So very tired. Painting is exhausting, and I'm beginning to wonder why I didn't try to hire someone to do it. Oh yeah, that's right -- because I have no money after buying the house, and I'm plagued with a puritan work ethic that says why hire someone to do something you are perfectly capable of doing.
But the ceilings have been painted. One whole day to paint a white ceiling, well, white. Not at all satisfying like painting a bathroom red, or removing purple paint from the bedroom.
Meanwhile, I've had a change of heart about the sellers. I was frustrated before the closing, but I've decided they are okay. They covered up all their nail holes and painted them, which is big in my book. Plus, the fixtures they installed in the bathrooms and kitchen are very nice, as is the granite countertop they added. So I'm glad we have the same bourgeois taste and sensibilities. And I now like them, on account of the spackling and the fixtures.
Sunday, November 2, 2008
Saturday, November 1, 2008
This is not my beautiful house...
I'm officially a homeowner. Closing went well and was done in less than an hour. I tried not to think about all the responsibility as I signed all the papers. Just the fun decorating part.
I love it. I LOVE IT! It had me at hello. Well, actually it didn't. But like Tom Cruise as Jerry Maguire in, well, Jerry Maguire, after sixty days of doubt, questions, daydreams, etc., I'm all in. (I did not, however, shoplift any pooty, or any other thing for that matter.) I'm so excited.
And, I cleared major hurdles today when I had the whole family over. I thought they were going to be freaked out by any number of things. My house, being in the city and everything, does not look like it's worth anywhere near what I paid, particularly when you compare it to my parents' mcmansion in the maryland exurbs. So I thought that would freak them out. That, or the fact that the Checker's up the street has boarded up windows.
But, the weather was on my side, and it was bright and sunny as my family drove up. So, they saw the house like I did that first day, when it was sunny and warm, and you couldn't but help imagine having a cookout on the pretty patio. Everyone liked the house, and they helped me fix a few small things. PLUS -- my sister brought a bottle of ridiculously expensive champagne that she received for her wedding to toast the new house. Yay bubbly!
Up next: This week I'm hiring a contractor to fill-in a weird cut-out wallspace in my bedroom, and picking paint colors. I'm getting psyched about the move.
I love it. I LOVE IT! It had me at hello. Well, actually it didn't. But like Tom Cruise as Jerry Maguire in, well, Jerry Maguire, after sixty days of doubt, questions, daydreams, etc., I'm all in. (I did not, however, shoplift any pooty, or any other thing for that matter.) I'm so excited.
And, I cleared major hurdles today when I had the whole family over. I thought they were going to be freaked out by any number of things. My house, being in the city and everything, does not look like it's worth anywhere near what I paid, particularly when you compare it to my parents' mcmansion in the maryland exurbs. So I thought that would freak them out. That, or the fact that the Checker's up the street has boarded up windows.
But, the weather was on my side, and it was bright and sunny as my family drove up. So, they saw the house like I did that first day, when it was sunny and warm, and you couldn't but help imagine having a cookout on the pretty patio. Everyone liked the house, and they helped me fix a few small things. PLUS -- my sister brought a bottle of ridiculously expensive champagne that she received for her wedding to toast the new house. Yay bubbly!
Up next: This week I'm hiring a contractor to fill-in a weird cut-out wallspace in my bedroom, and picking paint colors. I'm getting psyched about the move.
Sunday, October 26, 2008
Would You Be Mine, Could You Be Mine, Won't You Be My Neighbor
Five days until I'm officially a homeowner. I got a jumpstart on things today by stopping by a house party on my new block. I met a bunch of my neighbors, a number of whom I thought were awesome. (Sidenote: My hostess ran the Marine Corps marathon, and then had 40 friends over for chili and fall treats. Talk about raising the bar.) I'm super psyched about the block. (Although slightly neverous that I may have run my mouth too much about the sellers -- am still angry about being called a PITA. Of course, I'm not sure that anyone really liked them, either. So it may be a wash.)
This is also the first time in my adult housing life where I'll know the neighbors, too. In NYC, I didn't know anyone, except for the slightly crazy woman living next to me in Brooklyn. So, it's fun to have neighbors on the street who maybe will invite you over to play Guitar Hero or something (as was discussed this afternoon). PLUS, one of my good friends lives on the block already, so I'll have a SuperNeighbor, as I like to think of her.
Meanwhile, back at the apartamento, I've been sorting through old paperwork trying to get rid of stuff for the move. I just went through a box of stuff from my office in NYC, that I hadn't looked at since I left some 18 months ago. It's kind of fun to pack your boxes and never look back. But now I'm looking back -- at least to organize the random stuffs in my apartment.
This is also the first time in my adult housing life where I'll know the neighbors, too. In NYC, I didn't know anyone, except for the slightly crazy woman living next to me in Brooklyn. So, it's fun to have neighbors on the street who maybe will invite you over to play Guitar Hero or something (as was discussed this afternoon). PLUS, one of my good friends lives on the block already, so I'll have a SuperNeighbor, as I like to think of her.
Meanwhile, back at the apartamento, I've been sorting through old paperwork trying to get rid of stuff for the move. I just went through a box of stuff from my office in NYC, that I hadn't looked at since I left some 18 months ago. It's kind of fun to pack your boxes and never look back. But now I'm looking back -- at least to organize the random stuffs in my apartment.
Saturday, October 25, 2008
Blue Jean...I just met a girl named Blue Jean
I was watching What Not to Wear today, thinking about how I'd feel if Clinton and Stacey surprised me for a fashion makeover. On the one hand, you get $5000 worth of new clothing. And I definitely could use some more fashionable clothing. On the other hand, you have to suffer through the embarassment of having cameras follow you around in all your shlumpy outfits. Plus, I suspect you are limited to whatever store they want to send you to, as a result of their product placement. So instead of buying $5000 of awesome clothing, they would send me to somewhere random and I'd end up with all sorts of goofiness.
Meanwhile, I'm on the eternal quest for the perfect pair of jeans. In an attempt to find one good pair, I purchased 8 -- yes, that's eight -- pairs this fall. I had to try on probably 50 pairs to get to that number. I have no intention of keeping all 8, I just wanted to bring them home to compare. So seven pairs are going back, and it turns out I'm not that happy with the pair I decided to keep. The best of the bunch, for sure, but still not awesome.
How hard is it to find the perfect pair of jeans? It's the holy grail for the mid-30's woman -- how to find the pair that's not too dark, not too light. Neither too long, nor too short. Not too mom-like, or too emo. It might be worth it go on WNTW, just to get the ultimate pair of jeans.
Meanwhile, I'm on the eternal quest for the perfect pair of jeans. In an attempt to find one good pair, I purchased 8 -- yes, that's eight -- pairs this fall. I had to try on probably 50 pairs to get to that number. I have no intention of keeping all 8, I just wanted to bring them home to compare. So seven pairs are going back, and it turns out I'm not that happy with the pair I decided to keep. The best of the bunch, for sure, but still not awesome.
How hard is it to find the perfect pair of jeans? It's the holy grail for the mid-30's woman -- how to find the pair that's not too dark, not too light. Neither too long, nor too short. Not too mom-like, or too emo. It might be worth it go on WNTW, just to get the ultimate pair of jeans.
Wednesday, October 22, 2008
This is not my Beautiful House...
Just over a week until I close on the new house. Part of me is super excited, and part of me is completely freaked out. I suppose it's good that as of this week, I'm more frequently excited than freaked out.
Also, I made the mistake of looking up the sellers on facebook to see if they had any comments about the house. The wife seems cool. But, the husband had a few bad comments about the neighborhood, selling the house, and whatnot. Sounds like he couldn't leave fast enough. It makes me anxious, thinking "What the hell have I gotten myself into?" On the other hand, the guy seems like he may not be cut out for city living at all. Plus, he loves the crap out of McCain. An unreliable narrator, as they would say. So, I'm trying to ignore the random stuff he said -- it's not like it's stuff I didn't know, anyway.
It does raise the question, though -- In the internet age, is there ever such a thing as too much information? I'd usually answer the question, "No." I think being well-informed leads to better decisions. On the other hand, maybe there comes a point when it's just too much information. For a deliberate person like myself, all that info can leave your brain running in circles.
In any case, it will be good to own a house, have cookouts, and get out of this apartment building.
Also, I made the mistake of looking up the sellers on facebook to see if they had any comments about the house. The wife seems cool. But, the husband had a few bad comments about the neighborhood, selling the house, and whatnot. Sounds like he couldn't leave fast enough. It makes me anxious, thinking "What the hell have I gotten myself into?" On the other hand, the guy seems like he may not be cut out for city living at all. Plus, he loves the crap out of McCain. An unreliable narrator, as they would say. So, I'm trying to ignore the random stuff he said -- it's not like it's stuff I didn't know, anyway.
It does raise the question, though -- In the internet age, is there ever such a thing as too much information? I'd usually answer the question, "No." I think being well-informed leads to better decisions. On the other hand, maybe there comes a point when it's just too much information. For a deliberate person like myself, all that info can leave your brain running in circles.
In any case, it will be good to own a house, have cookouts, and get out of this apartment building.
Tuesday, October 21, 2008
Sit back and relax, enjoy the show
I went to a concert last night, for the first time in ions. It was good, but nothing exciting. I can't decide whether that's because of the artist -- Jason Mraz -- or that I'm just old. Probably both. His songs are mellow, which led to a downer kind of mood. And, I'm just too old to be at a concert unless I'm jamming out having the time of my life...like all the teenyboppers were last night. I realized that I'm closer in age to the parents outside waiting in cars to pick up the kids, or sitting in the lobby trying not to feel slighted when their kid pretends that he doesn't know his parental escort.
Also, I'm a little spoiled from the many Ben Folds concerts that I've been to. Now I know the world seems to be divided into two camps -- Pro=Ben and anti-Ben. I don't know too many people who are just blase about the man. You love him or hate him. Fortunately, a few of my friends happened to like him and forced me to a show at the 930 club, some 10 years ago. You may not like his music, but his shows are super energetic. Always had the best time dancing and singing. Immediately after the first concert I wanted to go out and buy all his old albums -- a sign of a good show.
If I weren't broke to the wind this week, trying to save for my new house, I might be persuaded to hit a second concert this week -- Ben Kweller at R&R Hotel. (I enjoy Bens.) Also, Ben Kweller is less a concert, and more of a show. I'm not sure what qualifies as a concert these days, and what's a show. But Kweller is a show, which offers much more indie yupster street cred.
Whatevs. Surely there must be some concerts that offer street cred. U2? Have been trying to go for years, but luck never seems to be on my side. Pixies reunion? The Stones? Guns & Roses? I just don't know any more. Maybe none of the above.
Also, I'm a little spoiled from the many Ben Folds concerts that I've been to. Now I know the world seems to be divided into two camps -- Pro=Ben and anti-Ben. I don't know too many people who are just blase about the man. You love him or hate him. Fortunately, a few of my friends happened to like him and forced me to a show at the 930 club, some 10 years ago. You may not like his music, but his shows are super energetic. Always had the best time dancing and singing. Immediately after the first concert I wanted to go out and buy all his old albums -- a sign of a good show.
