 2011
Book 9 - Waiter Rant
I got half way through this book and had a moment of paralyzing fear, Why did Boyfriend get me this book for Christmas?
image via
Because here's the thing. This book is not very kind to people who eat in restaurants (a label which I happily give myself as much as possible). He tends to make broad generalizations and then rationalizes them with, "most people are not like this." There are some heart warming stories about very rich people who help him out or very poor people that he helps out (because being a waiter in a fancy restaurant is kind of like being the messiah) - but, obviously, there are not very many stories about just normal people who come in, eat, leave a 20% tip and then go home. Which makes sense because we're a fairly boring bunch, but he complains SO much about jerks that you kind of feel like he thinks we're all jerks and every now and then, someone surprises him.
Anyway, turns out Boyfriend does not think I am a terrible person who does not deserve to eat in a restaurant, he just thought that the book might be kind of like David Sedaris and knew I liked him, so went for it.
And it is like David Sedaris, in that there are many short stories, although he spends much more time finding meaning in the stories than David Sedaris every does. While David Sedaris does eventually find meaning - the meat of the story is the story itself. I wish this book was more like that. I get that being a waiter is shitty. But most jobs are pretty shitty. I can't think of a single job where you aren't dealing with jerks and annoying people all day long. Apparently this planet is overrun with terrible people. Bummer.
My favorite part of this book was the descriptions of all the people. Obviously. The best part is the story. And so, if this was truly a David Sedaris-esque book it would be all story, with space left for the reader to figure out that we're all terrible people and we should tip better.
It did give me pause, to be perfectly honest. There are some habits of mine, that now seen from the other perspective make me feel a bit guilty. Although I still do not understand the assigned seating in a completely empty restaurant bit. Maybe it depends on the place or the day, but if its a Sunday morning and there is no one there - why can't I just sit wherever I want?? I am paying for this experience right? I should not be judged for wanting a table near the window. Right?? Sorry to be a dick, maybe there is something I'm just not getting about this whole thing...
But more stories about crazy people! That's what I want! I want to hear more about the stupid people who insist that everything on their plate be cooked in peanut oil and the men who come in with hookers and all that good stuff. That was by far the most enjoyable part of the book. Some of it kind of felt like I had done something wrong and was being lectured.
Also, this guy made a book out of a blog, I have to give that kind of thing uber-props. As someone who can barely force herself to type more than four or five sentences of pure drivel on any given day - this guy put in the work and it paid off well. So, kudos for that...but I still want to hear more gossipy stories about strangers.
Because here's the thing. This book is not very kind to people who eat in restaurants (a label which I happily give myself as much as possible). He tends to make broad generalizations and then rationalizes them with, "most people are not like this." There are some heart warming stories about very rich people who help him out or very poor people that he helps out (because being a waiter in a fancy restaurant is kind of like being the messiah) - but, obviously, there are not very many stories about just normal people who come in, eat, leave a 20% tip and then go home. Which makes sense because we're a fairly boring bunch, but he complains SO much about jerks that you kind of feel like he thinks we're all jerks and every now and then, someone surprises him.
Anyway, turns out Boyfriend does not think I am a terrible person who does not deserve to eat in a restaurant, he just thought that the book might be kind of like David Sedaris and knew I liked him, so went for it.
And it is like David Sedaris, in that there are many short stories, although he spends much more time finding meaning in the stories than David Sedaris every does. While David Sedaris does eventually find meaning - the meat of the story is the story itself. I wish this book was more like that. I get that being a waiter is shitty. But most jobs are pretty shitty. I can't think of a single job where you aren't dealing with jerks and annoying people all day long. Apparently this planet is overrun with terrible people. Bummer.
My favorite part of this book was the descriptions of all the people. Obviously. The best part is the story. And so, if this was truly a David Sedaris-esque book it would be all story, with space left for the reader to figure out that we're all terrible people and we should tip better.
It did give me pause, to be perfectly honest. There are some habits of mine, that now seen from the other perspective make me feel a bit guilty. Although I still do not understand the assigned seating in a completely empty restaurant bit. Maybe it depends on the place or the day, but if its a Sunday morning and there is no one there - why can't I just sit wherever I want?? I am paying for this experience right? I should not be judged for wanting a table near the window. Right?? Sorry to be a dick, maybe there is something I'm just not getting about this whole thing...
But more stories about crazy people! That's what I want! I want to hear more about the stupid people who insist that everything on their plate be cooked in peanut oil and the men who come in with hookers and all that good stuff. That was by far the most enjoyable part of the book. Some of it kind of felt like I had done something wrong and was being lectured.
Also, this guy made a book out of a blog, I have to give that kind of thing uber-props. As someone who can barely force herself to type more than four or five sentences of pure drivel on any given day - this guy put in the work and it paid off well. So, kudos for that...but I still want to hear more gossipy stories about strangers.
Thursday, April 07, 2011
It's cool Argentina.
Last night, Boyfriend and I went and saw Black Watch. It was pretty much just as amazing as everyone told me it would be. I would recommend it if you aren't afraid of a little loud noise, men dancing and singing, and the grim reality of how dumb those in charge of America can be sometimes.
A week ago we also took in The Wizard of Oz as envisioned by Bell Elementary school. One of the youth from the organization I work for was in the cast and his Mom gave us tickets. It was a feat of theatrical amazingness for totally different reasons. I find getting elementary school students to do anything to be akin to getting a shark to abandon a bloody carcass. Nearly impossible. Particularly when they are in a large group. This cast had over 100 kids in it. Ages 7 - 12. And an actual dog. Good lord. And they pulled it off. I could get on my soap box about how kids today are coddled and they all have body mics and back in my day you learned how to project or you Got Off The Stage, but I won't. Not right now.
Anyway, in both of these shows, just like in most theatrical productions I've seen in the past 15 years, when it came time for the curtain call I found myself thisclose to bawling my eyes out. I have no idea what is wrong with me (although, I am a girl, so bawling my eyes out in public is practically acceptable, if not encouraged).
Live theater has always been my number one Boo. Watching and performing. And I get it, its not what I'll make all my dollars doing- but that does not take away from the fact that it is my most.favorite. And something about curtain call just gets me all riled up and full of emotion. Its so ridiculous.
I think part of it is just being aware of how much work goes into putting up a show. You can't know until you've done it. Until you've sewed costumes through the early morning hours, and done the same four steps an uncountable number of times. You've gotten high off of paint fumes - and not the fun kind of high, but the kind where it makes all your food taste like rubbing alcohol, you've folded programs and risked your life changing the gels in the hardest to reach lights even though you've thought to yourself that there are probably less than two people in the audience who will Even Notice.
But you do it, because you love it. And you don't even think about it, you cry in dark stairwells and over cigarettes just outside propped open emergency exit doors. The curtain call is that first breath you get after weeks of holding it in. Its weird to do something and have the end result be based almost entirely on the reaction of a whole bunch of random people. And I empathize with that first breath. Because I've been there too.
It'd be one thing if you hired to design a building, or build a computer program, or fix a car - and there is a constant dialogue between you and the customer, "I like this, change this, do this," and an invoice of how much time and thought and energy went into it. Although, truth be told, if engineers and architects wanted to take curtain calls in front of their customers, I would have no problem with that.
Because here's the thing - its awesome to take a curtain call. PS- I think its totally bogus that backstage people don't get to take one (at Bell every single student who was part of the production took a bow, all the lights/make up/choreography people - it was kind of awesome). Being applauded for doing something well is an incredible feeling and one that I think inspires more creation.
Also theater is an incredibly powerful medium and perhaps I drank a bit too much of the Kool-Aid, but the message of whatever they are saying ("War is terrible and dumb," "Love your family and your friends,") can come across so strongly in a play and the curtain call is that moment where I find it all sinking in and my emotions getting the better of me.
Anyway - so that's my really guilty secret for the week. I cry at curtain calls. I'm a weenie. But seriously, go see Black Watch.
A week ago we also took in The Wizard of Oz as envisioned by Bell Elementary school. One of the youth from the organization I work for was in the cast and his Mom gave us tickets. It was a feat of theatrical amazingness for totally different reasons. I find getting elementary school students to do anything to be akin to getting a shark to abandon a bloody carcass. Nearly impossible. Particularly when they are in a large group. This cast had over 100 kids in it. Ages 7 - 12. And an actual dog. Good lord. And they pulled it off. I could get on my soap box about how kids today are coddled and they all have body mics and back in my day you learned how to project or you Got Off The Stage, but I won't. Not right now.
