To quote from Slate, I am a:
disillusioned acolyte whose initial adoration has curdled into venom.
It's just sad when you wake up in a good mood, and get depressed as soon as you enter the building.
Monday, September 26, 2005
Friday, September 23, 2005
Barbara's Proudly Presents Our Puffins
That Babs is a rapper's ho-bag. Thirteen chicks with Puffy? I bet she had the rest with Kevin Federline...
Now I know I'm getting old
Despite my occasional flair for the dramatic in matters of the heart, I'm pretty level-headed in general. When a stolen car sped down the sidewalk towards me once in grad school, for example, I walked to the nearest tree, stepped behind it, and watched as the car slammed into it, spewing spards of broken glass onto my feet. Three people were hospitalized; I got an internship from the NPR reporter who interviewed me.
For years, I've shrugged off my mother's frequent cancer scares, refusing to get worried until she'd been to the doctor. (When I was 14, she spent an entire year indoors, convinced that any exposure to sunlight would instantly give her skin cancer and she would DIE. After a year of that, you'd take her with a grain of salt, too.) My attitude has always been that while it's good to be aware of your body, you can't overreact to every passing bump and spot.
Which is why this morning in the shower, when I found an odd bump and my first thought was "Cancer?!" I knew I was getting old. That's just not like me.
I don't mean to sound cavalier. I will make a (long-overdue anyway) appointment with the girly doctor. But with surgical scars, adhesions, and a general predisposition towards lumpiness, odd bumps are just part of my package.
I promise to keep an eye on it for the next few days, and to keep the girly appointment no matter what. And be kind to an old lady, wouldja please?
For years, I've shrugged off my mother's frequent cancer scares, refusing to get worried until she'd been to the doctor. (When I was 14, she spent an entire year indoors, convinced that any exposure to sunlight would instantly give her skin cancer and she would DIE. After a year of that, you'd take her with a grain of salt, too.) My attitude has always been that while it's good to be aware of your body, you can't overreact to every passing bump and spot.
Which is why this morning in the shower, when I found an odd bump and my first thought was "Cancer?!" I knew I was getting old. That's just not like me.
I don't mean to sound cavalier. I will make a (long-overdue anyway) appointment with the girly doctor. But with surgical scars, adhesions, and a general predisposition towards lumpiness, odd bumps are just part of my package.
I promise to keep an eye on it for the next few days, and to keep the girly appointment no matter what. And be kind to an old lady, wouldja please?
Monday, September 19, 2005
Race Stats
Because I know you want to know...
So I was hoping to finish the four miles in 45 minutes, but I said I'd be satisfied as long as I finished in under 50. Secretly, though, I was hoping that a rush of race-day adrenaline would propel me to a 40-minute miracle finish!
So how did I actually do, on that humid, icky, oppresive day?
I finished in 46:51 minutes.
My pace averaged 11:42 minutes/mile.
I came in 3056 of 3305 total runners, 1583 of 1770 women runners, and (this is my favorite statistic)...
660 out of 1407 runners in my age group (30-39 year-olds)!
!!!!!!
I'm pretty happy. Unfortunately, I'm still recovering from all the post-race celebrating.
So I was hoping to finish the four miles in 45 minutes, but I said I'd be satisfied as long as I finished in under 50. Secretly, though, I was hoping that a rush of race-day adrenaline would propel me to a 40-minute miracle finish!
So how did I actually do, on that humid, icky, oppresive day?
I finished in 46:51 minutes.
My pace averaged 11:42 minutes/mile.
I came in 3056 of 3305 total runners, 1583 of 1770 women runners, and (this is my favorite statistic)...
660 out of 1407 runners in my age group (30-39 year-olds)!
!!!!!!
I'm pretty happy. Unfortunately, I'm still recovering from all the post-race celebrating.
Ridden hard and put away wet
God, what a weekend.
I think I took notes, they're here somewhere, hang on. . . .
I think I took notes, they're here somewhere, hang on. . . .
Friday, September 16, 2005
Race Tomorrow!
I know you're all rooting for me. I wish the weather were as kind. Here's the latest from Accuweather:
Saturday
Warm and humid with sun and clouds; a shower in the morning, then a heavy thunderstorm.
High Temperature: 82° F
RealFeel®: 93° F
Dammit.
ANYway, if you want to come to Central Park and cheer for me (and I know you do), here's the plan:
Of course, if you don't come, I will cry bitter, bitter tears. Or maybe that'll just be the sweat ;) Or the rain!
Saturday
Warm and humid with sun and clouds; a shower in the morning, then a heavy thunderstorm.
High Temperature: 82° F
RealFeel®: 93° F
Dammit.
ANYway, if you want to come to Central Park and cheer for me (and I know you do), here's the plan:
- 8:00 am -- I arrive at the park, and head for the Bag Check near:
Bethesda Terrace, 72nd Street about halfway between east and west-side entrances.
You know the spot, there are stairs down to the big pretty fountain. - 8:15 am -- do a short jog to warm up, and stretch
- 8:45 am -- meet my running group at:
72nd Street West Side entrance, across from the C train stop on CPW, at the benches.
We'll all be wearing our red and black Jackrabbit t-shirts. I will also have on black shorts and probably a Fenway Park baseball cap. - 9:00 am -- leave the west-side entrance and head over towards the start/finish line, at:
Bethesda Terrace (again) - 9:15 am -- race starts. I'll be starting out with the 11-minute mile group.
- 9:35-9:45 -- pain and boredom setting in for me up on 102nd and top of West Drive.
- 10:00-ish -- coming across the finish line, if all goes well!
Of course, if you don't come, I will cry bitter, bitter tears. Or maybe that'll just be the sweat ;) Or the rain!
Thursday, September 15, 2005
the Italian...
...exhibits many of the traits I dislike in men. However, he also does not exhibit many other traits I dislike in men. So for now, I'm going to enjoy his confidence and sense of humor, his ability to take action, to make a decision -- and I'll ignore the bossiness and short temper for a little longer.
Thank God it's raining. The humidity was killing me on my run this morning, but it didn't stop me from making a new personal best time. So I think I'm in good shape for the race on Saturday. You are coming, right?
Thank God it's raining. The humidity was killing me on my run this morning, but it didn't stop me from making a new personal best time. So I think I'm in good shape for the race on Saturday. You are coming, right?
Wednesday, September 14, 2005
boys are mean and icky...
...though sometimes they surprise you.
Did I tell you I got some flirt on with a 19-year-old college sophomore on Saturday?And then kinda got asked out by a 21-year-old waiter Monday night? Always going for younger men; I am hopeless.
We were standing outside Westville, considering going there to eat, but I wanted a cheesesteak at Wogie's. So the waiter persuaded us to come in, with the promise of good sandwiches of his own. When we sat down, he told me about his trip to Philly and the cheesesteak he had at Geno's, I told him he should try Pat's next time. Then I told him about all the good new places in New York, which of course wasn't at all appropriate, while standing in a different restaurant where he works...
SO then he said, maybe after I get off here one night we can go for a drink and you can tell me more?
And then he went to get our beers.
And I looked at my dinnermates, and asked, did he just ask me out?
And Matt, the voice of guy authority, said, yes, definitely, as blatently as he could appropriately do so while being our waiter.
So then, at the end of our meal, we chatted some more, and I asked him when they close, becasue it was almost 11 and they'd just seated a new table. He said someone always comes in at the last minute, and they can't kick them out.
And I was all sympathetic, and he held his hand out to shake, and introduced himself (Aaron, cute, funny, and so very Seth Cohen-esque), and thanked me for deciding to stay. And I said that if he ever gets out earlyish, we'll have to go for that drink and a cheesesteak, so now I might have to go back for dinner on a slow night. As Irishman said, just showing up around 11 would be a little too much. But if I've just had dinner, then how can we go for cheesesteaks? Hmm, this might need a bit more logistical sorting.
By the way, men suck. The Irishman agrees; he'd defend his gender but he knows too many jerks. Of course, we all concede there are good ones, like maybe the cute waiter. But even Seth Cohen has been being kind of a jerk in the Season 2 DVDs I've been obsessively consuming this week. Ditching his girlfriend for a comic boook meeting? Come on!
Okay, I'm being unfair, I know. Irishman is a dear, sweet friend who offered to drive by the garage to check on my car, and who's coming to my race to cheer for me on Saturday (and why aren't you?!??!). Eighties Dave is the best ever, but alas he is gay. My dad is a paragon of sensitivity and strength, of course; I'm such a daddy's girl, even when we fight it ends up being a good thing (if only he were a Democrat!).
Really, the only evil guy right now is the Kid, and because of him I'm generalizing, sorry. I just ran into him in the hall upstairs, and he scowled as we passed. And I'm disappointed and hurt.
What is it about you guys? I can almost understand how sometimes you are crazy for us and then suddenly you're not anymore, because you are fickle characters and you don't always exhibit the depth. But why, oh why, after losing interest, do you look at us with hatred or disgust or disdain when you run into us, as if we should no longer exist, as if it is RUDE or inappropriate of us to still be around for you to have to look upon once you're done with us? As if your trash won't stay in the bin, but insists on coming back and spilling on the floor.
I hate that. It makes me never even want to try.
And then I'm the evil one, because I went straight back down to my desk and called the Italian, who wants to see me tonight, which might assuage my sadness (of which he knows not, of course, as it is caused by another man). But at least when I lose interest, I'm still nice and kind. Ask my many exes with whom I'm still friends.
My heart aches. I wish I didn't care, and it shouldn't for so brief an encounter, but it was so perfect. If I could, I would show you the picture he took of us together that night. We look so happy and cute (and I had great hair). But no pictures of my face on here, sorry.
(I'll add links tomorrow.)
Did I tell you I got some flirt on with a 19-year-old college sophomore on Saturday?And then kinda got asked out by a 21-year-old waiter Monday night? Always going for younger men; I am hopeless.
We were standing outside Westville, considering going there to eat, but I wanted a cheesesteak at Wogie's. So the waiter persuaded us to come in, with the promise of good sandwiches of his own. When we sat down, he told me about his trip to Philly and the cheesesteak he had at Geno's, I told him he should try Pat's next time. Then I told him about all the good new places in New York, which of course wasn't at all appropriate, while standing in a different restaurant where he works...
SO then he said, maybe after I get off here one night we can go for a drink and you can tell me more?
And then he went to get our beers.
And I looked at my dinnermates, and asked, did he just ask me out?
And Matt, the voice of guy authority, said, yes, definitely, as blatently as he could appropriately do so while being our waiter.
So then, at the end of our meal, we chatted some more, and I asked him when they close, becasue it was almost 11 and they'd just seated a new table. He said someone always comes in at the last minute, and they can't kick them out.
And I was all sympathetic, and he held his hand out to shake, and introduced himself (Aaron, cute, funny, and so very Seth Cohen-esque), and thanked me for deciding to stay. And I said that if he ever gets out earlyish, we'll have to go for that drink and a cheesesteak, so now I might have to go back for dinner on a slow night. As Irishman said, just showing up around 11 would be a little too much. But if I've just had dinner, then how can we go for cheesesteaks? Hmm, this might need a bit more logistical sorting.
By the way, men suck. The Irishman agrees; he'd defend his gender but he knows too many jerks. Of course, we all concede there are good ones, like maybe the cute waiter. But even Seth Cohen has been being kind of a jerk in the Season 2 DVDs I've been obsessively consuming this week. Ditching his girlfriend for a comic boook meeting? Come on!
Okay, I'm being unfair, I know. Irishman is a dear, sweet friend who offered to drive by the garage to check on my car, and who's coming to my race to cheer for me on Saturday (and why aren't you?!??!). Eighties Dave is the best ever, but alas he is gay. My dad is a paragon of sensitivity and strength, of course; I'm such a daddy's girl, even when we fight it ends up being a good thing (if only he were a Democrat!).