If I weren't broke to the wind this week, trying to save for my new house, I might be persuaded to hit a second concert this week -- Ben Kweller at R&R Hotel. (I enjoy Bens.) Also, Ben Kweller is less a concert, and more of a show. I'm not sure what qualifies as a concert these days, and what's a show. But Kweller is a show, which offers much more indie yupster street cred.
Whatevs. Surely there must be some concerts that offer street cred. U2? Have been trying to go for years, but luck never seems to be on my side. Pixies reunion? The Stones? Guns & Roses? I just don't know any more. Maybe none of the above.
Friday, October 10, 2008
Dangermouse...
Caught another mouse tonight. I guess it's the fact that the apartment building is in the midst of renovations, or maybe the change in weather, or probably both. But I'm so over the mouse.
Why do the mice follow me around? I am the Pied Piper or Piper Peraboo of nothing. When eventually I'm famous - or even better, notorious -- and someone writes a thinly-veiled novel about my life, they'll throw in stories about the mouse, and people will think it's made up, and book groups will form and talk about what the mouse means. Is it a symbol for how small and insignificant we can feel in the face of a huge and senseless universe? Is it a symbol for the dark side in all of us, capable of killing (by glue trap) when adequately provoked (as symbolized by mouse poop on counter)? Is it an esoteric literary reference to the Gunther Grass' novella Katz und Maus, which I was forced to read in college, in its original German? (I use the term "read" very liberally, since I was never as good at the reading of the German as I was at the drinking of the German beers.)
Man I hate the mouse.
Why do the mice follow me around? I am the Pied Piper or Piper Peraboo of nothing. When eventually I'm famous - or even better, notorious -- and someone writes a thinly-veiled novel about my life, they'll throw in stories about the mouse, and people will think it's made up, and book groups will form and talk about what the mouse means. Is it a symbol for how small and insignificant we can feel in the face of a huge and senseless universe? Is it a symbol for the dark side in all of us, capable of killing (by glue trap) when adequately provoked (as symbolized by mouse poop on counter)? Is it an esoteric literary reference to the Gunther Grass' novella Katz und Maus, which I was forced to read in college, in its original German? (I use the term "read" very liberally, since I was never as good at the reading of the German as I was at the drinking of the German beers.)
Man I hate the mouse.
Friday, October 3, 2008
The Bitch is Back
I pulled out my passport again. It's been so long since I've traveled out of the country, I almost forgot to pack my passport for this trip. Of course, it's just Mexico, which is connected, so perhaps I'm forgiven if it seems like I'm traveling within the country.
So I'm off for a few days of R&R on the beach in lovely and beautiful, Cabo San Lucas. (Please pronounce that part like you are announcing the trip on the Showcase Showdown on The Price is Right. Of course, that prompts me to tell the story of when I went to LA to try to get on The Price is Right, some 13 years ago...but perhaps that's a different blog post.)
So, as I was saying, I'm off to Mexico. After my travels last year, this is pretty easy. No shots, no malaria pills, no Cipro prescriptions. Of course, no elephants, no dinners of impala schnitzel, no huge glaciers. Just easy, breezy traveling.
Which is good, since I spent all night hanging on to every word of the VP debate. I've got election fever, coupled with financial crisis OCD. Needless to say, between those two things, and my love of all things frivolous, I'm getting very little done, what with all the good stuff to read on the internet. And that's not even counting all the house buying minutia that occupied the majority of my September.
It's hard to believe that with all these great things to talk about that I've neglected writing on the blog for so long. So I'm back. Prepare for excruciatingly boring details about paint chips and hot water heaters, coupled with the occasional rant about political b.s. Prepare for details about my trip to Mexico and my upcoming trip to San Fran. And prepare for diatribes about how difficult it is for me to dress fashionably in the shoulder season, and how much I hate giving up flip flops. In short, if I may paraphrase (Sir) Elton John, the bitch is back.
So I'm off for a few days of R&R on the beach in lovely and beautiful, Cabo San Lucas. (Please pronounce that part like you are announcing the trip on the Showcase Showdown on The Price is Right. Of course, that prompts me to tell the story of when I went to LA to try to get on The Price is Right, some 13 years ago...but perhaps that's a different blog post.)
So, as I was saying, I'm off to Mexico. After my travels last year, this is pretty easy. No shots, no malaria pills, no Cipro prescriptions. Of course, no elephants, no dinners of impala schnitzel, no huge glaciers. Just easy, breezy traveling.
Which is good, since I spent all night hanging on to every word of the VP debate. I've got election fever, coupled with financial crisis OCD. Needless to say, between those two things, and my love of all things frivolous, I'm getting very little done, what with all the good stuff to read on the internet. And that's not even counting all the house buying minutia that occupied the majority of my September.
It's hard to believe that with all these great things to talk about that I've neglected writing on the blog for so long. So I'm back. Prepare for excruciatingly boring details about paint chips and hot water heaters, coupled with the occasional rant about political b.s. Prepare for details about my trip to Mexico and my upcoming trip to San Fran. And prepare for diatribes about how difficult it is for me to dress fashionably in the shoulder season, and how much I hate giving up flip flops. In short, if I may paraphrase (Sir) Elton John, the bitch is back.
Sunday, June 29, 2008
They Say We're Crazy But I Just Don't Care
It's been a low-key weekend here, the first of three three-day weekends in a row.
After three days of so much me-time, I'm bored, kind of lonely, and a little tired of Law & Order.
Which is when I remembered the fun that the internet can bring. No more boredom or loneliness. I've been reading various news websites, im-ing with a friend, contemplating how far Sexiest Man Alive Matt Damon has fallen as of late, and checking out the old You Tube in the hope that there would be new sketches with Micheal Cera reenacting important moments in history.
And then I stumbled upon one of my favorite songs from when I was growing up -- you just can't help but smile and sing along. Okay, maybe I just can't help but sing along and smile. Before the internet and itunes and ipods, I went maybe twenty years without hearing this. Now I could listen every day if I chose. (I don't though, because I don't want to get tired of it.)
Enjoy!
After three days of so much me-time, I'm bored, kind of lonely, and a little tired of Law & Order.
Which is when I remembered the fun that the internet can bring. No more boredom or loneliness. I've been reading various news websites, im-ing with a friend, contemplating how far Sexiest Man Alive Matt Damon has fallen as of late, and checking out the old You Tube in the hope that there would be new sketches with Micheal Cera reenacting important moments in history.
And then I stumbled upon one of my favorite songs from when I was growing up -- you just can't help but smile and sing along. Okay, maybe I just can't help but sing along and smile. Before the internet and itunes and ipods, I went maybe twenty years without hearing this. Now I could listen every day if I chose. (I don't though, because I don't want to get tired of it.)
Enjoy!
Monday, April 28, 2008
The Truth is I Never Left You
It's two weeks into my so-called "normal" life, and I've got a mild case of the blues. It could be the rain, it could be that it's Monday. But, really, I think it's all Matt Lauer's fault.
It's that time of year again, when Matt Lauer jettisons around the globe, and thousands of Today viewers are left with the Where in the World Is . . . Matt Lauer song running through their heads all day long. Sure, the song alone is reason enough to be angry with Matt Lauer. But that's not it. I'm jealous.
I'm jealous that Matt Lauer started his whirlwind tour in my beloved Buenos Aires. (I use the term "my" as if I were a porteno myself, instead of an erstwhile visitor.) My heart was crying this morning as I watched Matt Lauer tooling around town. Eating steak and empanadas. Basking in the sun. Narrating footage of El Perito Moreno (the giant glacier I visited) and Ushuaia (the town in Tierra del Fuego where I was marooned). A year ago that was me. In fact, a year ago that was me, strangely obsessed whether Matt Lauer was going to show up for WWML 2007. (We heard a rumor.)
And so I moped about the rest of my day, so very sad that my vagabond days in Buenos Aires are over, and Matt Lauer's are just beginning. The thing is, if I were Matt Lauer, I would quit my Today show gig and buy a place in Palermo (Soho, not Hollywood) and spend my winters in the southern hemisphere. Of course, if I were Matt Lauer, there are a lot of things I'd do differently. (Although not the Tom Cruise interview where ML was glib. I wouldn't change a thing -- I'm proud of him for that one.)
But alas, I digress. Fortunately, tomorrow Matt Lauer moves on to some other place in the world, that most certainly won't fill my heart with wanderlust and wistful memories. (He's already done South Africa and Buenos Aires, so I'm safe.)
It's that time of year again, when Matt Lauer jettisons around the globe, and thousands of Today viewers are left with the Where in the World Is . . . Matt Lauer song running through their heads all day long. Sure, the song alone is reason enough to be angry with Matt Lauer. But that's not it. I'm jealous.
I'm jealous that Matt Lauer started his whirlwind tour in my beloved Buenos Aires. (I use the term "my" as if I were a porteno myself, instead of an erstwhile visitor.) My heart was crying this morning as I watched Matt Lauer tooling around town. Eating steak and empanadas. Basking in the sun. Narrating footage of El Perito Moreno (the giant glacier I visited) and Ushuaia (the town in Tierra del Fuego where I was marooned). A year ago that was me. In fact, a year ago that was me, strangely obsessed whether Matt Lauer was going to show up for WWML 2007. (We heard a rumor.)
And so I moped about the rest of my day, so very sad that my vagabond days in Buenos Aires are over, and Matt Lauer's are just beginning. The thing is, if I were Matt Lauer, I would quit my Today show gig and buy a place in Palermo (Soho, not Hollywood) and spend my winters in the southern hemisphere. Of course, if I were Matt Lauer, there are a lot of things I'd do differently. (Although not the Tom Cruise interview where ML was glib. I wouldn't change a thing -- I'm proud of him for that one.)
But alas, I digress. Fortunately, tomorrow Matt Lauer moves on to some other place in the world, that most certainly won't fill my heart with wanderlust and wistful memories. (He's already done South Africa and Buenos Aires, so I'm safe.)
Sunday, April 13, 2008
Kiss Today Goodbye...and Point Me Towards Tomorrow
So, I knew it was too good to last. It had to come to an end. By this time tomorrow, the hiatus will officially be over. After a year of fun, travel, sloth, and spiritual recuperation, tomorrow if my first day at my new job, and back in the rat race.
As years go, this one would be pretty hard to top. Eleven countries visited. (Fourteen if you count layovers in airports.) Dozens of bottles of Argentine wine. Many, many great memories with friends and family, both new and old. And, literally hundreds and hundreds of photographs -- although most are too reminiscent of Cliff Claven's Florida vacation slide shows to be shared.
When I look back at where I was this time last year, I cannot help but feel joyous at where I am now. My five plus years in New York City definitely offered some good times, but also way too many gloomy times for my liking. New York is such a tough city to live in -- you have to really love it to stay. By the end of my time in NYC, my soul felt beaten down. I was bored with work and the social side of life, but even more bored with myself. I felt incapable of carrying on a normal conversation with life long friends, let alone anyone new you might meet.