Anyway, in both of these shows, just like in most theatrical productions I've seen in the past 15 years, when it came time for the curtain call I found myself thisclose to bawling my eyes out. I have no idea what is wrong with me (although, I am a girl, so bawling my eyes out in public is practically acceptable, if not encouraged).
Live theater has always been my number one Boo. Watching and performing. And I get it, its not what I'll make all my dollars doing- but that does not take away from the fact that it is my most.favorite. And something about curtain call just gets me all riled up and full of emotion. Its so ridiculous.
I think part of it is just being aware of how much work goes into putting up a show. You can't know until you've done it. Until you've sewed costumes through the early morning hours, and done the same four steps an uncountable number of times. You've gotten high off of paint fumes - and not the fun kind of high, but the kind where it makes all your food taste like rubbing alcohol, you've folded programs and risked your life changing the gels in the hardest to reach lights even though you've thought to yourself that there are probably less than two people in the audience who will Even Notice.
But you do it, because you love it. And you don't even think about it, you cry in dark stairwells and over cigarettes just outside propped open emergency exit doors. The curtain call is that first breath you get after weeks of holding it in. Its weird to do something and have the end result be based almost entirely on the reaction of a whole bunch of random people. And I empathize with that first breath. Because I've been there too.
It'd be one thing if you hired to design a building, or build a computer program, or fix a car - and there is a constant dialogue between you and the customer, "I like this, change this, do this," and an invoice of how much time and thought and energy went into it. Although, truth be told, if engineers and architects wanted to take curtain calls in front of their customers, I would have no problem with that.
Because here's the thing - its awesome to take a curtain call. PS- I think its totally bogus that backstage people don't get to take one (at Bell every single student who was part of the production took a bow, all the lights/make up/choreography people - it was kind of awesome). Being applauded for doing something well is an incredible feeling and one that I think inspires more creation.
Also theater is an incredibly powerful medium and perhaps I drank a bit too much of the Kool-Aid, but the message of whatever they are saying ("War is terrible and dumb," "Love your family and your friends,") can come across so strongly in a play and the curtain call is that moment where I find it all sinking in and my emotions getting the better of me.
Anyway - so that's my really guilty secret for the week. I cry at curtain calls. I'm a weenie. But seriously, go see Black Watch.
Wednesday, April 06, 2011
Book 8 - The Perks of Being Wallflower
Before you start with me, No, I have never read this book before. Never. Is that crazy? Some people think its totally crazy - apparently its a staple of many pre-adolescences. I some how coasted over it, probably because I spent most of those formative years reading as much Margaret Atwood as humanly possible (and just as much time pretending like I understood it).
Anyway, I can cross it off the list, I've now read Perks of Being a Wallflower.
So when I was lacking a book for my train ride home I picked it up off the bookshelf in the tutoring room at work. Thinking that a whole bunch of people have it listed as one of their favorites on the Facebook. It was worth a shot.
I read the first 10 or 15 pages on the way home and then abandoned it for a current New Yorker. I was not getting the big whoop as of yet. Then on Sunday night, after hearing my friend rave about it - I decided to give it another go.
Sunday night bath is one of my most favorite new traditions. Its not quite an every week thing, but it happens enough to be more than just a passing fad. I took Wallflower with me and started back up and read straight through from page 12 or whatever - until the very end. It took an hour and a half or so (I take pretty warm baths so I'm not running the risk of catching hypothermia or anything) and when it was over I was prune-y and thoughtful.
I thought it was good, to be sure but I am not quite sure why all my friends think its so amazing. Without giving too much away, it bills itself as being a book about a typical high school experience but uh - its not. There are parts of it that (I hope) are anything but typical.
I related with Charlie to be sure, especially there were a few lines that just echoed in my head, knocking around like unfamiliar memories, I wasn't sure how he had known exactly how I felt.
This all came to a screeching halt with the final reveal which made me reevaluate everything I thought before. Am I really like this character who I am realizing, is so not like me?! Yikes, Stripes.
Also, the fact that Charlie was a boy. As with any book written about adolescents, I want to hear the same story but if it was a girl - how does that change his/her feelings and actions. I don't know why - perhaps femenocentricism is to blame, but, Lord of the Flies, A Separate Peace...what it would be like if they were about girls? (I can tell you one thing - probably a lot fewer people would have died). These are the things I think about when I am reading.
Anyway - if you're a teenager and you're very angsty, you should probably read this book. If you are a grown up and want to feel nostalgic about how amazing high school was then, I hate you and everything you stand for - and you probably will feel like you empathize with this book. If you feel like high school is best left in the past and don't need anything else to bring you down in this world of sadness - read Harry Potter, because its about angsty kids, but there's Magic!
Anyway, I can cross it off the list, I've now read Perks of Being a Wallflower.
So when I was lacking a book for my train ride home I picked it up off the bookshelf in the tutoring room at work. Thinking that a whole bunch of people have it listed as one of their favorites on the Facebook. It was worth a shot.
I read the first 10 or 15 pages on the way home and then abandoned it for a current New Yorker. I was not getting the big whoop as of yet. Then on Sunday night, after hearing my friend rave about it - I decided to give it another go.
Sunday night bath is one of my most favorite new traditions. Its not quite an every week thing, but it happens enough to be more than just a passing fad. I took Wallflower with me and started back up and read straight through from page 12 or whatever - until the very end. It took an hour and a half or so (I take pretty warm baths so I'm not running the risk of catching hypothermia or anything) and when it was over I was prune-y and thoughtful.
I thought it was good, to be sure but I am not quite sure why all my friends think its so amazing. Without giving too much away, it bills itself as being a book about a typical high school experience but uh - its not. There are parts of it that (I hope) are anything but typical.
I related with Charlie to be sure, especially there were a few lines that just echoed in my head, knocking around like unfamiliar memories, I wasn't sure how he had known exactly how I felt.
This all came to a screeching halt with the final reveal which made me reevaluate everything I thought before. Am I really like this character who I am realizing, is so not like me?! Yikes, Stripes.
Also, the fact that Charlie was a boy. As with any book written about adolescents, I want to hear the same story but if it was a girl - how does that change his/her feelings and actions. I don't know why - perhaps femenocentricism is to blame, but, Lord of the Flies, A Separate Peace...what it would be like if they were about girls? (I can tell you one thing - probably a lot fewer people would have died). These are the things I think about when I am reading.
Anyway - if you're a teenager and you're very angsty, you should probably read this book. If you are a grown up and want to feel nostalgic about how amazing high school was then, I hate you and everything you stand for - and you probably will feel like you empathize with this book. If you feel like high school is best left in the past and don't need anything else to bring you down in this world of sadness - read Harry Potter, because its about angsty kids, but there's Magic!
Tuesday, April 05, 2011
Book 7 - Neverwhere
I hate that this is becoming the all books blog - but my brain has been spinning at about 100 miles an hour most of the time - and when I am home, not working, I try to stay away from the computer. Which means a total lack of blog posts. But it does mean a lot of snuggling up with a blanket and reading. I've finished two books in the past couple weeks, and at first I thought this post was going to be for both of them, but I write too much and so I had to split it into two (you're welcome).
First off - Neverwhere.
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It's been on my shelf for a while now and then I randomly picked it up, only to discover (Thanks to a random guy on the Lawrence bus) that it is currently the One Book, One Chicago...book (also known as the One City, One Book Book). This is one of those totally corny things that I absolutely lose my sh*t over. A whole city reading the same book!!!? Squeeeeeee, how harmonious! No guns! Only books! I got so jacked about it I suggested my book club read it too so that we could be one with the city (it lost out to Public Enemies - the John Dillinger book, which is poetic, Chicagoian democracy at its finest).
This is also wonderful because Neil Gaiman (himself) will be here to talk about it. I love listening to authors talk and rubbing off some of their being-published aura. So I'm excited because its really quite lovely when timing works out just right.
As for the book. Well. I cannot bring myself to think anything beyond, "yeaaah, its good." I mean, it is crazy imaginative and vividly written (to the point where there were moments that I forgot it was a fantasy book. I totally bought into this world because sometimes I'm an idiot). But at the same time, I didn't really jam out with any of the main characters. So much energy was spent on the world, that I felt completely ambivalent on whether Door or Richard or any of them made it out of this place alive (except the two bad guys - they were deliciously bad).
