One Haute Mess

2009-11-20T16:28:00.002-05:00

The new Twilight movie is coming out today and I just need to take a moment to vent.

Twilight sucks. No pun intended.

I admit that I could be more familiar with the source material. I've seen the movie but once, and spent the vast majority of it snarking back at the screen, thereby perhaps missing some of the finer points. I've never read the books and have no intention to unless, hypothetically, they were the only reading material I was able to rustle up from the remains of Boone's luggage after surviving a fiery plane crash on a desert island. I will also admit that I am inclined to be biased against them due to the fact that they're a Mormon allegory, and I think that Mormons are...well, I'll just keep my views on the Mormon religion to myself. Or maybe I'll write them down for you in a made up language and you can translate them with the help of some magic peekin' stones.

The fact that Twilight is a saga about vampires and I still can't stand it ought to speak volumes. I love vampires. My adult love for True Blood rivals my teenage love for the Backstreet Boys (true fact: I once saw Jason Stackhouse in an Irish dive in Atlantic City while at a bachelorette party and almost maimed by best friend out of excitement). Van Helsing, Blade, Underworld, 30 Days of Night, whatever. I've even grown mildly addicted to the Vampire Diaries on the CW, which I find somewhat embarrassing because it is geared toward 15-year-olds, but yet can't help it because a) Ian Somerhalder plays evil deliciously well, much better than he play God's Friggin' Gift to Humanity, may he RIP, and b) Paul Wesley somehow manages to be simultaneously smoking hot yet sort of...cro-magnon. I'm totally vamp-crazy.

But that brings me to my main bone of contention with Twilight. IT'S NOT REALLY ABOUT VAMPIRES. All the really interesting parts of the vampire mythology have been dispersed with. Not only are these vampires able to go out in the sunlight, they glitter! Disco vamps! Please - even in The Vampire Diaries, the vampires have to have a special ring that protects them from the sunlight. They also don't sleep. Ever. What was that I said about disco vamps? In addition to glitter, might there be amphetamines involved? Oh wait-Mormon allegory, so I guess if caffeine is verboten any stronger stimulant is definitely out. Garlic? Doesn't bother them. Stakes? Well, who knows...this is family entertainment, so stakes are apparently out. Instead of engaging in normal vampire pursuits, like, you know, marauding and terrorizing and fornicating and sucking blood, which by the way is like the central point of existence of being a vampire, they play baseball. In matching uniforms. And leap around forests, et cetera. Nothing even remotely vampirelike, except the occasional hunt, for ANIMALS, which: totally lame. Everyone knows that the reason vampires are awesome is because they're kind of like, not to get too Freudian on you or anything, but the id in (semi) human form. Blood? Check. Sex? Check. Debauchery? Check. When you make vampires adhere to human society's rules without any attempt to subvert them, that's not interesting. At all.

But it doesn't really matter because, as I said before, Twilight is not really about vampires. The one piece of vampire lore that it preserves is the idea of biting and being bitten, and the only reason that that is the case is because it's a really CONVENIENT, OBVIOUS metaphor for OMG PREMARITAL SEX.

Look, I was raised Catholic, and I probably started much too late, but hey, at least I started. And I just look at the way a lot of organized religions teach kids about sex, love, marriage, et al and all I can think about is how, I don't care who you are, there's just no way you're not going to come out of an environment like that with baggage. Which is really just fucked up, because hi: it's a biological imperative, and don't go getting all biblical on me because that's another whole can of worms that I could argue about for six hours. So I just find it really dismaying that Twilight has become this major pop culture phenomenon, because that means that bajillions of teen girls everywhere are buying into this idea of purity vs. impurity and oh my God, once you're bitten you're spoiled. Like, come on. What year is it again?

Not to mention, Bella is pretty much the anti-feminist.

Of course, I can't wait for it to come out on video...but only so I can make fun of it, of course.

I'm a Big Girl Now

2009-10-27T12:17:00.002-04:00

After almost two and a half months, I am finally settling into my new apartment.

Having lived in shared dorms and apartments over the past eight years, most of which had common areas already furnished with university standard-issue or roommates’ various familial hand-me-downs and sidewalk finds, I didn’t really have a lot of stuff when I moved in. A full bedroom set – bed with headboard and footboard, nightstand, bureau, “lingerie chest” (really just a very tall chest of drawers that holds not unmentionables but sweaters), desk. A couple of those $19 Ikea bookcases that are made of pressboard and thick white corrugated paper that you nail to the back. A single black pleather chair, also from Ikea, sized for the average Oompa Loompa. In short, not nearly enough to furnish a fairly spacious two bedroom apartment.

Like any twenty six year old on a fairly modest budget, I turned to my family. My parents had plenty of goodies for me: a small kitchen table with coordinating chairs, a microwave cart, an étagère for supplementary bathroom storage (I like products. My skincare regimen has like 43 steps.). Things were looking good. I made plans to return to New Hampshire for a weekend to raid their basement and pick up some incidental household items tax-free and with the luxury of a car (it’s difficult to buy, for instance, a china service for 12 when you have to carry it home a mile and a half on foot).

Of course, things that can go wrong have a tendency to do so, and just a few days before I was due to head home I got the call from my mother: the hot water heater had exploded and the cellar had flooded. Everything I was planning on taking had been ruined with water damage – in fact, basically every single thing they had in storage was now trash, and the insurance company would be bringing a dumpster by the following week to dispose of it all.

Despite my initial disappointment, I decided that this was actually a good thing, if only because I occasionally become concerned that one day I’ll get a call from my brothers asking me if I would be open to participating in an episode of A&E’s Hoarders, and this turn of events seemed to be a preemptive strike against this possibility. Furthermore, my mother pointed out that I could use the insurance money to buy myself new things to replace the ones that had been destroyed.

Trouble is, real furniture stores are not like Ikea. You cannot generally stroll in, look around, point, and say, “I shall have that table; please wrap it and transport it to my automobile.” Most items have to be ordered, and they take an extended period of time to arrive. So I found myself once again in a basement, this time my grandmother’s, picking through furnishings and household goods considerably older than me. Turns out I’d hit the jackpot: a kitchen table and chairs nicer than the ones my mother had, a mail table with a matching mirror and wall sconces that hold taper candles instead of lights (which everyone in my family habitually refers to as “scones” despite my repeated attempts to set the record straight [Renée, agitated: “Do these look like QUICKBREADS to you?]), an old fashioned coat rack, a hutch to house the impressive collection of vintage dishes and serveware that I also collected, saving them from an eternity languishing in cardboard boxes. To top it all off, my grandmother had recently replaced her pull-out couch, and tried to get me to take the old one off her hands. When I demurred (it had a certain air of country kitsch about it, whereas French country is as country as I get despite my rural New Hampshire roots) she gave me $500 to buy a new couch. O-kay.

So the place is beginning to look terrific - okay, so the money my grandmother gave me has been collecting interest in my savings account because when forced to choose between convertible seating and the financial freedom to buy a ticket to, say, Vienna at a moment’s notice, the hypothetical plane ticket always wins. The futon left over from my college apartments makes for a perfectly serviceable couch on which to lounge around reading Real Simple and watching Fringe for hours on end to the point that you start having dreams that you’re slowly mutating into a vampire-like creature (this was last night), even if you wouldn’t necessarily want to sleep on it (I should know: I did, for two years, in protest of my parents willingness to supply me with a bed only if it was a twin bed, for ideological reasons). I could still use a bookcase, or nine, to house the fruits of my severe book-buying addiction, and the office in general is a bit sparsely furnished unless you count footwear (its secondary function is as a shoe closet) but there are items of furniture to fulfill every basic modern human need: sleeping, sitting, eating, housing one’s epic wardrobe.

For the first time, I live in a place that has actual décor. Photographs from my travels have been framed and hung, and the reproduction art nouveau nightclub ads I picked up from one of the bouquinistes along the Seine in Paris may be stuck to the walls with double sided tape but they are stuck to the walls nonetheless. (Well, sometimes they are. Incidentally, double stick tape, while a strategic choice for hanging posters and the like, doesn’t take so well to frames, no matter how shoddy and lightweight they are – the things fall down like, hourly.). And the kitchen – don’t even get me started. It’s like somebody’s wedding registry threw up in there. I have two fondue pots – two. Because if one is having a fondue party, it is only appropriate to serve a dessert fondue in addition to the entrée fondue. I had two turkey basters, but gave one to my mother after wondering aloud what on earth I would do with a spare turkey baster and subsequently collapsed into peals of laughter. Pasta making attachment for KitchenAid stand mixer? Check. Coffeemaker, cafétière, and espresso maker, so I can have my morning Bustelo prepared any of three ways? Indeed (although I dropped the ceramic cafétière on its top shortly after opening the box and its decorative nubbin broke off tragically). Antique crystal banana bowl, with grooves cut in for each individual fruit? Obviously. I have aprons galore, dishtowels for all seasons (especially the holiday season), and an Aerogarden in glorious full bloom. That’s right: as seen on TV.

Where I’m getting at with all this is that I finally have a place that’s all my own, which has always struck me as being the last step to official adulthood (well, assuming you are, like me, on the Marriage Is for the Patriarchy/Bourgeois/Over-35 Set bandwagon). Now when people, knowing that I am a single twentysomething, ask me if I have roommates, I can say, “Why no, as a matter of fact I am a totally independent woman; in the immortal words of Destiny’s Child, the house I live in, I bought it, ‘cause I depend on me if I want it.” Well, strictly speaking, the house I live in, I signed a fixed-term lease on it, but you get my drift.

Quarter Life Non-Crisis

2008-08-28T15:41:00.003-04:00

Guess who hit the quarter century mark last week? That's right: yours truly. As of Wednesday, August 20, 2008 I am officially 25 years old.

In the grand tradition of my last, oh, four birthdays, I spent the weeks leading up to my big day appeasing myself with unnecessary but oh so consolatory material trappings like fancy new purses (and matching wallets, and matching passport cases...don't look so disapproving, Hayden Harnett was practically having a yard sale!) and a vintage YSL Rive Gauche day dress. Because it's all downhill after 21 right? I was very, very concerned that I was going to wake up on the 25th anniversary of my birth and suddenly feel psychologically ill-equipped to get out of bed, not in the least because on my 24th birthday I woke up feeling psychologically ill-equipped to get out of bed, and probably would have for numero 23 as well had I not been hung over enough to forget the dubious occasion. I went to bed at 11:30 pm on my birthday's eve, thinking that maybe if I were asleep for the 19th-to-20th changeover I would be able to avoid or at least assuage what would surely be a seismic shift from young adulthood to actual adulthood. And I woke up with my alarm at 7:15am, sunlight streaming into my bedroom, and thought, "Hell yes - I'm a woman now!"

I know. I did not expect that either. I expected to suffer a panic attack the moment I rolled out of bed, or at the very least melt down when I looked in the mirror and spotted three gray hairs and a serious pair of crow's feet. But I did not. I rolled out of bed and thought, "I am a woman now and as such I will kick off my adulthood in a navy blue silk faille dress from Marc Jacobs and the leopard print stilettos from Bottega Veneta that I never wear because they are just so very...leopard print." And I marched to my closet with fire in my eyes and hunger for fine Italian footwear in my belly. And I owned my 25th birthday.

I'm not telling this story in an effort to demonstrate just how neurotic I am, as I would really only consider myself averagely to just above averagely neurotic, nor am I trying to convey a theme of materialism to correspond with my perceived sudden adulthood. I'm actually not very materialistic at all; I just like to have nice things, and I've inherited something of a tendency toward packrattiness from my mother, which occasionally results in me being unable to stop myself from accumulating the nice things at an alarming clip. I'm telling this story because - fuck, I totally forgot why I'm telling this story. I'm obviously suffering from age-related memory loss. And have been since I was about 12. That or ADHD. Anyway, my point is that I'm 25 now and I'm okay with it. Heck, I'm more than okay with it: I'm psyched. This is my world, you all just live in it.

All that said, not all soon-to-be-25-year-olds will be so pleased with their newly acquired age, so you should avoid making the toast my friend Jess made at my birthday dinner: "Here's to 25 more!" Um, yeah, Jess. Here's to dying at 50. Now, you'll have to excuse me while I go contemplate potential midlife crises.

Mon Dieu

2008-05-08T00:22:00.005-04:00

A torrid fling, in concept, sounds eminently appealing.

The operative word here is torrid. You cannot have a torrid fling with anyone average. Your paramour must be in some way exotic. Dangerous. Perhaps your lover is foreign, or perhaps he has recently been arrested on and cleared of felony charges. Either way. You also cannot have a torrid affair with anyone with a common name. Only Antonios and Jean-Lucs need apply. "Jeff" does not sound in any way torrid when screamed in the heat of passion. Sad but true.

So: an brief but intense physical connection with someone charismatic and indescribably sexy but not guaranteed not to run off with your wallet once you're done? Yes please!

In theory.

Trouble is, I'm just not very good at torrid flings. Let me explain...

The corners of his eyes crinkled deeply, earnestly, as if in his whole entire life he had never stopped smiling for more than ten minutes. He might as well have shot an arrow through my heart. Funny how something that drives me to distraction in myself drives me to lust in the opposite sex. He chatted animatedly with my boss, gesticulating wildly. Was that a French accent I heard, so thick and warm I could wrap myself in it like a blanket? So it seemed. I watched from the sidelines, retrieving giveaways and making myself useful when cued, never taking my eyes off this man. Have you ever been stricken with the feeling that you just needed to know someone, no matter what it took? Bingo.

Once this man had gone, my boss turned to me and commented on how the only thing that drew him in was my high heels, my form-fitting jersey dress, and my copious eyelash batting. Good thing though - turns out he was an important IT analyst. For the remainder of the afternoon, I joked about trying to lure the dreamy French analyst back to the booth, in that way we so frequently use that is only about 25% joking and 75% serious.

Finally, my exasperated boss whipped out a business card and implored me to call him already.

I don't call. I hardly ever even pick up my phone. But assuming he would have a Blackberry, after several margaritas (it was Cinco de Mayo) and a lot of cajoling, I sent him a charming, self-deprecating email, not expecting a response.

But he responded. And the next thing I knew, I was sitting next to him in a stadium, listening to Eric Clapton play Layla to an intimate crown of 14,000, and then we were at the worst "Irish" bar ever in the history of the universe in an Orlando strip mall getting to know one another.

When I say that I'm not very good at torrid flings, I mean that I find no particular compulsion to get naked with people I barely know. And I don't quite understand people who do. In theory, I was in it to win it. In practice, not so much.

Even so, I came shockingly close to forgetting about work on Friday and instead running away to Miami for a long weekend with a devastatingly handsome, charming, successful Frenchman. The offer was on the table. It fell through for logistical reasons, but that doesn't mean I wasn't seriously considering it...

Still. New York is not far, and well respected IT analysts frequently travel to Boston.

So if, next Thursday, you ask my opinion as to the customer service at the Taj, I might have an answer for you.

I may be a tramp, but I could be trampier.

(Also, a public service announcement to all gold diggers: go to a trade show. Vice presidents on up are like proverbial fish in barrels. Just a tip.)

Welcome to Orlando

2008-05-03T21:36:00.005-04:00

I am presently ensconced in the International Plaza Resort and Spa in sunny Orlando, Florida. I make this statement loosely given that technically speaking, it is night and neither warm nor sunny. It is, rather, cool and moony. Furthermore, and perchance more unexpectedly, the International Plaza Resort and Spa has proven to be neither resort nor spa but indeed motel. And if Ludacris has taught us anything...you can't even take a ho to a motel. You've got to take a ho to a HO-tel.

My first story guest room opens directly onto a parking lot, which is chiefly occupied by construction trailers for the renovation of one of the buildings. I am easily accessible to rapists and salamanders alike (and incidentally, I'm not entirely sure which would cause me a greater stress reaction). The air conditioner won't turn off when I turn the switch to "OFF," and the room is literally so cold otherwise that I may be the only person in the history of May in Orlando to actually have the heat running. The bath products are of dubious origin, the channel lineup is sorely lacking (I am currently resigned to watching Coyote Ugly, which is on television so frequently these days that they may as well rename it That '70s Show - and while we're on the subject, may I just say that if that movie is indeed based on the life and times of the author of Eat Pray Love, there must have been some serious cinematic license where plotline is concerned), and despite an exhaustive search I have not been able to turn up a room service menu or any sort of "Resort" informational guide.

The common areas, I will concede, are lovely. The place is meant to evoke a Balinese villa. And while my boss scoffed, "I have been to Bali, and this is not Bali," they could have fooled me. Apart from the dance competition competitors and proud supporters crowding the lobby this afternoon - they could have fooled me into thinking I wandered onto the set of Little Miss Sunshine II. There are three pools, all with waterfalls and one with a poolside bar. I may have had to explicitly instruct the bartender on how to make an on-the-rocks margarita that didn't blow ("Just tequila, lime, and Triple Sec?" he asked, flummoxed that anyone could possibly be averse to a quart of sour mix per ounce of hard stuff), but when supervised he made an excellent drink. Then there is the on-site mini golf course. My father, not entirely inaccurately, claims that if one were to look in the dictionary under "Mini Golf," one would find a picture of yours truly and the admonishment "DO NOT play with this girl." So I figure that if my boss should annoy me more than usual, I could broach the topic of mini golf as a team building exercise and then let revenge take its natural course.

Tonight, left to my own devices for dinner, I opted for the chain restaurant I had never heard of before: Steak & Ale. The place was empty when I walked in, and as the hostess led me through the Suisse chalet-lite interior to my table, which was accompanied by a pair of leather-seated, velveteen-backed bastardized Louis XIV chairs, I assumed I had missed the 5:00 rush. But soon, patrons began to trickle in and I had the opportunity to play a rousing game of Tourist, Migratory Old Person, Immigrant, or Hick Local. Harder than it counds, believe me.

Steak & Ale specialized in steak but evidently not in ale, as at no point over the course of my meal was I offered an ale menu (nor beer, nor porter, stout, nor even mead), nor did my waiter mention any of the above as a beverage option. Instead, I was educated as to the wine list on the back of the menu, which featured an assortment of fine wines with a per-glass cost of below seven dollars. Apparently they were offering samples of a red wine, and though nobody offered me one, I was entertained by my concerned neighbors ascertaining that the sample was in fact free before they took sips, lest they be held financially accountable for a one ounce pour of Robert Mondavi.

I ordered an 8-ounce prime rib, which featured a baked potato on the side. All of their entrees also came with their all-you-can-eat salad bar, which was an interesting experience. There were a lot of items that one would reasonably expect to see on any salad bar...and then a number of completely incongruous ones. For instance, I have a feeling that more than one individual in line with me was unfamiliar with the chickpea. And there were more dressings available than vegetables, which was a moot point because everyone knows that when availing oneself of a salad bar at a slightly sketchy chain restaurant, ranch is the obvious choice. I made myself a salad which, were I a contestant on Top Chef, I would have entitled "Salade Composee with a duo of smoked pork belly," but which was in point of fact a pile of veggies blanketed in ranch dressing and liberally dusted with not one but two varieties of bacon bit. It was a delight. Sadly, my prime rib was overdone, and while baked potatoes are delicious, I consider them primarily a vehicle to eat several tablespoons of butter.

Post dinner, I decided to stop at the discount liquor store across from my hotel, and was just drunk enough to be seduced into thinking that $9.99 Malibu coconut rum would be phenomenal on the rocks. Then on the way home I became sober. Oops. Thankfully, Malibu coconut rum actually is rather tasty on the rocks, and even if it weren't, it's making a decent sleep aid. That and the lack of televisual programming.

Anyway. That's about it for me as I've been up since 5am and have a busy day tomorrow. Until the next time...

Fat rats, fat people?

2008-04-29T13:28:00.004-04:00

Let's talk about something that drives me insane.