Really, the only evil guy right now is the Kid, and because of him I'm generalizing, sorry. I just ran into him in the hall upstairs, and he scowled as we passed. And I'm disappointed and hurt.
What is it about you guys? I can almost understand how sometimes you are crazy for us and then suddenly you're not anymore, because you are fickle characters and you don't always exhibit the depth. But why, oh why, after losing interest, do you look at us with hatred or disgust or disdain when you run into us, as if we should no longer exist, as if it is RUDE or inappropriate of us to still be around for you to have to look upon once you're done with us? As if your trash won't stay in the bin, but insists on coming back and spilling on the floor.
I hate that. It makes me never even want to try.
And then I'm the evil one, because I went straight back down to my desk and called the Italian, who wants to see me tonight, which might assuage my sadness (of which he knows not, of course, as it is caused by another man). But at least when I lose interest, I'm still nice and kind. Ask my many exes with whom I'm still friends.
My heart aches. I wish I didn't care, and it shouldn't for so brief an encounter, but it was so perfect. If I could, I would show you the picture he took of us together that night. We look so happy and cute (and I had great hair). But no pictures of my face on here, sorry.
(I'll add links tomorrow.)
Tuesday, September 13, 2005
shortie
No matter what, not even if I have a date with George Clooney this week, I'm not wearing heels again until after the race. My calves are killing me, I've been sore for two days, and I had a really tough run today. Sorry, George!
Bid History
Can anyone tell me about bidding on eBay? I've never done it before (seriously, I am an eBay virgin), and now I'm really confused.
I'm thinking of buying one of these Sloan Tanen dioramas for charity.
So here's what I don't get: why would anyone bid against themselves five times and raise the price $250??? Bidding advice appreciated, thanks.
In related news, my (ahem) 35th birthday is coming up, and many people have been asking what I want for a present. The problem here is that the only things I want, and don't just go and buy for myself, are big-ticket items...
However, if like 40 of you want to get together and get me one of these lovely pieces of art, or maybe an iPod Nano for me to wear while running, that would be cool.
I'm thinking of buying one of these Sloan Tanen dioramas for charity.
So here's what I don't get: why would anyone bid against themselves five times and raise the price $250??? Bidding advice appreciated, thanks.
In related news, my (ahem) 35th birthday is coming up, and many people have been asking what I want for a present. The problem here is that the only things I want, and don't just go and buy for myself, are big-ticket items...
However, if like 40 of you want to get together and get me one of these lovely pieces of art, or maybe an iPod Nano for me to wear while running, that would be cool.
Monday, September 12, 2005
I feel like Maggie tonight, like Maggie tonight.....
The Advertising Slogan Generator came up with a few alternate tag lines, should I ever want to retire "More Drinking, Less Driving":
A Maggie is Forever.
Behold the Power of Maggie.
Maggie, the Other White Meat. (hmm, not sure how I feel about being called bland. Or chicken, or porcine)
Maggie, Take Me Away!
There's First Love, and There's Maggie Love.
The Maggie that Eats Like a Meal.
If You Want To Get Ahead, Get A Maggie.
Does She or Doesn't She? Only Maggie Knows for Sure.
Unzip a Maggie.
Feel The Raw Naked Maggie Of The Road.
Come See the Softer Side of Maggie.
Any Time, Any Place, Maggie.
Life Should Taste As Good As Maggie.
What's In Your Maggie?
Don't You Just Love Being In Maggie?
Maggie Comes to [or maybe for...] Those Who Wait.
and, drumroll please...
Whatever You're Into, Get Into Maggie.
I feel so dirty...
A Maggie is Forever.
Behold the Power of Maggie.
Maggie, the Other White Meat. (hmm, not sure how I feel about being called bland. Or chicken, or porcine)
Maggie, Take Me Away!
There's First Love, and There's Maggie Love.
The Maggie that Eats Like a Meal.
If You Want To Get Ahead, Get A Maggie.
Does She or Doesn't She? Only Maggie Knows for Sure.
Unzip a Maggie.
Feel The Raw Naked Maggie Of The Road.
Come See the Softer Side of Maggie.
Any Time, Any Place, Maggie.
Life Should Taste As Good As Maggie.
What's In Your Maggie?
Don't You Just Love Being In Maggie?
Maggie Comes to [or maybe for...] Those Who Wait.
and, drumroll please...
Whatever You're Into, Get Into Maggie.
I feel so dirty...
Thursday, September 08, 2005
Maggie does a big movie premiere!
A couple of weeks ago jodiroadie and I went to the premiere of The Baxter. At the after-party we were photographed, and failed to meet Sting, but I did meet a very nice Italian who asked for my phone number.
Unlike the Kid I fell head over heels for the next night, the Italian actually did call, and we set up a dinner date...for the night that I was summoned to Chicago to see my ailing grandmother.
The Kid hasn't called since the night we met (yes, he called about an hour after I left him; oh what a player), and he blew the three chances I gave him, so I'm done there. But the Italian was very understanding and sweet about rescheduling our date (and the reason for it), so tonight I'm off to Sushi Samba with a hot and charming fella. I've never been there, believe it or not, so wish me well.
Unlike the Kid I fell head over heels for the next night, the Italian actually did call, and we set up a dinner date...for the night that I was summoned to Chicago to see my ailing grandmother.
The Kid hasn't called since the night we met (yes, he called about an hour after I left him; oh what a player), and he blew the three chances I gave him, so I'm done there. But the Italian was very understanding and sweet about rescheduling our date (and the reason for it), so tonight I'm off to Sushi Samba with a hot and charming fella. I've never been there, believe it or not, so wish me well.
Tuesday, September 06, 2005
I owe you one...
...or two, or ten. Life has been extremely busy, hectic, crazy, surreal. And instead of telling you all about it, I disappear!
Shortest answer is, I got the call last Tuesday that my grandmother was at the end, and hopped on a plane to Chicago that night to say goodbye. I just got back last night. But no, she did not die, though she is failing fast, so expect me to be gone again sometime soon when I head back out there for the funeral.
Other news I owe you: the end of the bachelors, the new guys, my running stats, plans for New Orleans, peripheral family drama (well, maybe not), and a way way overdue Quarterly Report. Also, I'm having a party the night of the race, September 17. E-mail me if you want to come and I'll send you the Evite info. And I need a date for this wedding on September 24, but I have to RSVP soon, so if you want to sweep me off my feet, better do it like, now. (Steph, Manda suggested Big D, but I haven't even talked to him in forever. Thoughts?)
And then there's work. In general I try not to talk about my job in this public place, even though I use a pseudonym. But it's gotten out of control, and I may crack a bit and spill a few beans. In the meantime, anyone know of a magazine or media website that's hiring? I would REALLY love to give notice, like, tomorrow. My ideal places to work would be: AP, Esquire, Slate, Washington Post, or epicurious.com.
Shortest answer is, I got the call last Tuesday that my grandmother was at the end, and hopped on a plane to Chicago that night to say goodbye. I just got back last night. But no, she did not die, though she is failing fast, so expect me to be gone again sometime soon when I head back out there for the funeral.
Other news I owe you: the end of the bachelors, the new guys, my running stats, plans for New Orleans, peripheral family drama (well, maybe not), and a way way overdue Quarterly Report. Also, I'm having a party the night of the race, September 17. E-mail me if you want to come and I'll send you the Evite info. And I need a date for this wedding on September 24, but I have to RSVP soon, so if you want to sweep me off my feet, better do it like, now. (Steph, Manda suggested Big D, but I haven't even talked to him in forever. Thoughts?)
And then there's work. In general I try not to talk about my job in this public place, even though I use a pseudonym. But it's gotten out of control, and I may crack a bit and spill a few beans. In the meantime, anyone know of a magazine or media website that's hiring? I would REALLY love to give notice, like, tomorrow. My ideal places to work would be: AP, Esquire, Slate, Washington Post, or epicurious.com.
Saturday, September 03, 2005
Siena is a Machiavellian genius
This morning she went into the fridge, turned around and watched me. As soon as I had called her twice to get out, she jumped right out, keeping an eye on me. Then she walked over to where I keep the treats, and waited patiently. See, she doesn't get a reward if I have to remove her from the fridge, only if she leaves on her own, obediently. But I think she went in solely to be rewarded for coming out so nicely.
Devious beast.
Devious beast.
Monday, August 29, 2005
Dr. Grammar's Frequently Asked Questions
Read it, you probably need it. And you probably know you do, so stop making excuses.
Katrina devastation had been predicted
Turns out that scientific-type folks have been predicting for quite some time that a storm could destroy New Orleans. I have friends and colleagues there, and was planning my first visit for my birthday in November. Now, I'm just praying that something will be left to visit.
Pray for a miracle, folks, because the storm has already made landfall.
Pray for a miracle, folks, because the storm has already made landfall.
Thursday, August 25, 2005
Alerts everywhere
Our office of Muppet-land Security provides the new terror alert in the left rail; check it out right there <--
Seems to be the day for color-coded safety warnings; Go Fug Yourself has a new one up today as well.
Seems to be the day for color-coded safety warnings; Go Fug Yourself has a new one up today as well.
Wednesday, August 24, 2005
You know SUVs are bad and nasty....
...and you should just be like me a drive a CIvic, which will help you avoid most accidents through its maneuverability, but is still safe enough to not get you killed whern an 18-wheeler fucker or a distracted caddy crunches into you. But here's an in-depth reminder of why (originally printed in the New Yorker, January 2004).
Tuesday, August 23, 2005
Poor poor baby. Welcome to our world.
Men have been reduced to sperm donors, says Buerk
(Bonus points if anyone can figure out how I can read these articles without paying a pound a piece. I used to have a subscription to the Independent back when Helen Fielding first had a Bridget column. Now she's back, and I'd really like to read it again without breaking the bank.)
By Martin Hodgson
Published: 16 August 2005
The veteran BBC newsreader Michael Buerk has complained that "almost all the big jobs in broadcasting [are] held by women," and that men have been reduced to "sperm donors".
The former Nine O'Clock News presenter, who now reads the news on BBC World, also said that the "shift in the balance of power between the sexes" has gone too far, saying that "life is now lived in accordance with women's rules".
(Bonus points if anyone can figure out how I can read these articles without paying a pound a piece. I used to have a subscription to the Independent back when Helen Fielding first had a Bridget column. Now she's back, and I'd really like to read it again without breaking the bank.)
Monday, August 22, 2005
Secret, underground, and extremely dangerous
I think that one of the guys mentioned in this Esquire article is a friend of mine. I asked him, and he joked around but did not deny it. And whenyou're dealing with a secret underground society, a lack of a denial is the closest you can expect to get to a confirmation!
Thursday, August 18, 2005
The Word on the Street
I love Slate, I love Overheard in New York. And now, Slate loves Overheard in New York. My life comes full circle, in bits and pieces.
yeah, yeah, I know you all ready Daily Candy already.
But me, I could use a laugh today. Check out the Marvelous Crooning Child's rendition of Hey Jude:
"Hey Jude, don't make me come and kick your ass!"
Hee. Debaser and Sweet Home Alabama are pretty good too.
"Hey Jude, don't make me come and kick your ass!"
Hee. Debaser and Sweet Home Alabama are pretty good too.
The Morning After: sore and tired and angry, but still okay, I swear.
I'm at work. I'm okay, really, and thank you so much to those of you who've already called. I love you all, and I'm sorry to give you a fright.
It amazes me how much achiness a 5-mph collision can cause, but as illogicalvulcan pointed out, an 18-wheeler creates a lot of momentum and force, even going slow.