Leaving New York, my job was like dropping the sandbags from a bright rainbow-colored hot air balloon. (Bad metaphor -- I hate heights and rainbow-colored hot air balloons, and I don't want to be a hot air balloon. Plus, it then just leads me to think about that movie The Red Balloon, and that poor little French kid who ran around in a gray outfit on a gray cityscape chasing the wiley red balloon. Oooh. I like that.) Ahem. Leaving New York, my job was like when the child in The Red Balloon finally catches the balloon and is joyous, after an eternity of chasing that pesky balloon through the mean streets of Paris while wearing gray and saying nothing.
Whatever the metaphor, like the balloons, these days I feel light and carefree. Well, most of the time. Tonight I'm kind of nervous about starting my job and being the new girl. I hate being the new girl. You'd think after moving seven times before my eighth birthday I'd have learned how to be the new girl. It doesn't mean I have to like it.
But back to light and carefree. The traveling was great. Really exceptional. But I also enjoyed the down time. I liked reconnecting with friends again. I liked trying to be a better friend, actually. I've really enjoyed the feeling on a Sunday night, when instead of dreading going to work, you only worry about whether you missed this week's episode of Rock of Love 2 with Brett Micheals. Similarly, I also enjoy the decadent feeling of waking up and seeing that an all day marathon of ANTM is playing, and you have nothing to do that day but catch up on America's Most Tired Model Wannabes and their latest Tyra Mail.
Also, I LOVE, LOVE, LOVE hanging out with my nephew. The first six months of his life, I was living in NYC, and saw him only a few times. But, I've been around the last year, and have earned status as his most favorite person -- except when Grammy is around to buy his love with toys. He is so happy and innocent and smart. At the risk of sounding more than incredibly hokey, I am surprised at how much joy it brings my heart just to be around him. (Not surprised at the joy it brings me to hand over responsibility to my sister, his mom, when he starts throwing a tantrum because you don't have a copy of The Backyardigans cued up for him to dance to.)
Anyway, in sum, and with no great measure of mature reflection, it was a bitchin' year. I can't believe it's over. I can't believe I didn't write a best-selling novel about my year, like the Coyote-Ugly author turned spiritual Eat, Pray, Love-self-actualization-book-whore. (The story about the porcupines in Botswana was pure money, or it would have been if I had included the part about me swilling moonshine and vomiting before said porcupine incident.)
Thanks for reading, friends. And with that, I'm off to watch the season finale of Rock of Love 2, a fitting denouement for the last night of my sabbatical.
As years go, this one would be pretty hard to top. Eleven countries visited. (Fourteen if you count layovers in airports.) Dozens of bottles of Argentine wine. Many, many great memories with friends and family, both new and old. And, literally hundreds and hundreds of photographs -- although most are too reminiscent of Cliff Claven's Florida vacation slide shows to be shared.
When I look back at where I was this time last year, I cannot help but feel joyous at where I am now. My five plus years in New York City definitely offered some good times, but also way too many gloomy times for my liking. New York is such a tough city to live in -- you have to really love it to stay. By the end of my time in NYC, my soul felt beaten down. I was bored with work and the social side of life, but even more bored with myself. I felt incapable of carrying on a normal conversation with life long friends, let alone anyone new you might meet.
Leaving New York, my job was like dropping the sandbags from a bright rainbow-colored hot air balloon. (Bad metaphor -- I hate heights and rainbow-colored hot air balloons, and I don't want to be a hot air balloon. Plus, it then just leads me to think about that movie The Red Balloon, and that poor little French kid who ran around in a gray outfit on a gray cityscape chasing the wiley red balloon. Oooh. I like that.) Ahem. Leaving New York, my job was like when the child in The Red Balloon finally catches the balloon and is joyous, after an eternity of chasing that pesky balloon through the mean streets of Paris while wearing gray and saying nothing.
Whatever the metaphor, like the balloons, these days I feel light and carefree. Well, most of the time. Tonight I'm kind of nervous about starting my job and being the new girl. I hate being the new girl. You'd think after moving seven times before my eighth birthday I'd have learned how to be the new girl. It doesn't mean I have to like it.
But back to light and carefree. The traveling was great. Really exceptional. But I also enjoyed the down time. I liked reconnecting with friends again. I liked trying to be a better friend, actually. I've really enjoyed the feeling on a Sunday night, when instead of dreading going to work, you only worry about whether you missed this week's episode of Rock of Love 2 with Brett Micheals. Similarly, I also enjoy the decadent feeling of waking up and seeing that an all day marathon of ANTM is playing, and you have nothing to do that day but catch up on America's Most Tired Model Wannabes and their latest Tyra Mail.
Also, I LOVE, LOVE, LOVE hanging out with my nephew. The first six months of his life, I was living in NYC, and saw him only a few times. But, I've been around the last year, and have earned status as his most favorite person -- except when Grammy is around to buy his love with toys. He is so happy and innocent and smart. At the risk of sounding more than incredibly hokey, I am surprised at how much joy it brings my heart just to be around him. (Not surprised at the joy it brings me to hand over responsibility to my sister, his mom, when he starts throwing a tantrum because you don't have a copy of The Backyardigans cued up for him to dance to.)
Anyway, in sum, and with no great measure of mature reflection, it was a bitchin' year. I can't believe it's over. I can't believe I didn't write a best-selling novel about my year, like the Coyote-Ugly author turned spiritual Eat, Pray, Love-self-actualization-book-whore. (The story about the porcupines in Botswana was pure money, or it would have been if I had included the part about me swilling moonshine and vomiting before said porcupine incident.)
Thanks for reading, friends. And with that, I'm off to watch the season finale of Rock of Love 2, a fitting denouement for the last night of my sabbatical.
Wednesday, March 19, 2008
Semi-Charmed Kind of Life
In addition to avoiding diabetes and moisturizing more, entertaining is one of the things that has been occupying my time while waiting for my new job to start. Now that I have left NYC and live in an apartment that can fit more than three people at a time, plans for dinner parties, Oscar parties, and a return of the much loved Small Party (Le Petit Soiree) have been bouncing through my head for months.
So, I've been meaning for a while to write a post about hosting dinner parties, and in fact made a half-hearted effort last month in my entry about the pressure to be a crack pastry chef. The folks over at StuffWhitePeopleLike have saved me the effort, and summed up perfectly the thirtysomething's formula of hosting a dinner party and the anxieties that accompany it.
Thus, you are saved from my own personal diatribes about hosting dinner parties -- and one very gross story about how I fell victim to the bubonic stomach flu right smack in the middle of the dinner party I hosted last month. Not pretty.
So, I've been meaning for a while to write a post about hosting dinner parties, and in fact made a half-hearted effort last month in my entry about the pressure to be a crack pastry chef. The folks over at StuffWhitePeopleLike have saved me the effort, and summed up perfectly the thirtysomething's formula of hosting a dinner party and the anxieties that accompany it.
Thus, you are saved from my own personal diatribes about hosting dinner parties -- and one very gross story about how I fell victim to the bubonic stomach flu right smack in the middle of the dinner party I hosted last month. Not pretty.
Monday, March 17, 2008
I Don't Want to Wait, For Our Lives to be Over...
I'm back from North Cack-a-lack-ee, and it was fantastic. We traveled to Bald Head Island, right near the NC-SC border, and just south of Wilmington, NC, the locale where the beloved teen-opic Dawson's Creek was filmed. True to the idyllic waterside (nee Capeside) scenery of The Creek, it was a fantastic trip.
Eleven of us converged upon a large beach house on Bald Head to celebrate my friend Kate's birthday. (Bald Head is fun to say, no; although not nearly as fun as Gay Head, on Martha's Vineyard.) It was like a grown-up version of spring break, or a slightly more juvenile version of The Big Chill. We drank wine, played games, ate delicious seafood and corn on the cob, and chased each other through the house with water guns. I lost countless games of cards, and read a book in a rocking chair perched just above the dunes, alongside the ocean. Dreamy.
On the downside, I have a dreadful stripe of sunburn on my lower back from laying on a bench reading a book. No, it wasn't warm enough to wear a bathing suit. I was just a fool in low-rider jeans with an inadvertent couple of inches of skin showing between my jeans and my slightly shifted t-shirt. It never fails -- take me near a beach and I'll manage not only to get a sunburn, but a striped sunburn clearly illustrating the 2-inch by 8-inch patch where I forget to apply sun block. (Usually it's a stripe on my armpits or near the edge of my bathing suit.)
One of the most fun parts about Bald Head is that cars aren't allowed. So everyone putt putts around in little golf carts. I was content to let everyone else chauffeur me around until Saturday night, when we were returning from dinner at the Raw Bar on the island. We went to the ferry to pick up a friend, and headed back to the house. But, while we had been gone at dinner, a huge storm passed, and there were fallen branches, frogs, puddles, etc. making the roads nearly impassible for regular cars, let alone the little golf cart I was driving. PLUS, it was pitch black. There aren't any street lamps on the roads, and the headlights on the cart were weak. We would have been better off with two little pen lights taped to the front of the cart. PLUS, some of the people in the cart -- not me, the driver -- were stinking drunk and noisy, and I don't know how to park when it's noisy, let alone drive.
We made it back, though. While I may be a sucky card player, I'm an awesome navigator and driver, with a sense of adventure and direction that needs neither map nor clear road. (Okay, my friend Debbi, even when drunk, is an awesome navigator and numerous times kept me from my going in the wrong direction, even though I was absolutely positive that I was right and she was wrong.) But the important thing is, we made it back.
Eleven of us converged upon a large beach house on Bald Head to celebrate my friend Kate's birthday. (Bald Head is fun to say, no; although not nearly as fun as Gay Head, on Martha's Vineyard.) It was like a grown-up version of spring break, or a slightly more juvenile version of The Big Chill. We drank wine, played games, ate delicious seafood and corn on the cob, and chased each other through the house with water guns. I lost countless games of cards, and read a book in a rocking chair perched just above the dunes, alongside the ocean. Dreamy.
On the downside, I have a dreadful stripe of sunburn on my lower back from laying on a bench reading a book. No, it wasn't warm enough to wear a bathing suit. I was just a fool in low-rider jeans with an inadvertent couple of inches of skin showing between my jeans and my slightly shifted t-shirt. It never fails -- take me near a beach and I'll manage not only to get a sunburn, but a striped sunburn clearly illustrating the 2-inch by 8-inch patch where I forget to apply sun block. (Usually it's a stripe on my armpits or near the edge of my bathing suit.)
One of the most fun parts about Bald Head is that cars aren't allowed. So everyone putt putts around in little golf carts. I was content to let everyone else chauffeur me around until Saturday night, when we were returning from dinner at the Raw Bar on the island. We went to the ferry to pick up a friend, and headed back to the house. But, while we had been gone at dinner, a huge storm passed, and there were fallen branches, frogs, puddles, etc. making the roads nearly impassible for regular cars, let alone the little golf cart I was driving. PLUS, it was pitch black. There aren't any street lamps on the roads, and the headlights on the cart were weak. We would have been better off with two little pen lights taped to the front of the cart. PLUS, some of the people in the cart -- not me, the driver -- were stinking drunk and noisy, and I don't know how to park when it's noisy, let alone drive.