I don't think that this is a problem, necessarily - it was a pretty quick read and accessible for the masses (as the One City One Book...book should be). I am excited to read his other stuff and also listen to him talk, as I have heard he is funny fellow.
First off - Neverwhere.
image (via)
It's been on my shelf for a while now and then I randomly picked it up, only to discover (Thanks to a random guy on the Lawrence bus) that it is currently the One Book, One Chicago...book (also known as the One City, One Book Book). This is one of those totally corny things that I absolutely lose my sh*t over. A whole city reading the same book!!!? Squeeeeeee, how harmonious! No guns! Only books! I got so jacked about it I suggested my book club read it too so that we could be one with the city (it lost out to Public Enemies - the John Dillinger book, which is poetic, Chicagoian democracy at its finest).
This is also wonderful because Neil Gaiman (himself) will be here to talk about it. I love listening to authors talk and rubbing off some of their being-published aura. So I'm excited because its really quite lovely when timing works out just right.
As for the book. Well. I cannot bring myself to think anything beyond, "yeaaah, its good." I mean, it is crazy imaginative and vividly written (to the point where there were moments that I forgot it was a fantasy book. I totally bought into this world because sometimes I'm an idiot). But at the same time, I didn't really jam out with any of the main characters. So much energy was spent on the world, that I felt completely ambivalent on whether Door or Richard or any of them made it out of this place alive (except the two bad guys - they were deliciously bad).
I don't think that this is a problem, necessarily - it was a pretty quick read and accessible for the masses (as the One City One Book...book should be). I am excited to read his other stuff and also listen to him talk, as I have heard he is funny fellow.
Monday, April 04, 2011
spare change
Here are some of the reasons I will always be poor:
1- I don't really have any "marketable" skills. ie - I cannot program a computer, fight a legal battle, repair a heart, talk to you about your feelings, or fill prescriptions at your local pharmacy. Which means I will always make $20,000 less than my brain is truly worth.
2- I like it when other people cook and do the dishes.
3- I have a hard time saying no to adventures.
4- Not having enough money is never a good enough excuse not to go see a play, concert or ballet when the opportunity arises.
5- I find beer to be delicious. The fancier/more plentiful the better.
6- I like buying shoes. And bags. And shirts. And jeans.
7- I can't do things by myself and so, to entice others to hang out with me, I tend to buy.
8- I like giving presents - especially when they're least expected.
9- Groupon.
10- I tend to choose "play more," over "work more."
1- I don't really have any "marketable" skills. ie - I cannot program a computer, fight a legal battle, repair a heart, talk to you about your feelings, or fill prescriptions at your local pharmacy. Which means I will always make $20,000 less than my brain is truly worth.
2- I like it when other people cook and do the dishes.
3- I have a hard time saying no to adventures.
4- Not having enough money is never a good enough excuse not to go see a play, concert or ballet when the opportunity arises.
5- I find beer to be delicious. The fancier/more plentiful the better.
6- I like buying shoes. And bags. And shirts. And jeans.
7- I can't do things by myself and so, to entice others to hang out with me, I tend to buy.
8- I like giving presents - especially when they're least expected.
9- Groupon.
10- I tend to choose "play more," over "work more."
Sunday, March 27, 2011
Book 6.1 - The Hunger Games
I didn't have a plan in place for re-reads. At this point they don't count. But I still want to talk about them.
I am not going to say that this is my favorite book ever, because while appropriately hyperbolic for me, its not quite true. I will say its for sure the best book I discovered in 2010. And by discovered I mean was sent by C. McKim. My book hero (for serious - if you're ever on the hunt for a good book - check her blog. Its updated frustratingly infrequently, but its my go-to for new reading material).
Anyway. I started re-reading this because now that the protagonist has been (irritatingly) cast I wanted to read it again from a screen-writing perspective (not that I have been hired to write the screen-play, but I feel like I should make myself available to step in).
This story is made to be a movie, y'all. Suzanne Collins knows exactly where her bread is buttered and for that - I salute her. Its not everyone who can make a really compelling book that will also make a really compelling movie.
Upon reading this book for the third time I noticed a few things -
1- Katniss is frustratingly dense sometimes. Perhaps this is a by-product of growing up in the seam and having "not starving to death" being your one and only mental focus day in and day out. So much mental energy is spent staying alive you don't spend enough time learning about subtle nuances and reading between the lines. Eventually she gets with the effing program, but Gah.
2- I am still, most definitely (for the period of the first book at least) solidly on Team Gale. Grow a spine, Peeta. Maybe it's Katniss's stupidity that's to blame, but I still vote Team Gale all the way.
3- I am still not quite sure how to sell this book to others. When someone asks what its about, I'm always like, " Erm? Post apocalyptic America annnnd reality television? And also young people in love. Oh, and teenagers killing each other." That being said - I started a Hunger Games revolution in Chi-city in the 25-and-older demographic. You're welcome, Miss Collins.
I don't know why these books are so good - but they are. And they are a delightful guilty pleasure. Favorite moment this month?? - Hunger Games in a Sunday night bubble bath with a glass of wine. Epic Win.
I am not going to say that this is my favorite book ever, because while appropriately hyperbolic for me, its not quite true. I will say its for sure the best book I discovered in 2010. And by discovered I mean was sent by C. McKim. My book hero (for serious - if you're ever on the hunt for a good book - check her blog. Its updated frustratingly infrequently, but its my go-to for new reading material).
Anyway. I started re-reading this because now that the protagonist has been (irritatingly) cast I wanted to read it again from a screen-writing perspective (not that I have been hired to write the screen-play, but I feel like I should make myself available to step in).
This story is made to be a movie, y'all. Suzanne Collins knows exactly where her bread is buttered and for that - I salute her. Its not everyone who can make a really compelling book that will also make a really compelling movie.
Upon reading this book for the third time I noticed a few things -
1- Katniss is frustratingly dense sometimes. Perhaps this is a by-product of growing up in the seam and having "not starving to death" being your one and only mental focus day in and day out. So much mental energy is spent staying alive you don't spend enough time learning about subtle nuances and reading between the lines. Eventually she gets with the effing program, but Gah.
2- I am still, most definitely (for the period of the first book at least) solidly on Team Gale. Grow a spine, Peeta. Maybe it's Katniss's stupidity that's to blame, but I still vote Team Gale all the way.
3- I am still not quite sure how to sell this book to others. When someone asks what its about, I'm always like, " Erm? Post apocalyptic America annnnd reality television? And also young people in love. Oh, and teenagers killing each other." That being said - I started a Hunger Games revolution in Chi-city in the 25-and-older demographic. You're welcome, Miss Collins.
I don't know why these books are so good - but they are. And they are a delightful guilty pleasure. Favorite moment this month?? - Hunger Games in a Sunday night bubble bath with a glass of wine. Epic Win.
Tuesday, March 22, 2011
once upon a shoe
And now a fairy tale -
Once upon a time there was a girl who was going to a fancy event. So fancy that she couldn't even afford a ticket. But a very nice lady bought her a ticket, so she got dressed up and even curled her hair! She looked so cute and, because the invitation said festive attire, she wore her patent leather red shoes. Pointy and fancy, but with a sensible two and a half inch heel. The short heel was important because she was going to need to walk pretty far to get to the magical land of the 30th floor of the Blue Cross Blue Shield Building.
So she is running late to her fancy event, because she is a girl who was bad at planning. Also, she kind of has a headache, which had made her grouchy and maybe even a little mean to her boyfriend. Her boyfriend did not have a ticket to the fancy event, so he was going to have to sit at home by himself. And she may have been mean about it. Also about other things. Because sometimes pretty girls are mean when they are rushed and/or having a bad day.
The girl was walking to her event. She had to walk all of the blocks because she is broke and hates cabs. It was a little too cold for her dress and so she was walking quickly, even running a bit when she was attempting to cross a street before the light changed.
She gets to the block just before the fancy building and skittered across the intersection to beat the flashing orange hand. There she was, a mere 40 or so steps from the entrance when, all of a sudden, her gait became unbalanced. She feels as though, with every step, she is stepping into a hole, or perhaps a vicious crack in the sidewalk.