I just read a blog posting that referenced a recent scientific study on the effects of saccharin on weight. Basically, some medical researchers took a bunch of rats and fed some of them yogurt that had been sweetened with sugar and some of them yogurt that had been sweetened with saccharin. The rats eating the sugar-yogurt apparently learned that a sugary taste is associated with caloric intake, and when presented with other sweet foods would moderate their intake according. The rats that ate the saccharin-yogurt, on the other hand, never developed this knowledge and would eat sweet food with abandon, not expecting them to be caloric.

Now, ever so logically, they are applying this to humans.

Rats are rodents. I'd imagine that they aren't particularly known for their capability for rational thought and decision-making. They are primarily governed by instinct. You and I, on the other hand, should be well aware that sweet foods do in fact contain calories irrelevant of our level of consumption of artificial sweeteners. If this wasn't a forgone conclusion, assuming that we exhibit some common sense, there is also the fact that virtually everything we eat features a nutrition label. So don't go trying to tell me that the fact that I average 36 ounces of Fresca per day is resulting in a propensity to underestimate the caloric content of those tasty new Dark Chocolate Peanut M&Ms. I'm not saying I never overdo it, but when I do I am very conscious of it.

Personally, my belief is that if these studies have any relevant correlation in people, it is only in very, very stupid people.

You know, the ones who are only morbidly obese because they have glandular problems or are genetically predisposed.

Meanwhile, I'll keep drinking my Coke Zero and limiting my intake of fattening, high-calorie foods and see if that doesn't keep me in my skinny jeans...

Mis-Matched

2008-04-18T13:13:00.004-04:00

It's difficult to meet quality men in Boston.

I will concede that I am picky. Thing is, I'm not a person who feels any specific compulsion to be in a relationship. I can take them or leave them. Sure, it's nice to have the undivided adoration of someone special...but it's also sort of nice to have entire fan clubs, and the sort of personal autonomy that affords you the chance to spend three nights a week in bed with a supply of good dark chocolate and cheap red wine, a stack of fashion magazines, and no need to "check in" with anyone. A few years ago, my roommate's little sister's friend, who was visiting for the weekend, said of me: "I want to be just like Renee when I'm in college - with my bra hanging out of my shirt, my thong hanging out of my jeans, and boys calling me on the phone all the time." Which paints me as a much bigger tramp than I actually was, but still. I rather enjoy being Miss Popularity, and it takes a pretty awesome guy to turn me monogamous.

(The girl who said that, incidentally, is now a lesbian. Interpret that as you will.)

Now that I'm in my mid-20s, though - isn't that scary, mid-20s?...that's practically 30 - I'm beginning to feel that I should at least make an active attempt at meeting good guys. So I joined Match. Because guys, it's okay to look.

I didn't look at other girls' profiles to gauge what sort of information I should put. Instead, I stuck with my time-honored strategy of letting the crazy out right out of the gate in the hope that it would scare off all those who might not be able to hang. Ever wonder what, at age 5, I wanted to be when I grew up? A dog. My kindergarten teacher was concerned. My heritage, you ask? Polish - but the Amazon stock, not the sturdy peasant stock. What am I looking for in a man? NOT someone who is shy or easily offended, that's for damn sure.

Almost immediately, the winks and the messages started to roll in. So many of them, in fact, that I had to develop a vetting system. The stringent criteria for a response included but were not limited to:

*No one under 6 feet. The reasons for this are obvious if you know me in real life, but if you don't: I'm a freaking giant, and a fan of high heels to boot.

*Must be over 25. Except in the case of Zac Efron or Michael Cera...but I doubt they're on Match. A girl can dream. Similarly, must be under 35. And no kids. I will be no one's stepmama.

*Located in the metro Boston area. I won't go to Allston, let alone Andover. Flag-waving indigenous Bostonians/South Shoreans are also to be avoided as I loathe Boston accents.

*Must have a picture. I got this message a couple of days ago: "hi i was reading your personal and wanted to write to say hi, very nice pics of u :) can i send u my pics? i am within your age and distance range." I did not respond, because in my view, if you don't have a picture posted you are automatically sketchy. Then, yesterday, from the same guy: "how are u? since u checked out my personal can i at least send u my pics? i am within your age and distance range :)." No, you cannot send me your pics, because in addition to being inherently suspect, you type like a text-messaging pre-teen girl! Which brings me to:

*Must exhibit communication that demonstrates a cursory command of the English language. You know, featuring the usage of complete sentences. With correct spelling and no egregious misuse of quotation marks. One guy's profile said that he was looking for a "woman" to share his life with. Now, to me, a woman and a "woman" are two very different things, and if it is a "woman" he is looking for, I don't think I qualify. Another guy claimed that many women thought men were a bunch of "fornicators." Are they actual fornicators or just fornicators so to speak? And really, aren't we all fornicators? (I couldn't help but wonder...sorry, that just sounded like a bad Carrie Bradshaw column.)

*Must not send more than one message in a row without having gotten a response from me in between. That's sort of stalkerish, no? Particularly if the second message is a check-the-applicable-box exercise that looks something like this:
"1. "Wow, you're really cool; we should get together
some time for a drink."
2. "I have to say you're really cool, sorry it's taken
me so long to get back, your e-mail got lost in the sea
of jack-asses on here."
3. "Sorry my life's been really hectic. But you are
really cool, so let's get together next week."
4. "I don't think any of this is even funny, and I
have to go now because I have a therapy appointment.
But I do think you're really cool."

*Should not exhibit a sense of douchebag-variety entitlement. For example: "Hi. My cousin is in town for the week and I need to show him a good time. I was thinking that you and one of your friends could meet us out. No expectations just fun with 2 great guys. I was thinking Saturday night. Email me back and let me know." No expectations, you say? Well, in that case...NO!

*Finally, must not exude an aura of desperation. Even too much earnestness is, for me, a turn-off. I'm not invested in this. At all. I couldn't care less if I happen upon the future Mr. Renee. I'm just tired of meeting the same five dudes over and over again. Some people go on and on about what kind of person they are looking for. I'm more interested in people that go on and on about who they are - people whose personalities show through. I know I'm awesome. I need to know that you're awesome too.

These guidelines have helped me shrink the pool down to a manageable number. And while Match offers a "No thanks" button that you can click if you're not interested, I do not use it, because in the majority of cases, the guy in question really should have known better.

If nothing else, this should certainly make for entertaining blogging.

Related: I'm famous

2008-04-01T16:39:00.005-04:00

Well, look at me.

They put me on the cover of the entire Careers section too, a much better picture than this one, huge, in color.

He's not my boyfriend (anymore), that's not my company's name, and I don't, technically speaking, have an entry level position, but let's not nitpick.

It's a walk-off

2008-04-01T15:16:00.004-04:00

I have never harbored any particular desire to be a model.

There are an assortment of reasons for this. First, by the time I finally admitted to myself that I could be one, I was too old. Most successful models start working at 14 or 15. I am nearing the tragic quarter century mark. I suppose I could shave off a few years, as is standard practice in the industry, but really: if I told you I was 20, would you believe me? Probably not.

Then, there is the fact that I am too fat. By normal people standards, of course, I am thin, even skinny - in fact, when I get too gung-ho on the carb-cutting, occasionally even bony. But normal people standards and modeling industry standards are worlds apart, and though I would be (and, okay, once in a while am) medically underweight at 132 pounds, as a model I would be expected to be at least 15 pounds thinner than that. I suppose there was a point in time when I could have been a plus-size model - you know, back when I was a size 8 - but who wants to be a plus-size model?

Finally, I live in Boston. There is NO modeling industry in Boston. There are a handful of agencies here that would like people to think otherwise, but no. Not the case. There may be a modeling presence, but I would argue that it can't be considered an industry if you can't make a living at it, and I'd be surprised if it is possible to make a living off once-a-week fashion shows at the Roxy and shilling Budweiser in a silver lame catsuit at the Foggy Goggle. Most of the local publications don't even use local girls - they hire and shoot from New York.

Of course, there's always America's Next Top Model - a televisual haven for the too old, too fat, too geographically remote wannabe model. And while I appreciate all the Facebook wall posts urging me to try out and the coworkers who tore the ads out of the newspaper and brought them to my desk, well...I'm sorry. There's a reason why no contestant has ever gone on to have a legitimate career in the fashion industry. See: too old, too fat, too geographically remote...

So, while my fantasy alter-ego might weigh 117 pounds and I might occasionally daydream about prancing down catwalks in Paris and being Marc Jacobs's muse, I've never bothered to entertain the notion that I could actually have a modeling career.

Then I got a modeling job.

'Got' is perhaps a poor choice of words, because that would imply that I in some way pursued it, when in reality it sort of fell into my lap. A guy came up to me at a cocktail party and asked me if I would consider modeling in a fashion show he was producing. Dubious, I hedged, and finally gave him my card and told him I'd think about it if he sent me all the pertinent information. Because I was sort of expecting it to be like, a "fashion show" involving skimpy lingerie and somebody's basement.

Except it turns out it's an actual, real-life fashion show. At Felt. Put on by a start-up fashion magazine. With an actual clothing company sponsoring (G-Star), actual salons providing hair and makeup (Emerge and G2O), and some dude from MTV's The Real World hosting. With actual models. Okay, Boston models, but still. And moi.

I wasn't too worried about it until this weekend, when it occurred to me that, while the show was a mere four weeks away, I had spent the latter half of February and all of March stuffing my face. While I won't give the gory details, let's just say that I weighed in at a good 15 pounds more than I'd like to weigh (granted, my ideal weight is about seven pounds less than I actually normally weigh, but still). And though I am still skinny by normal people standards, I am in no shape to be on the catwalk.

And then yesterday I had to give them my measurements. Shudder.

So I did what any normal girl would do: I lied. No, technically speaking, I did not lie. I was estimating anyways - it isn't like I have a tape measure at my desk - and I just estimated a little low. No big deal. Except, of course, for the fact that now G-Star is going to send over garments in a size that is not a size I can currently fit into. Awesome.

While bulimia may be, according to Derek Zoolander and Hansel, a great way to lose a few pounds before a big show, it is also a dangerous eating disorder. So, problem solver that I am, I have put myself on the South Beath Diet. Which in the grand scheme of weight loss strategies is really more of a lifestyle than a diet - I mean, it's not like I'm eating exclusively cabbage and grapefruit or anything. But, fair warning: if you talk to me over the next couple of weeks and I seem unusually bitchy, I'm sorry, it's just that I've been living off foliage and nonfat dairy since March 31st. You understand.

Oh, and here's the real kicker: I joined a gym. I know that one of my New Year's resolutions was specifically to not join a gym, but you can't keep them all, and besides, what if the put me in a skirt? I already have pasty white legs thanks to nature's totally shafting me in the melanin department; the last thing I need is for them to be chunky as well. Besides, even if it weren't for the fashion show, now that I'm almost 25 I can't reasonably expect to pull off my beloved short shorts without logging a few hours a week on the treadmill. Just because gravity will eventually win out doesn't mean I can't go down swinging.

So for those of you who are in the Boston area, mark April 26th off on your calendars. More information will be forthcoming once I have it. Moral support isn't necessary - if you'd prefer to come and root for me to fall flat on my face a la Carrie Bradshaw in the charity fashion show, that's totally fine with me. I know that's what I'd be doing if the tables were turned.

Countdown to summer

2008-03-27T10:46:00.004-04:00

This little taste of spring we've been having over the past couple of days in Boston has got me thinking...I seriously cannot wait for summer.

Last summer was fine. My building had a pool - a poorly kept pool that was situated just so behind the high-rise that it got the leasy amount of sun possible, but a pool nonetheless. My apartment had a balcony - but alas, off my bedroom, with no place at all to entertain guests. Oh, and it was inhabited by a family of baby birds in and old flowerpot that totally freaked me out every time I sat out there. So the old place never really fulfilled its potential.

The new place, however, has a roof deck. A balcony too, but. A roof deck! I am absolutely psyched to spend as much time up there as possible, lounging around in a bikini with a good book, drinking pitcher upon pitcher of sangria. That kind of sounds like the life.

Now speaking of bikinis...I guess that would make it the time to start looking into a gym membership. Ick.

Things I forget that I love

2008-03-24T10:38:00.004-04:00

Things I forget that I love:

Red, red lipstick - the kind that perishes any thought of being kissed
The only truly comfortable bed I have ever slept in - my own, alone
Not caring whether the phone rings or not
Rufus Wainwright
Regular solitude
Myself, as I am
The chase

Back...and bummed

2008-03-20T12:59:00.005-04:00

I have heard of this phenomenon called the amicable breakup. I've always considered it to be something akin to unicorns - something pretty that exists in a fairy tale but not so much in real life. Furthermore, my skepticism as to its existence has not been borne out of doubt. I'm sure it is possible, superficially at least, to remain friendly with an ex. But the fact of the matter is that a breakup is always less amicable for one party than for the other, and so someone is always going to be nursing wounds whether they choose to be conscious of it or not. For this reason, I have had no interest in the amicable breakup.

Historically, I like things to go down in flames. Giant, aggressive, all-consuming flames for the records. I don't want wreckage - I want ash. When I break up with somebody, a multi-hour screaming match is preferred and tears are compulsory, bonus points if they are cried publicly. Throwing things is not against the rules, provided they are thrown indiscriminately and not at one another. Neighbors should be woken, pets should resort to hiding under large pieces of furniture, and there should be no doubt in anyone's mind that: It. Is. OVER. Only then can I begin to get over it. You can't grieve something that isn't dead.

Gentle breakups do not provide closure. If you are dumping me, I do not want you to do it nicely. Chivalry is not required. If you must be courteous, have the courtesy to give me a reason to hate you. It is the least you can do.

Then: this. It was not a particularly long relationship, but it was one of those marked by initial and complete infatuation that lasted longer than one would reasonably expect an initial and complete infatuation to last. It was fast-moving, it was characterized by what may indeed have been far too much time together, and most importantly, it had an expiration date. I did not expect it to expire quite so soon, but when the other shoe dropped, it dropped, and it didn't take me long to see the storm clouds on the horizon. He became passive aggressive, for reasons that had nothing to do with me except for my proximity to them. And had he not ended things, I would have in another week or so - badly, in flames.

It's tempting not to believe someone when they break up with you because they care too much about you to hurt you. It seems a little too convenient to be sugarcoating the guillotine. I know I should be with someone who is able to give me all the devotion and adoration I deserve. And I know that someone who is moving halfway across the country in three months to embark on a totally new life can't. Objectively: can't. I understand. I appreciate that he appreciates that. And I may not see exactly where his feelings and issues and neuroses fit into the picture, but at least I know that they do, somewhere. That on some level I'm not the only one who he worries will get hurt.

Strangely, it's a little like pulling off a Band-Aid. The anticipation of the event was in many ways worse than the event itself.

That doesn't mean I'm not sad over the possibility of what it could have been in less abject circumstances.

But I guess if there ever was a situation that could make me try out the whole amicable thing, this is it. Better to loosen my grip than to let go of someone like that.

Now excuse me while I go cry in the handicapped bathroom...

2008-03-19T15:25:00.001-04:00

Hey, look, I'm famous.

What happens in Vegas...

2008-01-23T14:25:00.002-05:00

Oh, Las Vegas.

How I adore you already.

I probably could have guessed. In typical crow fashion, I am predictably attracted to anything that glitters, and glitter you do. To put it mildly. The moment I spied the laser emitting from the pyramid at the Luxor from my window seat on the plane as we began our descent over the strip, it was pretty much love at first sight.

I enjoy how I was naive/optimistic enough to think that I would arrive at 11pm (2am Boston time) and go straight to bed. Um, no. As soon as I walked into the lobby of the MGM Grand, I became completely overwhelmed by the vast, ostentatious Las Vegas-ness of it all and was immediately re-energized. Which is how I came to be sitting in a random casino bar at 2 in the morning with my boss, drinking my third martini and watching bemusedly as a pack of drunken, middle-aged midwesterners wearing sunglasses indoors at night made a valiant but spectacularly unsuccessful attempt at seducing the cocktail waitress. Is there a better time and place in the universe to people-watch than in the wee hours of the morning in Sin City? Of course, anyone people-watching us probably thought we were a couple. Especially considering that he thinks it to be the height of hilarity to tell people I'm his girlfriend. All I can say is, if anyone were to believe him, then they'd probably also assume he was filthy, filthy rich.

An underrated part of business travel, I've discovered, is the fact that you get your own personal hotel room. Mine was extremely spacious and well-appointed, with a king sized bed and a bathroom approximately equal in square footage to my bedroom at home. And while I must say I was less than enthused about the quality of the linens - the towels were rough and the sheets were so scratchy that thread count didn't even come into the equation - I rather enjoyed having the freedom the strew my things indiscriminately around the room, turn the thermostat up as high as it would go, and frolic in my underwear. (Thank God I don't live alone - I'd spend a fortune on heat and my place would look like the shoe department at Macy's post-natural disaster. But at least I'd have really good body image.)

One thing that is overrated, however, in the realm of travel in general, is time zones. I realize that they serve their purpose. But when you've been out drinking until 2am, but your brain insists upon whirring back to life a mere 4 hours later because it thinks it's 9 and should probably be getting to work, that's not always kosher. At 6am yesterday, there I was, wide awake, and with nothing to do before my breakfast meeting. So I dressed myself in a fashionably businesslike manner, went downstairs in search of a Starbucks to provide me with a venti black eye, and proceeded to wander the premises and get stared at lasciviously by legions of questionably sober midlifers on vacation from their wives. I did not expect Las Vegas to make me feel quite so much like a circus freak. Like taking the subway times 10. I'd have thought that my turtleneck sweater and pencil skirt would be no match for cocktail waitresses with their bottoms literally hanging out of their dresses, but apparently not. Maybe it was the shoes. The low heeled, beige, vaguely orthopedic shoes the waitresses wore were no match for my crocodile (okay, faux-croc) stilettos.

By the time my breakfast meeting (and four more cups of coffee) rolled around, I was so manic that I was probably speaking at a speed comparable to the guy who used to voice-over the Micro Machines commercials. Luckily for me, I am charming when highly caffeinated. We took a tour of the whole hotel and the conference facilities, which to my well-contained glee included the Cirque du Soleil Ka theater where they filmed the CSI episode where the girl got crushed by a hydraulic piece of stage. And as soon as it was over I was ready to crawl beneath a poker table and sleep for three days straight. Seriously, that tired. But I couldn't sleep. First, I had to have lunch at Emeril's New Orleans Fish House and take a limousine to the airport and drink a 32-ounce mug of Red Hook that was a workout just to lift. Then, as is standard, I got seated next to one of the most unsettlingly bizarre men ever in the history of air travel and was unable to sleep on the plane because he kept making weird noises. By the time I got home at midnight, after enduring a cab ride in which the driver apparently mistook me for a legal analyst despite the fact that I informed him more than once that I was not a lawyer nor was I familiar with any who were not inconveniently confined to the fictional genre of hourlong crime dramas, I was ready to drop dead of exhaustion.

I love Vegas, but next time I go, it will be for longer than 31 hours, that's for damn sure!

Rabble rabble rabble: copyrighting fashion.

2008-01-16T16:30:00.002-05:00

Can I just say that I think all this talk lately of copyright infringement in fashion is totally ridiculous?

For those who don't follow fashion, basically what has happened is this: the Council of Fashion Designers of America, together with a handful of designers including Diane von Furstenburg and Zac Posen, are working to introduce legislation which would enable them to copyright their designs. From my very unscientific internet research, the specifics of the law, if passed, would be this: designers would be able to register their designs with the US Copyright Office, and they would be copyright protected for three years. Certain items, like jeans and tee shirts, would be considered to be in the public domain and would not qualify for protection. Infringement would cost the offender $250,000.

As someone who is relatively knowledgeable about copyright law, albeit primarily in the press and the music industry, I feel comfortable saying that these laws will never be passed, but the fact that Diane and the CFDA are even trying just smacks of elitism and, quite frankly, makes me sort of sad.