We made it back, though. While I may be a sucky card player, I'm an awesome navigator and driver, with a sense of adventure and direction that needs neither map nor clear road. (Okay, my friend Debbi, even when drunk, is an awesome navigator and numerous times kept me from my going in the wrong direction, even though I was absolutely positive that I was right and she was wrong.) But the important thing is, we made it back.
Wednesday, March 12, 2008
On the Road Again
In a few hours, I'm heading on the road again for mini-break down South. My friend Kate has invited a group of people to spend a few days hanging out in her boyfriend's family house on an island off the coast of North Carolina. I have absolutely no idea what the island is called, just that cars aren't allowed on the island. It should be dandy -- I'm looking forward to a few days filled with sweet tea and sunshine.
Wednesday, March 5, 2008
Nerves and Stomach Pains
So if last week I was worried about making delicious chocolate mousse pies, that's the furthest thing from my mind this week. It could be that the pie actually turned out tasty. Or, it could be that I made an awesome dinner on Saturday for some friends, thus proving I am an awesome cook. But probably it's because I was sick with the stomach flu for two days, and when I think about food even now, I still want to vomit. Blecch.
Apart from an aversion to eating again and some lingering dehydration, I'm pretty much fully recovered. Which is good, because tonight's my first night on-call for the volunteer program I previously mentioned. I got my pager and staff phone out this morning and was fiddling a little bit. Shortly, I'm going to grab my training materials and go through what I need to do tonight.
Suffice it to say, I'm a little nervous. I'm not entirely sure why I'm so nervous, since I have worked with DV clients before, and even represented them in court. In theory, you would think that is more nervewracking. But, it seems different. When I've volunteered before, I've helped with mainly the legal system, which I know fairly well. Also, by the time you met someone as a legal advocate, the urgency of the situation has tapered off somewhat , and my role at least seemed a little more one-dimensional and detached. With the new on-call program, though, I feel much more aware of the immediacy of what's going on, and much more responsible for being a more comprehensive advocate and empathetic listener (or is it sympathetic listener?). So, I'm nervous.
In any case, my first shift starts this evening. We'll see how it goes.
Apart from an aversion to eating again and some lingering dehydration, I'm pretty much fully recovered. Which is good, because tonight's my first night on-call for the volunteer program I previously mentioned. I got my pager and staff phone out this morning and was fiddling a little bit. Shortly, I'm going to grab my training materials and go through what I need to do tonight.
Suffice it to say, I'm a little nervous. I'm not entirely sure why I'm so nervous, since I have worked with DV clients before, and even represented them in court. In theory, you would think that is more nervewracking. But, it seems different. When I've volunteered before, I've helped with mainly the legal system, which I know fairly well. Also, by the time you met someone as a legal advocate, the urgency of the situation has tapered off somewhat , and my role at least seemed a little more one-dimensional and detached. With the new on-call program, though, I feel much more aware of the immediacy of what's going on, and much more responsible for being a more comprehensive advocate and empathetic listener (or is it sympathetic listener?). So, I'm nervous.
In any case, my first shift starts this evening. We'll see how it goes.
Wednesday, February 27, 2008
Someone Left the Cake Out in the Rain
One of my goals for The Hiatus -- as I'm now taking to calling my soon-to-end sabbatical from working -- was to learn how to cook. Or at least learn how to appear like I can cook.
There's a certain amount of pressure a Type-A young woman feels these days to be a ridiculously shrewd career person, but in her spare time also manage to be athletic, funny, pretty, well-groomed, environmentally conscious and above all, able to whip up a fantastic gourmet meal using just the ingredients in her almost bare kitchen cabinet. Er, or maybe that's just me. No -- wait a second. Part of that might be my Type-A neuroses, but the stuff about the cooking is definitely not just me, as evidenced by the very astute writers of this here blog.
So, the past few months I've been trying to learn how to cook new things. And, although this is great in furthering my goal to learn how to appear like I can cook, even more importantly, it takes up a lot of time. A lot of time. Because I approach cooking like any other unemployed Type-A neurotic. There's perusing recipes, reading recipe reviews, shopping for ingredients, going to a different store for supposedly superior ingredients, second guessing the wisdom of selecting that particular recipe in the first place, etc. That takes up a lot of time, which is good, because I have a lot of time on my hands to fill.
Half the time I undertake to cook something, I buy all the ingredients, and then they stay in the refrigerator for days because I get sidetracked. Okay, truthfully, by the time I run around and buy all the ingredients, I've gone to multiple stores and am too tired to make anything. So, a lot of the cooking efforts never make it past the grocery-purchasing-stage.
The other half the time I decide to cook something, I fall victim to the deadly coupling of arrogance and laziness, with a healthy splash of stupidity for good measure.
First, the Arrogance -- even though I can't cook, I'm convinced that I can somehow modify the recipe slightly so that it will be even better than anyone ever imagined. This frequently involves me scrounging through my spice cupboard for that little special extra ingredient which I have no doubt will bring the recipe to the next level and make Thomas Keller come running to my apartment, like the pathetic chef that he is, begging me to please just let him in on The Secret, just this one time, of how I make my mashed potatoes so deliciously mashed potato-y. At the moment, the special ingredient of choice is The Shallot, a teeny-tiny baby onion that I somehow went 32 years without using, and which I now throw into everything to make up for lost time.
Next, the Laziness. For example, if a recipe requires something as complicated as using separate bowls for ingredients, sifting, cooling, candy thermometers, or buying a special spice of which you use only 1/4 tsp, then I just skip that step, because they can't possibly expect that anyone will actually go to that kind of effort. The exception to this rule is if a recipe calls for using a food processor, in which case I'll run to get my heavy processor and use it to chop anything and everything in sight. Food processors are fun.
Finally, there's the Stupidity. Inevitably, whenever I veer off recipe with extra spices and/or skipped steps, whatever I'm making turns out icchy. Yet, it must be sheer stupidity that keeps pushing me to continue to alter recipes at will, and expect them to turn out well. Of course, I always blame the recipe. (Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on Martha Stewart.)
You can imagine my frustration, then, when tonight I attempted to make a chocolate mousse pie, following the recipe almost to the letter. (Well, not 100%, but close.) And it turned out like liquefied mud, only less tasty. I don't understand how mixing chocolate, whipped cream and sugar can turn out to be anything other than a big puffy chocolate cloud of happiness, but somehow it did not deliver.
Obviously, I blame the recipe. But what frustration. I wasted all that time, money, clean dishes, and skill on a pie that sucked. And I had such big dreams for this pie. I wanted this pie to be worthy of a clever Waitress-inspired name. Something like "My Ex-Husband Earl is an Overbearing Hog, but We'll Always Have Paris . . . and this Pie" Chocolate Mousse Pie. Never mind that I don't have an ex-husband (yet) and don't know anyone named Earl (other than the tv show) -- it's a great name for a pie, no? Instead, I'm sheepishly showing up to a dinner party tomorrow night with a pie that should be called "Hey Guys, I'm Trying to Learn How to Cook, Sorry About How the Pie Looks...and Tastes, but Here, Have Some More Wine" Chocolate Mousse Pie. It's just not as catchy.
There's a certain amount of pressure a Type-A young woman feels these days to be a ridiculously shrewd career person, but in her spare time also manage to be athletic, funny, pretty, well-groomed, environmentally conscious and above all, able to whip up a fantastic gourmet meal using just the ingredients in her almost bare kitchen cabinet. Er, or maybe that's just me. No -- wait a second. Part of that might be my Type-A neuroses, but the stuff about the cooking is definitely not just me, as evidenced by the very astute writers of this here blog.
So, the past few months I've been trying to learn how to cook new things. And, although this is great in furthering my goal to learn how to appear like I can cook, even more importantly, it takes up a lot of time. A lot of time. Because I approach cooking like any other unemployed Type-A neurotic. There's perusing recipes, reading recipe reviews, shopping for ingredients, going to a different store for supposedly superior ingredients, second guessing the wisdom of selecting that particular recipe in the first place, etc. That takes up a lot of time, which is good, because I have a lot of time on my hands to fill.
Half the time I undertake to cook something, I buy all the ingredients, and then they stay in the refrigerator for days because I get sidetracked. Okay, truthfully, by the time I run around and buy all the ingredients, I've gone to multiple stores and am too tired to make anything. So, a lot of the cooking efforts never make it past the grocery-purchasing-stage.
The other half the time I decide to cook something, I fall victim to the deadly coupling of arrogance and laziness, with a healthy splash of stupidity for good measure.
First, the Arrogance -- even though I can't cook, I'm convinced that I can somehow modify the recipe slightly so that it will be even better than anyone ever imagined. This frequently involves me scrounging through my spice cupboard for that little special extra ingredient which I have no doubt will bring the recipe to the next level and make Thomas Keller come running to my apartment, like the pathetic chef that he is, begging me to please just let him in on The Secret, just this one time, of how I make my mashed potatoes so deliciously mashed potato-y. At the moment, the special ingredient of choice is The Shallot, a teeny-tiny baby onion that I somehow went 32 years without using, and which I now throw into everything to make up for lost time.
Next, the Laziness. For example, if a recipe requires something as complicated as using separate bowls for ingredients, sifting, cooling, candy thermometers, or buying a special spice of which you use only 1/4 tsp, then I just skip that step, because they can't possibly expect that anyone will actually go to that kind of effort. The exception to this rule is if a recipe calls for using a food processor, in which case I'll run to get my heavy processor and use it to chop anything and everything in sight. Food processors are fun.
Finally, there's the Stupidity. Inevitably, whenever I veer off recipe with extra spices and/or skipped steps, whatever I'm making turns out icchy. Yet, it must be sheer stupidity that keeps pushing me to continue to alter recipes at will, and expect them to turn out well. Of course, I always blame the recipe. (Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on Martha Stewart.)
You can imagine my frustration, then, when tonight I attempted to make a chocolate mousse pie, following the recipe almost to the letter. (Well, not 100%, but close.) And it turned out like liquefied mud, only less tasty. I don't understand how mixing chocolate, whipped cream and sugar can turn out to be anything other than a big puffy chocolate cloud of happiness, but somehow it did not deliver.
Obviously, I blame the recipe. But what frustration. I wasted all that time, money, clean dishes, and skill on a pie that sucked. And I had such big dreams for this pie. I wanted this pie to be worthy of a clever Waitress-inspired name. Something like "My Ex-Husband Earl is an Overbearing Hog, but We'll Always Have Paris . . . and this Pie" Chocolate Mousse Pie. Never mind that I don't have an ex-husband (yet) and don't know anyone named Earl (other than the tv show) -- it's a great name for a pie, no? Instead, I'm sheepishly showing up to a dinner party tomorrow night with a pie that should be called "Hey Guys, I'm Trying to Learn How to Cook, Sorry About How the Pie Looks...and Tastes, but Here, Have Some More Wine" Chocolate Mousse Pie. It's just not as catchy.
Monday, February 25, 2008
Abandon All Hope, Ye Who Enter Here
Being unemployed and everything -- although not for much longer -- I have lots of time to think, as I've mentioned before. So lately, I've been pondering a lot about what it means to live in the present.