She looks down upon her beautiful left shoe and is devastated to discover that the heel had broken and when she attempts to fix it, it snaps right off in her hand.
Here she is six minutes late and holding a very critical part of her shoe. She knows she had two to three hours of socializing to do and it cannot be done in her current state. A younger, more sassy version of this particular girl might have just gone barefoot. But this girl has a title. And business cards. She could no longer go barefoot to expensive benefit events.
So she does what any damsel in distress would do. She calls her long-suffering boyfriend and hopes he has forgotten all of the not-so-nice things she had said before.
She is in luck, he is in a super hero kind of mood. He asks what kind of shoes he should bring and tells her he'll be there as soon as he can.
As she presses the end button on her cellphone, her heart floods with love and realization. He is quite simply the nicest boy who ever lived. To fish through her side of the closet for the black mary jane pumps (all words he does not quite understand, in a language he believes himself to be fluent), travel through downtown Chicago traffic, on a Saturday, no less, to go to a party he was not invited to...all for her.
She walks into the party, trying to give off the appearance that absolutely nothing is wrong, that she is supposed to be slightly lopsided. She macgyvers a temporary solution with some gum, dutifully donated by a 13 year-old boy who, perhaps, has never seen a girl put a shoe back together with gum.
Half an hour later her cellphone vibrates while she is piling a plate with delicious looking sushi. She gave the plate to the person standing closest to her and runs, ever so daintily out of the room.
As she runs, her temporary solution proved itself to be, well, temporary and the heel of her shoe falls off yet again. The people standing at the door stop her and attempt to discreetly tell her that her heel has fallen off. They are distressed, because they are good at their door-guarding jobs.
"What are you going to do?" the lady guard says in a distressed tone.
"Oh, I am about to be rescued!" the girl says as she skitters down all 30 floors in the elevator.
She runs outside and does not even regret not getting her coat out of the coat check, she is so happy.
There he is, the valiant knight in a green hoodie walking towards her carrying a pair of black Steve Madden mary janes.
"You came!" she cries.
"Of course I did," he states in his most matter of a fact voice, as if she is silly to be so surprised and happy.
He waits as the girl quickly changes her shoes and then he picks up the broken ones.
"Have fun at your party," he says and kisses her forehead before walking off towards his Mazda 3 (the noblest of steeds).
And she did have fun at the party. But was also very happy to go home to her knight who was sitting on the couch playing Angry Birds.
And they all lived happily ever after.
The end.
Once upon a time there was a girl who was going to a fancy event. So fancy that she couldn't even afford a ticket. But a very nice lady bought her a ticket, so she got dressed up and even curled her hair! She looked so cute and, because the invitation said festive attire, she wore her patent leather red shoes. Pointy and fancy, but with a sensible two and a half inch heel. The short heel was important because she was going to need to walk pretty far to get to the magical land of the 30th floor of the Blue Cross Blue Shield Building.
So she is running late to her fancy event, because she is a girl who was bad at planning. Also, she kind of has a headache, which had made her grouchy and maybe even a little mean to her boyfriend. Her boyfriend did not have a ticket to the fancy event, so he was going to have to sit at home by himself. And she may have been mean about it. Also about other things. Because sometimes pretty girls are mean when they are rushed and/or having a bad day.
The girl was walking to her event. She had to walk all of the blocks because she is broke and hates cabs. It was a little too cold for her dress and so she was walking quickly, even running a bit when she was attempting to cross a street before the light changed.
She gets to the block just before the fancy building and skittered across the intersection to beat the flashing orange hand. There she was, a mere 40 or so steps from the entrance when, all of a sudden, her gait became unbalanced. She feels as though, with every step, she is stepping into a hole, or perhaps a vicious crack in the sidewalk.
She looks down upon her beautiful left shoe and is devastated to discover that the heel had broken and when she attempts to fix it, it snaps right off in her hand.
Here she is six minutes late and holding a very critical part of her shoe. She knows she had two to three hours of socializing to do and it cannot be done in her current state. A younger, more sassy version of this particular girl might have just gone barefoot. But this girl has a title. And business cards. She could no longer go barefoot to expensive benefit events.
So she does what any damsel in distress would do. She calls her long-suffering boyfriend and hopes he has forgotten all of the not-so-nice things she had said before.
She is in luck, he is in a super hero kind of mood. He asks what kind of shoes he should bring and tells her he'll be there as soon as he can.
As she presses the end button on her cellphone, her heart floods with love and realization. He is quite simply the nicest boy who ever lived. To fish through her side of the closet for the black mary jane pumps (all words he does not quite understand, in a language he believes himself to be fluent), travel through downtown Chicago traffic, on a Saturday, no less, to go to a party he was not invited to...all for her.
She walks into the party, trying to give off the appearance that absolutely nothing is wrong, that she is supposed to be slightly lopsided. She macgyvers a temporary solution with some gum, dutifully donated by a 13 year-old boy who, perhaps, has never seen a girl put a shoe back together with gum.
Half an hour later her cellphone vibrates while she is piling a plate with delicious looking sushi. She gave the plate to the person standing closest to her and runs, ever so daintily out of the room.
As she runs, her temporary solution proved itself to be, well, temporary and the heel of her shoe falls off yet again. The people standing at the door stop her and attempt to discreetly tell her that her heel has fallen off. They are distressed, because they are good at their door-guarding jobs.
"What are you going to do?" the lady guard says in a distressed tone.
"Oh, I am about to be rescued!" the girl says as she skitters down all 30 floors in the elevator.
She runs outside and does not even regret not getting her coat out of the coat check, she is so happy.
There he is, the valiant knight in a green hoodie walking towards her carrying a pair of black Steve Madden mary janes.
"You came!" she cries.
"Of course I did," he states in his most matter of a fact voice, as if she is silly to be so surprised and happy.
He waits as the girl quickly changes her shoes and then he picks up the broken ones.
"Have fun at your party," he says and kisses her forehead before walking off towards his Mazda 3 (the noblest of steeds).
And she did have fun at the party. But was also very happy to go home to her knight who was sitting on the couch playing Angry Birds.
And they all lived happily ever after.
The end.
Book 6 - The Pilot's Wife
So, I'm pretty sure I started reading this book when I was fourteen or so.
(I have no idea why this picture is so wee)
But honestly, I cannot remember if I really did. That was a long time ago, and there have been a bunch of books since then, but for some reason I have this memory of picking this book up while baby-sitting and not getting interested in it at all.
Which is weird, because this book is very very gripping. Anita Shreve knows how to sell her 'ish. You know? She can turn a phrase to keep you reading. And I dig it. I like a book that keeps me reading (dur - if you want a book that doesn't keep you reading read Catcher in the Rye, yawn).
I read this for book club and I am curious to see what everyone else says about it, its the 2nd Anita Shreve book we've read in the past year (We read Testimony pretty recently) and I will say - they are two different books, but you can tell they are written by the same (albeit very talented) lady.
Also, in the grand scheme of the three books I've read by her - nothing holds a candle to Fortune's Rock. I was super stoked that the house from Fortunes makes an appearance in this one. It sounds like a gorgeous house - I would like to go to there (mmm, imaginary real estate porn).
Obviously, I don't want to give anything away - but this book made me second guess everything in my life. Like Everything to the point where Boyfriend was like, "you need to remember that there is a difference between books and real life, although sometimes that difference is very, very small (and for the most part more attractive) - also this book did nothing for my complete and total irrational fear of flying. So, that's great.
There is also some historical stuff that was touched on but not really discussed towards the end of the book and I think that maybe because of when it was written, there wasn't a ton of backstory (ie - when it was written, this particular thing was a whole bunch more prevalent) so I am left scrambling to the wikipedia and feeling like an uneducated loser. So I'm just saying, maybe a little more context would not have hurt things.
Anyway. Pilot's Wife is totally worth picking up at your local resale shop (I feel like I always see copies of it around) and reading. It has some surprises in it that I wish were better explained, but left me feeling satisfied and made me feel better about reading it. I feel like her books walk this very fine line between Chick Lit and just books about girls and boys and love - and this book for sure fell in the second category. Despite the ending which almost tipped it back into the chick lit ocean.
Monday, March 21, 2011
attack
A few nights ago (or more precisely a few mornings) - I had my second real honest-to-Betsy anxiety attack. I've had minor melt downs before, but nothing that compared to this feeling of total helplessness. Of truly feeling that I am not in control of my own body or mind.