First and foremost, I think that someone needs to send Diane von Furstenburg a memo informing her that she did not invent the wrap dress. I mean, come on: what is a sari or a toga if not a wrap dress? I don't think that some sort of fashion angel came to her in a coke-fueled haze at Studio 54 in 1977 and inspired her to produce a completely new and innovative style of dress that wrapped around the body and tied at one side. I mean, anyone who's ever worn a towel around the house after getting out of the shower has invented a wrap dress. It isn't that I don't thoroughly enjoy her designs - I do, and my one DvF dress (which is, incidentally, not a wrap)is my go-to dress when I'm feeling a little alpha female - but they're not that groundbreaking.

The thing that really flummoxes me is how would you go about defining the standard of copyright infringement in a garment. You couldn't. It's insane. The language used in the proposal, I believe, is "strikingly similar." But what constitutes strikingly similar, and where do you draw the line? Certain decorative and finishing techniques are widely associated with certain designers, and when they're applied to a specific type of garment, there will be parallels whether intentional or not - are Proenza Schouler going to start going after anyone who uses trapunto stitching on corset tops? Will Marchesa try to copyright rosettes on cocktail dresses? How do you decide what counts as intellectual property, and what violates it? Is it like the threshold for obscenity: "I know it when I see it?"

And, do we really not have enough of a legal backlog in this country that we need to have judges examining how closely one pair of pants resemble another? Plus, most of the fashion industry is centered outside of this country. I haven't heard much about rumblings from Paris or Milan, but should we get the United Nations on the phone? I mean, the ICC has got Charles Lubanga in custody, so surely they've got a few minutes to devote to the plight of elitist fashion designers the world over! Shouldn't Nicolas Ghesquiere be making sure all those Palestinians don't try to reappropriate his keffiyeh for spring?

Not to mention, copyright law always has allowances for fair use. Fair use is a effective defense against copyright infringement if it can be proven (with other considerations, of course) that an alleged infringement is somehow transformative of the original rather than simply being derivative. It's a slippery slope logic-wise considering that any garment production is going to be for profit, which is a huge hindrance in a fair use, but I'd argue that in an industry that is entirely based upon transformation and evolution, there needs to be some reciprocity. If high-end designers are taking and expounding upon looks from the street, why shouldn't the resulting creations be able to trickle back down to the street? Not to mention, another key consideration in fair use is the effect of the use upon the original's market, and let's be realistic here: this isn't like file sharing in the music industry. The effect of a cheap knockoff on the market for an original designer piece is negligible at best.

People don't elect not to buy designer dresses because they'd prefer knockoffs. People choose not to buy them because they are retardedly expensive. The vast majority of consumers will never be able to afford a designer dress, or will never feel conscionable buying one. Most of the people who are buying knockoffs at H&M or Forever 21 would never even entertain the notion of walking into Saks and dropping four figures for a Zac Posen, no matter how lovely it might be. I certainly can't afford to be shopping on Net-a-Porter, but I also haven't been afflicted with a conscience when it comes to frivolous shopping and so I do anyway, and tend to live off Lean Cuisines and Campbell's Soup as a result. But not everyone is willing to forgo real food and staying out of credit card debt just to know that they've got a fancy labels sewn inside their dresses. And for every designer dress I own, I have two from Target or the mall. But I'm not the norm, and furthermore, I couldn't have nor would I want a closet exclusively full of labels. We're talking about two completely distinct markets, and really the only place that they overlap is among a relatively small cross-section of fashionista-types, like me, who might pick up knockoffs for the novelty factor or to mix in with nicer pieces.

I feel like a lot of designers support high/low mixing and if not knockoffs as such, a broader, less high-end-centric approach to dressing. So to see some designers taking this stance is highly disheartening. And, social considerations aside, it seems to me that taking such a cyclical industry and restricting the flow of ideas to just one direction can only be detrimental in the long run.

But what do I know? My shoes are just BCBG knockoffs of Louis Vuitton. (Sorry, Marc. I still love you.)

Snowed in and bored.

2008-01-14T18:25:00.001-05:00

I've got no great love for inclement winter weather, but if there is one thing I miss now that I'm all grown up, it is the snow day. So when I woke up this morning to a world blanketed in white, snow still falling heavily, it occurred to me that even though I rely on public transportation to get to and from work, the ten minute walk from my place to the subway station could absolutely prove dangerous in such conditions. An out of control car could careen into me as I went about my business on the sidewalk. I could be snowplowed, God forbid! So I sent my boss an email saying that though I would happily go to into the office if a pair of snowshoes magically appeared on my doorstep, I would otherwise be working from "the home office." You know, bed.

I was all psyched thinking I'd have the day to laze around drinking coffee, flipping through magazines, and occasionally clicking the refresh button on the remote email server. Except no so much. Because around 10:30, I was called upon by a frantic team member to transcribe a non-text based PDF and track down email addresses for all the people on it. Without a printer, or a mouse, or a reliable internet connection. Fabulous. So I spent the entire day plugging away at this stupid list, scouring Jigsaw and Google-extrapolating in an effort to find contacts for all of these people who will probably delete whatever emails come their way as fruits of my labor. Miserable. Have I mentioned that my company has entire research teams in India to do this very task? Yeah. Not my job. But given that I had already sort of flouted the system so that I wouldn't have to leave my apartment, I felt that I had to do it. Yuck.

Then I spent the rest of the day making up the extra 3000 words that I did not manage to get done on my novel this weekend, because instead of being productive and responsible I alternated between being drunk and useless and being hung over and useless.

Wait, not entirely true - Friday night I refused to leave my house because it was raining heavily. But Saturday, there was a plumbing situation of epic proportions which drove me to drink midafternoon, and then the Patriots game enabled me to drink through the evening, and then I was convinced to go to a party thrown by a friend of a friend of my roommate, which required further inebriation because I did not know anyone. Basically, I wandered around alternately acting like an asshole and a flirt. And wound up having a fabulous time. Not in spite of the fact that I wound up making out with a very cute guy who was nearly a foot taller than me, which doesn't sound that exciting or notable until you consider the fact that I am five foot eleven. A attractive man who is six foot ten and wants to make out with me is a rare beast indeed.

Then my parents came down to visit Sunday. I don't know whether my parents specifically plan on visiting on days when I've been out until 4:30 in the morning or whether that's just coincidental, but luckily TGI Friday's (class class class) happens to be excellent hangover food. And I got to go to Target in a car. Good times.

So anyway. That's that. What an incredibly boring entry, by the way. It's just that I'm so busy these days that I feel like I have to update when I've got a minute, you know? I probably should have instead detailed my complex and hilarious scheme to get dumped by this Obama-happy dude I've been seeing by claiming to have cast my absentee ballot in NH for Mike Huckabee, because I don't believe in premarital sex or the separation of church and state (second only in ridiculousness to the time I got another guy to break up with me by deciding to give up sex for Lent). But I didn't. So...sorry about that. Next time.

All right, I need to go eat, because it's just occurred to me that I've eaten approximately nothing today, and though I'm not opposed to the thought of wasting away a little bit in the midsection, I'm famished. So I'm out. Later.

Oh hi.

2008-01-10T18:21:00.002-05:00

I've become sort of lax with the blog updates lately, and there's a reason for that.

With all this talk of New Year's resolutions, I got to thinking. I turn 25 this year, and if 24 was a hard pill to swallow, 25 is going to be a real bitch. If my birthday rolls around and I still haven't accomplished anything noteworthy in a quarter century, I probably won't be able to get out of bed for five days. It would not be a good situation.

Then I got to thinking about what I want to do with my life. Easy answer: I want to be a writer. Specifically, I want to be a novelist. And it occurred to me that wanting to be a novelist is not like, say, wanting to be the CEO of a Fortune 500 company. I don't have to wait for the job to be given to be. If I want to write books for a living, the only thing that is stopping me from writing books for a living is the fact that I'm completely lazy and unmotivated.

So, as those of you who can add two and two together may have already guessed, I'm writing a book. And normally, I wouldn't even announce that, because I think that people who talk endlessly about their creative career goals are totally annoying, not to mention there's nothing in the universe more obnoxious than the person who wants to write the next great American novel. Which, incidentally, is not what I'm trying to write. At all. But I figured if I posted my intention publicly, it would force me to be accountable. Because if there's one thing I'm not so good at, it's holding myself accountable for things I say I'm going to do.

So. I haven't had much time for blogging because I'm forcing myself to write at least 1000 words a day. Which, if the average novel has between 80,000 and 120,000 words, means that I'll finish the first draft sometime in April or May if I remain on task. So even if I decide my actual life's calling is to paint still lifes of baked goods or be a contestant on Cycle 11 of America's Next Top Model or something, I've got a cushion. Or else I could get an agent in that time. And a publisher. And like, actually make a career of it.

And in case you were wondering, it's total chick lit. Quirky, sarcastic chick lit for smart girls, but chick lit nonetheless. Because, the thing is, after a long day at work, I don't really want to go home and read Dostoyevsky. I want to read something light and fun, but that isn't so vapid that my brain cells will start killing themselves in protest. Which, let's face it, a lot of chick lit is. But then I read authors like Caprice Crane (she's in my friends list; check her books out because they're hilarious and underappreciated) and it renews my faith that there is a market for smart, funny books geared toward women. So...I'm writing one. And if you enjoy my blog, you'll enjoy it. Because if you find me amusing now, just wait until you read me when I'm not confined to boring reality.

Happy New Year!

2008-01-02T12:05:00.001-05:00

My New Year's Eve was completely uneventful. The party I had planned on attending was canceled last-minute and so, rather than scramble around trying to make new plans when most of our friends were out of town anyway, Jess and I just wound up having a wine, cheese, and '90s movies night. Which was actually perfectly fine with me, because I secretly hate New Year's Eve for the same reason that I hate Saint Patrick's Day: it is amateur night. (Although recently, my drinking has resulted in some pretty amateur behavior, so...make of that what you will).

I for one am thrilled that 2007 is over. My 2007 was terrible. Well, that isn't strictly true. It was only the first three or four months that were so bad, and they were really just characterized by the burning wreckage of events that happened in late 2006. But in any case, I had an inordinate amount of crap dumped on me last winter. I mean, the whole traumatic escape from a burning building, the subsequent panic attacks, the being involved with a guy who turned out not to be just an asshole as initially expected but pretty much straight-up abusive, the alleged caring friend who turned out to be the most conniving, malicious one of all...it was a lot for one girl to have to work through. You know how they say when it rains, it pours? Well for me, the beginning of 2007 was a freaking hurricane, and it is truly a testament to the fact that I have such wonderfully supportive friends and family that I am even here right now.

Actually, I was thinking about that a lot yesterday. Not because I was necessary feeling all symbolic about the new year, but because it was on New Year's Eve 2006 that my life went from being crudely held together with bits of string and tape to falling apart completely and irreparably. I'm not especially prone to depression, but I woke up on January 1, 2007 and literally wanted to die. So when I woke up on January 1, 2008 feeling happy and hopeful about the future and without even a distant echo of self-hatred (to which I am prone, at least first thing in the morning), I realized just how far I've come. And I decided, despite my general distaste for New Year's resolutions, my actual, official New Year's resolution is that I'm never going to wake up hating myself ever again. Or anybody else. Life is too short, and there is already too much negativity in the universe without me putting my own out there.

(Hatred negativity, I mean. Not making fun of people negativity. God, what would I do all day?)

Also, a note to anyone stopping by my blog who has no idea what I'm talking about (which, actually, is pretty much everyone, come to think of it): I'll write about it someday. I mean, comedy does equal tragedy plus time. But the statute of limitations on it being Not Funny has not yet run out. I'd say we're looking at another two years. But we'll see.

Resolve This

2007-12-28T14:03:00.002-05:00

The New Year is rapidly approaching, and with its arrival, millions of people around the world will make well-meaning but impossible-to-maintain New Year's resolutions. In past years, I've been one of those people, resolving to lose weight or get to the gym with some sort of frequency or lay off on the general life theme of poor decision-making. I've actually managed to keep some of these resolutions in a broad sense - not necessarily as a result of a commitment to turning over a new leaf, but more because things just sort of fortuitously happened to work out that way. Because resolutions, in a nutshell, do not work. Any time you're putting that much emphasis on a single day in the course of trying to make a few positive life changes, you're probably going to screw it up. Not to mention, from a purely technical standpoint, 2008 begins the second the ball drops - so are you really going to stop eating junk food and drink less and make only excellent, well-considered decisions as of 12:00am on January 1? Of course not. You're definitely going to have three more glasses of champagne and nibble on something delicious and fattening, and you are probably going to make out with someone inappropriate.

So here, I present to you a top 10 list of New Year's resolutions, which I found by Googling "top 10 New Year's resolutions." I cannot vouch for their provenance or authenticity, but I can tell you exactly why I'm not going to be adhering to each and every one of them. And I'm going to make some resolutions that I CAN keep.

1. Spend More Time With Family and Friends
This doesn't really make sense to me, because if you're not spending time with your family and friends, then who are you spending your time with? Coworkers? The television? I'm going to go out on a limb here and make the broad assumption that the vast majority of us either live with our family or with friends, or at the very least with someone who could reasonably be considered an acquaintance. We are not a species of hermits. I spend more than enough time with my family, believe you me, and my friends have no cause for complaint either. Or maybe they do. Because they're sick of me! In any case, I resolve to spend more quality time with me, myself, and a stack of fashion magazines, because if there's anything I feel like I could devote more time to, it's the pursuit of vanity combined with abject laziness.

2. Fit In Fitness
America is obese. I get it. I'm fully supportive of anyone else who wants to make this decision, because it's a good one. But I'm also skeptical because all too often I think people focus on fitness as something to be achieved in a gym setting only as opposed to something that is possible through simply being active. That's a recipe for failure. I, for one, made a resolution a very long time ago, when I quit rowing crew, and that was that I was never in my lifetime going to join a health club. Because through being a member of a NCAA Division I sports team for two years, I've obviously already reached and likely doubled my Lifetime Gym Quota. Occasionally I've been tempted to break this resolution - some gyms offer really cool group fitness classes, and I sure do love a good sauna - but so far I've managed to stick with it. Knock on wood.

3. Tame the Bulge
Again, the fat thing. Look, it sucks. I've been fat. I started out Baby Fat, then I got Moderately Fat in elementary school, then Potential Adult Obesity Danger Alert Fat in middle school, and after a brief flirtation with Eating Disordered in high school, I got I'm An Athlete And As Such I Will Eat Everything In Sight Fat, which curiously seems to afflict mostly female rowers. Post-crew, I was Bootylicious (for real, y'all, Beyonce-style), and since then, I've sort of been slowly but surely reaching my body's natural equilibrium point. The key is not, as is commonly believed, dieting. Dieting is trouble, because any time you designate something as off-limits, you will immediately crave it. The key is eating a balanced, healthy diet. Then, if you happen to drink nine beers and go on a Buffalo chicken rampage, you're probably going to be fine. Because no one ever gained five pounds from nine beers and a Buffalo chicken rampage. (Although someone did gain five pounds from two multi-course expense-account holiday lunches, a gallon or so of cranberry mojito, and gobs of raw cookie dough, among other things, and that someone is me, so...though I'm not resolving to lose five pounds officially, I'll be reining it in a little bit.)

4. Quit Smoking
I don't smoke. Generally. I do pretty much always have a pack of cigarettes and a glittery, Our Lady of Guadelupe-emblazoned box of matches in the top-secret zippered pocket of my purse, but that's just because I was a Girl Scout for all those years and I like to Be Prepared. Likewise, I always carry a Tide pen, a pack of gum, a miniature sewing kit, Liquid Bandage, facial blotting papers, Chap-Stick, hand lotion, Vicodin, and a flash drive. That way, I can be sure never to find myself in a sticky situation with a shiny forehead, dry lips, a missing button, and some important documents that need to be saved stat. Sometimes, a girl just needs a cigarette. As long as I'm not smoking like a chimney, I don't see the harm. In fact, I resolve to get myself a fancy cigarette holder a la Marlene Dietrich, so that when I do smoke, I can do it in style.

5. Enjoy Life More
This one is just plain stupid, because I don't understand why it would warrant resolution. Is there really anyone in the world who wakes up and says to themselves, "I think I will enjoy life as little as possible today?" I doubt it. Although, come to think of it, that would explain a lot about my mother.

6. Quit Drinking
Further to Resolution #5, this would be a one-way ticket to Enjoying Life Less. I actually did quit drinking for a period of time in 2007 because I was going through a phase in which I paid heed to warning labels on psychotropic medications (this was before I realized that I could get a Real-Life Rock Star Bonus in certain impromptu Guitar Hero tournaments for being drunk on prescription painkillers, not that I need a bonus because I've got FINESSE). I had also recently escaped from the fifteenth story of a burning building and was consequently sort of effed up over it and was staying with my parents for several weeks. It's safe to say I was not enjoying life a whole lot anyway, so it's difficult to gauge exactly how much of that, if any was attributable to the not drinking. But pretty much the only long term positive effect I noticed was that I lost like 15 pounds, which I still haven't managed to gain back. So, I suppose Resolution #6 is conditional relating to other resolutions. If you want to tame the bulge, quit drinking. If you want to enjoy life more, keep on keepin' on. I myself plan on continuing to drink exactly as much as I do currently, thereby maintaining my current weight and base level of life enjoyment.

7. Get Out of Debt
I have three words for this one: Fucking Student Loans. Oh, and three more: Internet Shopping Addiction. Sigh.

8. Learn Something New
Is that actually a New Year's resolution? People are resolving to learn SOMETHING new in an entire YEAR? I subscribe to the old elementary school rule: I don't go to bed unless I've learned something new every day. Seriously guys, it isn't hard. Just add the dictionary.com word of the day to your iGoogle, or read an effing newspaper. I mean, I could get behind Take Up A New Hobby, or Earn A New Qualification. But Learn Something New? In a year? God.

Also, that just made me think of Book-It. Do you guys remember Book-It? Can we revive it for grown-ups? I mean come on, a Personal Pan Pizza per five books read? Or, remember when Chuck E. Cheese would give out free tokens based on how good your grades were? Maybe we wouldn't have so many dumb adults if we just had some incentives. Or maybe we have so many dumb adults because we were all just working for the incentives to begin with. Hmm. How Pavlovian. But I digress.

9. Help Others
I guess this is noble. I don't really have a problem with it. I mean, it's sort of sad that helping others is something that requires resolve for most people, but what can you do? On that note, if any of you wonderful readers happen to be young professionals in the greater Boston area and are keen on making this particular resolution, my Amnesty International grouplet, aka the Boston Firefly Project, is always accepting new members. We deal primarily with economic, social, and cultural rights, and we are generally a fun bunch. Just sayin'.

10. Get Organized
I think that my problem with getting organized is rooted in the fact that it first requires getting disorganized. As in, if you're going to organize your closet, first you're going to have to dump all your clothing in a big pile on the floor, sort it in to piles, and make some big decisions about what to keep, what to alter, what to give away, and what to toss. It's a really great idea in theory, but more than likely you're just going to wind up clearing a path from the doorway to your bed amidst a sea of clothing. And, if by chance you do manage to get everything back in the closet in an orderly fashion, you will quickly find that to Get Organized is only the tip of the iceberg. The iceberg itself is Stay Organized. Which to me sounds like an exercise in futility. If you want to undertake this onus, be my guest. Meanwhile, I'll keep reading Real Simple and Martha Stewart every month with the very best of intentions but secretly hope that my apartment will be happened upon by a book-alphabetizing fairy and a Swiffering nymph and a dwarf who is handy with the Scrubbin' Bubbles and a host of other magical organizational fictitious woodland creatures. Or, you know, something.