Oprah and the like are always touting how important it is to live in the present, in the moment. (Don't you miss the days of talk shows with the whiny Phil Donahue, where you were guaranteed to see some good old fashioned housewife drama, not have THE SECRET, whatever that is, pushed down your throat.)
Anyway, I've been thinking about just being. It's a tall order for me. I spend most of my days dwelling on past happenings, or looking forward to future events. Like today, I've been thinking about the past (Driver's Ed in high school, the Pierogie Cook-Off I went to on Saturday, the Jimmy Kimmel tribute to F*ing Ben Affleck, etc.) and the future (starting a new job, making a roast chicken next weekend for the first time, hanging out on my balcony in the spring, finding a pair of plaid clam digger shorts).
More often than not, I'm anticipating the next event to happen in my life. Even when I was traveling last year, on the trip of a lifetime one might say, I was often thinking about where I was going next, instead of just enjoying where I was. I was in the middle of Namibia, climbing 200-foot sand dunes that look straight out of The English Patient, and I was contemplating what I was going to wear to my friend Phil's wedding in New York the following month. Really? I mean, I dig the dress that I bought, but I think I could have waited until I was back in the US to contemplate such things. But even in everyday life, I feel like if you are constantly looking to the future or the past, you are destined to miss out on so much in life.
There was a brief moment this past weekend, though, where I was completely in the present. I can't say it was pleasant, but for about ten minutes, I was just being. Just being enraged, that is, while driving around the Costco parking lot looking for a parking spot.
The Costco in Arlington, VA is the only one around here. So everyone goes there. And for some goofy reason, I decided that it was worth driving down there to save a few bucks. I ventured down to the already crowded Pentagon City area, and pulled up to the gated Costco parking lot. I'm pretty sure the Pentagon City Costco parking lot was supposed to be Dante's Tenth circle of Hell, until his editors made him cut it out because the audience would not even believe that kind of horror exists.
It's pure insanity -- with people walking everywhere, cars lined up five deep to wait for one possible parking spot. No one watches where they are going, with their carts full of oversized packages of toilet paper and peanut butter. (Me -- I just wanted a big thing of cheese, and some cheap alcohol. Maybe some multi-colored baby peppers. Is that too much to ask?)
I was so in the moment as I drove around for fifteen minutes, barely avoiding hitting other cars or pedestrians traversing through the parking lot. Did I mention no one watches where they are walking? It's worse than that, though. Instead of politely moving to the side of the parking aisles, everyone pushes their cart right up the middle of the aisle, as if the super-wide aisles were made just for their cart full of oversized bags of Tyson's Chicken Chunks. And the whole time, I wasn't thinking about the future, or the past. Just about how I was going to park somewhere without killing someone first.
By the time I got in the Costco, I was too flummoxed to even shop around. I grabbed the cheese and a bottle of wine, and ran for the check out. But, I did have a brilliant idea. Prison overcrowding? A problem no more. For the worst offenders, they can just be sentenced to drive in circles in the Costco parking lot for twelve hours a day, without being able to park. I started thinking about what sort of things I'd need to do to get my plan approved to solve this prison overcrowding thing, and how the people across the land would love me for being so brilliant, and how I'd parlay that into a guest visit on Oprah, and then maybe buy some fancy red-sole Christian Loboutin shoes to wear on the show like Oprah does.
And just like that, I was fixated on the future, and no longer living in the moment.
Oprah and the like are always touting how important it is to live in the present, in the moment. (Don't you miss the days of talk shows with the whiny Phil Donahue, where you were guaranteed to see some good old fashioned housewife drama, not have THE SECRET, whatever that is, pushed down your throat.)
Anyway, I've been thinking about just being. It's a tall order for me. I spend most of my days dwelling on past happenings, or looking forward to future events. Like today, I've been thinking about the past (Driver's Ed in high school, the Pierogie Cook-Off I went to on Saturday, the Jimmy Kimmel tribute to F*ing Ben Affleck, etc.) and the future (starting a new job, making a roast chicken next weekend for the first time, hanging out on my balcony in the spring, finding a pair of plaid clam digger shorts).
More often than not, I'm anticipating the next event to happen in my life. Even when I was traveling last year, on the trip of a lifetime one might say, I was often thinking about where I was going next, instead of just enjoying where I was. I was in the middle of Namibia, climbing 200-foot sand dunes that look straight out of The English Patient, and I was contemplating what I was going to wear to my friend Phil's wedding in New York the following month. Really? I mean, I dig the dress that I bought, but I think I could have waited until I was back in the US to contemplate such things. But even in everyday life, I feel like if you are constantly looking to the future or the past, you are destined to miss out on so much in life.
There was a brief moment this past weekend, though, where I was completely in the present. I can't say it was pleasant, but for about ten minutes, I was just being. Just being enraged, that is, while driving around the Costco parking lot looking for a parking spot.
The Costco in Arlington, VA is the only one around here. So everyone goes there. And for some goofy reason, I decided that it was worth driving down there to save a few bucks. I ventured down to the already crowded Pentagon City area, and pulled up to the gated Costco parking lot. I'm pretty sure the Pentagon City Costco parking lot was supposed to be Dante's Tenth circle of Hell, until his editors made him cut it out because the audience would not even believe that kind of horror exists.
It's pure insanity -- with people walking everywhere, cars lined up five deep to wait for one possible parking spot. No one watches where they are going, with their carts full of oversized packages of toilet paper and peanut butter. (Me -- I just wanted a big thing of cheese, and some cheap alcohol. Maybe some multi-colored baby peppers. Is that too much to ask?)
I was so in the moment as I drove around for fifteen minutes, barely avoiding hitting other cars or pedestrians traversing through the parking lot. Did I mention no one watches where they are walking? It's worse than that, though. Instead of politely moving to the side of the parking aisles, everyone pushes their cart right up the middle of the aisle, as if the super-wide aisles were made just for their cart full of oversized bags of Tyson's Chicken Chunks. And the whole time, I wasn't thinking about the future, or the past. Just about how I was going to park somewhere without killing someone first.
By the time I got in the Costco, I was too flummoxed to even shop around. I grabbed the cheese and a bottle of wine, and ran for the check out. But, I did have a brilliant idea. Prison overcrowding? A problem no more. For the worst offenders, they can just be sentenced to drive in circles in the Costco parking lot for twelve hours a day, without being able to park. I started thinking about what sort of things I'd need to do to get my plan approved to solve this prison overcrowding thing, and how the people across the land would love me for being so brilliant, and how I'd parlay that into a guest visit on Oprah, and then maybe buy some fancy red-sole Christian Loboutin shoes to wear on the show like Oprah does.
And just like that, I was fixated on the future, and no longer living in the moment.
Monday, February 11, 2008
I'm Super, Thank You for Asking
I' ve been feeling kind of contemplative lately, dozens of questions running through my head. Like:
Is it weird to make your bed at 10 pm? I was reading some magazine article last week, and the author was talking about her sister's weird friend who would make her bed at night, if she forgot in the morning. Well, last night I found myself changing my sheets and making my bed at 10 oclock at night. And I wondered - Am I a Weirdo? Maybe, but not for the sheets thing. I mean, what could be better than cool, clean sheets on a Sunday night.
Who am I going to vote for in tomorrow's primary? I have no idea. I'm a registered Dem, and the two choices seem so similar. And either would be kind of exciting. I guess I should be glad that I even get to vote at all, considering DC's lack of representation otherwise. (Interestingly, both candidates were on the local station tonight touting how DC should have representation. That's a political promise I'd love to see come into being.)
What makes a superdelegate "super"? Again, no idea. But, in my head, I wish they would all have to respond to the question "How are you doing?" with the South Park Movie song "I'm Super, Thank You for Asking." Otherwise, what's the point.
Is VH1's Rock of Love only good in light of the writer's strike? I think the answer to that is no -- the show is genuinely good, in a lowbrow, trashy kind of way. For the uninitiated, Rock of Love is a reality dating show like the Bachelor, except the eligible bachelor is one Brett Michaels of Poison fame and acclaim. I'm not ashamed to admit I saw Poison live and in concert -- chronologically, this was after the Duran Duran concert, but before Crowded House and Depeche Mode. I'm also not ashamed to declare my love for Brett Michael's latest project. The contestants on the show are sleazy with a capital Ho, and not afraid to let America see that side of them -- or any other scantily dressed side of them, either. Huzzah for VH1 and Brett Michaels both for bringing this show to the masses. And huzzah to the lovely ladies who make the show everything that it is.
Have I been moisturizing enough in the New Year? Probably not. A few weeks ago, I switched focus, and was working on my new year's resolution not to get diabetes, instead of moisturizing more. (You'd think it would be easy to work on both at once, particularly since I have yet to start a new job, but you'd be dead wrong.) Anyway, yesterday I gave my skin the old glance over, and I realize I've been so neglectful on the moisturizing front. This happens every year. I start out strong with lots of product, but it only lasts a few weeks. I mean, sure, my blood sugar is probably lower and everything, but do I have soft and lovely skin? Not a whit.
Is it time to take another trip somewhere? I've been thinking about doing a little traveling again. Maybe somewhere in the US. The current thought is to check out Asheville, NC and maybe Pigeon Forge, TN. I lived in Asheville for about a year when I was in elementary school, and I had absolutely no idea what a cool, artsy little town it was. My most vivid memory of Asheville is of my seventh birthday party, where we invited the whole class to the party (because someone said that was the etiquette) and then only four kids came. We were eating little individual ice cream cups for months. So sad. Anyway, I'd love to go back and check out the town and the Biltmore Estate as an adult. As for Pigeon Forge, it goes without saying that the small Tennessee town is home to Dolly Parton's eponymous Dollywood theme park, a place I've longed to see for many years. The time has come, I think.
So that's what I'm thinking right now. Dollywood and Presidential primaries. Perhaps that should be how I decide. Anecdotally, or at least on Sunday morning political talk shows, you hear stories about how people allegedly elect the person President that they would most like to have a beer with. (It makes sense for the Clinton era, in that it seems beyond debate that Bill Clinton would probably be a more fun beer swilling companion than Mr. George H.W. Bush. I'm not sure how applicable it is to later elections, though.)
In any case, maybe I should ask myself: which candidate would be more fun to tour Dollywood with? Is Hilary more likely to whoop and holler on Daredevil Falls or would she cry like a baby at the highest, fastest waterfall ride in North America? Would Obama pout about getting his suit wet on the Smokey Mountain River Rampage, or would he shake it off and suggest we go get a deep fried twinkie dog and a funnel cake whilst we dry out? Good questions. I only wish I had called in to the local station tonight to ask.
Is it weird to make your bed at 10 pm? I was reading some magazine article last week, and the author was talking about her sister's weird friend who would make her bed at night, if she forgot in the morning. Well, last night I found myself changing my sheets and making my bed at 10 oclock at night. And I wondered - Am I a Weirdo? Maybe, but not for the sheets thing. I mean, what could be better than cool, clean sheets on a Sunday night.