Its one of the most terrifying experiences and I am bummed to the max that it has now happened twice. Had it only happened once (which was about a week and a half ago), I could write it off as a crazy fluke. But twice in two weeks - that's a pattern.
To be perfectly honest, I am not 100% sure that what happened to me last week, and a few Sundays ago, was truly a anxiety attack.* But I don't have any other words to describe the sensation of alertness and dread that came over me. I woke up suddenly and every nerve ending, every fiber of my being was on alert - except for this one part of my brain that was tired and wanted to sleep (all of this was happening at about 2 AM). It was this bizarre tug-of-war happening and I felt completely powerless. Which is the strangest, hardest part for me to understand, because I was powerless against myself.
How upset and stressed does your body and mind have to be to turn on itself?
To be powerless is the worst feeling in the world. But to be powerless against yourself goes beyond what I could image hopelessness to feel like. If even your own body and mind are in revolt, who can you turn to? I remember feeling my fingers kept reflexively clenching into fists either to start a fight or to release some of the energy coursing through my veins.
I attempted some breathing exercises I had been taught to calm myself down (fun fact - if you ever find yourself in the middle of an anxiety/panic attack - your first instinct is going to be to take deep breaths, but that is actually just going to make it worse. You want to take a deep breath, hold it in for a few seconds, and then let it out. This way you are ever-so-slightly denying your body of oxygen which slows everything down and, with any luck, relaxes all the panic away).
They helped a little, but I was still feeling the strange pull of exhaustion and yet being totally awake. So I did what I have been doing since I was a kid and couldn't fall asleep. I went into the bathroom where I could turn on the bright light and not bother anyone, and I lay down on the cold tile floor with a towel in a ball under my head. And I read.
How I wished that I had access to a Blackhearts in Battersea or a Wild Magic - something I knew all the words to. But it was the New Yorker I found next to the bed - specifically a literary review, boring as all get out but melodic and calming. For some reason the panic and anxiety dissipated when I was reading. The distraction of the words did more to calm me down than the breathing and the trying to be still. Which shows you just how big a nerd I am. Words have healing powers for me.
Eventually I fall asleep on the cold tile floor and then eventually I wake up, and the anxiety has left. So I pick myself up off the floor and head back to bed. I don't know if this will ever happen again. I'm hoping that the act of writing about it (though not writing about what I think may have brought it on, which is really neither here nor there) has massaged out the mental knot that is causing it.
**So after talking with a few people, it seems like what I had maybe labeled as an anxiety attack rather than a panic attack. Which is fine. Apparently panic attacks are worse. So, yeah, I'll take what I can get in terms of nocturnal meltdowns.
Its one of the most terrifying experiences and I am bummed to the max that it has now happened twice. Had it only happened once (which was about a week and a half ago), I could write it off as a crazy fluke. But twice in two weeks - that's a pattern.
To be perfectly honest, I am not 100% sure that what happened to me last week, and a few Sundays ago, was truly a anxiety attack.* But I don't have any other words to describe the sensation of alertness and dread that came over me. I woke up suddenly and every nerve ending, every fiber of my being was on alert - except for this one part of my brain that was tired and wanted to sleep (all of this was happening at about 2 AM). It was this bizarre tug-of-war happening and I felt completely powerless. Which is the strangest, hardest part for me to understand, because I was powerless against myself.
How upset and stressed does your body and mind have to be to turn on itself?
To be powerless is the worst feeling in the world. But to be powerless against yourself goes beyond what I could image hopelessness to feel like. If even your own body and mind are in revolt, who can you turn to? I remember feeling my fingers kept reflexively clenching into fists either to start a fight or to release some of the energy coursing through my veins.
I attempted some breathing exercises I had been taught to calm myself down (fun fact - if you ever find yourself in the middle of an anxiety/panic attack - your first instinct is going to be to take deep breaths, but that is actually just going to make it worse. You want to take a deep breath, hold it in for a few seconds, and then let it out. This way you are ever-so-slightly denying your body of oxygen which slows everything down and, with any luck, relaxes all the panic away).
They helped a little, but I was still feeling the strange pull of exhaustion and yet being totally awake. So I did what I have been doing since I was a kid and couldn't fall asleep. I went into the bathroom where I could turn on the bright light and not bother anyone, and I lay down on the cold tile floor with a towel in a ball under my head. And I read.
How I wished that I had access to a Blackhearts in Battersea or a Wild Magic - something I knew all the words to. But it was the New Yorker I found next to the bed - specifically a literary review, boring as all get out but melodic and calming. For some reason the panic and anxiety dissipated when I was reading. The distraction of the words did more to calm me down than the breathing and the trying to be still. Which shows you just how big a nerd I am. Words have healing powers for me.
Eventually I fall asleep on the cold tile floor and then eventually I wake up, and the anxiety has left. So I pick myself up off the floor and head back to bed. I don't know if this will ever happen again. I'm hoping that the act of writing about it (though not writing about what I think may have brought it on, which is really neither here nor there) has massaged out the mental knot that is causing it.
**So after talking with a few people, it seems like what I had maybe labeled as an anxiety attack rather than a panic attack. Which is fine. Apparently panic attacks are worse. So, yeah, I'll take what I can get in terms of nocturnal meltdowns.
Wednesday, March 16, 2011
Great clothes
Tonight when I was brushing my teeth (where most of the brilliance happens) I realized I was wearing two pieces of clothing that belonged to my great grandmother*
I considered taking a picture of myself wearing these "pieces" but after a few cell phone photo test shots, I realized this was a terrible, terrible idea. I am a pretty girl, but right before bed is not a super attractive time for anyone. So a vivid word description will have to do (I will do my best to keep it under 1000 words).
I am wearing her old tee-shirt with a B. Kliban cat in a tub. I've sported this shirt out in public before, so there's a chance you've seen it on me - but its getting old and I'm afraid of getting food on it. The design is so old I cannot find it on the internet (even when I add vintage to my google search). Which means it's probably from before I was born. Great Granny wasn't much of a t-shirt kind of lady, so I don't know if she ever wore it. But its super comfortable.
Over the shirt I am wearing one of the most recent additions to my closet - an excellent LeRoy black cardigan that hits me a few inches above my knee. It doesn't have buttons up the front, but it does have excellently large pockets. They're good for a cell phone and chapstick. Or about 20 tissues, when your nose is still all snotty. This sucker is also probably older than me.
Anyway! The clothes themselves are kind of irrelevant except for the fact that they are probably around 30 years old and still kicking! How great is that?! Great Granny must have done a phenomenal job taking care of her clothes because I end up with holes in most things after about a year.
Also, I feel crazy lucky that I've ended up being the only girl in my family who fits into Great Granny's clothes (some of my younger cousins probably would also fit, but they are too busy loving Justin Beiber to really care). I also have two other shirts that belonged to her in my closet but I am terrified that they're not fashionable enough - I should probably get one of my trendy friends to check this out for me.
Weight and clothing size is such an Issue with my Mom's family (a bajillion girls will do that to themselves) and I've never quite felt like I was really the right size, especially since I have a gorgeous older cousin who is/was/will always be taller, skinner and more glamorous than I am.
But if I was any taller this tee shirt would ride up too high on my stomach. And if I was any smaller, this sweater wouldn't be as warm and comfortable (okay- that's a bit of a stretch, but it fits quite perfectly). Anyway - Great granny was an awesome, awesome lady - and I am incredibly lucky to have these reminders of how wonderful she is around all the time, keeping me warm and cozy.
Good night.
*At least this is what I think I have been told. After someone in my family reads this blog, I am sure they will correct me with a quickness.
I considered taking a picture of myself wearing these "pieces" but after a few cell phone photo test shots, I realized this was a terrible, terrible idea. I am a pretty girl, but right before bed is not a super attractive time for anyone. So a vivid word description will have to do (I will do my best to keep it under 1000 words).
I am wearing her old tee-shirt with a B. Kliban cat in a tub. I've sported this shirt out in public before, so there's a chance you've seen it on me - but its getting old and I'm afraid of getting food on it. The design is so old I cannot find it on the internet (even when I add vintage to my google search). Which means it's probably from before I was born. Great Granny wasn't much of a t-shirt kind of lady, so I don't know if she ever wore it. But its super comfortable.