I do, however, plan on making a few real-life resolutions. Nothing too major or too labor-intensive, but they are things that I am quite serious about. First, I resolve to stand up for myself regardless of the situation. Historically, I've been a pushover and allowed people to walk all over me. But in recent months, I've started to explore the studio space a little bit, and I think in the coming year I'd like to extend the not-being-a-doormat thing and potentially serve it up with a side of saying exactly what I actually think.

In the same vein, while my general outward disposition tends toward breathless enthusiasm and charm steeped in ADHD, wrapped in leopard print and tied with a glittery hot pink bow, the truth is that under all that sugar and spice, I'm really just a Mean Girl. So in 2008, I intend to embrace my inner asshole and wear her like a badge of honor. Okay, like a leopard print badge of honor with a glittery hot pink ribbon.

Let's try this again

2007-12-27T18:12:00.002-05:00

I wonder how long you can leave the Drano doing its magic in the bathtub before it begins to eat through the pipes...?

Anyway, I had already written and posted a lengthy entry this morning, but the more I thought about it, I realized that it's completely uncharitable, not to mention sort of evil, to rant about how much my mother annoyed me during Christmas break when she just spent all that money buying me nice presents. Even if every other sentence was yelling. I mean, she never actually yelled at me. Just my father. And my brothers. And the cat, and the dog, and most likely a number of inanimate objects. But never at me. Because I am perfect angel who never does anything wrong. Or something.

Also, a good chunk of the same entry was devoted to detailing exactly how drunk I got on Christmas Eve, all of the myriad ways in which it wasn't my fault that I got that drunk, and all of the hilarious and embarassing things I said and did while being that drunk. Which, really, none of you care about. You've probably all seen me that drunk. One thing I will say for myself, though, is that while at first I thought that I could not possibly ever have been that drunk before in my life, a few incidents from freshman year and the Graduation Party Tequila Bar Scenario came to mind, and I decided that it was just the largest quantity of alcohol I've ever successfully held. Successfully in the "I didn't puke" sense, of course, not in the "I kept my wits about me and behaved completely rationally" sense. But you knew that.

All in all I did have a fairly nice break. I did a lot of laundry. I played Guitar Hero into the wee hours of the morning. I cooked a lot by request, as usual, since apparently all anyone ever eats when I'm not there is grilled cheese and tuna fish. I perfected my penne alla vodka, which was exciting - apparently using a mixture of sweet and hot sausage instead of all hot keeps it from becoming completely taste bud-obliterating. And I made some freakishly good buffalo and barbecue chicken pizzas for the game on Sunday.

Christmas would have been more enjoyable had I not been afflicted with the mother of all hangovers, but Santa was good to me. I got a Kitchen Aid stand mixer, which I've been wanting for years but couldn't figure out how to get without staging a fake wedding and registering at Macy's. I got a seriously badass coffee maker that has a timer so I can set it to greet me with the scent of freshly brewed coffee when I wake up in the morning, which also alleviates the difficulties associated with making coffee before one has ingested one's caffeine. I got a really nice quilted black leather carry-on size suitcase, which will enable me to make short business trips in style. Then there were a bunch of other, smaller things: an iHome, a couple of pairs of flat shoes (I'm kind of warming up to them, after all that bellyaching...not that I've given up on heels altogether), a new version of Cranium for me to continue my lifelong undefeated streak with, a few cookbooks, including Martha Stewart's Baking Handbook, which pairs nicely with the mixer and means I can stop plotting to abscond with my mother's, an assortment of jewelry, several small kitchen gadgets including a Martha Stewart Collection Salad Spinner and a handheld food processor, and some other things that I'm probably forgetting. It was really rather nice, particularly now that people have realized that I am all but guaranteed not to like any clothes that I did not pay a role in choosing. There were a few items on my list that I didn't get - and before you go being all appalled that I made a Christmas list like an 8-year old, I was forced to by my mother because I am apparently impossible to shop for, and it took me almost two full days because I couldn't think of anything I wanted - but I got some money too and will probably just go out and buy them. Because know that I know that a hot pink tool set exists and is widely sold at Target, I don't think I can live without it.

So I hope everyone else had as lovely a holiday as I did, and moreover, that everyone else's holiday wasn't overshadowed by the ghosts of Christmas Eve beverages. Unfortunately I had to work yesterday, so my parents drove me back to Somerville in the morning. It sort of sucked to not have the day after Christmas off, but since there was virtually nothing to do, I was able to devote my time to long overdue tasks such as filing ancient expense reports and cleaning out the marketing closet, which, thanks to the boxes and boxes of holiday cards and calendars strewn indiscriminately about, looked like it had possibly fallen victim to a very localized earthquake. Then, since literally no one I know was back in town to distract me from my productiveness, I was able to put away all my laundry and my Christmas gifts yesterday, and today am cleaning as much of the apartment as I can because, though it is generally tidy, it is not what I would call clean.

And now that we've come full circle, I'm somewhat plagued with concern about the bathtub/Drano situation - seriously, we are talking about a clog of epic proportions - and ought to go take care of that.

Happy holidays!

2007-12-11T11:15:00.002-05:00

It's official: my idol and I are in a fight. Martha Stewart Omnimedia has decided to stop publishing Blueprint, a.k.a. my favorite magazine ever in the history of magazines, and I am hopping mad over it. Where else can I learn how to make an easy-sew taffeta ball skirt, update my vintage costume jewelry with velvet ribbon and some moxie, bake seven takes on sugar cookies, prevent pesky winter colds, choose a flattering shade of red lipstick, and set a formal table, all sandwiched between two pretty, glossy covers? Nowhere else. Hmmph. Okay, fine, there's always Real Simple. But Real Simple's fonts are not as sassy, nor is their layout as stylish or colorful, and besides, I'm forever annoyed at all those magazines that insist on being 10x13.5 inches instead of 8.5x11. They don't fit in my magazine basket properly! How am I supposed to maintain a sense of order in my life if the magazines that tell me how to maintain a sense of order cannot be stored in a sufficiently tidy manner? God! I may as well just start using the unoccupied half of my bed as auxiliary closet space and my bookcases as catch-alls for makeup, hair products, writing utensils, chocolate bars, spare buttons, and junk mail! Oh, wait...I already do both of those things, don't I? So really, without Blueprint, what hope is there for a slowly reforming slob like me?

Luckily, a couple of things are conspiring to improve my mood. One is the all Led Zeppelin all the time channel that XM Radio recently launched. Another is the fact that my company's print sales rep just sent me a 2 pound container of peppermint bark. Which, given that I am totally smitten with anything containing both peppermint and dark chocolate, I am dying to tear into at this very moment. However, due to the fact that my preemptive holiday diet was already sabotaged by my Christmas Crack binge this weekend, I am really trying not to cave. But it's nice to know that it's there, should I be overcome.

(Perhaps now would be a good time to clarify that Christmas Crack is not actually crack but a delightful party mix-type confection featuring an assortment of bite-sized snack foods covered in chocolate. In this case, pretzels, Chex, peanuts, and M&Ms. If it was actually crack, weight gain wouldn't be a problem. At least, I don't think it would, but everything I know about crack I learned from Half Nelson, so I'm no expert.)

Then, I just now found out that I'll be taking a business trip to Las Vegas in January to check out the venue for my company's upcoming sales conference. All by myself, like a grown-up businesswoman! It'll be just an overnight, but still. Vegas! With no chaperone! I have absolutely no interest in gambling aside from spending two hours playing the nickel slots with a single $20 bill to get a few free drinks, but there's so much else to do! I can see a show! And fulfill career woman fantasy #2 of being the mysterious brunette in a major dress, probably the red Diane von Furstenburg I'm wearing right this very moment (you know, in case I run into the cute Google boy on 13 who rescued me from certain death in the elevator yesterday, swoon), that simultaneously says 'I am a serious businesswoman' and 'Hello, sailor,' having dinner at the bar of a fancy restaurant on her expense account! (Second only to career woman fantasy #1 of stomping through a courthouse in a 3-piece Dolce & Gabbana suit and Louboutins while people chase after me shouting "Counselor Glowacki, Ryan Gosling is on the line - he'll be starring opposite Angelina Jolie in the major motion picture adaptation of your recent high profile case and he'd like to meet and potentially be on you." Okay, maybe not all that in the courthouse, but still.)

Finally, I rather enjoyed the following conversation:
Gilian: I have discovered something shocking
me: yes?
Gilian: go to marcjacobs.com and look at the spring 2008 women's shoe collection
me: yes?
Gilian: did you look?
he's gone crazy
me: how so?
oh, wait
Gilian: yes
there you go
me: i was looking at marc by marc
Gilian: oh no
I haven't looked at that yet
me: those lace boots are giving me a headache
marc by marc is cute
Gilian: and the heels!
and the mary janes that are filled in up to the top so you walk on top of the shoe
me: whoooooooooa
Gilian: he is on CRACK
me: it's so surreal
he's like the salvador dali of shoe design
Gilian: right. but for something to actually market to the public?
I love him
he is a genius at being a total weirdo
me: it sort of makes me love him more, actually
that and the smurf hair

Basically, Marc Jacobs is now designing shoes with heels that extend horizontally from the ball of the foot. Kind of like a wedge, but that looks like a sideways heel growing out of the front of the shoe. Amazing.

It's science.

2007-12-06T21:17:00.003-05:00

I have an unusually good memory. I dare say it is close to photographic. If you ever watch Jeopardy with me, I can guarantee that you will become alarmed over how much I know about ornithology, or nomadic tribes in the Sahara, or historic sports figures, or potent potables. All because I did a report on owls in the seventh grade, or read an article on Tuaregs in a 1977 issue of National Geographic that I found in a trunk at my Grandma's when I was nine, or showed up to my History of Sport in America class in college with uncharacteristic frequency thanks to a large hot-baseball-player-classmate contingent, or drank a lot. You know how they say we only use 10% of our brains? I'm fairly certain that I disprove that theory, because at least 50% of my is occupied with useless and obscure factoids. Trust me: you want me on your trivia team. And you do NOT want to play Cranium against me.

I mention this not because I like to brag (in fact, I'm not always pleased with myself over it, especially when I accidentally freak people out by referencing comments they made in passing, possibly under their breath, eight months ago when I appeared to be engrossed in appraising the state of my manicure). It's just that once upon a time, a good decade or so ago, somebody told me that the Zodiac calendar is based on the position of the stars and planets thousands of years ago, and if we were to recalculate our signs based on their positions today, most of us would be a different sign. I don't, however, remember who told me this. I suspect it may have been my crazy modern dance teacher (sorry, Jenn) - it sort of stands to reason that the type of person who would take groups of impressionable children, outfit them in a mess of spandex and chiffon, and choreograph dances for them to perform on mountaintops might indeed be knowledgeable about the origins of astrology. But I don't know when she would have had occasion to tell me that, so iit just as well could have been someone else, or I could have dreamed it and thought it was real, which has been known to happen. In subsequent years, while engaged in conversations on the subject, I would occasionally enthusiastically bust out this tidbit, in keeping with my general tendency toward screeching enthusiasm, only to be met with indifference. Nobody cared! And my Google searches for scholarly texts that would back up my position proved fruitless.

Imagine my elation when, this afternoon, Jezebel directed me to this page : http://www.livescience.com/strangenews/your-astronomical-sign.html.

I am, at long last, vindicated. I would be thankful that I never went ahead and got that Leo tattoo that I briefly, incorrectly thought would make an attractive tramp stamp (does ANYTHING make an attractive tramp stamp?), but indeed I am one of the lucky few whose sign remains the same. Not that that's surprising. I mean, you all read my blog. Could I possibly be anything else besides a Leo? Not that I'm one of those people who checks my horoscope five times a day and won't date anyone whose birthday isn't compatible with mine according to both tarot.com and Cosmopolitan's Annual Totally Idiotic Pull-Out Forecast of Eternal Luv. (Have I mentioned that I hate Cosmo? I hate Cosmo. It caters to the lowest common denominator and assumes women are codependent flakes. Also, it's predicated upon "Sex Tips You've NEVER Heard Before and Could Not Imagine in Your Wildest Dreams!", "1006 Brand-New Ways to Drive Your Man WILD in Bed - Doughnut Not Included!", and "732 Ways to Seduce Him Away From Guitar Hero!" Um, guys? There is no such thing as a new sex tip. We're not talking about cancer research here. I don't think scientists are discovering new positions. The Kama Sutra is pretty comprehensive and that was around long before you were telling us to use our heirloom pearls and DOUGHNUTS - yes, doughnuts, use your imaginations if you must - in completely perverse and retarded ways. Also, I would never seduce a man away from Guitar Hero. More like the other way around.)

ANYWAY. Some people are pretty upset about this, because it shakes the foundation of their very persons. Which to me sounds a little dramatic, for a few reasons. One, I doubt that astrology.com is going to start changing up the dates for each sign and adding horoscopes for Ophiuchus, which is a cutting-edge new sign that falls between Scorpio and Sagittarius. Two, while it may be science - astronomy, that is - astrology is most certainly not. I mean, any given horoscope can be interpreted to mean whatever you want it to mean. Mine did not say "You will wear a skirt that is bordering on inappropriate despite being adorably flouncyand get an excellent haircut after work" when I opened up iGoogle this morning. No, it said "You may find yourself way ahead of others now, yet someone may attempt to slow you down and try to get you back into the pack. It really doesn't matter how high-minded your intentions are; gently apply your own brakes so no one else has to do it for you. Self-restraint can preemptively save the day." It could be telling me to restrain myself from wearing a skirt that could possibly result in frostbitten thighs (I did), it could be telling me to restrain myself from getting Victoria Beckham's asymmetrical nod to Simon LeBon as my new hairstyle (I didn't), it could be telling me to restrain myself from eating an entire pound bag of M&Ms for dinner (I didn't) or buying an awesome cashmere sweater from Theory at Poor Little Rich Girl (I did) or copy-editing all the brochures in the marketing closet for proper American English (a daily conundrum, to be sure, but thus far I have not). Totally devoid of concrete meaning, totally interpretive, totally fill-in-the-blank.

However...I'm still a Leo. Nyah-nyah-nyah-nyah-nyah-nyah.

Project Runway: I only rant because I love you

2007-11-28T21:16:00.002-05:00

I cannot begin to express how excited I am about the new season of Project Runway. It is the only show that I am truly religious about, to the point that I abjectly refuse to make any plans on Wednesday nights that could potentially cut into my viewing time. I do not miss it. Ever. Even though Bravo reruns it about 17 times the following day, it just isn't the same. I can't deal with the knowledge that there are other people in the universe who know which designer got kicked off, and I would surely have to avoid opening my internet browser entirely while at work lest I accidentally stumble upon a mention of the outcome.

Tonight will be the third episode of the season, and I already am forming opinions about who I like and who I don't. I have history of rooting for the pretentious, insufferable, cooler-than-thou rock-and-roll designer. The only exception was season one, when I backed Austin Scarlett, favored for a wide variety of reasons including his name, his hair (which consistently looked like it had been hot-rollered), his soft spot for hot pink lip gloss, the fact that he wore things like ascots and sassily knotted silk scarves, and his barely modernized Marie Antoinette aesthetic. Not wearable in the least, but pretty. Season two, I loved Santino Rice. He was total bitch, but oh my God his clothes. Like buttah. The fact that he lost to Chloe Dao is a total travesty. Then, last season, I was all about asshole extraordinaire Jeffrey Sebelia, who, despite an unfortunate neck tattoo and allegations of cheating, won.

It's a little early to lock in a favorite contestant, but so far, I'm leaning heavily toward Christian Siriano. His sculpted, asymmetric hair is a little emo for my tastes, and I'm not sure how I feel about the fact that we wear very similar glasses, but he had me at "I sleep on the floor at home. I'd rather buy clothes than a bed." Because I totally slept on a futon for almost two years until my parents broke down and bought me a real bed. Mattresses are mad expensive, yo...you can buy some serious apparel with that kind of bank! Everyone keeps describing his aesthetic as being shades of Alexander McQueen and Vivienne Westwood...or, I suppose, an emo version thereof, because he certainly isn't very punk rock. (Of course, I'd argue that in this day and age, the only way to really be punk rock would be to dress in Polo Ralph Lauren and register as a Republican. I mean, really, what are we rebelling against in 2007? Good taste? Judging from some of the hipster getups I've seen recently, yes, we are. When I wear vintage, I look like trouble. When some people wear vintage, they look like the Dollar-a-Pound bins at the Garment District threw up on them. Your clothes are not ironic; it's just ironic that you think you look ironic when you actually look like a cross between the Urban Outfitters bargain basement and Mugatu's Derelicte campaign. I'm such a bitch. I cultivate it and will happily announce it to the world. You know you dig it. And man, do I love to digress or what?)

Anyway. What I was about to say when I was rudely interrupted by my rambling internal monologue - you have no idea what it's like to live with that thing, by the by - is that I see shades of Marc Jacobs. For reals. And we all know how I feel about Marc Jacobs. (Who, incidentally, has apparently just tapped Victoria Beckham to star in his new ad campaign, which is sort of weird and incongruous but makes me indescribably happy because I personally am forever torn between the desire to look effortlessly cool a la Marc or to be tarted up and painted-by-number a la Posh Spice, and I feel like this could potentially facilitate a joyous marriage of or at least some sort of harmony or symbiosis between my oil and water-esque fashion urges. Also, it bears mentioning that my fantasy alter-ego has VB's coif, which was perhaps best described by the Fug Girls as her asymmetrical salute to Simon LeBon, even if in real actual life I will probably never have the ovaries to get it - oh my God, shut UP stupid stream of consciousness!) ANYWAY. Everyone else is making simple little dresses while he is turning out beautiful, rigorously constructed jackets and multiple pieces. Bringing his A game.

But...that brings me to the reason that last week's episode made me angry. It was a competition to make a two-piece outfit that would potentially be sold in Sarah Jessica Parker's Bitten line for Steve and Barry's, which meant two things: it had to look good on a wide variety of body types, all the way from a size two up to a - gasp! - 16, and it had to retail for under $40, which meant that the materials budget was $15. The outfit that won was a tent dress topped with a vest. Now, let's talk about tent dresses and who they look good on. Picture, if you will, a Venn diagram. Circle A is women who are taller than 5'9". Circle B is women who have body mass indices of less than 20. The overlapping area encompasses all of the women in the universe who look good in tent dresses. I happen to be one, and I think that I speak for all of us when I say that we are over looking like we're trying to hide a pregnancy. It was a good silhouette for us for about five minutes - in the summer, when it's hot out, a babydoll is airy and comfortable. But there is just no need to perpetuate this madness. My body is slammin'; I don't want to hide it beneath billows of fabric...and if my body wasn't slammin', I would just look like a sack of potatoes. This is the exact problem I have with Erin Fetherston's new collection at Target. I am a grown woman with a waist and hips and I have no desire to look like the fruit of a torrid affair between a little French schoolgirl and a cream puff. God!

The winner was so obviously not chosen based on the design that was most flattering to the widest cross-section of women, it was based on the design that required the least in the way of construction and could be sewn most easily and efficiently by nine year olds in Ecuador. And the open vest over it? No. I'm fond of vests. I'm wearing a tuxedo vest at the very moment (over a tee shirt, thereby making a hypocrite out of myself after I went on yesterday about Miss Tina Fashion's simultaneously long-sleeved and halter-topped dress, but really, how else do you wear a tuxedo vest except maybe with a tuxedo or to holiday parties all by its lonesome - SHUT UP RENEE - like a seriously boss halter top made out of menswear) but I would not wear it open over an unattractively voluminous abomination of a dress. Me-ow.

THEN. Christian was in the bottom two! Granted, his turtleneck dress was nothing revolutionary and made even the model look a little chub, but what the judges took issue with was his zip-front jacket, which they said was much too 80s and very Addicted to Love. I will admit that it did have a certain air of Hungry Like the Wolf-era Duran Duran about it, but in the best possible way, all graphic and structured and delightful. They also said it would not flatter most women. Which, okay, true. But neither does a dress containing the same approximate yardage of material as a king size bedspread! My personal belief is that they simply realized that Ecuadorian nine year olds simply could not adhere to such a standard of tailoring. But that jacket, with a black wifebeater, jeans, and my black BCBG stilettos, the ones with the cutouts on the top of the foot? The stuff of fantasies. Well, my fantasies anyway.