Who am I going to vote for in tomorrow's primary? I have no idea. I'm a registered Dem, and the two choices seem so similar. And either would be kind of exciting. I guess I should be glad that I even get to vote at all, considering DC's lack of representation otherwise. (Interestingly, both candidates were on the local station tonight touting how DC should have representation. That's a political promise I'd love to see come into being.)
What makes a superdelegate "super"? Again, no idea. But, in my head, I wish they would all have to respond to the question "How are you doing?" with the South Park Movie song "I'm Super, Thank You for Asking." Otherwise, what's the point.
Is VH1's Rock of Love only good in light of the writer's strike? I think the answer to that is no -- the show is genuinely good, in a lowbrow, trashy kind of way. For the uninitiated, Rock of Love is a reality dating show like the Bachelor, except the eligible bachelor is one Brett Michaels of Poison fame and acclaim. I'm not ashamed to admit I saw Poison live and in concert -- chronologically, this was after the Duran Duran concert, but before Crowded House and Depeche Mode. I'm also not ashamed to declare my love for Brett Michael's latest project. The contestants on the show are sleazy with a capital Ho, and not afraid to let America see that side of them -- or any other scantily dressed side of them, either. Huzzah for VH1 and Brett Michaels both for bringing this show to the masses. And huzzah to the lovely ladies who make the show everything that it is.
Have I been moisturizing enough in the New Year? Probably not. A few weeks ago, I switched focus, and was working on my new year's resolution not to get diabetes, instead of moisturizing more. (You'd think it would be easy to work on both at once, particularly since I have yet to start a new job, but you'd be dead wrong.) Anyway, yesterday I gave my skin the old glance over, and I realize I've been so neglectful on the moisturizing front. This happens every year. I start out strong with lots of product, but it only lasts a few weeks. I mean, sure, my blood sugar is probably lower and everything, but do I have soft and lovely skin? Not a whit.
Is it time to take another trip somewhere? I've been thinking about doing a little traveling again. Maybe somewhere in the US. The current thought is to check out Asheville, NC and maybe Pigeon Forge, TN. I lived in Asheville for about a year when I was in elementary school, and I had absolutely no idea what a cool, artsy little town it was. My most vivid memory of Asheville is of my seventh birthday party, where we invited the whole class to the party (because someone said that was the etiquette) and then only four kids came. We were eating little individual ice cream cups for months. So sad. Anyway, I'd love to go back and check out the town and the Biltmore Estate as an adult. As for Pigeon Forge, it goes without saying that the small Tennessee town is home to Dolly Parton's eponymous Dollywood theme park, a place I've longed to see for many years. The time has come, I think.
So that's what I'm thinking right now. Dollywood and Presidential primaries. Perhaps that should be how I decide. Anecdotally, or at least on Sunday morning political talk shows, you hear stories about how people allegedly elect the person President that they would most like to have a beer with. (It makes sense for the Clinton era, in that it seems beyond debate that Bill Clinton would probably be a more fun beer swilling companion than Mr. George H.W. Bush. I'm not sure how applicable it is to later elections, though.)
In any case, maybe I should ask myself: which candidate would be more fun to tour Dollywood with? Is Hilary more likely to whoop and holler on Daredevil Falls or would she cry like a baby at the highest, fastest waterfall ride in North America? Would Obama pout about getting his suit wet on the Smokey Mountain River Rampage, or would he shake it off and suggest we go get a deep fried twinkie dog and a funnel cake whilst we dry out? Good questions. I only wish I had called in to the local station tonight to ask.
Tuesday, February 5, 2008
Finally Some Pictures (well, sort of)
A number of peeps have been asking me to post some pictures of my travels. But, until last night, I hadn't even downloaded the Africa pics from my camera. I was afraid the sheer volume would crash my aging computer.
After much ado, I found the cord I needed and hooked up my camera and downloaded all my pictures from Africa. All 568 pictures. So, clearly I need to do some editing, and figure out how to post a link to an album of travel pics. But in the meantime, here's one:
These zebras walked up while we were stopped at a watering hole having coffee.
And another:
Musafa
After much ado, I found the cord I needed and hooked up my camera and downloaded all my pictures from Africa. All 568 pictures. So, clearly I need to do some editing, and figure out how to post a link to an album of travel pics. But in the meantime, here's one:
These zebras walked up while we were stopped at a watering hole having coffee.
And another:
Musafa
Wednesday, January 30, 2008
Socrates, Postscript
So, as luck would have it, I arrived to class tonight and there was no sign of Sarah. Turns out she had to drop out of training for some reason. I was initially gleeful, and then I put together the fact that I think she dropped out because of a death in the family. I don't wish that on anyone, no matter how annoying they are. So for that reason, I wish she were still in class.
Besides, tonight's stuff was so emotionally draining that I don't think I could have mustered up any outrage at your garden-variety pompous intellectual. We spent three hours talking in detail about violence against women, stalking, and sexual assault. There was no smirking, and a few times it took all of my energy and focus not to bust out in tears in front of a room full of strangers. It also occurred to me that these sessions are probably a large contributor to why I've been having trouble sleeping the past few nights. I don't know how people work in these areas as a full time job -- my hat is off to them.
Besides, tonight's stuff was so emotionally draining that I don't think I could have mustered up any outrage at your garden-variety pompous intellectual. We spent three hours talking in detail about violence against women, stalking, and sexual assault. There was no smirking, and a few times it took all of my energy and focus not to bust out in tears in front of a room full of strangers. It also occurred to me that these sessions are probably a large contributor to why I've been having trouble sleeping the past few nights. I don't know how people work in these areas as a full time job -- my hat is off to them.
Tuesday, January 29, 2008
What Socrates Was Trying To Say...
It's been a hyper-hypo kind of week for me, and I've been spending a lot of time thinking. Thinking about a job I want, thinking about my plan not to get diabetes (and how many points are in leftover bag of Reese's Pieces), thinking about how I really should get around to cleaning my kitchen, etc. Lots of thinking.
But not so much talking. This is the downside of spending time at home. You spend lots of time in your head, and much less time talking to other people. This is why I'm so happy these days when I make plans to meet up with friends for a beer -- or even meet a nice little old lady at the deli counter of the local Giant. I'm psyched to talk to people.
So you can imagine how happy I am now that I started volunteering for a local organization. I signed up last month to work with a domestic violence organization down at the DC Courthouse, and training just started last night. The amount of training is pretty impressive -- we're meeting for about 40 hours over the next two weeks to talk in depth about domestic violence and what we'll be doing as volunteers.
I've done some of this work before and found it really rewarding, so it's nice to be able to help out once again. And on a selfish level, it's been great just to have the opportunity to talk to people. And not just about which brand of turkey lunchmeat is best...but real issues that matter to people. (That's not to say turkey isn't important, just not as important as other things.)
The people running the training are fantastic. After five years of working with many, many neurotic type-A overachievers -- myself included -- it's a nice change of pace to be hanging out with the touchy-feely non-profit crowd. So far, two women have been running things, and it's a wonderful, nurturing environment. (Unlike at prior jobs, I suspect I would get bonus points for crying.) I mean, the first day we made up our own rules about how the training would run. It's such a collective and inclusive experience. I love it.
That is, until Sarah showed up. (Names have been changed to protect the so-called innocents.) Anyway, this Sarah lady missed yesterday's session, and showed up today all apologetic. And claimed the chair right next to me. I knew she was bad news almost right away from the way she reacted when I offered her my pen to fill out some sign-in sheet. There was just way too much talking for what should have been an ordinary, run of the mill, social transaction.
It turns out that after the pen incident, Sarah didn't shut up for the rest of the training session. In fact, we didn't end up finishing everything we were supposed to cover today, and I blame Sarah. Turns out she's a grad student, with some sort of social work background, although I think she may be in grad school for International Studies. So who knows. Anyway, she talked pretty much every chance she could.
Sarah prefaced her first 3-minute, multi-part question with the phrase "I know this really doesn't have anything to do with what we're supposed to be doing as volunteers, but..." My reaction was: WTF? I mean, if you know it has nothing to do with anything we're doing, then why are you asking...other than to hear yourself talk and/or show off how supposedly smart you are. (I thought that just happened in law school.)
About thirty minutes into the training, I was pretty close to my limit. For a brief moment, I decided it was my fault that she was talking so much -- after all, when we made our rules the day before, I came up with "No Question is Too Stupid." Stupid, stupid, stupid rule. How could I let myself get so touchy-feely and suggest that no question is stupid. Clearly -- CLEARLY -- that's wrong. But wait -- she missed hearing the rules because she wasn't there, so it's not my fault that she's asking stupid questions.
After about an hour, things got worse. I was having a difficult time hiding my disgust with all the inane questions and grandstanding. At first, I was just rolling my eyes and giving some pointed looks to one of the instructors to see if she agreed with me about the inanity of it all. (I'm convinced she did agree.) But after not too long, I found myself talking a lot just to try and keep her from talking.
And then, the coupe de grace. The words "Well, I think if you look to Freud -- " were barely out of Sarah's mouth before I fell apart. I nearly laughed out loud at how ridiculous she was, but I decided laughing would be in poor taste, particularly since it was a discussion about domestic violence and really horrible stuff. (Not that I was really paying attention any more, so strong was my dislike of this grad student.) Anyway, I suppressed my laugh the best I could, but I was still left with a smirk. A smirk. At a domestic violence training class. Full of touchy-feely people. And possibly some domestic violence victims.
So I ask you this: What's worse? The blowhard grad student who can't stop talking about Freud. Or, the lawyer who is smirking through a discussion about domestic violence -- and who also can't stop talking.
Not good, my friends. Not good at all.
But not so much talking. This is the downside of spending time at home. You spend lots of time in your head, and much less time talking to other people. This is why I'm so happy these days when I make plans to meet up with friends for a beer -- or even meet a nice little old lady at the deli counter of the local Giant. I'm psyched to talk to people.
So you can imagine how happy I am now that I started volunteering for a local organization. I signed up last month to work with a domestic violence organization down at the DC Courthouse, and training just started last night. The amount of training is pretty impressive -- we're meeting for about 40 hours over the next two weeks to talk in depth about domestic violence and what we'll be doing as volunteers.
I've done some of this work before and found it really rewarding, so it's nice to be able to help out once again. And on a selfish level, it's been great just to have the opportunity to talk to people. And not just about which brand of turkey lunchmeat is best...but real issues that matter to people. (That's not to say turkey isn't important, just not as important as other things.)
The people running the training are fantastic. After five years of working with many, many neurotic type-A overachievers -- myself included -- it's a nice change of pace to be hanging out with the touchy-feely non-profit crowd. So far, two women have been running things, and it's a wonderful, nurturing environment. (Unlike at prior jobs, I suspect I would get bonus points for crying.) I mean, the first day we made up our own rules about how the training would run. It's such a collective and inclusive experience. I love it.
That is, until Sarah showed up. (Names have been changed to protect the so-called innocents.) Anyway, this Sarah lady missed yesterday's session, and showed up today all apologetic. And claimed the chair right next to me. I knew she was bad news almost right away from the way she reacted when I offered her my pen to fill out some sign-in sheet. There was just way too much talking for what should have been an ordinary, run of the mill, social transaction.