Here's the whole story, which you can skip if you've already heard enough detail.
I was driving out to Astoria on the BQE for PN at the Bohemian Hall. Yes, I'd just been there on Saturday, but it was sweltering then, and last night was gorgeous. I'd had a lovely night of dinner and gossip on the swing with Manda, and I wanted to cap off the night with some more garden lolling. konomore said that the party was still going strong, so I told her that I'd be there around midnight.
As I passed from the Borough of Kings to Queens, there were two signs: "Left two lanes closed ahead," and "Exit 37 closed, use Exit 36."
I got in the right lane, and soon there was a traffic backup. We were delayed about 15 minutes, but everything was calm and orderly, if slow. After the first merge, from three lanes to two, there were two trucks to my left, a manageable delivery-sized one ahead, and a massive 18-wheeler behind that, right next to me. And we stayed apace until the second merge.
I did have a bad feeling about that Mack, I really did. He wasn't doing anything particularly wrong, not even really tailgating the smaller truck in front of him, but I had this queasy vibe. At the second merge, the car ahead of me went, then the small truck. Then it was my turn, and the Mack was at a full stop to my left and slightly behind me. He should have been able to see me, but as I said, I was having a bad feeling, so I paused for a moment to make sure he was stopped before I headed forward into the merge.
I moved forward; it was tight. No breakdown lane, just this one lane we were merging into, with road cones to the left. Ahead there were Jersey barriers to the right, but first the well-advertised Exit 36.
I'm almost past the truck and done merging, when suddenly the Mack moves forward as well! He's crunching and digging into the driver side of my car, horns are honking behind me, and the side view mirror shears right off and goes flying into the middle of the road before I can even believe what's happening. I scream (to no one in particular; I was alone in the car with the windows shut and the radio on), and slam on the brakes, and he stops. We're stopped for a second; all the cars behind us stayed where they were (silently? Had the horns stopped, or was I just in shock?). I pulled ahead and to the right a bit, to detach myself from the evil 18-wheeler. Then I opened my door a bit. My mirror was in the street, I had to pick it up. You can't leave your stuff just lying around in the middle of the road, right?
Yeah, I was in shock, not thinking too clearly. But as I started to open the door, and I heard the crunching metal, I suddenly realized that wasn't a good idea. I buckled myself back in, looked around, and saw the exit ramp. Ahead of me the traffic was still inching forward into this really narrow lane, so I was grateful for a convenient place to pull over. I signalled right, pulled ahead slowly, and started down the ramp, which had also been restricted from two lanes to one, with another row of Jersey barriers blocking off the left lane.
I looked behind me, and no cars were coming, to let the truck in. I kept going forward, looked behind me again, and THE TRUCK WASN'T THERE.
Fucker.
He'd stayed on the BQE. I spotted him past the exit ramp, parallel to me and looking over. I got to the end of the barriers, pulled over to the left in front of the closed exit lane (so the other exiting cars could get past me), and rolled down my window. So did he.
"Where are you going?" I yelled actross to him. "You have to pull over!!"
"I can't take that exit."
Huh? I understand commercial vehicle restrictions as well as anyone who's ever rented a U-Haul. But if you've just plowed your 18-wheel behemoth into my little Civic, you'd better damn well pull over and cough up the info, fucker.
"So where are you going to pull over? The next exit is closed!"
"I don't know. Up ahead the road splits, and trucks have to go to the right. I'll go there." I have to say that he didn't sound very concerned.
"And where am I supposed to go?" Did I mention that my door crunched when I tried to open it, the side view mirror was gone, and the steering was almost nonexisitent?
"Get back on the highway up there to the left."
Maybe I should have gotten his plate number at this point. But I was shocked, confused, afraid to get out of the car, and yelling at him across two rows of Jersey barriers and a really wide distance. I couldn't see his plate, and by the time that he'd pulled ahead far enough to see it over the barriers, it would have been too far away to read. I would have had to climb oer the barriers and back down to the highway to see it. I chose, instead, to try to catch up with him again, and pulled back onto the road.
My poor car. It couldn't go. The tire was flat, the rim was bent, and chunks were falling off it as I moved forward. I got to the end of the ramp, turned left towards the entrance ramp, and started to smell burning rubber. Suddenly, I realized how stupid and dangerous this was.
To my right, Queens Boulevard had a breakdown lane. Sweet, sweet breakdown lane. I pulled over just before the intersection with 69th Street, pulled up the emergency brake (the hazards were already on, of course), and burst into tears.
What could I do? Lost in an unfamiliar part of Queens, with all my chances of full restitution headed away down the BQE, in a car registered out of state that I'd already been ordered to change the registration on, with an out of state license, jsut four months after a similarly asinine act of destruction, when an asshole on a cell phone in DUMBO pulled up to my left and then decided to make a right turn. In fact, all the parts of the car that were damaged, were all the parts that had just been replaced. Brand spanking new, now crushed and torn to shreds.
I called 911. Then I called konomore to tell her why I wasn't at the bar yet, and she stayed on the phone with me until the cops arrived. They were comforting and reassuring, and they were nice enough to wait until I'd calmed down before telling me that there was slim to no chance that we'd ever track down the fucker. Even if someone called in his plate, the system does not really have a method to match up that report with mine.
Seems odd, but what could I do? I was in no condition to run off and chase him down. They briefly considered it, but they didn't want to leave me alone, and they knew that by the time another squad car came out to me, the fucker would be long gone.
So I was stranded, helpless, in the middle of Queens. The wonderful cops had already assured me a million times that I'd done everything right, that I couldn't have done anything else, but I felt awful. I didn't want to call my parents and wake them in the middle of the night, when there was nothing they could do that I wasn't already doing. I wept some more.
The tow truck pulled up. Tim was a great guy, a hoot. He made me laugh, he loaded the car gently, and he offered me a ride to Astoria, since his shop was a block away from the bar. konomore said it was last call, but they'd wait for me there and then we could all go back to their place for a much-needed whiskey.
On the way to the bar/shop, Tim drove past the next exit off the BQE, Northern Boulevard, saying that if the guy actually did pull over to wait for me, that's where he'd be. We spotted a while 18-wheeler pulled over at a gas station, and drove around it to check it out. But the passanger cab was green, not white, and there were no signs of an impact, no streaks of silver paint or shards of poor, tattered Civic bits hanging off it.
I blogged from konomore's these wee hours, then made it back to my bed and my sweet sweet monkey for a few short hours of sleep before work today. First thing this morning, you early-bird readers were already calling, and I thank you all so much. I sobbed again when I told my parents, who reassured me that everything would work out. I waited to call the insurance until I thought I was calmer, but then I started crying again.
I'm not hurt, just achy, as I've said. But I'm really really pissed. This guy slammed into me, disrupted my life, and could have really hurt me, and he didn't even care. I'm a safe, responsible driver with bad luck, I did nothing wrong; and now *my* insurance rates are going to be fucked. My car is a wreck, I have to take the train up to Boston this weekend. Jake's off pursuing 50 Dates in 50 States, so he won't be coming over anytime soon to rub my back and tell me everything will be okay. And the Bachelor has never once behaved like the manly hero he claims to want to be, so I don't expect that to change now. This is what I get for dating children.
I'm off for a drink. Maybe there will be flowers to surprise me tomorrow morning. Or maybe a job offer!
It amazes me how much achiness a 5-mph collision can cause, but as illogicalvulcan pointed out, an 18-wheeler creates a lot of momentum and force, even going slow.
Here's the whole story, which you can skip if you've already heard enough detail.
I was driving out to Astoria on the BQE for PN at the Bohemian Hall. Yes, I'd just been there on Saturday, but it was sweltering then, and last night was gorgeous. I'd had a lovely night of dinner and gossip on the swing with Manda, and I wanted to cap off the night with some more garden lolling. konomore said that the party was still going strong, so I told her that I'd be there around midnight.
As I passed from the Borough of Kings to Queens, there were two signs: "Left two lanes closed ahead," and "Exit 37 closed, use Exit 36."
I got in the right lane, and soon there was a traffic backup. We were delayed about 15 minutes, but everything was calm and orderly, if slow. After the first merge, from three lanes to two, there were two trucks to my left, a manageable delivery-sized one ahead, and a massive 18-wheeler behind that, right next to me. And we stayed apace until the second merge.
I did have a bad feeling about that Mack, I really did. He wasn't doing anything particularly wrong, not even really tailgating the smaller truck in front of him, but I had this queasy vibe. At the second merge, the car ahead of me went, then the small truck. Then it was my turn, and the Mack was at a full stop to my left and slightly behind me. He should have been able to see me, but as I said, I was having a bad feeling, so I paused for a moment to make sure he was stopped before I headed forward into the merge.
I moved forward; it was tight. No breakdown lane, just this one lane we were merging into, with road cones to the left. Ahead there were Jersey barriers to the right, but first the well-advertised Exit 36.
I'm almost past the truck and done merging, when suddenly the Mack moves forward as well! He's crunching and digging into the driver side of my car, horns are honking behind me, and the side view mirror shears right off and goes flying into the middle of the road before I can even believe what's happening. I scream (to no one in particular; I was alone in the car with the windows shut and the radio on), and slam on the brakes, and he stops. We're stopped for a second; all the cars behind us stayed where they were (silently? Had the horns stopped, or was I just in shock?). I pulled ahead and to the right a bit, to detach myself from the evil 18-wheeler. Then I opened my door a bit. My mirror was in the street, I had to pick it up. You can't leave your stuff just lying around in the middle of the road, right?
Yeah, I was in shock, not thinking too clearly. But as I started to open the door, and I heard the crunching metal, I suddenly realized that wasn't a good idea. I buckled myself back in, looked around, and saw the exit ramp. Ahead of me the traffic was still inching forward into this really narrow lane, so I was grateful for a convenient place to pull over. I signalled right, pulled ahead slowly, and started down the ramp, which had also been restricted from two lanes to one, with another row of Jersey barriers blocking off the left lane.
I looked behind me, and no cars were coming, to let the truck in. I kept going forward, looked behind me again, and THE TRUCK WASN'T THERE.
Fucker.
He'd stayed on the BQE. I spotted him past the exit ramp, parallel to me and looking over. I got to the end of the barriers, pulled over to the left in front of the closed exit lane (so the other exiting cars could get past me), and rolled down my window. So did he.
"Where are you going?" I yelled actross to him. "You have to pull over!!"
"I can't take that exit."
Huh? I understand commercial vehicle restrictions as well as anyone who's ever rented a U-Haul. But if you've just plowed your 18-wheel behemoth into my little Civic, you'd better damn well pull over and cough up the info, fucker.
"So where are you going to pull over? The next exit is closed!"
"I don't know. Up ahead the road splits, and trucks have to go to the right. I'll go there." I have to say that he didn't sound very concerned.
"And where am I supposed to go?" Did I mention that my door crunched when I tried to open it, the side view mirror was gone, and the steering was almost nonexisitent?
"Get back on the highway up there to the left."
Maybe I should have gotten his plate number at this point. But I was shocked, confused, afraid to get out of the car, and yelling at him across two rows of Jersey barriers and a really wide distance. I couldn't see his plate, and by the time that he'd pulled ahead far enough to see it over the barriers, it would have been too far away to read. I would have had to climb oer the barriers and back down to the highway to see it. I chose, instead, to try to catch up with him again, and pulled back onto the road.
My poor car. It couldn't go. The tire was flat, the rim was bent, and chunks were falling off it as I moved forward. I got to the end of the ramp, turned left towards the entrance ramp, and started to smell burning rubber. Suddenly, I realized how stupid and dangerous this was.