Also, I'd like to point out that even though the challenge was to design for the hoi polloi, what designer aspires to create boring, mass-market clothing? I don't see how you can fault a guy like Christian for wanting to make something stunning rather than something bland even if it allegedly won't have such broad appeal. Which I refuse to believe anyway considering the fact that some of the GO! collections at Target have been fairly directional and fashion-y and they've certainly sold. Maybe Michael Kors was just jealous that other people are able to create interesting garments at low price points while his diffusion line is total late-in-life soccer mom and rigged the voting accordingly. (Oh, and while we're on the subject of the King of Jet-Set American Fashion, watch him on one episode and tell me that Will Farrell did not base Mugatu on him. The voice, the aggressively fake tan...everything but the hair. Try to envision him yelling "Oh,I'm sorry, did my pin get in the way of your ass? Do me a favor and lose five pounds immediately or get out of my building like now!" at a post-baby Heidi Klum. You know I'm right.)

Anyway, here's hoping that tonight's episode will give me more to rant about. Because I love me some ranting, that's for sure...

Miss Tina Fashion

2007-11-27T21:15:00.002-05:00

I don't know what's up with me and train-wreck television today.

First I got suckered into some Toby Keith holiday concert special on CMT. It was because Jewel was his special celebrity guest, and I'm continually fascinated by the fact that she always sounds like an SNL player trying to impersonate her. Like there's a yodel trying to work its way out. Ridiculous.

Then I was scrolling through the guide and saw something on the Home Shopping Network called "Tina Fashion," and was immediately intrigued at the prospect of somebody actually being named Tina Fashion. Almost as awesome as someone being named Tina Sparkle. Or Robin Sparkles. Any of the above. Anyway, Tina of Tina Fashion is Tina Knowles, as in she who gave birth to Beyonce. And if HSN were not unintentionally comedic enough on its own, when coupled with Tina Knowles shilling her line of cheap, blinged out garments and accessories, it's pure gold. I could have watched that shit for hours.

Apparently, in Knowles-land, it would be unforgivable to design one accessory without an assortment of matching accessories to be worn along with it. And these are not basic accessories. My personal favorite was the tall leather boot with a metallic gold heel and gold plates grommeted in a vertical line up the calf, which had a coordinating gold plate covered belt and purse. If this in black leather is not quite flashy enough for your taste, not to worry: it comes in metallic gold leather as well. That's right, gold on gold. Another favorite accessory was a extremely wide black patent leather belt with three golden chains attached to it. Like the love child of a corset and a wallet chain. Hot Topic gone luxe.

The clothes were less insane, although I was rather taken with one dress that was somehow long sleeved and halter topped at the same time, and came in six colors, all of which had dyed-to-match shoes available. Because nothing says class like a frock with a schizophrenic neckline and dyed-to-match shoes. There was another tube dress with this giant glittering detachable necklace as well as a matching shrug. Apparently the theme of the collection was indecision in the collarbone/decollete area. And everything, everything, everything was ruched. And they kept talking about it as though it were some shocking new development in fashion, this ruching. Cleverly gathered fabric used to accent the curves of the body? Surely not!

The craziest part was that they were a lot of money for clothes that looked so cheap! I mean, you could walk into your local Rave and find items along very much the same lines. Actually, come to think of it, it reminded me of Bebe or Arden B. for the middle aged crowd - poorly made, incongruously expensive, trying-too-hard-to-be-sexy, and excessively trendy. No me gusta nada.

As Jess said, "It's not like she'd reinventing the wheel."

To which I added, "No...she's just bedazzling it."

Also, I just watched Nip/Tuck and I must say I am sort of growing to admire Eden's stone-cold bitchery. In a perverse sort of way. I mean, it would require a seriously psychotic level of self-confidence and entitlement, which I lack, and she's truly a nut job...but damn, it would be useful to be so manipulative.

Kittens!

2007-11-23T21:14:00.002-05:00

I hope that everyone who happens upon my humble blog has had a lovely Thanksgiving.

Mine was just fine, if uneventful. Thanksgiving is not my favorite holiday, mostly because I am not especially enamored of traditional Thanksgiving food. Turkey? Eh. As long as it's not fried, that is. Stuffing? I can take it or leave it. Mashed potatoes? No thank you. The only dish I muster a great deal of enthusiasm for is the pecan pie, or, more specifically, the sugary sweet praline filling between the pecans and the crust. Delicious. However, the holiday is an excuse for drinking at normally off-limits times of the day, and so I started my day off with a couple of big mugs of coffee spiked with amaretto before moving on to red wine midmorning. (Of course, how good it actually was is negotiable, because my mother does not listen to reason in the you-get-what-you-pay-for-where-alcohol-is-concerned department and so it was not DiSaronno but some random brand that cost a grand total of $2.99 after the mail-in rebate. Class class class.)

We had Thanksgiving dinner at my grandparents' house, which is approximately 50 feet, no joke, from my parents' house. I spent the better part of the day trying to trick wild kittens into captivity. Let me explain: when I say that I am from the boondocks, I mean it quite literally. Our backyard is the woods. Live deer often visit, and there is a widespread rumor that a large brown bear has been marauding through the neighborhood. My grandparents have an assortment of sheds in their backyard where they store items such as boats and wheelbarrows and tractors and my old Power Wheels pickup trick. In one of these sheds, there lives a family of wild cats. Not wild cats as in vicious pumas or ligers or anything, but normal adorable cats that just happen to be feral. The strange part is that they all bear a striking resemblance to our cat Thomas, leading me to suspect that perhaps he was not adequately neutered and is now on a mission to multiply the cat population of Keene, NH exponentially. However, this theory was functionally disproven when I saw the mother cat, which is as big as your average cocker spaniel and has markings to suggest that it could be half zebra. I asked my cousin Mike, who has a degree in wildlife management, what types of animals could mate with cats, to which he replied, "other cats." But regardless, whatever its provenance, that cat is at least four times the size of Thomas. There's just no way.

Anyway. There are kittens. Of a variety of kitten ages. Specifically, there are two very small kittens, one black and one gray, and I want one. My grandmother has been putting out kitten chow for them to eat, and they've become adorably fat and spoiled and now will perch on her back porch and wait to be fed. They're too young to be stuck in their wild ways, and they've gotten used to humans, so they'd make perfectly good pets. I'd have to take them for shots, but all kittens need shots, not just ones that have been found in the woods, and a free kitten is infinitely better than one that's been paid for. Not to mention I'd feel a sense of accomplishment at knowing that, thanks to my wiles and quick reflexes, I'd caught my very own cat.

I had a plan. I cut up some turkey into little teeny tiny kitten-friendly bits and put it in a dish. I figured if they ate enough of the turkey, the tryptophan would kick in and they would pass out in an exhausted, furry pile on the indoor/outdoor carpeting, thereby enabling me to tiptoe outside and select the one of my choice, or both if I so pleased.

I probably don't have to tell you what happened next. It didn't work. Maybe kittens are immune to the drowsifying effects of tryptophan. Maybe the cream that I also gave them in a Tupperware saucer coated their little tummies and prevented its absorption. In any case, I remain hopeful that between now and Christmas, I will come up with a foolproof kitten-catching strategy. They are SO cute, there are not even words to describe their preciousness.

In other news, the physician's assistant I saw Wednesday gave me a cortisone shot, which is a potent anti-inflammatory, in an effort to get my sciatic nerve to chill the eff out. Which leaves me to wonder, why didn't the doctor suggest that two weeks ago? It may or may not be working. I haven't decided yet. Either way, my right deltoid is killing me, because they have to shove a giant needle deep into the muscle tissue so that the cortisone will be absorbed properly. It was less than enjoyable. I'm looking forward to getting back to my place, where I have a comfortable bed that doesn't cause me severe muscle spasms every time i lie in it for more than four hours so that I can make an educated decision as to my comfort level. If it doesn't work, the PA also prescribed me about triple the amount of Vicodin that the doctor did. Party on.

My office building is cursed

2007-11-16T21:13:00.002-05:00

Two years ago, a water main burst across the street (or so I'm told...I was not working there at the time), flooding the lobby and forcing the building to close for several days.

Then, last year, as some of you who know me well may recall, it rather inconveiently caught fire, and we were all forced to escape through stairwells filled with thick, acrid black smoke. Fifteen stories. Well, those of us who didn't have to break a window and climb out onto the roof of the parking garage before being rescued by a some firemen with a very tall ladder. It was a highly stressful experience for all involved, and I don't think anyone was especially upset when the building remained closed for more than two months.

This morning, I arrived in the lobby, trying in vain to close my umbrella without splashing espresso onto my Marc Jacobs peacoat or dropping my iPod onto the floor, only to be pulled aside by one of the security guys, who breathlessly asked, "Did you check your email yet this morning?" Rather a silly question, I think, considering I can't come up with any reason why I'd check my email outside of the office unless for some reason I wasn't going into the office, which I obviously was given that I was there. My first thought was, 'oh no, I've been fired for some obscure breach of the terms of my employment and security has been instructed not to let me upstairs.' I scanned through a quick mental laundry list of potential indiscretions - I use a proxy server to access blocked websites, I occasionally call my mom long-distance on my work phone, I've been writing a book on company time, I sometimes lock myself in the marketing closet and do yoga. Nothing so bad.

"No." I replied as my hot beverage dribbled onto the tender skin betwen my thumb and forefinger, burning me mildly in the process.

"Oh. Well. A water main broke on the 17th floor and the damage goes all the way down to 13. So just call us if you have any problems." He smiled conciliatorially.

Wonderful. Yesterday, I didn't even know that there was a 17th floor, and today not only does it exist but it features a malfunctioning water main. I took the elevator up to 15, where I sit, and was instantaneously greeted by a smell that could best be described as a combination of musty basement and swamp. Delightful. The damage was confined to one side of the building, which naturally happened to be my side, but the waterlogged portion of carpet stopped just short of my cubicle so I suppose I can count myself among the unaffected, although I'm not sure my respiratory system would agree.

All in all, only three offices were damaged. However - and, I think, somewhat hilariously - they were the offices of the CEO, the CIO, and the COO. All of whom are normally only in the office a week or two each month; all of whom concidentally happened to be in the office this week. But my amusement at the irony of the sitation was cut short when I realized that the executive assistant had taken a personal day, and, because I am for some reason the human resource of choice for C-level executives when their assistant is out despite the fact that I no longer fall under the category of administrative staff, I got the distinct pleasure of moving all the industry awards and desk accoutrements and 25-pound bronze statues of Shiva the Hindu god of destruction into an empty cube so the place could be fumigated. Buckets of fun, let me tell you.

All day long, I kept wanting to make a joke about how the building must be built on an ancient Indian burial ground, but in my office, that joke would only be met by blank stares of "quoi?" Or whatever quoi's equivalent is in Hindi.

Thank God it's Friday.

Everything it seems I like’s a little bit stronger, a little bit thicker, a little bit harmful for me

2007-11-13T15:43:00.002-05:00

The other day I was reading an article on smoking cessation in Allure, and it talked about how if, on average, a pack-a-day smoker spent $4.50 per day on cigarettes, that expenditure would amount to more than $1600 annually. At first, I was rather pleased with myself for not finding cigarettes even remotely addictive. Which is actually sort of weird considering I find just about everything else in the universe addictive. Apple cider mimosas, grilled cheese sandwiches, Nip/Tuck, and the chiropractor are recent examples. I have, to put it mildly, an addictive personality. I'm not capable of liking anything a normal amount. I either am completely enamored of something for a negotiable but almost always finite period of time, or I am indifferent to it. Perhaps, knowing that my addictions are overwhelmingly cyclical, it's just that the cycle of addiction for cigarettes is unusually short. I get drunk, I chain-smoke three or four of them, and I'm done for two months. The added bonus here is that generally when this occurs, the person who actually bought the cigarettes does find them addictive and forces me to keep them once we are done, so my annual cigarette expenditure is a big fat zero.

Then it occurred to me that just because I do not indulge in one expensive vice does not mean that I don't have other, equally expensive vices. For instance, I like coffee. Maybe you've noticed. This is one addiction that seems to be enduring and indeed intensifying through time. I started drinking coffee here and there as a teen in a futile attempt to stunt my growth. Once I got to college and was confronted with a Starbucks every seven feet or so, it was like a snowball effect, and it reached a fever pitch when I discovered that caffeine is an extremely effective way to manage ADD when Strattera causes severe nausea. These days, I start my day at home with a big mug of the darkest roast I can find at the supermarket. I follow that with a Venti Americano from Starbucks. I used to eschew the coffee at my office, but a few weeks ago we got a very fancy new machine that allows you to select how many ounces of water you'd like it to filter through your little K-cup, effectively allowing you to be nitpicky about strength, so I've taken to brewing a four-ounce cup and a six-ounce cup into the same mug. Then I start in on the Diet Coke. And then there are weekends: while I still start out with a mug or two at home, if I'm out shopping or wandering or doing anything that lacks structure, I'll easily go through two or three large Americanos from various cafes while I'm out. And those cafes do not ever include the relatively cheap Dunkin' Donuts; the only item from that wretched chain that will ever pass my lips is their pumpkin muffin, although even that is unlikely now that they've begun haphazardly splattering questionable bright orange frosting across the top, like they've let Jackson Pollack loose in the kitchen with a supply of festively tinted royal icing.

I'm not exceptionally sensitive to all the caffeine. That's probably thanks to the aforementioned ADD. It focuses me instead of making me manic. I'd have to drink a lot more than I do (which I'd imagine is a lot to begin with) to start shaking or get a headache. It's not the consumption that's the issue. It's the cost. Say I pick up ten cafe drinks per week. The cost varies at the Starbucks near my work, because sometimes they charge me the regular price and sometimes they charge me for a doppio espresso and sometimes they don't charge me at all. Then on weekends I usually go to Diesel or Sherman Cafe or whatever independent cafe I happen to be near. So if, roughly, I'm paying $2.75 per, and I'm spending about $10 a month on coffee to brew at home, that works out to more than $1500 a year on coffee. That's ridiculous.

If I quit coffee and set aside what I would otherwise spend on it, I could buy the status bag of my choice and have some left over.

Of course, often the coffee is taking the place of breakfast or, on weekends, lunch. So when you factor in the fact that I'm not spending all that hard-earned cash on food, it really evens out. There, I feel better. Breakfast is the most important meal of the day, so if I want an Americano for breakfast, I ought to have one!

While we're on the subject of addiction, let me just say that one thing I do not find addictive, or even especially effective, is Vicodin. My doctor, horrified at my admission that I was averaging 5000 milligrams of ibuprofen a day, prescribed it to me for what has now been confirmed as sciatica. She advised me to take it in the evenings to help me sleep, and to keep the ibuprofen to a more reasonable 3000 milligrams per day. Here's the problem with that course of medication: sleeping is not the problem. Sitting in an allegedly ergonomic yet still massively uncomfortable chair all day is the problem. Thanks to the ADD, the Vicodin does not make me drowsy or out of it in the least, so I've been taking it once in the morning and once in the early afternoon, accompanied by five Advil, and then just the Advil at night. But...I guess it's making some difference, because the pain is manageable as opposed to so acute that it makes me want to scream. But it's not what I had imagined. I mean, I've read so many stories about people getting so addicted to painkillers that they have to go to rehab, and I'm like, really? I don't know, maybe my body is just like, "Opiods? Eh." Guess I don't need to bother with heroin now.

Also on the subject of addiction, the fact that my injury is sciatica and thus does not have a firm timeline of when I can expect it to improve means that I am resigned to an indefinite stint in exclusively flat footwear. Prior to all this, I owned a grand total of one pair of cold weather-appropriate flat shoes, which were elasticized all the way around and cut into my sciatic nerve at the ankle, thus rendering them not an option. So this has allowed me to develop a new, hopefully temporary addiction: flats. So far there has been a pair of knee high boots, a snazzy new pair of Chuck Taylors, and four pairs of variously dressy and casual flats. I'm not happy about it, but if I must avoid heels for the foreseeable future, I might as well do it as stylishly as possible. And it isn't so bad, really. I only cried in one shoe store, and when Marshall's had the single pair of shoes I was coveting for fall on clearance in my size (black patent leather shoe-boots with a leopard print cuff and a four-inch stiletto, sigh) I wisely left them on the rack, thereby saving myself $49. Still, that doesn't mean I won't occasionally be found staring longingly at my shoe rack, anxiously awaiting the day when I will stop having acute pain radiating down my entire right leg. This is getting really depressing. My mom always tells me to laugh, because if you don't laugh you'll cry. But you can only laugh so much, and I would really like to be able to spend my evenings comfortably doing something besides laying in bed with a book and a heating pad. Ugh.

It's that time of year again

2007-11-07T15:42:00.002-05:00

For me, the holiday season officially begins the day that Starbucks replaces their usual white coffee cups with seasonal red ones. There are few things that put me in a better mood than the first glimpse of that festively colored cardboard as I step into the coffee shop for my daily Americano. I consider it license to start fantasizing about snowy Sunday afternoons spent baking batch upon batch of cleverly conceived cookies, hand-stamping and liberally be-glittering Christmas cards that I've designed myself, and engaging in an assortment of Martha-approved, holiday-themed craft endeavors, all while listening to Mariah Carey's Christmas album on a loop. Or, my idea of heaven. So imagine my elation when I limped into Starbucks this morning and saw those resplendent cups perched enticingly on the ledge next to the espresso machine, singing me their irresistible siren song. Which sounded a little something like O Holy Night.

If there's one thing I've inherited from my mother, it's her obsessive love of all things Thanksgiving through New Year's. Of course, there are a few key differences. I draw the line at seasonally-inspired sportswear (the last time I checked, Vogue was not advancing the cause of candy cane-printed turtlenecks and tunic sweaters with Christmas tree appliqués and real jingle bells). I do not force all domesticated animals in my presence to wear reindeer antler headbands and holly-themed neckerchiefs. And, where holiday music is concerned, I draw an indelible line at Kenny G. I do not celebrate Michael Bolton's entire catalogue. There's just no reason for that.

Meanwhile, she is considerably less Nazi-like about the season, and does not consider it a personal failure to entertain with frozen vegetables or refrigerated pie crust. I openly admit that I can be a little hardcore. It's a good thing. I have very high standards, and I like to be in charge to ensure that other people are adhering to them. As such, when I am executive chef, you are guaranteed a carefully planned, often themed, usually elaborate meal. After all, nothing's worth doing that isn't worth doing in style. But it can get a little high stress - on occasion, I've been made to have a drink and chill the eff out. That's just how I roll.

But where Thanksgiving with my family is concerned, not only am I not the boss, I barely even get a vote. For years now - literally, years - my brothers, father and I have been campaigning for a fried turkey instead of the usual roasted. If you've ever had fried turkey, then you understand why it's deliciousness has been scientifically proven to exceed that of roasted turkey a minimum of sevenfold. Here's why: before you fry the turkey, you inject it with a syringe full of marinade, rendering it extremely flavorful. The significantly reduced cooking time leaves the interior of the bird incredibly moist, and the hot oil crisps the skin far better than hot air ever could. I realize that deep-frying a turkey that has recently been forcibly freebasing garlic butter is a little bit redneck, but let's call a spade a spade. If, in order to get to the dining room where dinner is being served, your guests must walk through a garage where a recently deceased buck is strung up by its hind legs, exsanguinating into a bucket, you are a redneck. Accept it and fry the damn bird already.