It turns out that after the pen incident, Sarah didn't shut up for the rest of the training session. In fact, we didn't end up finishing everything we were supposed to cover today, and I blame Sarah. Turns out she's a grad student, with some sort of social work background, although I think she may be in grad school for International Studies. So who knows. Anyway, she talked pretty much every chance she could.
Sarah prefaced her first 3-minute, multi-part question with the phrase "I know this really doesn't have anything to do with what we're supposed to be doing as volunteers, but..." My reaction was: WTF? I mean, if you know it has nothing to do with anything we're doing, then why are you asking...other than to hear yourself talk and/or show off how supposedly smart you are. (I thought that just happened in law school.)
About thirty minutes into the training, I was pretty close to my limit. For a brief moment, I decided it was my fault that she was talking so much -- after all, when we made our rules the day before, I came up with "No Question is Too Stupid." Stupid, stupid, stupid rule. How could I let myself get so touchy-feely and suggest that no question is stupid. Clearly -- CLEARLY -- that's wrong. But wait -- she missed hearing the rules because she wasn't there, so it's not my fault that she's asking stupid questions.
After about an hour, things got worse. I was having a difficult time hiding my disgust with all the inane questions and grandstanding. At first, I was just rolling my eyes and giving some pointed looks to one of the instructors to see if she agreed with me about the inanity of it all. (I'm convinced she did agree.) But after not too long, I found myself talking a lot just to try and keep her from talking.
And then, the coupe de grace. The words "Well, I think if you look to Freud -- " were barely out of Sarah's mouth before I fell apart. I nearly laughed out loud at how ridiculous she was, but I decided laughing would be in poor taste, particularly since it was a discussion about domestic violence and really horrible stuff. (Not that I was really paying attention any more, so strong was my dislike of this grad student.) Anyway, I suppressed my laugh the best I could, but I was still left with a smirk. A smirk. At a domestic violence training class. Full of touchy-feely people. And possibly some domestic violence victims.
So I ask you this: What's worse? The blowhard grad student who can't stop talking about Freud. Or, the lawyer who is smirking through a discussion about domestic violence -- and who also can't stop talking.
Not good, my friends. Not good at all.
Thursday, January 24, 2008
Badly Done, Comcast. Badly Done.
There are about 100 other things I should be doing right now, like finding employment or cleaning my apartment or moisturizing. But instead, I'm obsessed with my TIVO, which has recently fallen ill. It won't download any programming, and I'm distraught at the idea of having to part ways with my TIVO, now five years old.
I'm convinced the very evil Comcast is somehow behind this newest problem. They want everyone to switch over to their brand of DVR (at $14.00 a month). So, they have made it extremely difficult to get the TIVO working with their cable boxes. I knew about these problems before I moved to the district, and almost considered living in VA or elsewhere just so I could carry-on with my TIVO.
Fortunately, I think I have figured out a way to fix my TIVO, and am heading out shortly to Radio Shack to buy the doohickeys I need. In the meantime, I'm trying to figure out how to initiate an antitrust investigation -- based on hunches and conjecture -- into the oppressive ways of the Comcast overlords.
I'm convinced the very evil Comcast is somehow behind this newest problem. They want everyone to switch over to their brand of DVR (at $14.00 a month). So, they have made it extremely difficult to get the TIVO working with their cable boxes. I knew about these problems before I moved to the district, and almost considered living in VA or elsewhere just so I could carry-on with my TIVO.
Fortunately, I think I have figured out a way to fix my TIVO, and am heading out shortly to Radio Shack to buy the doohickeys I need. In the meantime, I'm trying to figure out how to initiate an antitrust investigation -- based on hunches and conjecture -- into the oppressive ways of the Comcast overlords.
Thursday, January 17, 2008
Deliver Me From Evil
There a lot of things I love about DC, and I'm glad to be back. But, there's one thing I seriously miss from NYC -- delivery.
In New York -- even in the outer boroughs -- you can get anything delivered. Not just pizza. Any place. Dinner? Sure -- pretty much every restaurant. Cigarettes? If that's your thing, the bodegas will deliver them, along with a container of milk, two ferrer rochers, and a gatorade. Groceries for a party of 10? Absolutely, and Fresh Direct will even give you $25 to spend on artisan cheese with your first order.
Delivery is fantastic on a cold sleety night like tonight. Or, if you are sick with stomach flu and can't muster up the energy to leave your apartment, you simply call up the bodega and they will bring you advil, ginger ale, a box of tissues, and a sammich. It's awesome.
The DC delivery situation is far worse than when I last lived here, though. When I left DC, you could order movies, CDs, ice cream and magazine from your friendly Kozmo.com. The guys showed up within an hour, carrying your items in a bright orange messenger bag. I can't say that I recall much about ordering any food, because I think I had no money and rarely bothered to think about delivery beyond ordering ben & jerry's and coke while studying for the bar. These days, Kozmo is a remnant of the wacky dot.com era, with no replacement. As for food, it seems like pizza is the only thing you can have delivered, although I am working on finding a good thai place. This is surprising to me, since I live in Adams Morgan, where good (or at least interesting) restaurants are plentiful.
I suppose DC just isn't a delivery town the way NYC is. Which, shouldn't be surprising since DC has a slower vibe. Who needs delivery when you have a chill lifestyle that allows you time to cook and grocery shop? And overall, I appreciate the change of pace. But some nights, when you are physically exhausted and the weather sux, it would be great to be able to order some delivery dinner and a People magazine.
In New York -- even in the outer boroughs -- you can get anything delivered. Not just pizza. Any place. Dinner? Sure -- pretty much every restaurant. Cigarettes? If that's your thing, the bodegas will deliver them, along with a container of milk, two ferrer rochers, and a gatorade. Groceries for a party of 10? Absolutely, and Fresh Direct will even give you $25 to spend on artisan cheese with your first order.
Delivery is fantastic on a cold sleety night like tonight. Or, if you are sick with stomach flu and can't muster up the energy to leave your apartment, you simply call up the bodega and they will bring you advil, ginger ale, a box of tissues, and a sammich. It's awesome.
The DC delivery situation is far worse than when I last lived here, though. When I left DC, you could order movies, CDs, ice cream and magazine from your friendly Kozmo.com. The guys showed up within an hour, carrying your items in a bright orange messenger bag. I can't say that I recall much about ordering any food, because I think I had no money and rarely bothered to think about delivery beyond ordering ben & jerry's and coke while studying for the bar. These days, Kozmo is a remnant of the wacky dot.com era, with no replacement. As for food, it seems like pizza is the only thing you can have delivered, although I am working on finding a good thai place. This is surprising to me, since I live in Adams Morgan, where good (or at least interesting) restaurants are plentiful.
I suppose DC just isn't a delivery town the way NYC is. Which, shouldn't be surprising since DC has a slower vibe. Who needs delivery when you have a chill lifestyle that allows you time to cook and grocery shop? And overall, I appreciate the change of pace. But some nights, when you are physically exhausted and the weather sux, it would be great to be able to order some delivery dinner and a People magazine.
Monday, January 14, 2008
And Right Here is Where You Start Paying...In Sweat
The last time I lived in DC -- make that, the last time I lived in the same apartment building in DC -- I used to frequent the brand-spanking new Washington Sports Club down the street in the Northern end of Dupont Circle. It was a good club, with lots of fun classes. My favorite at the time was a Step class taught by one Andre. Andre was Cuban-American, seemingly gay, and wholly awesome. The class had catchy new wave music, and Andre used to sing along, in between instructions on what to do next and shouts of encouragement. I can still remember it all like it was yesterday.
For the uninitiated, a step class -- formally, step aerobics class -- involves stepping up and down on a box in time to the music. Stepping up and down doesn't sound hard, and well, it isn't. The tricky part is when overambitious instructors start to add spins and hops and stuff like that. So it's almost like dancing, but not that technically difficult.
Stepping has fallen out of favor in recent years. It was popular in the early 90's, an exercise era best defined as "Post-Fonda, Pre-everyone-and-their-brother-decides-to-run-a-marathon." In fact, by the time I was attending Andre's class, it was probably already passe. But I liked it, and it worked, and eventually I moved on to spinning and even signed up for a half marathon (which I neither trained for nor attended). And I haven't looked back.
So it was with a wisp of nostalgia that I found myself this evening, heading off to a step class at that very same Washington Sports Club, secretly hoping that against all odds, Andre was still teaching there some 10 years later. The class was one of two step classes on the schedule, and it's now actually called "Ultimate Step." I figured that the "Ultimate" was just a marketing gimmick designed for the Gen-Y exerciser, sort of like "Extreme Doritos," the chip for the Gen-Y couch potato.
I anxiously waited outside the studio for class to start and made small talk with a few fellow exercisers. I asked two young, and very athletic girls whether the class was hard, my one nod to the "ultimate" nature of the description. I expected them to tell me it was fine, and I would be fine. But no. Both of them hesitated a moment and said "Well, yeah. It's really hard."
I went in anyway, figuring how hard could it be? Right next to me was a 70-year-old woman, and in front of her was a guy I would bet used to be a marine. I mean, a marine may be able to run a marathon, but he wouldn't be here if the choreography was complicated.
I could not have been more wrong. The class turned out to be chock full of dance moves, and worthy of its "ultimate" title. I couldn't keep up.
The fact that the 70-year-old woman was wearing a thong leotard (with leggings underneath) should have been the tip-off that something was erroneous with my logic. This woman could dance. Five minutes into the class, it was clear I was in trouble, but she was like a candidate for the next season of Dancing With the [Septuagenarian] Stars. She was good.
Meanwhile, I was sure that with all the fancy dance moves, the ex-Marine would be floundering with me. But I looked over, and he was doing fine. More than fine. Wait a minute -- did he just execute a perfect kick-ball-change when the instructor called one out of the blue? For realz. I kid you not. At that moment, I was sure of two things: (1) They must be teaching something new in boot camp these days; and (2) I was toast.
The class only got worse after that. I resorted to marching in place, while pretending to study the moves of everyone around me. Fortunately, I wasn't huffing and puffing for breath, so that wasn't embarrassing. Just the fact that I was bright red and marching in place, while everyone else was twirling and stepping and everything else.
But then, about ten minutes before the end of class, something fell into place. I was starting to get it. Well, not all of it. But a good 20 percent, and at least my marching in place was in time to the beat. I no longer felt like a chubby and awkward 30-something novice exerciser. At that moment, I was long and lean and powerful. I felt that the Ghosts of Fitness Past -- including Andre, Jane Fonda, and Debbie Allen during her speech at the beginning of Fame -- were looking after me as I arabesqued effortlessly onto the step.
At that moment, I felt capable of doing anything. I could run a triathlon. I could climb Mount Everest. I could lift a car with my bare hands. I could even figure out all the things wrong in those pictures where six things are different than the other picture. It was perfection.
. . . And then the moment passed. Somehow I forgot the few things I thought I had just mastered, and found myself so tired that I couldn't even march in place anymore. So I just stood there kind of bopping my head to the music for the rest of class. Oh, and I started coughing uncontrollably because some water I drank went down the wrong tube, thus causing the few people who weren't already giggling about my performance to turn and look at me.