Over the shirt I am wearing one of the most recent additions to my closet - an excellent LeRoy black cardigan that hits me a few inches above my knee. It doesn't have buttons up the front, but it does have excellently large pockets. They're good for a cell phone and chapstick. Or about 20 tissues, when your nose is still all snotty. This sucker is also probably older than me.
Anyway! The clothes themselves are kind of irrelevant except for the fact that they are probably around 30 years old and still kicking! How great is that?! Great Granny must have done a phenomenal job taking care of her clothes because I end up with holes in most things after about a year.
Also, I feel crazy lucky that I've ended up being the only girl in my family who fits into Great Granny's clothes (some of my younger cousins probably would also fit, but they are too busy loving Justin Beiber to really care). I also have two other shirts that belonged to her in my closet but I am terrified that they're not fashionable enough - I should probably get one of my trendy friends to check this out for me.
Weight and clothing size is such an Issue with my Mom's family (a bajillion girls will do that to themselves) and I've never quite felt like I was really the right size, especially since I have a gorgeous older cousin who is/was/will always be taller, skinner and more glamorous than I am.
But if I was any taller this tee shirt would ride up too high on my stomach. And if I was any smaller, this sweater wouldn't be as warm and comfortable (okay- that's a bit of a stretch, but it fits quite perfectly). Anyway - Great granny was an awesome, awesome lady - and I am incredibly lucky to have these reminders of how wonderful she is around all the time, keeping me warm and cozy.
Good night.
*At least this is what I think I have been told. After someone in my family reads this blog, I am sure they will correct me with a quickness.
Monday, March 14, 2011
in and maybe out
I have been thinking about breathing a lot over the past few weeks. For a variety of reasons (some of which I will eventually get into on the blog) breath has been on my mind.
I came down with a post-Green River cold on Saturday that is still lingering (and will probably continue to make me grouchy for the next week or so). My nose has been conquered by massive globs of mucus that my sinuses are powerless against, making it nearly impossible to breath in and out through my nose.
Which means that I have taken to holding my breath for minutes at a time. It isn't until I start to get a little dizzy that I remember to breathe through my mouth. It would make sense to just breath through my mouth all the time, but that leaves me with my mouth hanging open for fifteen or twenty minutes at a time like a particularly dim bovine.
I'm not sure what the best option is in this case...assuming my nasal passages will continue to be held captive for a day or two more - how do I keep myself from eventually passing out?
I came down with a post-Green River cold on Saturday that is still lingering (and will probably continue to make me grouchy for the next week or so). My nose has been conquered by massive globs of mucus that my sinuses are powerless against, making it nearly impossible to breath in and out through my nose.
Which means that I have taken to holding my breath for minutes at a time. It isn't until I start to get a little dizzy that I remember to breathe through my mouth. It would make sense to just breath through my mouth all the time, but that leaves me with my mouth hanging open for fifteen or twenty minutes at a time like a particularly dim bovine.
I'm not sure what the best option is in this case...assuming my nasal passages will continue to be held captive for a day or two more - how do I keep myself from eventually passing out?
Saturday, March 12, 2011
green city
The rich culture of tradition is one of my favorite things about Chicago. And some traditions are stupid and annoying, but they never fail to make me feel like a part of something. And its the dumb songs, and the inside jokes and the nonsense that I love so much.
Thursday, March 10, 2011
all the things
There's been a whole bunch going on in the past few weeks - I apologize for the lack of posts, but life keeps getting in the way. It seems that with life and exercise and the need for cat food (how are we always out??), I can only manage to spend an hour or two at home before bed and that hour, I've decided, is best spent away from my computer and with Boyfriend and the hungry, hungry kitten. And of course - on the never ending search for the missing drill bits.
Anyway - here is some stuff that is happening.
1-Last weekend Kristin and Howie got engaged last weekend. Making them the 7th couple I know to get engaged since Christmas. Congratulations KristinandHowie!! and the rest of you - and the 4 couples getting married this year. I am totally happy for you - and also wondering if there is some sort of Kool-aid or water or something that I should be steering clear of.
2- I had blood drawn today and x-rays. Nothing too big, but it required me to fast from midnight last night to 9:45 AM. For normal people this would be no biggie - but I am an emotional wreak when it comes to food. I am used to eating by 7 or 8 AM, if I'm awake. So the fact that I did not get to eat until 11 (after all the testing was done) - meant that I was completely irrational. There was a farmer's market inside the hospital (a bizarre occurence that I never even though to question while I was experiencing it). And so I had to buy 2 pounds of organic, free-range bratwursts and a loaf of banana chocolate chip bread. This, in hindsite was dumb but I was so hungry! They say not to go to the grocery store hungry. I say - don't put the grocery store inside a place where I am forced to be hungry.
3- I am excited that people are deciding to visit me this year. Cougar AND Buttmunch might be coming, and my big 'Cuz! Summer in Chicago is amazing, but its a bajillion times better when you get to share it with other people.
4- I finally bought a day planner two weeks ago. I thought that maybe this would be the year I would become a digital planner, but since I STILL don't have an iphone (come on July!) this is not the case - because I have no way of synching my computer with my phone or anything else. At least 5 days of the week - when I am glued to a computer, this is not a problem, but on the off chance you try to plan something with me on a weekend, for the entire month of January and most of February - There was a chance we would make plans and by the time I got home and powered up the laptop, I would have forgotten. So I went to Borders and bought at $1.00 planner. I keep forgetting I have it though. At 10 cents a month, I still feel like I am getting my money's worth...
5- E! plays Sex and the City from 7 - 8 PM every weeknight. It has made my hour on the elliptical far less tedious. Even though I think I've decided I hate Carrie Bradshaw - its a nice walk down memory lane.
6- I think this might be the year I go downtown and watch them dye the Chicago river green for St. Patrick's Day. I have a meeting that morning, so I won't be down there until noon, at which point it might be back to its normal green color. I have this funny feeling that if I don't make a concerted effort to go see it in the next two years, I will be moving away in a decade or so and realize that I never saw them dye the river green.
That's all. See you in a few days.
Anyway - here is some stuff that is happening.
1-Last weekend Kristin and Howie got engaged last weekend. Making them the 7th couple I know to get engaged since Christmas. Congratulations KristinandHowie!! and the rest of you - and the 4 couples getting married this year. I am totally happy for you - and also wondering if there is some sort of Kool-aid or water or something that I should be steering clear of.
2- I had blood drawn today and x-rays. Nothing too big, but it required me to fast from midnight last night to 9:45 AM. For normal people this would be no biggie - but I am an emotional wreak when it comes to food. I am used to eating by 7 or 8 AM, if I'm awake. So the fact that I did not get to eat until 11 (after all the testing was done) - meant that I was completely irrational. There was a farmer's market inside the hospital (a bizarre occurence that I never even though to question while I was experiencing it). And so I had to buy 2 pounds of organic, free-range bratwursts and a loaf of banana chocolate chip bread. This, in hindsite was dumb but I was so hungry! They say not to go to the grocery store hungry. I say - don't put the grocery store inside a place where I am forced to be hungry.
3- I am excited that people are deciding to visit me this year. Cougar AND Buttmunch might be coming, and my big 'Cuz! Summer in Chicago is amazing, but its a bajillion times better when you get to share it with other people.
4- I finally bought a day planner two weeks ago. I thought that maybe this would be the year I would become a digital planner, but since I STILL don't have an iphone (come on July!) this is not the case - because I have no way of synching my computer with my phone or anything else. At least 5 days of the week - when I am glued to a computer, this is not a problem, but on the off chance you try to plan something with me on a weekend, for the entire month of January and most of February - There was a chance we would make plans and by the time I got home and powered up the laptop, I would have forgotten. So I went to Borders and bought at $1.00 planner. I keep forgetting I have it though. At 10 cents a month, I still feel like I am getting my money's worth...
5- E! plays Sex and the City from 7 - 8 PM every weeknight. It has made my hour on the elliptical far less tedious. Even though I think I've decided I hate Carrie Bradshaw - its a nice walk down memory lane.
6- I think this might be the year I go downtown and watch them dye the Chicago river green for St. Patrick's Day. I have a meeting that morning, so I won't be down there until noon, at which point it might be back to its normal green color. I have this funny feeling that if I don't make a concerted effort to go see it in the next two years, I will be moving away in a decade or so and realize that I never saw them dye the river green.
That's all. See you in a few days.