Similar futile battles have been waged over a variety of other dishes. For instance, what on earth is the point of stuffing the turkey when it is a universally accepted fact that the crunchy burnt part of the stuffing is infinitely tastier than the soggy under-layer? And why would you ever put butter on the adults' table but margarine on the kids' table? Do you think we can't tell the difference between the deliciously creamy-sweet-salty dairy treat and the unappealing combination of reconstituted vegetable oil and yellow food coloring? And why, after decades of trial and error, hasn't anyone in my family ever managed to take a damn pecan pie out of the oven before it the crust got burnt and the praline over-caramelized to an unappealing shade of off-black?

At this point, I've learned to pick the battles I can win - last year, my case was convincing enough to turn Christmas Eve dinner from ham (blech, pork that isn't bacon) into a buffet of globally-inspired hors d'ouevres including a charcuterie platter, Tuscan bean dip with crostini, and Jamaican jerk chicken skewers all courtesy of yours truly, because most of my family's idea of an appetizer spread involves Port Wine Wispride, beef stick, and Ritz crackers. So I just shut my mouth, mix up a pitcher of sangria that's light on the juice and heavy on the brandy, and whisk the roux for the gravy because if I don't, it'll be all lumps.

Anyway, despite these minor details, this season is still my very favorite time of year and I am so excited that it is here, not only because it is festive and reminds me of all sorts of wonderful memories from my childhood, but also because it enables me to wear cozy sweaters, live on a diet consisting mainly of variations on soup and grilled cheese sandwiches, and shop until I drop without any guilt because I'm shopping for other people. Having worked retail for so many years you'd think I'd be jaded. But with a few exceptions, I think that people genuinely exhibit more peace and love and generosity and all sorts of other warm fuzzies during the holidays. And every time I see one of those red cups, it makes me smile at the thought of all that good will.

I'm really looking forward to a weekend free of weddings

2007-11-02T15:41:00.002-04:00

It isn't that I don't like weddings. Actually, it's quite the opposite. I'm totally a fan. Think about it: a wedding basically consists of all of my favorite things rolled into one great big fancy champagne-soaked package. First, semi-formal attire is required. So not only am I given an excuse to wear a slinky cocktail dress and the type of high-heeled shoes that I once, while admiring the Louboutin selection at Neiman Marcus, heard a mother describe to her daughter as shoes that "will totally get you laid," but I am enabled to go out and buy new ones because wearing boring old things will obviously bring bad luck upon the blessed union. Second, celebratory drinking is encouraged. Third, there is cake. Fourth, there is dancing. Fifth, people I haven't seen since I was 12, fat, and generally tragic-looking ooh and aah effusively about how lovely I've become. It's a healthy ego boost. Plus, I'm all for eternal love and devotion...for other people. Good for them! If we were all neurotic and commitment-shy like me, humans would have been extinct millenia ago!

(Actually, I think that I'm mostly just obnoxiously choosy. I read something yesterday that talked about how men are afraid of commitment in general, while women are afraid of commitment to the wrong person. Which makes perfect sense when you think about it. Because I like the idea of commitment in theory; it's just that I have a hard time accepting the fact that my soul mate might think Coldplay is the height of musical innovation, or tell inappropriate stories about necrophilia in mixed company, or be a hot prospect for an MLB team that isn't the Red Sox, or be under six feet tall, or an actual real-life drug dealer, or far too enthusiastic about mutual funds. All of which have been causes for dismissal in the past. But this is not the point I'm trying to make.)

Weddings, delightful though they are, are a bit of a drain on the resources. You have to buy a multitude of gifts - shower gifts and wedding gifts. Gifts are costly. Also, I'm sort of opposed to the concept of a gift registry on principle. My mother maintains that they prevent people from giving you duplicates and/or crap that you don't want, but I say that's life. I get crap I don't want on a variety of gift-giving occasions, but you don't see me registering my Christmas list at Macy's. So I have a policy of giving cookbooks. Because if you don't cook, you should. I would give Martha Stewart's Homekeeping Handbook, but despite it's unmatched practicality, it would sort of make me look like a passive-aggressive bitch.

Then, there are a lot of incidentals. Particularly when you are a member of the wedding party. There's the dress, which is never under $150, and almost certainly too prom-like to ever be worn again. There are the shoes, often dyed-to-match, but in the case of Bethann's wedding, in any variation on silver. I took mine out of my bag when we were getting ready and Bethann said appraisingly, "Wow, those are definitely Renee shoes!" What does that even mean? That they're tall and fashionable? As opposed to everyone else's boring, conventional low-heeled shoes? God. Anyway, then you have to get your hair done, in this case at Salon Capri in Newton, which, because it is the chichi salon where all the news anchors go (although I don't know why that is a plus...maybe because at a wedding, hair that can withstand high winds and torrential downpours is preferred), can get away with charging $65 for an updo. Oh, and then in this specific case, there was also a cab ride from Somerville to Newton - I won't tell you how much it cost because it was obscene, but suffice it to say that I could have flown to most cities on the East Coast for less.

Whining about finances aside, both weddings were lovely. I was in a monumentally bad mood on the way to Meghan's due to a sore back that was being exacerbated by my too-high heels (too high for my sore back, not too high in general, for is there any such thing?), bad weather, and the fact that it required me to drive a car on a highway in traffic. My disposition was brightened only slightly when a DSW magically appeared on the side of the road and I was able to buy not only the aforementioned silver shoes, which in addition to meeting Bethann's wedding shoe requirements were less high than those I had on and rather fetching with that evening's Valentino (you know I'm a classy broad, and classy broads don't buy their semi-formal attire at JCPenney), but also a pair of sassy purple suede and black patent leather spectator pumps. And I wonder why I never have any money. I wasn't planning on staying late. After all, I had to drive, and I have difficulty not drinking when there is free alcohol to be had. I should have brought a date/chauffeur, but I didn't want to babysit all night. Sometimes, dates cramp my style, and besides, weddings are noted hotbeds for singles. Case in point: the best man somehow acquired my number and has now taken to calling me, from Florida, just to chat, at extremely inconvenient times. Anyway, it seems I have this chronic inability to leave a dance floor as long as there is music playing, and so I wound up staying through the last song. And perhaps drinking more of that free alcohol than I should have. But, while I was probably just a smidgen over the legal limit, the recognition of that fact resulted in much better driving on my part out sheer paranoia. The proof is in the amount of time it took me to park compared to the previous evening - 10 minutes versus 27.

Then, there was Bethann's wedding. I wish I could say that I was an exemplary maid of honor. She seemed to think I did just fine, but maybe I just hold myself to an extremely high standard, because I thought I was a disappointment, for a few reasons.

First, I was unable to straighten her train to my satisfaction during the ceremony because my dress had a vise-like grip on my torso and every time I crouched down it slipped just a little further south and stayed there, rendering me terrified that I might accidentally wind up flashing God, Father John, and the whole congregation. Thankfully, I was overestimating the relative size-of-dress to size-of-thorax ratio, and ultimately a nip slip was not a physical possibility.

Then, during the pre-introduction cocktail hour, I dropped a cracker loaded high with cheese spread down my dress, leaving a trail of creamy gorgonzola down my skirt, and proceeded to lament at high volume about how I should never have left my Tide pen in the room before sending some poor waiter off on a club soda-seeking mission. Also during the pre-introduction cocktail hour, her sister-in-law Rachel and I singlehandedly (doublehandedly?) polished off two entire bottles of Freixenet, and I either impressed or horrified all present parties with my champagne (cava?) bottle opening abilities because I was too impatient to wait for the bartender.

The best man and I did manage to refrain from having a walk-off during our introduction (although we practiced our best Blue Steels in the hallway), so that was probably good. But then my mother, who is a horrible influence, practically force-fed me the wine that she had been hoarding (okay, no one would ever have to force-feed me wine), and once the open bar closed post-cocktail hour, not only did Bethann's dad continue to buy me drinks, but the bartender decided that I shouldn't have to pay and poured me a Kahlua gratis. It was apparently Let's-Get-the-Maid-of-Honor-Drunk Day. Granted, I was still soberer than many others there, as evidenced when, at the end of the night, Bethann's mother of all people convinced me to CRASH THE WEDDING NEXT DOOR with her. Seriously, I am trouble sometimes, and extremely susceptible to peer (elder?) pressure.

I was pretty bummed that I didn't get to give a toast, though, since I had a fabulous one brewing - did you know that the first time I ever remember meeting Bethann, she was also wearing a white dress in a church? It was our First Communion. And she wouldn't let me sit next to her. For a long time, the story was that it was because she was feeling snobbish about her frilly socks, whereas I had much less fashionable white tights, and so she was too cool for the likes of me. But then one day it occurred to us to look at a picture of the occasion, whereupon our theory was proven wrong by the photographic evidence that Bethann was indeed also wearing white tights. Anyway, I was spinning that into an adorable, charming speech (true fact: I am possibly the best toast-giver ever in history; ask anyone who has witnessed one because they are magical and/or wonderfully saucy, whichever the event warrants) when I was informed that only the best man would be speaking. Hmmph. Oh well.

So now, it is safe to say that I am weddinged out. Which actually is a good thing, because for a period of time I was all depressed that people my age were getting married while I was in a state of romantic arrested development. Now everything is back in perspective. I'm happy for you all, but I need a few years yet. I'm much too young and reckless and selfish to be somebody's wife.

Now if I could just figure out another way to get people to buy me obscure kitchen appliances like deep fryers and pasta makers and bread machines...

Man, I'm tired of singing

2007-10-31T15:41:00.002-04:00

First, Happy Halloween.

Second, I could not possibly be more elated by my recent discovery that Fine Living re-airs The Martha Stewart Show each day at 8pm. My life just improved immeasurably. Tonight's inaugural Martha-inspired project: apple cider cocktails. Now that is a Good Thing.

Third, I know no one wants to listen to me whine about my back anymore, but just to put it in perspective: at this point, my back is so tight that after five visits to the chiropractor and two weeks of therapy, the doctor still can't adjust it. But the best part is this: my x-rays have shown that my problem is entirely muscular, and - surprise surprise - largely attributable to my predilection for four-inch stilettos.

Call me vain or call me foolish, but I will have surgery before I will give up the shoes. It's bad enough having to wear flats while my back is out. I actually wore sneakers yesterday. I kept looking down at my feet and feeling defeated. It was awful.

Finally, another memo to Britney:

Honey, you really need to clean your act up so that I can buy your new album in good conscience. I've been streaming it on a loop for the past two days and I am not kidding when I say it may be your best yet. I still haven't decided whether that's surprising or not, but either way, it restores my faith in you even though you seem to be on a quest to erode it completely. Regardless, the Britney Spears portion of my CD collection is going to remain incomplete until you realize that nonstop partying, recreational drug use, and erratic driving is not behavior befitting a mother. I mean, while I would also in theory be more than happy to give Tony Romo a lap dance in a crowded club, in practice I realize that it would constitute bad decision-making. (And nobody loves a professional athlete more than I do. Except maybe Alyssa Milano. But I digress.)

(Also, I downloaded the whole shebang on LimeWire. You know, in protest. Because why should I suffer for your idiocy? But the version of the song Piece of Me - which is the best song on the album, incidentally - that I downloaded is one of the early, low-quality leaks. I would have deleted it, but midway through the first listen I realized that the guy who ripped it also managed to record a completely ridiculous, uber-gay commentary over the music. At one point, he lisps, "This song is almost as hot as me." It is SO FUNNY. So I kept it. You simply must hear it.)

Actually, the fact that both Britney Spears and the Backstreet Boys had new albums out yesterday makes me wonder, what year is it again? Can I look forward to a PYT reunion sometime soon? What about Innosense? We've got all the makings of a TransContinental Entertainment renaissance, really. Even Johnny Wright has that Making Menudo show on MTV. And Lou Pearlman has been all up in the news recently for, um, swindling senior citizens out of their life savings. Or was it child molestation? Oh,wait. It was both. Okay, so maybe Lou Pearlman won't be having a renaissance. But really, do the members of Boyz 'N' Girlz United have anything better to do than reunite? I always rather enjoyed their cover of Atlantic Starr's Always. I bet at least three other people on the continent did too.

Not to mention, I personally would be quite amenable to filling in for missing members of any of the above. I can totally sing. I can sort of dance - I was once quite the modern dancer, performing a variety of interpretive parts including but not limited to whale, water nymph, great lover of trees (with live tree), parrot (with realistic papier-mache head), and astronomer. Copernicus, as I recall. And I like to think I've got at least a few years of Maxim-cover foxiness left in me. Thing is, I don't really know how much longer I can swing this whole nine-to-five gainful employment thing. I mean, it was fun playing grown-up for a while. But now it's just...ick.

It's kind of like when I decided at the beginning of junior year that I was was so over high school, and started skipping my campus period, doing as little of my homework as humanly possible, and - gasp - refusing to take a laboratory science. In lieu of recording my assignments in my planner, I recorded my outfits, lest I accidentally repeat one. Best of all, I started carrying a box of crayons and a Barbie coloring book and began blatantly coloring through my classes rather than taking notes. In retrospect, was the weirdest, least effective rebellion ever, although it did amusingly result in my Humanities teacher, who disliked me for never paying attention in class and comparing Gilgamesh to Fabio, curtly informing me that I was "wasting a brilliant mind." Lucky for me, even without engaging in a single one of the usual conventions of study, I managed to be a National Merit Scholarship semifinalist, get a 1400 on my SATs, ace multiple AP and honors courses, and get a major scholarship to a great college. Obnoxious, huh?

Anyway, now the coloring habit has been replaced with fashion magazines, the constant note-passing with g-chat, the Backstreet Boys fan fiction with legitimate creative writing (did I seriously just admit to that?), and the school skipping with 90-minute "lunches" at the mall. But the end result is the same: I do my job damn well with the barest minimum of effort and spend the rest of my day fighting abject boredom.

Bottom line, I really can't do this forever or I will go crazy.

Somebody had better give me a record deal before I'm forced to audition for season three of The Search for the Next Pussycat Doll.

Mr. Ray Allen, or, what I do all day

2007-10-22T15:39:00.002-04:00

me: so you saw them celebrating and everything? that's so cool
it must suck to be a cleveland fan today
Jessica: hahaha
so my goal is to get janine world series tickets
me: oh yeah!
Jessica: CO tickets go on sale at noon
me: it's a damico family series
Jessica: no kidding
me: almost as good as a subway series
Jessica: all they need is Ray Allen to pinch run and then we'd all be watching
me: featuring the dodgers
i know!!!!
maybe he'll sing the national anthem one night
throw out the first pitch
assist the athletic trainers
he's a jack of all trades, that ray allen
Jessica: I hear he invented baseball AND basketball
and advised Tom Brady to give up a career in environmental law to try football professionally
me: lmao
i heard he's the contestant to beat on the new season of project runway
Jessica: HAHA
before or after he wins the Cy Young?
me: i think that'll be announced before
another feather in his cap
Jessica: a cap that he hand crafted
me: and feather from a bird that he nursed back to health
after it had been run over by allen iverson's purple cadillac
Jessica: he nursed it back to health while aboard Latrell Sprewell's yacht
me: milwaukee's best!
but did you know that he built latrell sprewell's yacht? apparently he's quite a noted shipbuilder
Jessica: he built John Mayer's cruise ship too
me: and he taught him everything he knows about head butting
the mayer craft carrier! yes!
Jessica: and apparently "your body is a wonderland" is about Ray Allen
me: indeed it is
actually, ray will be one of john's special musician friends as well
as it turns out, he dabbles as a jazz flautist
Jessica: yes, I believe he played for Jethro Tull back in the day
me: i think you may be right
also, yesterday, i saw on the espn ticker that he and brian boitano had mastered the iron lotus
Jessica: really? I heard he was training for Olympic curling
me: you train for curling?
hahahaha
Jessica: well not usually, but Ray Allen was watching old footage and thought they should step it up
he changed the rules too
me: whoa!
interesting
Jessica: yeah
me: but the winter games aren't till 2010
Jessica: apparently you can slam dunk in curling now
me: what about summer '08
hahaha
Jessica: oh yeah, he made it a summer sport
me: ah, i see
oh!
yes!
i recall reading about how he had singlehandledly happened upon a scientific process which enables ice to remain frozen at up to 100 degrees celsius in his basement lab
revolutionary
Jessica: didn't he invent cold fusion?
me: i think you may be right
i think he invented it as a freshman at georgia tech
Jessica: while on the debate team
me: few know that he also roomed with jason varitek
and simultaneously attended and played basketball at uconn
Jessica: which is a coincidence, because they played against each other in the Little League World Series many years ago
me: with the assistance of a wormhole
Jessica: that he invented
me: yeah, he's a leader in the field of time travel
Jessica: he wrote the movie Back to the Future
me: really? i thought it was that back to the future was written about him?
or both
Jessica: no, he wrote it based on his research
me: oh, okay
Jessica: but he didn't think they were ready for a black lead in 1985, so they cast Michael J. Fox based on his work in Teen Wolf
me: i thought michael j fox was an odd choice
ah yes, one of the seminal works of the 1980s, teen wolf
Jessica: which, in an ironic twist, is based on Ray Allen's high school career
few people know Ray Allen is a werewolf
me: wow, i did not know that
he doesn't like, eat babies or anything, does he?
babies on spikes?
Jessica: no, but he is a painter and a vegetarian
me: oh no
you know what that means?
as long as he stays away from landscapes
it's the trees that cause the switch from vegetarian painter to mass murdering fuck-all
as many important historians have said
okay, wait wait wait
i'm at his wikipedia page
i didn't know that actually starred in a movie
Jessica: yes
me: i'll have to add it to my netflix queue
also: "Ray is a 12 handicap golfer. He also bowls, and averages over 150."
Jessica: actually, Billy Joel told me that Ray Allen started the fire
me: and then he drove his bmw into a tree
but luckily ray was nearby to rescue him from the wreckage
Jessica: ray allen is a certified medic
me: didn't he deliver britney spears' younger child?
Jessica: and successfully helped JLO and Marc with their in vitro
me: sssssshhhhh, don't tell
but
i hear he actually impregnated her with HIS sperm
which he had personally gene-sorted to produce only the best characteristics
Jessica: of course, I hear he can get men pregnant
me: wow! how?
Jessica: scholars maintain the science behind it is only known by one person: Mr. Ray Allen
me: that is so incredible
so the critically acclaimed "junior" with arnold schwartzenegger was another of his triumphs documented in comedic film?
Jessica: yup
me: i hear he's never lost a walk-off
Jessica: true
he almost lost to David Bowie once but it turns out Bowie can't slam dunk
me: afterwards, they had a cup of coffee, and ray gave david a brief history lesson about nikola tesla, as david was about to begin shooting the prestige
he's a student of tesla's work with electromagnestism
and, apparently, cloning
Jessica: they then went to Madison Square Garden and performed a duet of "Space Oddity"
me: i think they're now working on an album together

Ouch

2007-10-21T15:39:00.002-04:00

I have no idea how this happened, but I've somehow managed to inflame my sciatic nerve. So in addition to the muscle spasms in my lower back, which at this point I hardly even notice anymore, I've got a sharp pain radiating down my right leg and a very cool limp. And after 3 days, it's showing no signs of easing up.

Ugh.

Driving...driving 30

2007-10-19T15:38:00.002-04:00

I have a reputation for being a terrible driver.

Admittedly, this reputation is based in reality. When I first got behind the wheel at fifteen and a half, I was pretty much hell on wheels. Rumor has it that my driving school instructors are still telling horror stories about being out on the road with me. Actually, wait, rumor doesn't have it. It's been independently confirmed by a number of people, including my brothers, who were greeted on their first day with a collection of groans and a chorus of "Not more Glowackis!"

I got my license shortly after I turned sixteen. I went around joking, "At least I passed the vision exam on the first try!" but in actuality I passed the road test on the first try as well; it was just the written exam that took a couple of cracks. Then there were a few requisite new-driver gaffes. I nudged a parked car (...the only other car in the parking lot). I scraped a pole at the gas station (...that was attached to the pump). I punctured a tire on the curb (...and drove on the rim for several miles, wondering why the steering wheel was jerking to the right). I cracked the undercarriage on an icy snowbank backing out of my driveway (...and ignored it...I was late for a movie).