But that one moment. . . that one ultimate moment. It's enough to make me go back next week.
For the uninitiated, a step class -- formally, step aerobics class -- involves stepping up and down on a box in time to the music. Stepping up and down doesn't sound hard, and well, it isn't. The tricky part is when overambitious instructors start to add spins and hops and stuff like that. So it's almost like dancing, but not that technically difficult.
Stepping has fallen out of favor in recent years. It was popular in the early 90's, an exercise era best defined as "Post-Fonda, Pre-everyone-and-their-brother-decides-to-run-a-marathon." In fact, by the time I was attending Andre's class, it was probably already passe. But I liked it, and it worked, and eventually I moved on to spinning and even signed up for a half marathon (which I neither trained for nor attended). And I haven't looked back.
So it was with a wisp of nostalgia that I found myself this evening, heading off to a step class at that very same Washington Sports Club, secretly hoping that against all odds, Andre was still teaching there some 10 years later. The class was one of two step classes on the schedule, and it's now actually called "Ultimate Step." I figured that the "Ultimate" was just a marketing gimmick designed for the Gen-Y exerciser, sort of like "Extreme Doritos," the chip for the Gen-Y couch potato.
I anxiously waited outside the studio for class to start and made small talk with a few fellow exercisers. I asked two young, and very athletic girls whether the class was hard, my one nod to the "ultimate" nature of the description. I expected them to tell me it was fine, and I would be fine. But no. Both of them hesitated a moment and said "Well, yeah. It's really hard."
I went in anyway, figuring how hard could it be? Right next to me was a 70-year-old woman, and in front of her was a guy I would bet used to be a marine. I mean, a marine may be able to run a marathon, but he wouldn't be here if the choreography was complicated.
I could not have been more wrong. The class turned out to be chock full of dance moves, and worthy of its "ultimate" title. I couldn't keep up.
The fact that the 70-year-old woman was wearing a thong leotard (with leggings underneath) should have been the tip-off that something was erroneous with my logic. This woman could dance. Five minutes into the class, it was clear I was in trouble, but she was like a candidate for the next season of Dancing With the [Septuagenarian] Stars. She was good.
Meanwhile, I was sure that with all the fancy dance moves, the ex-Marine would be floundering with me. But I looked over, and he was doing fine. More than fine. Wait a minute -- did he just execute a perfect kick-ball-change when the instructor called one out of the blue? For realz. I kid you not. At that moment, I was sure of two things: (1) They must be teaching something new in boot camp these days; and (2) I was toast.
The class only got worse after that. I resorted to marching in place, while pretending to study the moves of everyone around me. Fortunately, I wasn't huffing and puffing for breath, so that wasn't embarrassing. Just the fact that I was bright red and marching in place, while everyone else was twirling and stepping and everything else.
But then, about ten minutes before the end of class, something fell into place. I was starting to get it. Well, not all of it. But a good 20 percent, and at least my marching in place was in time to the beat. I no longer felt like a chubby and awkward 30-something novice exerciser. At that moment, I was long and lean and powerful. I felt that the Ghosts of Fitness Past -- including Andre, Jane Fonda, and Debbie Allen during her speech at the beginning of Fame -- were looking after me as I arabesqued effortlessly onto the step.
At that moment, I felt capable of doing anything. I could run a triathlon. I could climb Mount Everest. I could lift a car with my bare hands. I could even figure out all the things wrong in those pictures where six things are different than the other picture. It was perfection.
. . . And then the moment passed. Somehow I forgot the few things I thought I had just mastered, and found myself so tired that I couldn't even march in place anymore. So I just stood there kind of bopping my head to the music for the rest of class. Oh, and I started coughing uncontrollably because some water I drank went down the wrong tube, thus causing the few people who weren't already giggling about my performance to turn and look at me.
But that one moment. . . that one ultimate moment. It's enough to make me go back next week.
Sunday, January 13, 2008
Lazy Sunday
I'm enjoying a dreary and depressing Sunday afternoon. Yes -- enjoying, because I'm outfitted in sweat pants and warm socks, and I have no reason to leave the comfort of my apartment today. I wish it would snow, which would not only complete the effect, but also motivate me to make some deliciously overpriced Williams-Sonoma Hot Chocolate. (It's so rich and expensive, that I feel like it should be reserved for snowy days only.)
In the meantime, I'm watching old episodes of Made on my Tivo. Made is an MTV show where teens get a life coach to help them transform into something, like Prom Queen or Soap Actor or the like. I wish Made had been around when I was a teenager, although I suspect I would have tried to become a Lounge Singer instead of the more typical Homecoming Princess. (My formative years were heavily influenced by Buster Pointdexter and The Sweeney Sisters.) In any case, I'm 33-years-old, and fascinated by plights of outcast teenagers. Some of them make my heart sad for them. Others -- such as the one I'm currently viewing with the pseudo-British kid from Cambridge trying to rap -- are like a train wreck that I watch through half-closed eyes, vacillating between embarrassment and amusement.
All the rapping has me sitting around my living room trying to dream up some rhymes to describe my day. Rhyming doesn't come easily to me, though (iambic pentameter was never my strong suit) and I've just been mumbling "swing, batter, batter, batter, swing." Oh, and trying to come up with an MC name for myself. (MC Partay Plannah is the latest -- it needs some work, though.)
Since I'm still caught up on the name, I think I'll let the folks at SNL (the Sweeney Sister successors) stand in for me with their Lazy Sunday rap.
True Dat -- Double True.
In the meantime, I'm watching old episodes of Made on my Tivo. Made is an MTV show where teens get a life coach to help them transform into something, like Prom Queen or Soap Actor or the like. I wish Made had been around when I was a teenager, although I suspect I would have tried to become a Lounge Singer instead of the more typical Homecoming Princess. (My formative years were heavily influenced by Buster Pointdexter and The Sweeney Sisters.) In any case, I'm 33-years-old, and fascinated by plights of outcast teenagers. Some of them make my heart sad for them. Others -- such as the one I'm currently viewing with the pseudo-British kid from Cambridge trying to rap -- are like a train wreck that I watch through half-closed eyes, vacillating between embarrassment and amusement.
All the rapping has me sitting around my living room trying to dream up some rhymes to describe my day. Rhyming doesn't come easily to me, though (iambic pentameter was never my strong suit) and I've just been mumbling "swing, batter, batter, batter, swing." Oh, and trying to come up with an MC name for myself. (MC Partay Plannah is the latest -- it needs some work, though.)
Since I'm still caught up on the name, I think I'll let the folks at SNL (the Sweeney Sister successors) stand in for me with their Lazy Sunday rap.
True Dat -- Double True.
Wednesday, January 2, 2008
Happy New Year!
I'm in shock and disbelief that 2008 is already upon us. For me, 2007 was a spectacular year -- one of the best in my life -- so it's hard to bid it adieu. It was also the first year I fulfilled my New Year's resolution. Usually I just resolve to work out 6 times a week, moisturize more, etc., none of which ever lasts past MLK weekend. But, in 2007 I resolved to go to Africa (and, of course, to moisturize more -- Africa is very dry) and I went to Africa. Resolution resolved.
But I digress. After a lovely New Year's Eve dinner party at the Madoogans, combined with way too much champagne punch, I spent yesterday snuggled up on my couch, drifting in and out of consciousness. In between my moments of slumber, I watched the Law & Order marathon in bliss.
The marathon threw a bit of a wrinkle in my Law & Order Theorum, which is this: Whenever a famous person shows up on Law & Order, they usually are the murderer. (Note: This theory only applies to the regular L&O because, as my mom points out, famous people don't line up to play sex offenders on SVU.) The classic example is Laura Linney's 1994 appearance on L&O as a nightclub singer turned murderess. See, she wasn't as famous as she is now, but she was too talented just to be an extra. Thus, she must have been the murderer.
Time and time again, this proved to be the case, with minor exceptions to prove the rule. (For example, a pre-Alias/pre-Felicity Jennifer Garner showed up in the 1996 episode Aftershock to seduce fiercely married detective Ray Curtis. But there was no murder in that episode (apart from the execution of the criminal, or the vehicle death of ADA Claire Kincaid), just cheating.
Anyway, as I was watching the marathon I found numerous holes in my theory. First up was a 1993 episode with Lauren Ambrose (from Six Feet Under) where she played the daughter of the victim. But she wasn't the murderer. Just a daughter. So, maybe the theory doesn't apply to child actors. After all, you need good talent to play children, and it would be kind of depressing to have a child killer just because it's a good actor playing the role.
But then, I saw an episode later in the day that featured both Janeane Garofalo (post-Reality Bites) and Lauren Graham (in all her perky, pre-Gilmore Girls glory, trying to seduce Det. Curtis who had just recently been seduced by Jennifer Garner). Neither one of them was the murderer in that three-part episode! So, maybe the theory doesn't apply to three-part episodes. After all, you need good talent to sustain a three-episode story arc.
So that's where I am now -- my Law & Order theory has been seriously compromised and my skin is already under-moisturized. This is not necessarily a good place to start the New Year.
But I digress. After a lovely New Year's Eve dinner party at the Madoogans, combined with way too much champagne punch, I spent yesterday snuggled up on my couch, drifting in and out of consciousness. In between my moments of slumber, I watched the Law & Order marathon in bliss.
The marathon threw a bit of a wrinkle in my Law & Order Theorum, which is this: Whenever a famous person shows up on Law & Order, they usually are the murderer. (Note: This theory only applies to the regular L&O because, as my mom points out, famous people don't line up to play sex offenders on SVU.) The classic example is Laura Linney's 1994 appearance on L&O as a nightclub singer turned murderess. See, she wasn't as famous as she is now, but she was too talented just to be an extra. Thus, she must have been the murderer.
Time and time again, this proved to be the case, with minor exceptions to prove the rule. (For example, a pre-Alias/pre-Felicity Jennifer Garner showed up in the 1996 episode Aftershock to seduce fiercely married detective Ray Curtis. But there was no murder in that episode (apart from the execution of the criminal, or the vehicle death of ADA Claire Kincaid), just cheating.
Anyway, as I was watching the marathon I found numerous holes in my theory. First up was a 1993 episode with Lauren Ambrose (from Six Feet Under) where she played the daughter of the victim. But she wasn't the murderer. Just a daughter. So, maybe the theory doesn't apply to child actors. After all, you need good talent to play children, and it would be kind of depressing to have a child killer just because it's a good actor playing the role.
But then, I saw an episode later in the day that featured both Janeane Garofalo (post-Reality Bites) and Lauren Graham (in all her perky, pre-Gilmore Girls glory, trying to seduce Det. Curtis who had just recently been seduced by Jennifer Garner). Neither one of them was the murderer in that three-part episode! So, maybe the theory doesn't apply to three-part episodes. After all, you need good talent to sustain a three-episode story arc.
So that's where I am now -- my Law & Order theory has been seriously compromised and my skin is already under-moisturized. This is not necessarily a good place to start the New Year.
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