Monday, March 07, 2011
Book 5 - Quite A Year For Plums
We are just humming right along. Thanks public transit!
To be completely honest, I never would have picked up this book if it hadn't said "Author of 'Mama Makes Up Her Mind'" on the cover. That was one of my most favorite books when I was 11 or so (I had NPR nerds for parents). I loved Bailey White's short-possibly-some-what-autobiographical stories and hoped that Mama might make an appearance in this one.
Sadly, there was no Mama. There was a whole bunch of other characters that I could never keep straight. Ms. White provides a handy who's who list in the front of the book - but I was switching back to it so much that I got impatient. Ultimately, not quite knowing how all these people were related did not really affect my enjoyment of the book.
And I enjoyed it a fair amount. The tone was remarkably different from MMUHM - in a way that kind of disappointed me a little bit. Part of the reason I loved MMUHM was because she was so frank and immodest about these crazy people, where I feel as though in this book - she was very delicate with these people who were pretty nutty. It seemed as though she was worried she was going to offend, maybe? I don't know.
Anyway - Its an okay book. At the end of it I was kind of meh - but also in a good mood and not sobbing my eyes out, so we've made some progress since the last book.
To be completely honest, I never would have picked up this book if it hadn't said "Author of 'Mama Makes Up Her Mind'" on the cover. That was one of my most favorite books when I was 11 or so (I had NPR nerds for parents). I loved Bailey White's short-possibly-some-what-autobiographical stories and hoped that Mama might make an appearance in this one.
Sadly, there was no Mama. There was a whole bunch of other characters that I could never keep straight. Ms. White provides a handy who's who list in the front of the book - but I was switching back to it so much that I got impatient. Ultimately, not quite knowing how all these people were related did not really affect my enjoyment of the book.
And I enjoyed it a fair amount. The tone was remarkably different from MMUHM - in a way that kind of disappointed me a little bit. Part of the reason I loved MMUHM was because she was so frank and immodest about these crazy people, where I feel as though in this book - she was very delicate with these people who were pretty nutty. It seemed as though she was worried she was going to offend, maybe? I don't know.
Anyway - Its an okay book. At the end of it I was kind of meh - but also in a good mood and not sobbing my eyes out, so we've made some progress since the last book.
Thursday, March 03, 2011
could use a timer
How to hard boil an egg when you're me:
1- Make Boyfriend buy eggs.
2- Wait about a week because you're too lazy to figure out how to boil eggs.
3- Run out of acceptable alternative proteins for your daily lunch salad and figure now is as good a time as any.
4- Google "how to hard boil an egg."
5- Get judged by Boyfriend for never having hard boiled an egg.
6- Retort back that in Your Family, hard boiled eggs are an "Easter-only" food and it's not like Boyfriend could give you accurate instructions so who is he to judge.
7- Decide how many eggs to hard boil - this is especially challenging because you know you want to make scrambled eggs or maybe omelettes or maybe french toast this weekend, so you have to chose carefully. Because there is no possibly way you can go to the grocery store between now and the weekend. Its IMPOSSIBLE. New neighborhood sucks. Select 5 eggs. Because there is nothing like the frustration of having a single egg left in the carton.
8- Put eggs in saucepan and fill saucepan with water so the water covering the eggs by about an inch or two - or really just "some" is fine because you have bad depth perception and the water isn't really helping.
9- Turn on heat under saucepan of eggs and water.
10 - Wait 3 minutes.
11- Remember you were supposed to put salt in and so throw some in and watch it gracefully fall to the bottom of the already heated pan where it can sit there uselessly.
12- Go back to watching Top Chef: All Stars, playing on internet, and looking for Boyfriend's missing drill bits (not a euphemism).
13 - Remember that you are hard boiling eggs. Run over to stove to see water boiling away happily. Wig out a bit because you read that the water is only supposed to boil for a minute and take eggs off heat immediately. Cover the saucepan with lid that is too big for saucepan because this is FAR too stressful a situation to find the correct lid.
14 - Worry a bit about if the water had just started to boil and so maybe you actually took the eggs off too early. Judge yourself. Eat some home-made whipped cream straight out of the blender.
15 - Eat dessert, continue to search for missing drill bits, fold clean clothes that have been in hamper for 6 days, unpack single box and feel incredibly successful.
16 - Remember that you are hard boiling eggs and that you were supposed to take them out of the water 20 minutes ago. Decide against using the kitchen utensil that is made Specifically for this task and use your hand to drain the water out of the saucepan. Fill and then drain the saucepan with cold water a few times.
17 - Realize it takes your cold water almost as long to get cold as it takes your hot water to get hot. Decide that this is super strange. Fill and drain a few more times.
18 - Put eggs in tupperware container.
19 - Decide that eggs are not cool enough and put them back in the saucepan with some (actually) cold water.
20 - Brush teeth, floss, put on pajamas, read book, get into bed, turn out lights.
21- Remember that you still have eggs in a saucepan of cold water on the stove.
22- Ignore Boyfriend's laughs as they follow you down the hall back to (now dark) kitchen.
23- Take eggs out of saucepan, put back into tupperware and put tupperware of eggs into fridge. Leave saucepan of water on stove to instill bad habits in cat. Realize that you thrive with cooking that either requires strict concentration or 5 hours of simmering and you can't really handle anything in between. Except Pasta, but that doesn't really count.
1- Make Boyfriend buy eggs.
2- Wait about a week because you're too lazy to figure out how to boil eggs.
3- Run out of acceptable alternative proteins for your daily lunch salad and figure now is as good a time as any.
4- Google "how to hard boil an egg."
5- Get judged by Boyfriend for never having hard boiled an egg.
6- Retort back that in Your Family, hard boiled eggs are an "Easter-only" food and it's not like Boyfriend could give you accurate instructions so who is he to judge.
7- Decide how many eggs to hard boil - this is especially challenging because you know you want to make scrambled eggs or maybe omelettes or maybe french toast this weekend, so you have to chose carefully. Because there is no possibly way you can go to the grocery store between now and the weekend. Its IMPOSSIBLE. New neighborhood sucks. Select 5 eggs. Because there is nothing like the frustration of having a single egg left in the carton.
8- Put eggs in saucepan and fill saucepan with water so the water covering the eggs by about an inch or two - or really just "some" is fine because you have bad depth perception and the water isn't really helping.
9- Turn on heat under saucepan of eggs and water.
10 - Wait 3 minutes.
11- Remember you were supposed to put salt in and so throw some in and watch it gracefully fall to the bottom of the already heated pan where it can sit there uselessly.
12- Go back to watching Top Chef: All Stars, playing on internet, and looking for Boyfriend's missing drill bits (not a euphemism).
13 - Remember that you are hard boiling eggs. Run over to stove to see water boiling away happily. Wig out a bit because you read that the water is only supposed to boil for a minute and take eggs off heat immediately. Cover the saucepan with lid that is too big for saucepan because this is FAR too stressful a situation to find the correct lid.
14 - Worry a bit about if the water had just started to boil and so maybe you actually took the eggs off too early. Judge yourself. Eat some home-made whipped cream straight out of the blender.
15 - Eat dessert, continue to search for missing drill bits, fold clean clothes that have been in hamper for 6 days, unpack single box and feel incredibly successful.
16 - Remember that you are hard boiling eggs and that you were supposed to take them out of the water 20 minutes ago. Decide against using the kitchen utensil that is made Specifically for this task and use your hand to drain the water out of the saucepan. Fill and then drain the saucepan with cold water a few times.
17 - Realize it takes your cold water almost as long to get cold as it takes your hot water to get hot. Decide that this is super strange. Fill and drain a few more times.
18 - Put eggs in tupperware container.
19 - Decide that eggs are not cool enough and put them back in the saucepan with some (actually) cold water.
20 - Brush teeth, floss, put on pajamas, read book, get into bed, turn out lights.
21- Remember that you still have eggs in a saucepan of cold water on the stove.
22- Ignore Boyfriend's laughs as they follow you down the hall back to (now dark) kitchen.
23- Take eggs out of saucepan, put back into tupperware and put tupperware of eggs into fridge. Leave saucepan of water on stove to instill bad habits in cat. Realize that you thrive with cooking that either requires strict concentration or 5 hours of simmering and you can't really handle anything in between. Except Pasta, but that doesn't really count.