To my right, Queens Boulevard had a breakdown lane. Sweet, sweet breakdown lane. I pulled over just before the intersection with 69th Street, pulled up the emergency brake (the hazards were already on, of course), and burst into tears.
What could I do? Lost in an unfamiliar part of Queens, with all my chances of full restitution headed away down the BQE, in a car registered out of state that I'd already been ordered to change the registration on, with an out of state license, jsut four months after a similarly asinine act of destruction, when an asshole on a cell phone in DUMBO pulled up to my left and then decided to make a right turn. In fact, all the parts of the car that were damaged, were all the parts that had just been replaced. Brand spanking new, now crushed and torn to shreds.
I called 911. Then I called konomore to tell her why I wasn't at the bar yet, and she stayed on the phone with me until the cops arrived. They were comforting and reassuring, and they were nice enough to wait until I'd calmed down before telling me that there was slim to no chance that we'd ever track down the fucker. Even if someone called in his plate, the system does not really have a method to match up that report with mine.
Seems odd, but what could I do? I was in no condition to run off and chase him down. They briefly considered it, but they didn't want to leave me alone, and they knew that by the time another squad car came out to me, the fucker would be long gone.
So I was stranded, helpless, in the middle of Queens. The wonderful cops had already assured me a million times that I'd done everything right, that I couldn't have done anything else, but I felt awful. I didn't want to call my parents and wake them in the middle of the night, when there was nothing they could do that I wasn't already doing. I wept some more.
The tow truck pulled up. Tim was a great guy, a hoot. He made me laugh, he loaded the car gently, and he offered me a ride to Astoria, since his shop was a block away from the bar. konomore said it was last call, but they'd wait for me there and then we could all go back to their place for a much-needed whiskey.
On the way to the bar/shop, Tim drove past the next exit off the BQE, Northern Boulevard, saying that if the guy actually did pull over to wait for me, that's where he'd be. We spotted a while 18-wheeler pulled over at a gas station, and drove around it to check it out. But the passanger cab was green, not white, and there were no signs of an impact, no streaks of silver paint or shards of poor, tattered Civic bits hanging off it.
I blogged from konomore's these wee hours, then made it back to my bed and my sweet sweet monkey for a few short hours of sleep before work today. First thing this morning, you early-bird readers were already calling, and I thank you all so much. I sobbed again when I told my parents, who reassured me that everything would work out. I waited to call the insurance until I thought I was calmer, but then I started crying again.
I'm not hurt, just achy, as I've said. But I'm really really pissed. This guy slammed into me, disrupted my life, and could have really hurt me, and he didn't even care. I'm a safe, responsible driver with bad luck, I did nothing wrong; and now *my* insurance rates are going to be fucked. My car is a wreck, I have to take the train up to Boston this weekend. Jake's off pursuing 50 Dates in 50 States, so he won't be coming over anytime soon to rub my back and tell me everything will be okay. And the Bachelor has never once behaved like the manly hero he claims to want to be, so I don't expect that to change now. This is what I get for dating children.
I'm off for a drink. Maybe there will be flowers to surprise me tomorrow morning. Or maybe a job offer!
I'm okay. Really, I'm fine. But flowers would be nice.
I was in a massive car accident tonight (Wednesday). Just after midnight on the BQE, Triboro-bound, there was a merge to one lane just before exit 36 in Queens. The 18-wheeler behind me to my left stopped to let me merge, so I went ahead, then he decided to go anyway and wiped out the entire driver's side of my car. My side-view mirror is still somewhere on the highway.
I pulled over and took Exit 36, and he did not follow. As he continued in the bumper-to-bumper traffic down the BQE, I rolled down my window and yelled at him to pull over. He said he couldn't take that exit, and told me to meet him further down the highway. And he drove away.
My car was undriveable, so I pulled over on Queens Boulevard at 69th Street and called 911. The cops and tow-truck driver (Hi, Tim!) who came to my rescue were absolutely amazing, but I wasn't able to get the evil driver's license plate number. And that fucker owes me a rental car, dammit! Seriously, after the other accident a few months ago, which was also not my fault, I seriously don't want to be calling my insurance company again, and had hoped to just make a claim directly to his. But instead, he's now a fugitive from a "leaving the scene of an accident" charge.
If you happened to witness the mayhem (oh, wonderful blogoshere), please send me an e-mail. I could really use that license plate number. But flowers would be nice too. Go ahead, be a hero.
I pulled over and took Exit 36, and he did not follow. As he continued in the bumper-to-bumper traffic down the BQE, I rolled down my window and yelled at him to pull over. He said he couldn't take that exit, and told me to meet him further down the highway. And he drove away.
My car was undriveable, so I pulled over on Queens Boulevard at 69th Street and called 911. The cops and tow-truck driver (Hi, Tim!) who came to my rescue were absolutely amazing, but I wasn't able to get the evil driver's license plate number. And that fucker owes me a rental car, dammit! Seriously, after the other accident a few months ago, which was also not my fault, I seriously don't want to be calling my insurance company again, and had hoped to just make a claim directly to his. But instead, he's now a fugitive from a "leaving the scene of an accident" charge.
If you happened to witness the mayhem (oh, wonderful blogoshere), please send me an e-mail. I could really use that license plate number. But flowers would be nice too. Go ahead, be a hero.
Wednesday, August 17, 2005
My broken blogging heart
Jake's staying single for a while. And mine is not the only intrepid blogger's heart to be broken.
I totally understand where he's coming from, contemplating marrying a stranger when your heart still belongs to someone else. I've had "Blog about the one that got away" on my to-do list for a few months now, and I promise, once I have a chunk of time and enough clarity of mind to write about George, you'll get the whole story.
But one should not live in the past. So I'm still taking applications. Come on boys, sweep me off my feet!
I totally understand where he's coming from, contemplating marrying a stranger when your heart still belongs to someone else. I've had "Blog about the one that got away" on my to-do list for a few months now, and I promise, once I have a chunk of time and enough clarity of mind to write about George, you'll get the whole story.
But one should not live in the past. So I'm still taking applications. Come on boys, sweep me off my feet!
Tuesday, August 16, 2005
It's my own fault, I know
I date younger men. I can't help it, I'm a sucker for potential.
But check this out. Tucked away in this Newsweek article about movie stardom is a great observation about our manliness-lacking generation:
And that right there, my darlings, is why George Clooney is my imaginary celebrity husband.
Also, learn to dance, okay? If you ever learn anything at all from the wisdom of Owen Wilson, it is that the ability to dance well will get you laid.
But check this out. Tucked away in this Newsweek article about movie stardom is a great observation about our manliness-lacking generation:
There's a fundamental difference between the big American male stars of Gen X and their predecessors. The icons of the past were men. Paul Newman, Robert Red-ford and Warren Beatty were young and beautiful at the start of their careers, but they were never "boys." Brad Pitt, Johnny Depp, Will Smith and Cruise, not to mention Matt Damon and Leonardo DiCaprio, are defined by their boy-ishness. They began their careers as kids and, even as they move into their 30s and 40s, have never fully lost their dew.
This was possible only because their parents—the baby boomers—had redefined the culture's perception of maturity, masculinity and aging. The boomers were conscientious objectors to adulthood. (How could maturity be a good thing if you didn't trust anyone over 30?) And as the boomers entered their 40s and 50s, and became the men and women running the Hollywood studios, they still clung to their right to dress like 20-year-olds. How could the Gen-X stars not be boys? That was virtually the only model available. "Youth" had become a lifestyle, a commodity, an ideal, a fetish. Indeed, when a romantic leading man came along who wasn't cut from the American Boy cloth—George Clooney, say—he would be explained as an anomaly, a throwback, a reincarnation of a Cary Grant or William Holden.
And that right there, my darlings, is why George Clooney is my imaginary celebrity husband.
Also, learn to dance, okay? If you ever learn anything at all from the wisdom of Owen Wilson, it is that the ability to dance well will get you laid.
Yeah, my family's not connected either.
I know I might have fooled you with a "last name" like Kennedy. But in reality I am a first-generation Italian, 100 percent. In New England, where I grew up (hence the "Kennedy" moniker), there were few enough Italians around that *I* was most people's example, or stereotype, of what we're like. That is, Northern Italian, tall, bilingual (and pretty well-spoken in both), college educated. More Giorgio Armani than Tony Soprano, shall we say.
It wasn't until I moved to New York that anyone had the temerity to think I might have Mob connections. One guy who was trying to pick me up in a bar dashed all his chances by insisting repeatedly that my grandfather was a mafioso, because of course he knew my grandfather better than I did (hah). For the record, my dad's a physics professor. And the closest I've ever come to the Mafia was when a former (WASP) coworker's boyfriend's brother (did you follow that?) had his car blown up over bad gambling debts. So there.
(And if you're wondering where the Maggie comes from, this bridge is near my house in Tuscany.)
It wasn't until I moved to New York that anyone had the temerity to think I might have Mob connections. One guy who was trying to pick me up in a bar dashed all his chances by insisting repeatedly that my grandfather was a mafioso, because of course he knew my grandfather better than I did (hah). For the record, my dad's a physics professor. And the closest I've ever come to the Mafia was when a former (WASP) coworker's boyfriend's brother (did you follow that?) had his car blown up over bad gambling debts. So there.
(And if you're wondering where the Maggie comes from, this bridge is near my house in Tuscany.)
Friday, August 05, 2005
I bet you thought I was kidding, didn't you?
Foolish of you. I sent him three photos and the following halfway decent proposal:
And all of the above is true, by the way.
So maybe we could make this a chain proposal -- if you want me to marry you instead of Jake, send me an e-mail and let me know why I should.
Hmm, this could be the start of something big. Or crazy.
Hi, Jake! Here's a few reasons why you'd want to marry me:
1. I'm up to date on all my shots, including the Hep B series.
2. I carry my passport and a stash of foreign currency with me at all times.
3. I can knit your nephew a really cute baby hat! (see eggplant)
4. Once I almost got arrested for swimming in the Navy Memorial in DC (apparently that's a felony), but I talked my way out of it.
5. I haven't fully stripped down in public, but I have flashed folks in the East Village. And there's a shot of my ass up on my blog.
6. I have really great hair and a few other superpowers, such as rockstar parking luck.
7. I can say two things perfectly in Russian: "I love you," and "I speak Russian very poorly."
8. A leprechaun at Macy's once told me I'd find a guy who makes me laugh. And you do that every time you post an update.
So give me a ring, baby!
smooches,
Maggie
And all of the above is true, by the way.
So maybe we could make this a chain proposal -- if you want me to marry you instead of Jake, send me an e-mail and let me know why I should.
Hmm, this could be the start of something big. Or crazy.
Thursday, August 04, 2005
Wednesday, August 03, 2005
Huh? Dove is for "fat chicks"?
Since when is a size 12 fat? As pointed out in the article's comments, the average woman in the US is a size 14. And I think it's wonderful that Dove is showing more realistically proportioned women in these ads, though I gues sit's true that the camera adds x pounds. I would have thought that the range of these women goes to a size 16 or so; I guess I'm a little less thrilled.
Mr. Stevenson has loved the spongmonkeys in the past, so I can't dismiss him completely. But this time he and I are having a bit of a disagreement.
Mr. Stevenson has loved the spongmonkeys in the past, so I can't dismiss him completely. But this time he and I are having a bit of a disagreement.
Late again, but for the better
Yesterday I slept right through my 5:45 alarm, missing my Tuesday run at 6:15. This sucks because I only ran 1.25 miles on Sunday, because the damned cold would just not be shaken, and I was feeling like DEATH.