But that reputation is outdated. Apart from those few minor incidents, I've never had an accident. The only time I've ever been pulled over was by a handsome young cop, who told me I was going 45 in a 30 (which was a straight up lie, I was going 37 and not a mile over) and let me off with a verbal warning, his business card, and an offer of "Give me a call if you ever get in trouble." Heh. I firmly feel that when one's sole alleged moving violation bears a striking resemblance to the beginning of a porno, it shouldn't count. Therefore, technically speaking, my driving record is spotless.

Although, as my brother Nick is quick to point out, it's easy to have a clean record when you never drive.

But then he once backed into a parked semi. Which is less in the realm of 'stupid accident' and more in the realm of 'natural selection.'

In any case, it is true that for the past six years, I've only driven when absolutely necessary. Having a car in the city is more trouble that it's worth unless you happen to have a driveway, or a Massachusetts license and street parking permit, or a wealthy admirer who wants to pay your garage fees. None of which I have. And then there's the fact that I just don't especially like to drive. The basic act, I'm fine with: key in ignition, car in gear, foot on gas, go! You want to go to Target from my parents' house in Keene? Great, I know like four ways to get there...we can change it up! I'll be so smooth on the brake pedal that you'll feel like we're floating six inches above the road! I am a suberb suburban driver. Highways, however, are not my bag.

To be fair, it's not the highways themselves that bother me. It's the merging. I find it tremendously stressful to have to weave my way in between two cars that are going considerably faster than mine, with just a few tiny, poorly positioned mirrors to aid me. Same with lane changes. I don't have eyes in the back of my head! What if there's a very small car in my blind spot, and I swipe it because I lack the coordination to turn and look behind me and drive in a straight line at the same time? It's like that scene in Clueless where Murray is teaching De to drive on the freeway, when she freaks out and swerves wildly and he screams at her, "Look with your eyes, don't look with the car!" I look with the car.

Then, there is the worry factor. I'm a neurotic person. I look for things to fret about. I'm the girl who hates going to the circus out of fear that the lion might decide to eat its tamer. I won't go on roller coasters lest my car be the one to jump the track. Every time I drive a long distance, I become plagued with concern that I am going to get hopelessly lost, never to find my way back, and that I'll wind up somewhere at the bottom of a ravine, forced to eat the crumbs stuck in the seats and drink the dew that collects in the wheel wells before I finally die of exposure mere minutes before my body is discovered by a band of adventurous rock climbers. Needless to say, this affects my ability to concentrate on the road. Then, once I get within reasonable distance of my destination and feel secure that I will make it there in one piece, I begin to worry about where I am going to park, and whether I possess the necessary skill set to do so, or whether I will drive around in circles until I run out of gas and am pounced upon by hoodlums in dark sweatshirts and glow-in-the-dark masks who beat me to a bloody pulp and leave me for dead just because it's Thursday, like on that episode of CSI when Greg Sanders ran down and killed one of the freaky masked attackers and was subsequently accused - and eventually cleared - of murder.

(I've always had an active imagination.)

Anyway, none of these things have happened yet, knock on wood, but they could.

Last night, I had to meet my parents in North Leominster to pick up a car so that I would have a mode of transportation to the wedding I'm due to attend this evening. They let me take my mom's Chrysler Pacifica, which is basically a minivan in a slightly sexier outfit. I've driven it on a few occasions, and I greatly prefer it to, say, my dad's Silverado, which is what I was afraid they would bring me. I guess it occurred to them that the likelihood that I would be able to park a club cab pickup on a narrow city street was somewhere in the neighborhood of never in a million years if my very life depended on it. Anyway, the thing handles well, but it's got a lot of buttons on the dashboard, and buttons make me nervous, because when you press them, they do things. For instance, how do I know the difference between the defrost button and the eject-the-driver-through-the-windshield-at-high-speed button? I don't. Thankfully, my parents gave me a brief tutorial: "This is the heater...it looks like heat coming out of the box. This is the air conditioner...it looks like a snowflake. These are the windshield wipers. And for God's sake, don't touch the headlights, they're automatic!" Like one talks to a three year old, minus the high-pitched voice.

One nice this about the Pacifica is that it has a navigational system. However, if you saw the recent episode of The Office which culminated in Michael Scott driving a rental car into a lake, you'll know that they have their shortcomings. Navigational systems are not omniscient. God does not reside in that little box on the dashboard. And when the thing says "Approaching right turn" in its monotone automated voice, and there are four right turns within the next 200 feet, you're not always going to take the correct right turn. Which is how I wound up on the highway going north instead of the highway going south. Thankfully, navigational systems do have GPS, so when you make a wrong turn, they immediately recalculate the route from your new position. I was able to get onto the appropriate highway with only one semi-hysterical phone call to my parents ("Why does this thing lie?" I demanded to know).

My trip between Leominster and Somerville was relatively low-stress. Since I recently learned that it is not legal to listen to an iPod while driving, I put on Kiss 108, and had two important revelations. First, Justin Timberlake needs to take a breather. Second, I hate Fergie. Not just because Big Girls Don't Cry is the worst song ever in the history of music, or because she wear ridiculous hats and sort of looks like a man, but because I firmly believe that musical acts, like restaurants, need to have a point of view. You can't just throw 12 genre-disparate, completely unrelated songs an album and say you have eclectic influences any more than you can put cheeseburgers next to lo mein on a menu and call it fusion. That isn't how it works. And it makes me angry. So what it all boils down to is that I hate Fergie for the same reason that I hate the Cheesecake Factory. Rawr.

Oh, actually, I made a third revelation: not only do I look with the car, but sometimes I dance with the car. Kanye comes on, I start bopping, the car starts weaving, and people start passing me. Oops.

The real trouble came once I got to Somerville. City parking, as we all know, most often means parallel parking. I do not know how to parallel park. Let's elaborate: by 'do not know how,' I mean not 'am not good at,' as most who say that do, but 'my driving instructors refused to teach me because they (rightly) didn't think I could handle it and so I've spent the ensuing eight years avoiding it at any cost.' At 8:54pm, I pulled onto my street. I found what appeared to be a large spot. I pulled into it, and spent several minutes backing up and inching forward and putting the car in park so I could get out to inspect my proximity and angle to the curb and then doing it all over again, and again, and again. When I thought I had done a fair job, I hopped out...and immediately was perplexed by the two signs on the adjacent telephone pole. Sign A said Tow Zone: No Parking, with an arrow pointing to the street. Sign B said No Parking During Street Cleaning: 2nd and 4th Friday of the Month. How could those signs possibly exist on the same telephone pole? Each negates the other! Does one refer to the space in front, and one to the space behind? If so, how am I to know which is which? And which Friday of the month is it? And while we're on the subject of parking-related conundrums, exactly how close is too close to a fire hydrant? Three feet? Ten feet? So much uncertainty! I slumped, defeated.

I noticed another spot on the other side of the street, with only the street cleaning sign beside it and no proximate hydrant. I calculated that today was in fact the third Friday of the month and proceeded to move the car into the new space. And backed up, and inched forward, and put it in park, and got out to inspect how close I was to the curb. And again. And again. Finally, satisfied, I called my parents to find out where the park brake was located, engaged it, hid the navigation system under the seat so it wouldn't get stolen by hoodlums with or without freaky masks, exited the vehicle, and waited several seconds to be sure the headlights would indeed turn themselves off as advertised. By the time I got inside, it was 9:17. 23 minutes to park a damn car. That's got to be some kind of record.

Oh, Britney

2007-10-17T15:37:00.002-04:00

Oh, Britney. I don't know what to think. According to the "Captivate Network," otherwise known as the television screen in my office building's elevator, you currently have the 3 song in the country with "Gimme More." I find that rather interesting. Because while downward spirals the magnitude of yours may sell tabloids, I would be surprised if they sold a lot of records. And yet radio is playing the track practically nonstop (apparently...not that I own a radio), and I even saw the video on VH1 when I was getting ready for work the other morning, which is quite the coup considering VH1, as far as I can tell, only has about six videos in rotation at any given time. People genuinely seem to like it. It makes me happy to know that I am not the only one who still wants you to succeed.

The thing is, Britney, I'll always root for you. Once upon a time, you were my favorite celebrity ever in the history of the world. Even when I didn't like pop music, I liked you. I dressed up as you in the "...Baby One More Time" video for something like seven consecutive Halloweens. I bought every single one of your albums the day they came out, and I know the dance routines to an embarrassing number of your videos. Back in the day, there was nobody cooler. Like that one VMA performance when you ripped off that pinstriped suit to reveal a scandalous sequined nude bodysuit? Or the other one, with the live snake? You were so badass. Sure, you couldn't sing your way out of a paper bag (not that you tried, what with the lip-syncing and all), but you were an electrifying performer. Now, you're just phoning it in.

The thing is, we all make bad decisions. You, granted, have made a lot more of them than most people. Cheating on Justin Timberlake? Not your best move. K-Fed? Worse. Giving birth to two of K-Fed's children, then proceeding to neglect them in favor of drugs and partying as your marriage fell apart? I don't judge you for it. I feel bad for you. It wasn't a good choice, but sometimes life is too much for us to handle and we medicate ourselves in inappropriate, self-destructive ways. You seem, underneath it all, like a sweet, misguided girl. A little dumb, a little stubborn, but certainly not a bad person. They say that once you hit rock bottom, there's nowhere to go but up, but that isn't really true at all. It's much easier to stay there than to set about fixing what got you there in the first place, particularly when that means having to repair so many burned bridges (you fired your own mother, for Christ's sake - who does that?). You've been an idiot. Admit it, and let people help you. They want to! Not to put too fine a point on it, but you couldn't look any more foolish than you already do, so any foolishness inherent in admitting you were wrong will actually make you seem less foolish. It's like multiplying negatives.

At the rate you're going, you're pretty much the new Courtney Love. Minus the legitimacy (because, while I acknowledge the outside possibility that Billy Corgan and/or Kurt Cobain may have actually written most of Live Through This, it is important to note that neither of them had anything to do with Celebrity Skin, which was almost as critically well received and, for my money, infinitely more aurally pleasing...plus, she was an excellent actress for about two minutes). You've actually surpassed Courtney in her own Courtney-ness, which is incredibly astonishing to me because you don't strike me as a certifiable, which she frankly does. I mean, she may or may not have orchestrated the most infamous murder-disguised-as-a-suicide of the 20th century! (Or he might have actually shot himself. Whichever.) You are making her look stable by comparison. And though she's managed to sustain the rock star/sociopath lifestyle for a few decades now, to the point that people are sort of inured to her, let's not forget that she is a rock star/sociopath. You, on the other hand, are a pop star/ex-Mouseketeer. It's like apples and oranges. You just can't hang. I'm sorry, but it's true.

So, here's what you need to do: first, unfire your mother. Everyone needs a mother. Then, unfire your publicist and your management (I assume you didn't fire your record label since you have a new album due out, but if you did and were planning on burning each individual copy yourself, I'd recommend unfiring them too). You no longer have any children to worry about, so you can immerse yourself fully in reviving your career. Call up that trainer of yours, the one who used to make you do like a thousand sit-ups a day, and get yourself back on the treadmill. Or don't - but stop wearing bra and panty sets on stage. Just because Beyonce can pull off curves in scraps of fabric doesn't mean you can. Beyonce is a robot. Metal doesn't jiggle. (More on that in a later entry.) Finally, most importantly, you need to ingratiate yourself with Justin Timberlake. I guarantee it will work - did you see the "What Goes Around" video, where Scarlett Johannson dies in a fiery car crash after he spurns her for being a trollop and doing his best friend? I firmly believe that that was his symbolic way of acknowledging his culpability in the fiery car crash that has become your life. He feels guilty. You can take that to the bank. And he's like Hansel, he's so hot right now. Get him to do a track or two for you and you will be back at the top faster than you can say "Chee-tos." Because let's face it: you're a puppet. You've only ever been as good as the people pulling your strings. Just because you've managed to get one single on the charts despite axing like 99% of your staff doesn't mean you can sustain it. It was a lucky shot. So smarten up before it's too late. Because really, who in the world didn't think it was already too late?

Hmm

2007-10-12T15:37:00.002-04:00

Life would be so much more manageable if I had my own personal advisory board to make all my important decisions for me.

Also, I seriously need to eradicate all peanut butter from my diet if I'm to fit into a size 4 bridesmaid dress two weeks from tomorrow without suffocating or popping a seam.

That's all.

Schadenfreude, sort of

2007-10-10T15:36:00.001-04:00

Last night, I was relaxing on the couch in my lovely new living room, enjoying a glass or three of not-too-cheap cab and a plate of homemade shiitake-gorgonzola risotto, when I heard a familiar voice emanating from the television. Curious, I immediately directed my attention to the screen, and gasped, taken aback, very narrowly avoiding spitting out a mouthful of the fruits of my domestic divadom onto a throw pillow. It was indeed who I thought it was.

Yes, friends, my college crew teammate/occasional party buddy/frenemy extraordinaire Jenn is now a contestant on Beauty and the Geek.

If you've ever had the pleasure of meeting her, you know that the jokes here write themselves. If you haven't, suffice it to say that I have never met anyone in my life more suited to appearing on a reality show where dumb pretty girls compete in an attempt to prove their intelligence. As my friend Miriam once noted, "if Jenn were to compete in an academic decathlon against some rocks...the rocks would probably win."

Now she has giant fake boobs, and is employed as a "cigar model," whatever that means. However, she's still built like a total man, which at least restores my faith that there is some sense of order in this crazy universe.

(Okay, I probably ought not make fun of her for her masculine build. Let's just say that there's a reason I avoid gyms like the plague. I come from a family of linebackers. You do the math. But still...you know how sometimes pictures come out early in the baseball season of the rookies being hazed, and you'll see a muscle-bound dude with an overstuffed bra and a bad blonde wig in a dress at the airport? That's pretty much what she looks like. Okay, fine, and what I would look like if I got a boob job and started frequenting weight rooms.)

Anyway, after a momentary pang of jealousy over the fact that she's on TV and I'm not (which passed quickly when I remembered that I would rather eat glass than be on a show like that), I became inordinately pleased over the fact that I get to bask in her boundless stupidity for a full hour each week. I know this makes me sound like a bitch, but she talked an enormous amount of shit about me behind my back over the years. I can't help but feel a little vindicated.

Otherwise, I had quite a lovely long weekend, excluding a nasty tumble on an escalator which left me with a fetching assortment of parallel black-and-blue lines across my left kneecap and a subtle limp. I spent some time in New Hampshire, where I enjoyed the fall foliage, picked a peck of apples, and took single bites out of enough apples to fill another peck, because everyone knows that the first bite is the best. So cheers to Christopher Columbus and his fortuitous discovery of San Salvador. Lucky for us, he had a flag.

How I envy the self-employed

2007-10-08T15:34:00.002-04:00

I'd forgotten how nice it is to spend weekday mornings in bed with a bottomless cup of coffee, watching Martha Stewart, flipping through magazines, and generally being immobile.

Can't I work from home?

An open letter to Marc Jacobs

2007-10-04T15:34:00.002-04:00

Dear Marc (if I may call you by your first name):

I rather like you. Or, I should say, I rather like your designs; I've never met you personally. (Although I do happen to know that you're BFFE with Rufus Wainwright, which leads me to believe that I would indeed like you on a personal level, because he is foppishly fabulous and has quite a way with words in both English and French. While we're on the subject, I often wish that the stars would align and the two of you would, in a magnificent flash of light, realize that you are madly in love with one another and unite as the best gay couple ever in the history of the universe. But I digress.) I would go so far as to say that you are my favorite American designer, and I envision you holding that premier position for as long as Michael Kors goes on producing diffusion lines best suited to the middle aged (king of jet set American fashion, my ass), and Proenza Schouler continues to not make anything I can afford (except the Target collection - love). Your aesthetic is quirky and interesting. Your pieces are the textile equivalent of bangs: fashion forward but a little bit subversive at the same time. Coco Chanel once said, "Elegance is refusal." Marc Jacobs is, in many ways, refusal. It isn't meant to be sexy, but it consequently is. When I wear your clothing, I feel confident that I will be the best dressed girl in any room I enter. Even your perfume is a delight; it smells like gardenia and deliciousness and is the first perfume that ever got me to commit (apart from those torrid nighttime indiscretions with Michael Kors...gardenia is all well and good, but sometimes one needs a bit of tuberose and Moroccan incense to up the ante, if you know what I mean). I guess what I'm trying to say is, Marc, I'm your girl.

However, this is not a love letter. We've got a problem. Your clothes, though lovely, have a tendency to be...how shall I put this delicately?...structurally unsound. The quality is not nearly as high as one would reasonably expect from a line at your price point. I should not have had to sew the buttons back onto a $500 peacoat every two weeks before discovering the wonderful world of upholstery thread, which holds them on indefinitely. Why didn't you foresee that your heavy brass buttons would eventually fall victim to gravity, and use heavy-duty thread yourself? (Although, after all this rigamarole, if there is a better amateur attacher of buttons in the greater Boston area, I would be shocked. So that's something.) Furthermore, the stitching at the base of the zipper on my $350 silk dress should not be coming undone after a single wear. I realize, as an occasional seamstress myself, that zippers can be tricky. But I am a mere hobbyist, and I firmly believe that anyone who sews zippers for a living should be just a smidgen more adept with them. The thing isn't even from a discount store; it hasn't been hanging on a rack at Filene's Basement, taking abuse at the hands of the hoi polloi. I ordered it from Net-a-Porter. It came in a dust bag, like a designer purse, and the fanciest box imaginable. It did not lead a hardscrabble life before I welcomed it into my closet. So I find myself perplexed. I'm not well-versed in the particulars of your manufacturing. I'd imagine you're not turning your designs out in sweat shops. But...not to put too fine a point on it, but my Nikes have held up for years, and they were probably sewn by a malnourished, sleep-deprived child. What gives?

Admittedly, I'm a glutton for punishment. I'm not going to stop wearing your clothes in protest. But I really think you could learn a lesson from your peers in terms of clothing construction. Not to be all shallow and materialistic, but I've accumulated quite a cache of prestige labels, and my Diane von Furstenburgs and Nanette Lepores are not falling apart at the seams. Even the aforementioned Proenza Schouler for Target pieces, which have all sorts of intricate trapunto detailing that by all logic should have pulled out ages ago, have held up flawlessly despite a summer in heavy rotation. It's a bit ridiculous that this dialogue is even necessary. I'm disappointed in you. I shouldn't be sitting here right now with a miniature safety pin securing the base of my zipper. That is egregious.

(Alas, the necessity of said safety pin does little to diminish the impact of the look overall...which is why the balance of power in our relationship will always skew to your side. I look good. I mean really good. Everyone! Come see how good I look!)

Finally, an aside to all the people who bitched the time I wrote a lengthy, enthusiastic diatribe in favor of MAC foundation and may have found this missive to be flighty or pretentious: no. You're wrong. Fashion is art, and the most democratic and far-reaching form of it at that. It's a wearable expression of style and taste, with cultural and social connotations, and it is far more meaningful than many would like to admit. High-end designers are as much artists as any painter or sculptor. Couture is constructed in a deliberate, thoughtful way that is often akin to architecture, and even though the vast majority of us will never be able to own a couture piece, these ideas and techniques trickle down in various manifestations (and sometimes perversions) to the items that are available at all price levels. To paraphrase Meryl Streep as the fictional Miranda Priestly in The Devil Wears Prada, every single item of clothing in your closet was at some point selected for you by someone in the fashion industry. So get over yourself. Fashion is as intellectual and important an art form as any other. In fact, I would argue that it is more important than most others...after all, what other art form is so pervasively present in everyday life, even for those people who ostensibly don't care about it? The only other one I can think of is cuisine (which, as we all know, I am equally passionate about). I'm not superficial. I'm a fashionista.