Wednesday, March 02, 2011
fancy ketchup
There is very little in the world that feels as satisfying as being all caught up on New Yorkers.
I am assuming this sensation of accomplishment is akin to conquering a small land-locked country or perhaps winning a People's Choice Award.
The past year and a half it has been a struggle to keep on top of this monster. Back in the day when I was on public transportation a solid 3 - 4 hours of my day, I could finish one in about a day and a half - but once my commute became on foot - I was lucky if I made it through one in a week. This meant that I no longer read many books because if I was reading a book, I was abandoning my New Yorker responsibility and they start to pile up and you start coming home late and your wife smells like someone else's cologne...its a slippery slope.
Anyway, with my new commute (Still think its okay!) I knew it was a matter of time before I conquered this particular monster. And I will be real with you, I did not read all the articles. And I did not read most of the fiction (I am very picky about my New Yorker fiction - for absolutely no reason at all - in case you were wondering).
The problem with stuffing this much knowledge down my retinas is now I have no idea what I am talking about - but I totally think that I do. In one week I read articles about....a whole bunch of things that I cannot remember right now and I won't be able to remember them until I start talking and getting all confused. And then there is judgement.
Anyway, I am feeling quite accomplished and like there is nothing I can't do...except maybe get my ass into a gym.
I am assuming this sensation of accomplishment is akin to conquering a small land-locked country or perhaps winning a People's Choice Award.
The past year and a half it has been a struggle to keep on top of this monster. Back in the day when I was on public transportation a solid 3 - 4 hours of my day, I could finish one in about a day and a half - but once my commute became on foot - I was lucky if I made it through one in a week. This meant that I no longer read many books because if I was reading a book, I was abandoning my New Yorker responsibility and they start to pile up and you start coming home late and your wife smells like someone else's cologne...its a slippery slope.
Anyway, with my new commute (Still think its okay!) I knew it was a matter of time before I conquered this particular monster. And I will be real with you, I did not read all the articles. And I did not read most of the fiction (I am very picky about my New Yorker fiction - for absolutely no reason at all - in case you were wondering).
The problem with stuffing this much knowledge down my retinas is now I have no idea what I am talking about - but I totally think that I do. In one week I read articles about....a whole bunch of things that I cannot remember right now and I won't be able to remember them until I start talking and getting all confused. And then there is judgement.
Anyway, I am feeling quite accomplished and like there is nothing I can't do...except maybe get my ass into a gym.
Tuesday, March 01, 2011
work it.
I've been bad about blogging and I really have very few excuses. But there have been some interesting things going on.
I went to a fancy black-tie event with my dad. He got invited by one of his baller business cohorts and I came along for the free food and the excuse to buy a new dress. Naturally it was very strange to be at a networking event and not networking (and since they were all dentist people, I couldn't even really like fake network because we had no common ground).
I did end up making friends with a girl who was my age who was going to be seated at our table. She actually is someone my dad should have been networking with, but instead she and I tried to forge a friendship based on the fact that we were some of the youngest people there. This tickled my Dad to no end, because when I was a kid I always had the ability to make new friends wherever I went. Only very rarely did they end up being long term friendships, most only had the shelf life of however long we were where we were, but it was an excellent coping mechanism none the less. And I am sure it is one that has served me well in all of my many relocations.
This was by far the fanciest networking thing I've ever been to (and not been working) and I have to say - these rich people really like to booze it up.
Here's some math for you.
We went to the pre-gala reception which was from 4:45 - 6:15 (we got there around 5:45). This was drinks and very wee, very weakly passed apps. Super delicious (fig with gorgonzola wrapped in prosciutto? Yes please) but not really food.
Then there was cocktail hour round 2 which was from 6:30 - 8. So, more booze - but this time, no food. Awesome, feeling good.
Then dinner was supposed to start at 8, but there were many speeches and hands to be shook before we actually started eating but the waiters (bless their hearts) were having a grand old time pouring the wine. So we started eating at about 8:45.
And at that point, I am already hammer drunk (TM Chelsea Long).
Why? Because I had been subject to three hours of open bar and I am only human. Even at pacing myself - that's at least four or five glasses of white wine on (essentially) an empty stomach. And I MISSED the first hour. Thank the baby jesus, because other wise, things could have gotten really, really messy.
And it wasn't just me. My new (and now forgotten) friend also admitted to me that she was a little drunk. Maybe they expect the networking to take up most of your attention and so the drinking gets forgotten? No idea - but that plan failed on me being the +1. Failed.
So of course, once the food got there, I completely forgot how to interact with other humans and ate all of my food as fast as possible, hoping that some of the steak and crab stuffed prawns would soak up the bottle and a half of white wine I had consumed. (I am the classiest girl you know.)
The rest of the event was fun, I was hella pissed that I got outbid on a pair of earrings I was lusting after during the silent auction. They used these fancy touch screens where you just put in your bidder number (practically located on your name badge) and you could touch the screen and look at everything. This technology was far too cool not to utilize, so I bid on the cheapest thing. This was going well until one of the high roller auction guys outbid me - I think just because he thought I would get into a bidding war over them. Wrong again, Steve Jones. Have fun with your Black Onyx drop earrings, sucker.
I did come away with a rather pretty (if poorly set) ring that was gifted to me by another of my father's business pals. Apparently they were auctioning off this sapphire ring and if you bid you got like a place holder ring to get you all excited for the real one. He did not win the real ring, and I am afraid that just the site of his faux ring made him remember his terrible luck. Its cool, I'll take it.
I went to a fancy black-tie event with my dad. He got invited by one of his baller business cohorts and I came along for the free food and the excuse to buy a new dress. Naturally it was very strange to be at a networking event and not networking (and since they were all dentist people, I couldn't even really like fake network because we had no common ground).
I did end up making friends with a girl who was my age who was going to be seated at our table. She actually is someone my dad should have been networking with, but instead she and I tried to forge a friendship based on the fact that we were some of the youngest people there. This tickled my Dad to no end, because when I was a kid I always had the ability to make new friends wherever I went. Only very rarely did they end up being long term friendships, most only had the shelf life of however long we were where we were, but it was an excellent coping mechanism none the less. And I am sure it is one that has served me well in all of my many relocations.
This was by far the fanciest networking thing I've ever been to (and not been working) and I have to say - these rich people really like to booze it up.
Here's some math for you.
We went to the pre-gala reception which was from 4:45 - 6:15 (we got there around 5:45). This was drinks and very wee, very weakly passed apps. Super delicious (fig with gorgonzola wrapped in prosciutto? Yes please) but not really food.
Then there was cocktail hour round 2 which was from 6:30 - 8. So, more booze - but this time, no food. Awesome, feeling good.
Then dinner was supposed to start at 8, but there were many speeches and hands to be shook before we actually started eating but the waiters (bless their hearts) were having a grand old time pouring the wine. So we started eating at about 8:45.
And at that point, I am already hammer drunk (TM Chelsea Long).
Why? Because I had been subject to three hours of open bar and I am only human. Even at pacing myself - that's at least four or five glasses of white wine on (essentially) an empty stomach. And I MISSED the first hour. Thank the baby jesus, because other wise, things could have gotten really, really messy.
And it wasn't just me. My new (and now forgotten) friend also admitted to me that she was a little drunk. Maybe they expect the networking to take up most of your attention and so the drinking gets forgotten? No idea - but that plan failed on me being the +1. Failed.
So of course, once the food got there, I completely forgot how to interact with other humans and ate all of my food as fast as possible, hoping that some of the steak and crab stuffed prawns would soak up the bottle and a half of white wine I had consumed. (I am the classiest girl you know.)
The rest of the event was fun, I was hella pissed that I got outbid on a pair of earrings I was lusting after during the silent auction. They used these fancy touch screens where you just put in your bidder number (practically located on your name badge) and you could touch the screen and look at everything. This technology was far too cool not to utilize, so I bid on the cheapest thing. This was going well until one of the high roller auction guys outbid me - I think just because he thought I would get into a bidding war over them. Wrong again, Steve Jones. Have fun with your Black Onyx drop earrings, sucker.
I did come away with a rather pretty (if poorly set) ring that was gifted to me by another of my father's business pals. Apparently they were auctioning off this sapphire ring and if you bid you got like a place holder ring to get you all excited for the real one. He did not win the real ring, and I am afraid that just the site of his faux ring made him remember his terrible luck. Its cool, I'll take it.
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