However, when I woke up at close to 9 a.m., I suddenly felt much better, better than I have in weeks. So I was really disappointed that I had missed the run, and went last night instead. Took it a bit easy still, did a total of 2.5 miles, maybe 2 running and 1/2 walking. Also, on my way into the park I ran into my coach, who biked along with me until I reached the turnaround, and then was waiting for me at the finish line, so I couldn't slack. I really do perform much better under the pressure of a watchful eye. I did the 2.5 in about 27 minutes, which is about 11 minutes a mile -- my best time yet! I need to get a stopwatch and keep better track of my stats.
While we're on the subject of my running progress, I found out the details of the four-mile race. It will be Saturday, September 17, at 9:15 a.m. in Central Park, sponsored by Fitness magazine. As I said, I do much better when people are watching, so if you want to turn out and cheer me on, I'll love you forever. And you'll be so impressed with me, and proud! But if 9:15 is too early on a Saturday for you to get out of bed just to stand around and cheer, I understand.
This morning, lots of weights. I expect to be sore. Tomorrow, I'm supposed to try to do FOUR miles, to catch up on my lost progress. Better not drink too much whiskey with the Irishman tonight....
However, when I woke up at close to 9 a.m., I suddenly felt much better, better than I have in weeks. So I was really disappointed that I had missed the run, and went last night instead. Took it a bit easy still, did a total of 2.5 miles, maybe 2 running and 1/2 walking. Also, on my way into the park I ran into my coach, who biked along with me until I reached the turnaround, and then was waiting for me at the finish line, so I couldn't slack. I really do perform much better under the pressure of a watchful eye. I did the 2.5 in about 27 minutes, which is about 11 minutes a mile -- my best time yet! I need to get a stopwatch and keep better track of my stats.
While we're on the subject of my running progress, I found out the details of the four-mile race. It will be Saturday, September 17, at 9:15 a.m. in Central Park, sponsored by Fitness magazine. As I said, I do much better when people are watching, so if you want to turn out and cheer me on, I'll love you forever. And you'll be so impressed with me, and proud! But if 9:15 is too early on a Saturday for you to get out of bed just to stand around and cheer, I understand.
This morning, lots of weights. I expect to be sore. Tomorrow, I'm supposed to try to do FOUR miles, to catch up on my lost progress. Better not drink too much whiskey with the Irishman tonight....
Tuesday, August 02, 2005
girly secrets
And I think that every single one of these bits of advice is true, depending on the occasion.
Monday, August 01, 2005
missed ms. phair
dammit, first someone steals her cd from me (along with my carefully gathered Christmas collection), now I find out about this show after it's already sold out. Pout.
Here's my chance!
I'm going to submit my brilliant lobster ice cream idea to this Häagen-Dazs contest! The best part is, it's so outlandish, I know they'll never steal it unless I actually win the contest. "Oh, we didn't get that idea from you; we'd been planning a seafood-based ice cream for quite some time now." Hah!
Friday, July 29, 2005
Idea theft
Dammit, first someone stole my idea for a magazine named Spread (mine was going to be a cooking mag, but instead it's now the magazine of the sex industry).
Now it turns out that someone's already making lobster ice cream, which I've been dying to try for three years. But Dan promised me that when he gets his new gelato maker, I can use it to experiment, and I'm still going to. They say Ben & Bill’s is disgusting; mine will be a WD-50-worthy delicacy!
Now it turns out that someone's already making lobster ice cream, which I've been dying to try for three years. But Dan promised me that when he gets his new gelato maker, I can use it to experiment, and I'm still going to. They say Ben & Bill’s is disgusting; mine will be a WD-50-worthy delicacy!
Yay, Notyomomma!
Check out the Sometimes Maniacal but Mostly Mundane Thoughts of a 30 Year Old up in Boston. Yay, Boston! Yay, Notyomomma! And she rocks not only for being a hometown gal, not only because she too loves the game Taboo, but also because she linked to me!
I feel so honored. It's like I've made good with the folks back home.
And she went to Wellesley, and I went to Smith, so we're like Seven Sisters sisters!
Thanks, Notyomomma. Now go get yourself some nice linen pants at H&M or Old Navy so you don't have to wear wool to work in the heat!
I feel so honored. It's like I've made good with the folks back home.
And she went to Wellesley, and I went to Smith, so we're like Seven Sisters sisters!
Thanks, Notyomomma. Now go get yourself some nice linen pants at H&M or Old Navy so you don't have to wear wool to work in the heat!
Tuesday, July 26, 2005
hot and cross buns
Though I was very responsible with the sun while in the Pacific Northwest, once I got to Sleazeside all caution went out the window. The girls and I hit the sand in suits designed for maximum solar absorption, and this is what happens...
when you miss a spot (or a quarter of your body) while reapplying sunscreen. Lying butt-up for two straight hours without flipping over, absorbed in Harry Potter, didn't help either, I'm sure.
I just hope no one else feels compelled to spank me, at least until this heals.
when you miss a spot (or a quarter of your body) while reapplying sunscreen. Lying butt-up for two straight hours without flipping over, absorbed in Harry Potter, didn't help either, I'm sure.
I just hope no one else feels compelled to spank me, at least until this heals.
In the bag
For those of you who love my red leather purse with the convenient zip pockets (and there have been a few who have asked about it), you can get it online, and for way less than what I paid for it (damn you, cute Park Slope boutique!). Apparently I have the Melissa Bag, and I love it so much that for these much lower prices, I may also get the Martha.
Pimm's Bath
More love for the Pimm's Cup.
Addendum courtesy of MUG:
"We left out an important sentence in our Pimm’s Cup article: ‘lemonade’ in the British use, is 7Up or something similar, not American-style lemonade."
Addendum courtesy of MUG:
"We left out an important sentence in our Pimm’s Cup article: ‘lemonade’ in the British use, is 7Up or something similar, not American-style lemonade."
Monday, July 25, 2005
Riding the Range
"Into the Wild, Wild West, in a snappy buckskin vest."
Damn, I love those Backyardigans. Wait, you don't know the Backyardigans? But I love them so, more than everybuggy else.
Damn, I love those Backyardigans. Wait, you don't know the Backyardigans? But I love them so, more than everybuggy else.
McSweeney's Likes a Good George W. Bush Joke as Much as the Next Guy....
Please allow me to wallow and gloat for a moment.
Super Soaker
Wow, remember Assasin from high school? I played once, in my freshman year. My assigned target was this senior boy I had a huge crush on all year, and right before the tournament kicked off, we had started dating. So he was all "I'll teach you how to play this and give you advice from my vast experience as an older guy," and his most important advice was, never let down your guard, never trust anyone... And then I shot him while we were making out in the stacks of the library, at very close range.
Thursday, July 21, 2005
apologies....
I know, many people use their blog as a space to *keep* in touch while on a fabulous multi-city, well-earned vacation. Then there's me. Any excuse to stay away from the keyboard.
I've been scribbling a few notes in my Palm, and promise to do a bit of updating when I get back next week. And I miss you all as much as you miss me, I really do.
Quick summary: First Seattle, now Vancouver, back to Seattle tomorrow night (where I hope to see more of the absolutely great, smart, funny, sweet, creative guy I met there a few days ago), then Seaside Heights, Jersey Shore. For the record, Seattle is about 100 times more gorgeous than I remembered it being, but it helps to be visiting with dear friends and not staying in a conference hotel room. And Vancouver? Berkeley-esque, but prettier, with seashore.
Yes, I invited the Bachelor to come to the Shore with me, but, in his typical expiration-date fashion, and also being absolutely incapable of ever saying no, he just ignored the invite. All the better, I'm too relaxed right now to play those games. Anyway, last time I saw him, he was being such an asshole that I'm still regretting that I didn't kick him out of the car. (Thankfully, Bachelor #3 was also there that night to attend to me instead. And you'd think that would have been awkward...)
And yes, someone's watching the monkey. Four cat-sitters, to be precise. Yes, four; she craves attention.
I've been scribbling a few notes in my Palm, and promise to do a bit of updating when I get back next week. And I miss you all as much as you miss me, I really do.
Quick summary: First Seattle, now Vancouver, back to Seattle tomorrow night (where I hope to see more of the absolutely great, smart, funny, sweet, creative guy I met there a few days ago), then Seaside Heights, Jersey Shore. For the record, Seattle is about 100 times more gorgeous than I remembered it being, but it helps to be visiting with dear friends and not staying in a conference hotel room. And Vancouver? Berkeley-esque, but prettier, with seashore.
Yes, I invited the Bachelor to come to the Shore with me, but, in his typical expiration-date fashion, and also being absolutely incapable of ever saying no, he just ignored the invite. All the better, I'm too relaxed right now to play those games. Anyway, last time I saw him, he was being such an asshole that I'm still regretting that I didn't kick him out of the car. (Thankfully, Bachelor #3 was also there that night to attend to me instead. And you'd think that would have been awkward...)
And yes, someone's watching the monkey. Four cat-sitters, to be precise. Yes, four; she craves attention.
Thursday, July 14, 2005
Wednesday, July 13, 2005
Dinner at Jean-Georges
So, for all my slaving and suffering over the contentious project for the past six months, someone quit, someone else got promoted, and I was given $200 to spend on a fancy dinner and expense it.
$200!!!! Nowhere near the bonus I would have expected. But with my magical powers of getting reservations at hot restuarants, Haneway and I were in at Jean-Georges the next night.
Lovely lovely lovely. Excellent service, and entertaining fellow diners. Here's what we had...
After-dinner drinks and sweets:
The expense report has already been submitted. If all they're giving me is a fancy dinner (and by the way, it didn't even cover half; I was hoping to at least subsidize Haneway's dinner a bit), I'm cashing in on that as soon as possible.
$200!!!! Nowhere near the bonus I would have expected. But with my magical powers of getting reservations at hot restuarants, Haneway and I were in at Jean-Georges the next night.
Lovely lovely lovely. Excellent service, and entertaining fellow diners. Here's what we had...
- A glass of Pierre Gimonnet blanc de blancs. Jane had a glass of Nicolas Feuillatte brut rose
- half-bottle of Cristom pinot noir, Mt. Jefferson Oregon 2002
- trio of hamachi on brioche, goat cheese and cracked pepper under gelee with basil, and chilled basil soup with shrimp.
- First course. Egg caviar: wet scrambled eggs topped with vodka-infused whipped cream and Caspian oscetra.
Fois gras sandwiched in grilled brioche, with cherry-yuzu compote. - Second course. Seared sea scallops and cauliflower with caper-raisin emulsion.
Slivered suzuki with rhubarb semifreddo and grated fennel. (We switched halfway.) - Third course. Garlic soup with thyme, frog's legs, and a finger bowl.
Asparagus on asparagus puree with morel sauce. - Fourth course. Steamed turbot fillet with finely diced zucchini and tomato, in a lovely, rich wine-based sauce.
Poached sea bass with poblano peppers, Japanese eggplant and purple potato puree. Mine smells magnificent, Haneway's has great texture. She said the eggplant was like eating pinecone, but good. We switched, and switched back, because I liked mine more. My sauce was so delicious it made me grateful for my sauce spoon. - Fifth course. Lobster on crouton with lemongrass-fenugreek broth with greenery.
Lobster with mace, lychee & baby celery leaves, red clear juicy broth. We watched the lone diner across from us read his magazine while wolfing down his fois gras en brioche. Found out later he is a Russian new-money magnate. - Sixth course. Squab with yummy sauce, preserved lemon, onion compote, corn cake, fois gras and mache.
Baby rack of lamb with cardamom-panko crust and fava-bean puree.
After-dinner drinks and sweets:
- Coqnac Germain-Robin XO Jean-Georges
- Amontillado sherry
- chocolate, rhubarb dessert tastings
- macarons
- vanilla, cardamom & coffee marshmallows
- chocolates
The expense report has already been submitted. If all they're giving me is a fancy dinner (and by the way, it didn't even cover half; I was hoping to at least subsidize Haneway's dinner a bit), I'm cashing in on that as soon as possible.