Anyway, that's my story and I'm sticking to it. Marc: go to your room.

Where the eff is my pool pass

2007-09-28T15:31:00.002-04:00

The mysterious disappearance of my pool pass is really beginning to grate at me. If I don't return it by Monday, they'll cash the check I had to write them as collateral. As though a blue plastic keychain is worth $25. Hmmph. I guess, given that much of this weekend is going to be spent packing, it's likely it'll turn up. But the management office, where I need to bring it, is open only on weekdays, so even if I do find it, that means I'll have to go there on Monday, after I've already moved out. Stupid. I'm tempted to just kiss the money goodbye, but $25...that's like, two MAC eyeshadows, or two weeks' worth of caffe Americanos from Starbucks, or half of a decent pair of shoes at Marshalls. Me-ow.

But then there is the fact that I'm moving. Sunday. And I can't wait. I'm dying to get out of my current place. It's not that it isn't nice, because it totally is. But lovely as an 18th story balcony may be, I'm kind of afraid of heights. And it will be nice to have a real living room, since I'm not especially fond of entertaining guests in my bedroom (well, you know...most of them). Also, my soon-to-be roommates seem really cool, and moreover, they seem like they actually hang out, as opposed to my current roommates, who, though perfectly sweet, are hermits. I don't enjoy sitting in my room by myself at night. If I wanted to do that I'd live alone.

Anyway, with a little luck it'll all turn out as positively as I'm hoping. I think it will. I mean, I know sometimes I have a tendency to put all my eggs in one basket and wind up disappointed. But it's such a nice place, all shiny and new and sunny and warm and filled with brand new kitchen appliances and fun decor and promise. So I'm crossing my fingers, and I'm feeling good about it.

Not to mention this gives me an excuse to go to Ikea!

I'd also like to take a moment to note that I've just discovered that for $7.99 a month, you can listen to an unlimited amount of XM Radio online, which I am extremely excited about because I am just a little bit smitten with XM Radio. In particular with the Lucy channel. Because who doesn't love classic alternative hits? Although I'd love to know why all the alternative stations are named after characters on I Love Lucy. Except there's no Ricky. Not even among the Latin stations. In any case, my workday already feels considerably shorter with this exciting development.

Oh, and I'm bringing hats back. Word.

Yay for minibreaks...not yay for illness

2007-09-25T15:31:00.002-04:00

It is Tuesday and thus, unfortunately back to the grind. To add insult to injury (or maybe the other way around in this case?) I've managed to acquire a bit of a nasty head cold and currently am having some difficulty breathing normally. But I really can't complain, because I just spent a most fabulous weekend in Philadelphia with Jess and Liz and probably am about due for a dose of reality.

First, while I'm thinking of it, I'd like to refute the notion that I hate the Mint. I don't hate the Mint, and I apologize if my previous blog caused anyone to jump to that conclusion. The Mint is a good thing. That's where they make the money. But forgive me if I don't feel any particular need to take a tour of the place. It isn't like they're giving out free samples. While we're on the subject, I also do not hate the Liberty Bell. I simply do not feel it is worth waiting hours on line to see the side with the crack when you can see the side without the crack through the window.

Otherwise, some highlights:

*Lucy, the "90s grunge" station on XM satellite radio (AirTran's in-flight entertainment). Much of the programming could only be considered 90s grunge in a very loose sense, but it isn't every day that you get to hear Everything Zen and Doll Parts in the space of ten minutes. Unless, of course, you've hijacked my iPod.

*Our super sweet free hotel suite. We stayed at the Residence Inn Center City gratis thanks to the fact that Jessica is high roller. Not only was the room spacious and lovely, but they also had an awesome continental breakfast (with sausage, and eggs, and GRITS, and coffee in limitless amounts!). Downsides included the fact that the management inconveniently failed to note that the pool was being repaired, thus causing us to wind up looking like fools as we wandered the hotel in our swimsuits.

*The Mutter Museum. This is the museum of medical oddities that I rambled on about a few entries ago and was convinced would be overruled. The fact that I got to go to this place at all is a testament to fate - Friday night, we were eating Chinese food and watching World's Creepiest Destinations on the Travel Channel when they did a segment on this very institution, thereby causing me to starting squealing, as I do, and sputtering about how badly I wanted to go. Turns out Liz and Jess were also sucked in by its supreme disgustingness, and my urge to see a bunch of fetuses in jars and historical medical instruments that could have doubled as torture devices was sated. In their gift shop, they had a shot glass with a photo of their plaster cast of the torsos of Chang and Eng the original Siamese twins, and on the reverse it said "Make Mine A Double." It may have been the best shot glass ever in the history of shot glasses.

*The Philadelphia Museum of Art. Running up its steps a la Rocky proved to be considerably less fun than I had hoped, as there are a damn lot of steps, not to mention it was extremely warm out and my jeans were a smidgen on the snug side. But the museum itself, in my humble opinion, is at least three times cooler than the MFA. Maybe four. First, they have an excellent Impressionist collection - tons and tons of Monets, and of course van Gogh's Sunflowers (which, art world renegade that I am, I accidentally took a picture of with - gasp! - flash, yet still managed not to get caught because I'm stealthy). Second, all of their doorways, rather than being regular boring doorways, are taken from churches and castles and other cool places, which adds so much character. Third, they have all of these period rooms and architectural settings. I cannot possibly begin to describe how cool these are. You just have to go. They have this insanely gorgeous medieval cloister from a French abbey, with a working fountain in the middle, where you can sit and reflect. There is also a reconstructed Japanese tea house (where I got yelled at by security because I stepped on some pebbles that were apparently important geological artifacts, except not because they were freaking PEBBLES), an Indian pillared hall, and a Chinese reception hall. Going from room to room made me feel like a contestant on Legends of the Hidden Temple, except with much less freaky, non-loincloth and feathered headdress-wearing guards. It rocked.

*The food. We ate so well in Philly that it was ridiculous. First there was my Nutella and banana crepe and fresh-roasted caffe Americano at the Reading Terminal Market (Jess and Liz had cheesesteaks, but I can't get behind those). Then the chili nachos at McGillin's. Then the charcuterie platter and the muffaletta at Nodding Head - the fries came with this dipping sauce that was insane. Then, there was the fact that we somehow managed to time our visit perfectly with Restaurant Week, and even more implausibly still, that we finagled a reservation at Brasserie Perrier, which according to our guidebook is one of the top five restaurants in Philly. I had escargot (shut up, they're so good), salmon with haricots verts and a horseradish pierogi in vodka dill cream sauce, and Tahitian vanilla creme brulee. I know. Then, minutes before our departure, we went to an artisanal gelato shop, where I had a bittersweet chocolate gelato that was possible one of the best things I've ever tasted in my life. Amazing. Also, this doesn't exactly count as food, but the two caipiroskas I had at Alma de Cuba - mango basil and white peach mint - were crazy delicious.

I really had the best time, and it was totally worth feeling a little bit like crap today. Except now I want to go away every weekend! I'm thinking Denver sometime after Christmas...any takers?

I hate coming up with titles for these things

2007-09-20T15:30:00.002-04:00

It's fairly easy to gauge how depressed I'm feeling by monitoring how much Law and Order I allow myself to watch. In happy times, I'm very strict - one episode per day, a maximum of two days per week. Then as I get bluer, one episode turns into two, and two days per week into four. Before I know it, I'm taking in entire marathons, five and six episodes at a time, while lying in bed eating gourmet dark chocolate bars (often in lieu of dinner) and chain-drinking Diet Pepsi. It is not, as Martha Stewart would say, a good thing.

Then, as I sense that I am beginning to develop a televisual addiction, I invariably decide that I ought to try trading Detectives Green and Briscoe in for a good book. Or, in the case of this particular chain of events, four good books (okay, maybe not good...I'm not exactly reading classics) in ten days. By the time last night rolled around, I was just a little tiny bit sick of happy endings, and suspected that perhaps my addiction had just been transferred from one object to another. I am, after all, the girl whose mother was once called into a conference because my teacher was concerned that I needed to stop reading so much and start playing with the other children.

I was bored. I coudn't bear the thought of more chick lit, and I didn't have any fashion magazines to flick through. I have a strongly enforced no-internet-at-home rule, so that wasn't an option, and I had already devoted much of the workday to my novel (yes, I'm writing a novel...you can stop laughing now). So instead, I decided to indulge in one of my secret favorite activites - reading cookbooks.

Is that weird? For some reason I've always felt the need to be really clandestine about it. Like I'd be embarassed if someone walked in on me reading Mastering the Art of French Cooking as voraciously as if it were the latest issue of US Weekly. Okay, I'd be more embarassed to be caught reading US, unless it featured a really scintillating article on how exactly Britney Spears manages to be considerably heftier than me, yet can dance around in a bra and panties without anything shaking. I would pay at least three times its cover price and weather any public humiliation to know how that is possible. Anyway. Cookbooks.

So I was reading my copy of The French Chef Cookbook (which I would like to say is battered and stained from love and overuse, but is in fact as pristine as it was the day I bought it) and, in the back of my mind, thinking about that memoir Julie and Julia, in which the author spends a year preparing every single recipe in the aforementioned Mastering the Art of French Cooking. And then I thought, that's exactly what I need to do! Except with The French Chef Cookbook...because how many Julia Child cookbooks does one woman need in her collection? It would give me not only a mastery of classic French cooking techniques, but a general sense of accomplishment to boot!

Then it occurred to me that this really wasn't an especially good idea for a couple of reasons. To begin with, I would get fat. I know, I know, French women allegedly don't get fat, and I suppose that, given that as of 7:30 this morning I was a mere three pounds away from being medically underweight, it wouldn't kill me to gain a few. But the thought of all that butter and cream day in and day out sort of makes my stomach hurt.

Then there's the fact that while everything sounds really delicious and sexy when you say it in French, that isn't always the case. For example, don't ouefs en gelee sound like something you'd want to eat? No. It's eggs in aspic. As in, eggs encased in a cold layer of gelatin. I'll try anything twice - once for kicks, and a second time to make sure I wasn't wrong the first time - but that does not sound appealing to me in the least. And I wish I had the book here with me now, because that's just the tip of the iceberg. Julia Child seems to have been quite the aspic enthusiast, and I want no part of that. Nor do I want to bone an entire duck, kill a live lobster with a cleaver, or have anything to do with offal. And I think that it goes without saying that as accident prone as I am, I should avoid flambeeing at all costs. So while I may, in the future, attempt a cassoulet or a bouillabaisse, most of it is just not my tasse de the.

(Related: ever since Jess mentioned to me yesterday that she read Harry Potter in Spanish, I've been really wanting to read books in French. But the only book I currently own in French is L'Etranger, and suffice it to say that I don't want to read French badly enough to read Camus. Again.)

So anyway, this cooking as a hobby thing really worked its way into my brain, and I was thinking that a better way to do it would be to have a weekly Sunday afternoon dinner party. I was planning on having a housewarming supper anyway, but how fun would it be to turn it into a tradition? Just think about it: brisk autumn/winter afternoons spent in my gorgeous, cozy new apartment....delicious home-cooked meals...desserts from my ever-beloved Martha Stewart's Baking Handbook...football. I'm pretty psyched. Only thing is, October's pretty much booked solid for me, so I'm thinking the first Sunday in November. So mark your calendars, and I will keep the updates coming.

In the meantime, no more Law and Order. I mean it.

They tried to make me go to rehab

2007-09-18T15:25:00.002-04:00

First things first, karaoke is a tremendously enjoyable pastime. I should know; I spent much of my childhood locked in my bedroom with my karaoke machine and stacks of cassettes to go along with it. Admittedly, I have not done a lot of public karaoke in my life. After all, it comes with the expectation of heavy drinking and making a fool of oneself, and I am a showoff. Who cannot sing while drunk.

(At least I think I cannot sing while drunk. But maybe I just can't assess my singing accurately while drunk. Hmm...)

Turns out, drinking heavily and making a fool of oneself isn't such a bad thing. Besides, when the venue for said karaoke is such a dive that some regulars don't have any teeth, and others seem to be legitimately mentally handicapped, you don't really have to worry about losing face. You can get totally wasted, stumble up to the stage, and belt out your best "They tried to make me go to rehab, I said no no no" - is there a better song to sing on the heels of two scorpion bowls and an amaretto sour? Rest assured, everyone will be behind you 100 percent, no matter how horrible you sound. I did all of these things, and let me tell you, it was strangely liberating and I cannot wait to do it again.

Secondly, I loved sushi last night almost as much as I loved catching up with old friends and acquaintances - we all must make an effort to hang out far more often (at least those of us who don't live in various former Yugoslavian nations and aren't busy training for the Olympics and such).

Lastly, I absolutely, positively am on the edge of my seat waiting for this weekend and our girls-only trip to Philly! I've got my quart-sized see-through plastic bag, a seriously foxy pair of red patent leather heels, and an appetite for some hearty Amish fare. I am ready to run up the steps of the art museum Rocky-style (probably not in the aforementioned heels) and get me a bargain or two in the basement of the Anthropologie flagship. You can keep the Liberty Bell and the Mint, I'm ready to party.

(Although I secretly really want to go to that museum of medical oddities that has like, a five-foot long human colon and a gallery of things that have been removed from people's stomachs. It sounds delightfully gross. But I suspect that has already been vetoed by Jess, who is China in the United Nations Security Council of my yearning to see some diseased skin. Sigh.)

I'm in a bad way...it's such a bad way

2007-09-13T15:24:00.002-04:00

It's been a long, disappointing week and a half.

All my closest have been hearing about this ad nauseum since last Tuesday, so I apologize for beating a dead horse, but for the benefit of everyone else who stops by on occasion: suffice it to say that someone I thought was shaping up to be a significant factor in my life abruptly decided not to be, and it upset me tremendously.

I spent much of the ensuing time cycling through the four stages of grief, Renee-style. First, in the grand tradition of Ron Burgundy, the Glass Case of Emotion, although technically speaking it was more a Handicapped Bathroom Stall of Emotion (my poor coworkers) followed by a Small Roxbury Crossing Apartment of Emotion (my poor roommates). Second, the ever comforting yet still almost always useless Breathless Hyperanalysis of the Situation to Anyone Who Will Listen. Third, Drunkenness, which conveniently resulted in the delicious invention of the Apple Cinnamon Martini, and also the realization that consuming alcohol when one is sad only makes one sadder, thereby slipping back into the Glass Case (how did that take me so long to figure out?). Finally, Megalomaniacal Self-Rightousness, in which I remember that I am a world class fox and far too fabulous to be possessed by just any old man.

I wish I could say that I've been able to settle into Acceptance mode, but given the sticky circumstances, I've mostly settled into Blatant Avoidance and the Silent Treatment. Not the most mature route, but a girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do when the alternative is driving herself crazy.

Luckily, things took a rapid upswing thanks to not one but two wonderful occurrences. First, fate magically showed up in my corner when a random apartment showing I set up via Craig's List turned out to be for the upstairs neighbor of the mind-bogglingly amazing apartment I lost out on in June. This time, they offered it to me on the spot, and so, barring any unforeseen catastrophes, I will be breaking hearts and causing trouble as a new resident of Somerville as early as the last week of September. Second, I got a fairly drastic haircut on a whim and now look like a supermodel who moonlights as a Rolling Stones groupie circa 1976.

It's all got potential, wouldn't you say?

(Not to mention I'm looking bewitchingly svelte. Misery is a dangerously effective diet.)

I'm freaking old

2007-09-04T15:23:00.002-04:00

So I'm pretty much over the whole "Boo hoo, I'm 24" thing. However, nature has a seriously twisted sense of humor. Because the day after my birthday, I found not one, not two, but three gray hairs, thus doubling my lifetime gray hair total.

Then, last Friday, I had the worst hangover I've ever had in my life, and all I drank on Thursday night was beer. Granted, in massive quantities. Enough to make me think it was a good idea to hop (okay, be lifted over) a six-foot fence topped by barbed wire to go swimming at 2:30 am. Punishment for behaving immaturely and caving to peer pressure? Maybe. I really should stop hanging out with college football players...it's just that they're so cute...

Of course, on Saturday night I had three martinis and a shot in not much more than an hour thanks to the fact that my friends and I fortuitously wandered into an open-bar birthday party at Gargoyles on the Square, and I felt so good the next morning that I had coffee made and muffins in the oven by the time Jess got up. So maybe the complete difference in reaction is just my body's way of telling me to be a little more mature in my beverage choices (and my comportment). My liver says, "No Bud Light. Stoli!"

And back to the gray hair thing. Last night I was experimenting with a variety of different hairstyles to go along with my fall look. (Which is old school glamour meets rock star, or Gwen Stefani-lite, in case you were wondering...further evidence that I am entering the acceptance stage of adulthood as it involves a lot of lipstick, high heels, and dressing in a generally ladylike manner which is entirely devoid of short shorts, babydoll dresses, and anything that can be purchased at American Eagle.) Every time I changed my part, I found another silver strand. Minimum. I finally stopped counting. I give up.

At least my tenure working for Clinique ingrained me with such a proactive (obsessive compulsive?) anti-aging skincare regimen that I should be line free until I'm 80 or so. That's something, right?

24

2007-08-20T15:21:00.002-04:00

24, so far, does not seem to agree with me. And I'm not even there yet.

I keep crying when I think about it. I don't know why. To be honest, I was looking forward to this birthday. For some reason, 24 seemed to me like an unofficial gateway into adulthood. 23 still felt young, carefree, unencumbered. I felt comfortable being irresponsible and making conscious bad decisions at 23. But 24 is buckle-down time. Start a career time, have serious relationships time, make myself a real life time. And I've felt, for a while now, ready and even eager to make that transition. So I don't understand why I feel so….

(I can't even think of a word for it. Ambivalent isn't negative enough. But terrified is too negative, and wouldn't say I'm exactly afraid. Apprehensive? Dreadful? Overwhelmed? All of those things in some proportion, I suppose. Yuck.)

Not to mention the fact that 23 was by and large the worst year of my life. I ought to be relieved it's over.

On the other hand, 23 was also the year I learned the most about myself. So it wasn't all bad.

It strikes me as sort of odd now that I've been placing so much value on a date, or on an age. Age, past a certain point, is mostly illusory. It isn't quantitative, or qualitative. My body is going to be 24 years old tomorrow. And what does that even really mean? A year is a measurement of the amount of time it takes for the earth to complete a full orbit around the sun. What does that have to do with me as human being? What can I possibly have in common with a chunk of rock in outer space? Will I be somehow more mature tomorrow than I was today because the earth will have returned to the same spot in the galaxy as it was in at the time of my birth? Of course not. If we lived on Jupiter, I'd have recently turned 2. On Venus, I'd be almost 39. Time doesn't necessarily have any bearing on my life experience or my emotional intelligence or any of the things that play into what I would categorize as aspects of maturity. So it's sort of ridiculous that I've been buying into this whole notion myself and looking at 24 like some sort of finish line when in reality all it is is a number. Abstract. Mostly meaningless.

I can only imagine how hard this would be hitting me if I hadn't gotten a promotion last week. At least the fact that I feel like I have a career for the first time as opposed to merely a job is some consolation.

I think the fact that so many people I know are getting married in the next few months is feeding into it in a very big way. Apparently while I've spent the past 8 years running around with inappropriate men, other people have been forging meaningful relationships. Which makes me feel not exactly like a failure, but certainly not proud of myself either. I've sabotaged a lot of relationships with men who would have been good for me, and I've wasted a lot of time chasing after others who I knew full well were bad. It makes me feel simultaneously very young and very old, and very much like I have nothing to show for any of it.

But then everything happens for a reason. Right?

So: happy birthday to me. I for one will be glad when it is over and I don't have to worry about bursting into tears every time someone wishes me well.