Tuesday, July 12, 2005
2.5 miles in 30 minutes, 35 seconds
That's 12 minutes 20 seconds per mile. An excellent time, which is bizarre because I did it walking one minute, running the next. Also bizarre because I woke up coughing up chunks, which is why the walking shifts. Gotta take it a bit easier, but clearly I am running too fast!
Press Briefing
Rumor has it that the White House Press Corps has stopped rolling over and playing dead. It'll be nice to see if anything comes of this.
Monday, July 11, 2005
And people ask why I'm a marrow donor
Really, how can you even question, when you see the good it does? Until I'm called, I'll just give blood, like I did yesterday.
running sucks, but it could be worse
So my run yesterday morning was deadly. I ran the longest stretch to date before taking a walking break, but then I couldn't get started again. Every time I started to run, I caved after a few minutes. It was bad. I even had the coach running with me, trying to figure out why I was struggling, trying to keep me motivated. My only consolation was that almost everyone else in the group was having just as much trouble. Maybe it was the humidity, maybe there was a high pollen count and the air quality sucked.
Anyway, things could have been worse ...
me: but now that I started running, I'm trying to be better
z: running?
me: I'm in training
z: for?
me: I'm doing this program for beginning runners
z: oh i see
me: at the end of the summer we'll run a 10K race
z: i can't run - can't get into it
me: it helps to have 10-15 people urging you on
z: yeah i bet
me: I've been running 3+ miles every sunday and tuesday morning
me: but when I try to do it on my own, I suck
z: kills me
me: me too, but then I feel better
me: and I want to get all strong and buff and athletic
z: i may start taking some classes - my friends do "israeli combat boxing" and that sounds pretty hardcore
me: dear god
me: yeah. but put "israeli combat" in front of anything and it sounds hardcore
z: well, it's a former israeli commando dude teaching you
z: lol
z: but yes, you're right
me: israeli combat fishing
me: israeli combat dentistry
me: israeli combat quilting
Anyway, things could have been worse ...
me: but now that I started running, I'm trying to be better
z: running?
me: I'm in training
z: for?
me: I'm doing this program for beginning runners
z: oh i see
me: at the end of the summer we'll run a 10K race
z: i can't run - can't get into it
me: it helps to have 10-15 people urging you on
z: yeah i bet
me: I've been running 3+ miles every sunday and tuesday morning
me: but when I try to do it on my own, I suck
z: kills me
me: me too, but then I feel better
me: and I want to get all strong and buff and athletic
z: i may start taking some classes - my friends do "israeli combat boxing" and that sounds pretty hardcore
me: dear god
me: yeah. but put "israeli combat" in front of anything and it sounds hardcore
z: well, it's a former israeli commando dude teaching you
z: lol
z: but yes, you're right
me: israeli combat fishing
me: israeli combat dentistry
me: israeli combat quilting
Friday, July 08, 2005
The Madonna Code
"In the last years of his life, Lomax had come to view music as a kind of code that carried fundamental information about the culture that produced it; it was a code he thought he'd cracked. 'Society and the arts are joined by what may prove to be general laws,' he wrote."
I've always felt that pop music is our generation's poetry, and that our society is stratified by what we listen to. In the land of John Hughes, high school kids might break down in to socio-economic cliques, but in my hogh school, the deadheads didn't associate with the metalheads, who didn't associate with the art-rock kids. Even now, as an adult, I'm always shcked when I discover that a close friend is totlaly unfamiliar with, say, Fables of the Reconstruction. "How can we possibly be friends and get along so well?" I always wonder.
I've always felt that pop music is our generation's poetry, and that our society is stratified by what we listen to. In the land of John Hughes, high school kids might break down in to socio-economic cliques, but in my hogh school, the deadheads didn't associate with the metalheads, who didn't associate with the art-rock kids. Even now, as an adult, I'm always shcked when I discover that a close friend is totlaly unfamiliar with, say, Fables of the Reconstruction. "How can we possibly be friends and get along so well?" I always wonder.
Thursday, July 07, 2005
Free Movies all summer
Sure, sure, Bryant Park on Mondays. But did you know that River Flicks, courtesy of the Hudson River Park Trust, also offer free popcorn, as well as that lovely view of the river?
Brangelina: please say it's so
If it's true that the goddess is gravid, then this will be the sexiest baby alive! I only hope they'll leave the poor kid's hair alone. Maddox has a mohawk these days, and Brad is hitting the bleach again. Is good hair a gift reserved only for Angelina? (and me, of course.)
Of course she is denying the rumors, but then again, so is Demi Moore, and she's like six months along now. But I suspect this is not the first pregnancy for la Jolie. Back in November, she did a cover article feature for Allure magazine. Not included in the linked archive is an oft-used feature of said cover packages, where they have the star in question look at a stack of old photos of themselves and comment on what they were thinking or wearing or digesting when the photo was taken. In reference to a photo of herself in a flowing dress, that billowed noticeably in front, Angelina said that she had a secret when that photo was taken, that she was hiding something. Were I a better reporter, I could give you more proof than inuendo here, or at least the photo. Alas, this is why I'm on the production side of things.
Of course she is denying the rumors, but then again, so is Demi Moore, and she's like six months along now. But I suspect this is not the first pregnancy for la Jolie. Back in November, she did a cover article feature for Allure magazine. Not included in the linked archive is an oft-used feature of said cover packages, where they have the star in question look at a stack of old photos of themselves and comment on what they were thinking or wearing or digesting when the photo was taken. In reference to a photo of herself in a flowing dress, that billowed noticeably in front, Angelina said that she had a secret when that photo was taken, that she was hiding something. Were I a better reporter, I could give you more proof than inuendo here, or at least the photo. Alas, this is why I'm on the production side of things.
Persian Love Cake
So pretty, such a charming name, and I do love me some cardamom in my baked goods.
What, suddenly this is a home and garden blog? Next thing you know, I'll be giving you the updates on my knitting projects! Oy.
What, suddenly this is a home and garden blog? Next thing you know, I'll be giving you the updates on my knitting projects! Oy.
Tuesday, July 05, 2005
Of the men who undressed me in my foyer this weekend...
...one then went for the bed, the other for the couch; one left too soon, the other I couldn't get rid of fast enough; and one was only there at all because the other one wasn't.
The Bachelor and I had a lovely time on Friday night. And more on Saturday. He was sweet and charming and funny and attentive and ... ohmygod so good. I know I've talked about circus sex in the past, but that was just adventure. This was so far beyond, good thing the neighbors were out of town for the holiday weekend. No tricks or bells and whistles or feats of exhibitionism either, just enthusiasm and a talent, and a big payoff for my patience.
Alas, the Bachelor has a built-in expiration, and the alarm usually goes off after about a dozen hours or so. As I'd used up my quota for the week, he wasn't available to enjoy he fruits of my bender on Sunday. Which leads us directly to the door of...
The Biker, also known as "Chew-your-arm-off-and-leave-it-behind-in-Harlem-if-you-have-to-but-get-out-at-all-costs Guy." Why on earth would I hook up with him again? I was drunk, he's a good kisser with a hard body (biker as in cyclist, not Harley), and the Bachelor didn't answer my messages.
That said, there are a few lessons to be learned here.
-- If you have to keep score ("I went down on you in the bar; now it's your turn"), then you've already lost.
-- If you push down on the top of my head even once, it will be the last time you will be in a position to do so. This is not a porn flick, I am not a prostitute, and you need to show some respect and appreciation.
-- As I am non-confrontational to a fault, I probably won't actually kick you out -- unless you've gotten physically violent. But if I don't offer you a shower, a toothbrush (I keep a stash of spares, courtesy of my dentist), or breakfast, consider yourself unwelcome.
Also, "You're so macho" is not a compliment, Don Juan.
Nicfit, if you're reading this, please stop me from ever making that mistake again. Three strikes is enough.
The Bachelor and I had a lovely time on Friday night. And more on Saturday. He was sweet and charming and funny and attentive and ... ohmygod so good. I know I've talked about circus sex in the past, but that was just adventure. This was so far beyond, good thing the neighbors were out of town for the holiday weekend. No tricks or bells and whistles or feats of exhibitionism either, just enthusiasm and a talent, and a big payoff for my patience.
Alas, the Bachelor has a built-in expiration, and the alarm usually goes off after about a dozen hours or so. As I'd used up my quota for the week, he wasn't available to enjoy he fruits of my bender on Sunday. Which leads us directly to the door of...
The Biker, also known as "Chew-your-arm-off-and-leave-it-behind-in-Harlem-if-you-have-to-but-get-out-at-all-costs Guy." Why on earth would I hook up with him again? I was drunk, he's a good kisser with a hard body (biker as in cyclist, not Harley), and the Bachelor didn't answer my messages.
That said, there are a few lessons to be learned here.
-- If you have to keep score ("I went down on you in the bar; now it's your turn"), then you've already lost.
-- If you push down on the top of my head even once, it will be the last time you will be in a position to do so. This is not a porn flick, I am not a prostitute, and you need to show some respect and appreciation.
-- As I am non-confrontational to a fault, I probably won't actually kick you out -- unless you've gotten physically violent. But if I don't offer you a shower, a toothbrush (I keep a stash of spares, courtesy of my dentist), or breakfast, consider yourself unwelcome.
Also, "You're so macho" is not a compliment, Don Juan.
Nicfit, if you're reading this, please stop me from ever making that mistake again. Three strikes is enough.
Two Yuenglings, some underwear, and a glass of water
That's what we ordered when we got to CB's Gallery at sort of the intermission of Nicfit's day-long birthday "brunch." I thought I was being so wise and virtuous having water (you can see the underwear here), and might have even believed that I'd sobered up a fair bit by the time I headed uptown.
But then I scribbled this blog post in my Palm while in the cab:
...and then passed out soon after arriving at Nomda's hotel room. When I awoke, she helpfully played the voicemail I'd left her, to banish any remaining misconceptions of sobriety.
Despite lots of sleep yesterday, I'm still recovering. So no, I did not get up at six this morning to run another 3.34 miles like I did on Sunday.
(While we're on the subject, latest running stats are:
Last Tuesday -- 2.75 miles in 39 minutes, 14.2 minutes/mile
Sunday -- 3.34 miles in 45 minutes, 13.5 minutes/mile
Today -- sweet, sweet sleep)
But then I scribbled this blog post in my Palm while in the cab:
did i ever tell you all about
how the cokehead alcoholic read all the blog archives and then asked me never to talk to him again? I never foond ootif it was that i stolehis Viagra, or that I felt like was slumming, or that i called him a cokehead alcoholic. But that's what he is; he must have known, right? maybe he would have preferred that i'd called him the bedwetter?
...and then passed out soon after arriving at Nomda's hotel room. When I awoke, she helpfully played the voicemail I'd left her, to banish any remaining misconceptions of sobriety.
Despite lots of sleep yesterday, I'm still recovering. So no, I did not get up at six this morning to run another 3.34 miles like I did on Sunday.
(While we're on the subject, latest running stats are:
Last Tuesday -- 2.75 miles in 39 minutes, 14.2 minutes/mile
Sunday -- 3.34 miles in 45 minutes, 13.5 minutes/mile
Today -- sweet, sweet sleep)
Small Victories
I was so proud of the monkey, and myself, this morning. As the cat hair problem is really getting out of control (yes, it's true, she's getting shaved on Thursday, make your jokes now), I'm trying to be a better disciplinarian. Absolutely no fridge, and no kitchen counter, no matter how delicious the food smells. Yesterday morning, with a naked biker listening from the bedroom, there was an extended, and vocal, battle of wills as I prepared a dish of canned food.
This morning, victory! She waited patiently, if attentively, as I prepared the dish. I thought we'd reached a peaceful understanding. My hopes were soon dashed, though, for as soon as I took out the arugula to prepare my own lunch, she was deep in the thick of it. Ah, the siren call of those leafy greens!
This morning, victory! She waited patiently, if attentively, as I prepared the dish. I thought we'd reached a peaceful understanding. My hopes were soon dashed, though, for as soon as I took out the arugula to prepare my own lunch, she was deep in the thick of it. Ah, the siren call of those leafy greens!
Tuesday, June 28, 2005
The Outer Banks
So I was talking to my running partner this morning, and he told me that he's heading down to North Carolina for the long weekend.
Ah, shopping for some furniture? says I.
No, heading to the Outer Banks. Why does everyone keep asking me about furniture? says he.
Then, at lunch, told this story to a co-worker, and she too did not get the furniture reference.
Looks like that lovely state is having a bit of a PR problem regarding one of its, um, High Points (hee). Or maybe it just speaks to the sad state of manufacturing industries in general in these modern times. Anyway, if you want to check out some great deals on fine-crafted furnishings this weekend, American's got a $99 last-minute fare from JFK to Raleigh/Durham this weekend.
Don't you love the way everything just comes together sometimes?
Ah, shopping for some furniture? says I.
No, heading to the Outer Banks. Why does everyone keep asking me about furniture? says he.
Then, at lunch, told this story to a co-worker, and she too did not get the furniture reference.
Looks like that lovely state is having a bit of a PR problem regarding one of its, um, High Points (hee). Or maybe it just speaks to the sad state of manufacturing industries in general in these modern times. Anyway, if you want to check out some great deals on fine-crafted furnishings this weekend, American's got a $99 last-minute fare from JFK to Raleigh/Durham this weekend.
Don't you love the way everything just comes together sometimes?
You may take baby steps, but your body doesn't
Babies will grow an inch overnight.
The bachelor has been going to the gym for months, and suddenly dropped 20 pounds.
I've been doing this training program since May. Suddenly this week, my thighs are hard, I'm doing three-mile runs with very few walking breaks, and this morning, I found my stride. Tight, efficient, no wasted effort -- it hardly felt like running at all. Now that I think I understand how to rest without breaking stride, I may run the whole way when we do the full loop of the park on Sunday!
And if I can drop 20 pounds by the end of the summer, I promise I'll start wearing those tiny bikinis again.
The bachelor has been going to the gym for months, and suddenly dropped 20 pounds.
I've been doing this training program since May. Suddenly this week, my thighs are hard, I'm doing three-mile runs with very few walking breaks, and this morning, I found my stride. Tight, efficient, no wasted effort -- it hardly felt like running at all. Now that I think I understand how to rest without breaking stride, I may run the whole way when we do the full loop of the park on Sunday!
And if I can drop 20 pounds by the end of the summer, I promise I'll start wearing those tiny bikinis again.
Monday, June 27, 2005
Get Thee to Kettle of Fish
...on Wednesday and see the lovely Sars read something.
Or maybe not. The last time I was supposed to atend an event with Sars, bad things happened.
Or maybe not. The last time I was supposed to atend an event with Sars, bad things happened.
Why I need to stop working in New Jersey really soon
Reason #287. (Mind you, I know some very nice guys from NJ, including the Bachelor. But still, please save me.)
Sunburned, sore, smelly and snarly
Yesterday I ran 3 miles in that 90-degree heat, then laid out in the park (perhaps a bit too long). Today I went to the gym on my way in to work, and wow does Manhattan smell bad on a summer morning after a parade weekend. Then for some reason, my hair, which you'd ordinarily have to bribe to get it to tangle, got all snarled up in knots as I tried to blow-dry it in the non-air-conditioned locker room.
I know I owe you all an update. I promise there will be more, but first I have to finish up my application to the AP.
I know I owe you all an update. I promise there will be more, but first I have to finish up my application to the AP.
Friday, June 24, 2005
About that creepy thing you don't want to think about....
Scroll down to the blind item labelled "Some engaging tidbits." And sadly, she might not even have been his first choice.
just because you're hiding in the woods...
... doesn't mean you don't wanna know what time it is, Sask Watch!
When they ask me to choose, I will choose Hermes
God, I can't stand Oprah Winfrey. Have you heard about this latest Hermes incident? She shows up at a store after they've closed, and is indignant that they don't let her, and her entourage in. First of all, anyone who comes with an entourage, which is offensive in and of itself, should never be let in anywhere. Crowd control and all.
THEN, this self-admitted former crack user claims that THIS was "one of the most humiliating moments of her life."
This arrogant, self-important woman tries to "heal America" and is treated like some sort of spiritual lifestyle guide by millions of stupid housewives! I can't stand how much attention this woman commands in our society. They follow her like sheep. And now she is refusing to shop at Hermes anymore, and is planning to do an entire SHOW about this "incident," so of course this will negatively affect their sales to her followers. She's like a cult leader, and I think it's evil.
I think I need to go out and buy a Birkin bag (as Oprah just cancelled her latest order), or maybe a scarf, at least.
THEN, this self-admitted former crack user claims that THIS was "one of the most humiliating moments of her life."
This arrogant, self-important woman tries to "heal America" and is treated like some sort of spiritual lifestyle guide by millions of stupid housewives! I can't stand how much attention this woman commands in our society. They follow her like sheep. And now she is refusing to shop at Hermes anymore, and is planning to do an entire SHOW about this "incident," so of course this will negatively affect their sales to her followers. She's like a cult leader, and I think it's evil.
I think I need to go out and buy a Birkin bag (as Oprah just cancelled her latest order), or maybe a scarf, at least.
Thursday, June 23, 2005
We're all media whores
Okay, I can't help how much I love the Gawker, I'll admit it. So if the move to Manhattan is successful, will I be on here as well? Right now, the office in Journal Square doesn't make the cut.
Wednesday, June 22, 2005
Friday, June 17, 2005
For any of you who don't read Gawker...
...or MediaBistro (I may be the only one among my readership!), this Billy Joel tribute is pretty funny.
Thursday, June 16, 2005
Cool as a...
I am willing to reconsider my dislike of cucumbers in the interest of margarita research. Who's in?
Wednesday, June 15, 2005
maggie vitello?
I keep getting hits over the past two days from google searches for Maggie Vitello. The web is a funny place....
I know I'm overdue
I know, I've been promising everyone a full update, since all I've been telling you lately in person is "it's bad." But it's so bad I really don't have time right now.
Short form:
1. Grandmother dying. Grandfather doing marginally better. Setting up hospice care; not sure when we're going to Chicago.
2. Work is hell. Here until 9 pm last night, and still can't dig out.
3. While I'm working on the highest profile project at the company, and the eyes of the owners and every major player in the brass are watching my *every* move, and I'm angling for a promotion -- this is an excellent time to be having a family crisis. Really.
4. Well, at least I'm not pregnant.
More soon, promise. Love you all; you've been so great.
Short form:
1. Grandmother dying. Grandfather doing marginally better. Setting up hospice care; not sure when we're going to Chicago.
2. Work is hell. Here until 9 pm last night, and still can't dig out.
3. While I'm working on the highest profile project at the company, and the eyes of the owners and every major player in the brass are watching my *every* move, and I'm angling for a promotion -- this is an excellent time to be having a family crisis. Really.
4. Well, at least I'm not pregnant.
More soon, promise. Love you all; you've been so great.
Tuesday, June 14, 2005
in the manner of...
I think I need this book. Lord knows I've been rather vocal about the lapses of others lately; I probably should make sure I'm up to snuff before I say much more.
whiskey
It occurs to me that Thursday is ....
Bloomsday!
Last year I was in Dublin, and this year I might be in Chicago (things just took a turn for the worse, grandmother-wise). But if I'm here, I need a plan. Anyone have any suggestions for how to celebrate dear Poldy and Jimmy?
Also, what better day to drink whiskey? Are you listening, Irishman?
Bloomsday!
Last year I was in Dublin, and this year I might be in Chicago (things just took a turn for the worse, grandmother-wise). But if I'm here, I need a plan. Anyone have any suggestions for how to celebrate dear Poldy and Jimmy?
Also, what better day to drink whiskey? Are you listening, Irishman?
a hot dilemma of operatic proportions
So, it's like 95 degrees in the shade out there. Tonight, the Met is putting on a free performance of Puccini's Tosca in Central Park. I love opera under the stars, but Central Park is a big heat vat.
Does anyone want to check it out with me? If so, comment or e-mail. If not, I'll have to find some air conditioned recreation.
Does anyone want to check it out with me? If so, comment or e-mail. If not, I'll have to find some air conditioned recreation.
Monday, June 13, 2005
Take a class
Here's a very interesting graphic on How Class Works in America. Since we are a new and improved society, we like to think that we are classless, that all are equal. But we know that's not true, and lately class struggles and definitions have been all over the media.
Paul Fussell wrote a great, if slightly out of date, book on the subject a while back that is at least as dead-on as the Times chart. More recently there was The Rise of the Creative Class. And you can never do wrong with good old Edith Wharton.
As for me, I did pretty well on the intereactive Times chart, but only because they weren't taking into account how often you talk about your sex life in a public forum. Clearly that would have knocked me down several points.
Paul Fussell wrote a great, if slightly out of date, book on the subject a while back that is at least as dead-on as the Times chart. More recently there was The Rise of the Creative Class. And you can never do wrong with good old Edith Wharton.
As for me, I did pretty well on the intereactive Times chart, but only because they weren't taking into account how often you talk about your sex life in a public forum. Clearly that would have knocked me down several points.
good thing I wasn't drinking milk...
...or it would be out my nose and all over my monitor right now:
"Gingrich was smirking at him playfully. 'Kofi,' he said from the corner of his mouth, 'You’ve been bad. Very bad.' "
"Gingrich was smirking at him playfully. 'Kofi,' he said from the corner of his mouth, 'You’ve been bad. Very bad.' "
Friday, June 10, 2005
TMI
Hideous apartment, hot, hot bod, but can't believe he didn't get arrested for sudsing up the fountain water, or for publicising that he did it. I once almost got arrested for wading in the Navy Memorial fountain in DC, and I was fully dressed and soapless.
Thursday, June 09, 2005
hey, don't talk about my husband like that!
"My sperm was 'well above average'! My count was 105 million! What's yours, George Clooney?"
baby, baby
Two friends got additions to their families yesterday:
Jodi has a new niece, Zoe. 6 lbs, 15oz, red hair, born at 11:30 Wednesday night.
And the bachelor has a new nephew, Ian. No details on that one, sorry.
Congratulations, happy families!
Jodi has a new niece, Zoe. 6 lbs, 15oz, red hair, born at 11:30 Wednesday night.
And the bachelor has a new nephew, Ian. No details on that one, sorry.
Congratulations, happy families!
losing it
Last night, in a lovely bar on the LES, I totally lost my shit at a dear friend. It was good that it happened, he understood why I was upset and hugged me and apologized, and we are so much the better for it. But it highlighted an issue that it would probably be worth mentioning here as well.
When I have major shit going down, I don't really talk about it, I just deal with it. The stuff I talk about during difficult times is the minor crap, because that's easier. Bachelor problems, Tom and Katie? Sooo much more fun to talk about than illness and death.
Now I know this doesn't make me unique. Lots of people cope/avoid like this. But lately, when I only tell my friends about the minor irritations, a few have been responding by giving advice or telling me what I "should have" done, instead of being comforting and supportive. Certainly they would never act like this about the big stuff, but what maybe none of us were aware of was that the minor stuff was standing in for the major. So when I whine that "my new shoes hurt my feet," it's because I'm not saying, "I'm afraid that my grandfather might die soon." And what I need is a "Poor dear" and a hug, not to be told that I should have bought more sensible shoes. When I want advice, I do ask for it, but sometimes I just want support and love.
Please let me make it perfectly clear that only a few people have been doing this, and I do know that they love me regardless. My friends are magnificent and so patient and giving with me (as in Monday's Perfection post); some of us were just having a miscommunication.
So, in the interest of better communication, here's a more complete update on all the shit that's been going down to date.
My grandfather is still in the hospital. He had a tracheotomy, because he'd been on the respirator for so long that not only was it irritating his mouth, but he was running the risk of permanently damaging his vocal cords and losing his speech. Now he seems to be doing better lung-wise, and they're trying to wean him from the resp. But now they've found gallstones, and they're trying to decide whether or not to remove his gallbladder. The question being: is it worth putting him through the trauma of another surgery, the third in a month, for gallstones?
Two things really worry me about this situation --
1. We keep getting these panicked reports from Chicago that this time it's the end, and then it's not. Which is emotionally draining, and also makes it hard for us to know how to react. What will happen when it really is the end? Will we be able to recognize it? Will we believe it?
and 2. the continual addition of problems to his roster, despite him then overcoming each one, is really making this feel like the end to me. First he went into the hospital for bronchitis, then it was pneumonia, then they thought they'd found a perforated colon and did emergency surgery, then they discovered that it wasn't his colon, it was a stomach ulcer, then they couldn't get him off the respirator, then they did the trache, now he's doing better with the resp but they found gallstones...what's next? How much more can he take? He is 90, after all.
In the meantime, my grandmother is all alone in their house with the nurses, and she's wasting away. Mum says that between Mother's Day (when we last saw her) and now, she looks like she's aged 10 more years. She just lies there, not talking, not walking, not even reading or watching TV. And I'm worried that in the midst of us trying to handle all these problems with my grandfather, she will just slip away and die while we're not looking.
Also, work has been nuts. My boss quit, which might mean I'll be getting a promotion, or I might have to quit myself, if working here without him becomes sucky. I really admired him, and he inspired me to stick it out here whenever I was frustrated because I felt like I could learn so much from him. With him gone, in the absence of a promotion, I don't know what my motivation will be. To add salt to the wound, the reason he left was because the major project I've been working on has been tearing the company apart. I know I'm doing a good job on it, and I know that everyone all the way to the top of management thinks so. But it's hard to accept that I'm struggling with something so incredibly hopeless that even my boss got sick of dealing with it and had to leave.
Then there's the car accident from back in April. I'm still dealing with the fallout from that, which continues to annoy. But on the importance scale, it falls squarely between death and Scientologists, and as such is still not worth talking about in either the serious or frivolous capacity.
When I have major shit going down, I don't really talk about it, I just deal with it. The stuff I talk about during difficult times is the minor crap, because that's easier. Bachelor problems, Tom and Katie? Sooo much more fun to talk about than illness and death.
Now I know this doesn't make me unique. Lots of people cope/avoid like this. But lately, when I only tell my friends about the minor irritations, a few have been responding by giving advice or telling me what I "should have" done, instead of being comforting and supportive. Certainly they would never act like this about the big stuff, but what maybe none of us were aware of was that the minor stuff was standing in for the major. So when I whine that "my new shoes hurt my feet," it's because I'm not saying, "I'm afraid that my grandfather might die soon." And what I need is a "Poor dear" and a hug, not to be told that I should have bought more sensible shoes. When I want advice, I do ask for it, but sometimes I just want support and love.
Please let me make it perfectly clear that only a few people have been doing this, and I do know that they love me regardless. My friends are magnificent and so patient and giving with me (as in Monday's Perfection post); some of us were just having a miscommunication.
So, in the interest of better communication, here's a more complete update on all the shit that's been going down to date.
My grandfather is still in the hospital. He had a tracheotomy, because he'd been on the respirator for so long that not only was it irritating his mouth, but he was running the risk of permanently damaging his vocal cords and losing his speech. Now he seems to be doing better lung-wise, and they're trying to wean him from the resp. But now they've found gallstones, and they're trying to decide whether or not to remove his gallbladder. The question being: is it worth putting him through the trauma of another surgery, the third in a month, for gallstones?
Two things really worry me about this situation --
1. We keep getting these panicked reports from Chicago that this time it's the end, and then it's not. Which is emotionally draining, and also makes it hard for us to know how to react. What will happen when it really is the end? Will we be able to recognize it? Will we believe it?
and 2. the continual addition of problems to his roster, despite him then overcoming each one, is really making this feel like the end to me. First he went into the hospital for bronchitis, then it was pneumonia, then they thought they'd found a perforated colon and did emergency surgery, then they discovered that it wasn't his colon, it was a stomach ulcer, then they couldn't get him off the respirator, then they did the trache, now he's doing better with the resp but they found gallstones...what's next? How much more can he take? He is 90, after all.
In the meantime, my grandmother is all alone in their house with the nurses, and she's wasting away. Mum says that between Mother's Day (when we last saw her) and now, she looks like she's aged 10 more years. She just lies there, not talking, not walking, not even reading or watching TV. And I'm worried that in the midst of us trying to handle all these problems with my grandfather, she will just slip away and die while we're not looking.
Also, work has been nuts. My boss quit, which might mean I'll be getting a promotion, or I might have to quit myself, if working here without him becomes sucky. I really admired him, and he inspired me to stick it out here whenever I was frustrated because I felt like I could learn so much from him. With him gone, in the absence of a promotion, I don't know what my motivation will be. To add salt to the wound, the reason he left was because the major project I've been working on has been tearing the company apart. I know I'm doing a good job on it, and I know that everyone all the way to the top of management thinks so. But it's hard to accept that I'm struggling with something so incredibly hopeless that even my boss got sick of dealing with it and had to leave.
Then there's the car accident from back in April. I'm still dealing with the fallout from that, which continues to annoy. But on the importance scale, it falls squarely between death and Scientologists, and as such is still not worth talking about in either the serious or frivolous capacity.
Wednesday, June 08, 2005
Stats are fun
My stats have been all full up this week with boys who've been repeatedly checking in to see if I've written about them yet. So..
Hi, boys!
There you go.
Hi, boys!
There you go.
Lungooege-a Tuuls
The clue to what this accent is supposed to be is in the URL. Without that, I would have thought it was Scottish, for sure.
If you don't get it, here's a translation tool to help you out.
Right now there's some Frank Lloyd Wright architecture in the logo because it's his birthday today, but that should be gone by tomorrow. In the meantime, anyone know what the first building, the yellow one, is? (yes, we know the other two, thanks.)
If you don't get it, here's a translation tool to help you out.
Right now there's some Frank Lloyd Wright architecture in the logo because it's his birthday today, but that should be gone by tomorrow. In the meantime, anyone know what the first building, the yellow one, is? (yes, we know the other two, thanks.)
Tuesday, June 07, 2005
sensitive artists or nut job careerists?
I know I have a few readers out there who would agree with this assessment.
NASA naps (courtesy of haneway)
As I've said before, I have some crazy sleep disorder, and some very bad nighttime sleep habits. As such, I love a good nap. More people should nap! We should have nap time scheduled into the work day, like lunch breaks! Let's order hammocks for my office!
Or maybe I should get a decent night's sleep more often. Right.
Or maybe I should get a decent night's sleep more often. Right.
perfection is...
....coming home from a really rough day at work to find a letter from my darling three-year-old "niece" (in that she calls me Auntie) in Florida. Just for me, just from her (though I suspect her mum helped her write the address on the envelope).
Also wonderful is getting off the subway after a really rough day at work, to find a message on my cell phone from an old friend, telling me that she loves and misses me.
And did I mention how nice it is, after a really rough day at work, to go to friends' apartment, and have them give you hugs, hand you a beer, order dinner, and listen to you vent on and on? With unquestioning support, and helpful perspective.
I love my friends.
Also wonderful is getting off the subway after a really rough day at work, to find a message on my cell phone from an old friend, telling me that she loves and misses me.
And did I mention how nice it is, after a really rough day at work, to go to friends' apartment, and have them give you hugs, hand you a beer, order dinner, and listen to you vent on and on? With unquestioning support, and helpful perspective.
I love my friends.
Monday, June 06, 2005
Squirrel Invades Park Slope Apartment
..and it wasn't mine, surprisingly. But, to be honest, ever since the rabid squirrel attacked in my Manhattan apartment, I've always been afraid he might follow me to Brooklyn to wreak more havoc.
For the record, if a squirrel does invade your home and terrorize your children, call 911. When I faced the Grey Menace that night back in Manhattan, first I called the precinct house directly, who said to call animal control or something. Then I called the SPCA (the only animal-control-type number I could find), but they were closed for the weekend. Then my neighbor, who told me to ignore it and went to bed. Then my super, who told me to call 911, but I wouldn't, because it wasn't life or death -- yet. So he came over. In the meantime, I called my ex-boyfriend, who stayed on the phone and tried to keep me calm. The squirrel attacked the super, we called 911, I remained hysterical, and the cops had a nice laugh at the crazy lady who was afraid of little furry animals. That hiss and attack. But the nice cops subdued the rabid beast and prodded it out the window with a billy club.
At least I think they did. I was busy hiding in my bedroom closet, per their request, because every time the damn thing moved I would scream bloody murder, and it was irritating the cops. They did lock the window for me before they left; I wasn't taking any chances.
For the record, if a squirrel does invade your home and terrorize your children, call 911. When I faced the Grey Menace that night back in Manhattan, first I called the precinct house directly, who said to call animal control or something. Then I called the SPCA (the only animal-control-type number I could find), but they were closed for the weekend. Then my neighbor, who told me to ignore it and went to bed. Then my super, who told me to call 911, but I wouldn't, because it wasn't life or death -- yet. So he came over. In the meantime, I called my ex-boyfriend, who stayed on the phone and tried to keep me calm. The squirrel attacked the super, we called 911, I remained hysterical, and the cops had a nice laugh at the crazy lady who was afraid of little furry animals. That hiss and attack. But the nice cops subdued the rabid beast and prodded it out the window with a billy club.
At least I think they did. I was busy hiding in my bedroom closet, per their request, because every time the damn thing moved I would scream bloody murder, and it was irritating the cops. They did lock the window for me before they left; I wasn't taking any chances.
Thursday, June 02, 2005
am I missing something?
Remember Washingtonienne? The Staff Ass on Capitol Hill that caused such a scandal last year? I never understood what the big deal was. I mean, I never thought her blog was all that scandalous or raunchy. But maybe I'm jaded.
Anyway, her book came out yesterday (if you're wondering why I mention this now). A book-length blog that you get paid for; we should all have one.
Anyway, her book came out yesterday (if you're wondering why I mention this now). A book-length blog that you get paid for; we should all have one.
Wednesday, June 01, 2005
Okay, okay, Woodstein confirmed
So yay to Vanity Fair. After two years of negotiations, they got the scoop of a generation. They even outscooped the Post on their own source!
Media Bistro and Poynter Institute were kind enough to send links to every story you'd ever want to read about this. We journalists are a bit obsessive; here's a sample.
Washington Post
Slate
LA Times
Chicago Tribune
NewsHour
Baltimore Sun
New York Times
Editor and Publisher
Huffington Post
Media Bistro and Poynter Institute were kind enough to send links to every story you'd ever want to read about this. We journalists are a bit obsessive; here's a sample.
Washington Post
Slate
LA Times
Chicago Tribune
NewsHour
Baltimore Sun
New York Times
Editor and Publisher
Huffington Post
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