High Heels and Football

Forgive Our Trespasses

2008-06-16T09:40:00.000-07:00

"And forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us."

In church on Sunday, I said a prayer for someone whose name I don't know, but who made me very angry nonetheless. I had thought about him entirely too much. I prayed for his soul, for him to find spiritual strength. It was the Christian thing to do. Forgive and be forgiven.

Friday, BF and I had met some of his co-workers for happy hour. We all laughed together as they recounted the details of their "field day" (kickball, sumo wrestling), as one of them revealed a secret crush. It was the first time I had met them but we quickly became friends. It was a sunny summer Friday, perfect for beers and bonding.

The trouble started when I went to the bathroom.

There are two private, one-toilet bathrooms, one labeled ladies and the other, gents. Really, it seems that it doesn't matter which is which because, like I said, they are private.

The ladies was occupied with another girl waiting. The men's, as usual, empty and no line. I asked the girl waiting if she wanted to take it. She said no. So I went in.

When I got out, there was a guy standing there, who I assumed to be waiting for the men's. I smiled at him. He told me I shouldn't go in there and that if I did it again, he would tell the bartender. I thought he was joking -- he looked like a customer -- so I sort of laughed, and the whole thing seemed very light-hearted. I went on my way without thinking another thing about it.

As we readied to leave, I went to the bathroom again. This time, it became very apparent that the guy from before was actually a bouncer, and he really did work there. When I came out, he was with a couple of other employees, telling them that I had told him to "f*ck off" when we talked before. They wanted me to leave.

"I never said that to you!" I said, disbelieving that this was actually happening. My friends later said he called me a bitch (or was it stuck-up bitch?). I had no idea what I did to cause such ire in this individual, and worse that he would actually lie about me, about something I never said. The last person I told to f*ck off was an old boyfriend, and it was about three years ago. It's not something I say to 300-pound bouncers I've never met, and especially not ones I thought were joking with me.

It bothered me for the rest of the night, the day after, the day after that. Obviously, today too. BF pointed out, quite correctly, that I was giving this situation far too much power. But BF will also say that I am always all about "the cause," and what is fair and just, even though life is seldom fair or just. He is right.

Maybe the bouncer's girlfriend just dumped him, and maybe she looked a little like me. Maybe his life wasn't going well otherwise. Maybe he's just a jerk who doesn't like women. Maybe he was mad that I didn't properly "respect his authority." I won't ever know the answer.

"Lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil."

I said a prayer for him.

Can't Clone Love

2008-05-21T11:48:00.000-07:00

I can't say I'm against cloning. I think cloning, say, human organs would be a good idea if it would mean that people waiting for donations wouldn't have to wait as long, or at all.

But a feature on today's Good Morning America pointed out a trend I find outright disturbing: cloning your pets.

As I've written here many times before, I adore all three of my kitties. If I just pause to think about the inevitable day when I'll be without one of them, I actually start tearing up. My love allows me to look past vet and food bills, daily litter box cleaning and prolific shedding. They are a joy to me and I think they're about the most precious creatures alive (next to BF, of course).

But that said, I wouldn't clone any of them.

I've had cats my entire life, eight of them at last count. Each of them was unique in their own way and that's what was so lovable about them. Like people, they have personalities, and none of them are the same. I can't imagine not experiencing each of them.

There was a man on GMA from the company that does the cloning. He extolled its virtues, how it's like always having your most beloved pet even though you'll likely outlive him or her. And probably what galled me the most was the fact he said the company would soon be offering an auction on its Web site for people to bid for this service. Unconditional love goes only to the highest bidder.

Meanwhile, thousands of animals get put down each year because they can't be placed in a suitable permanent home, because so many people think they're "too good" to take on a rescue or shelter pet and nothing less than a pure-breed will do. (For the record, every cat I have owned has been a stray or shelter animal.) And we can thank such intellectuals as Paris Hilton for starting the "collect little purebred dogs like they're knick-knacks" trend.

Perhaps I'm too emotional on this issue -- after all, I either leave the room beg BF to change the channel when that Pedigree dog food commercial comes on, the one that shows the poor forlorn doggy in a shelter hoping to be adopted. Oh, and that ASPCA commercial with the Sarah McLachlan song. I honestly can't bear to watch it.

I suppose the prohibitive cost of cloning likely won't make this a widespread trend. But I still can't help but think that the world would be a really nice place if people didn't keep screwing it up.

On Weddings

2008-05-16T11:56:00.001-07:00

Oh yeah, something happened to me recently ...

I'm engaged.

I haven't made a big announcement on this page because 1) hardly anyone reads it, and 2) I've been trying to notify family and friends personally. (Inevitably, someone will read this who didn't receive such an announcement, and for that I apologize. I've already drawn Emily Post's polite ire many, many times, and I haven't even got around to a complete guest list yet.)

The nuptials are tentatively planned for October 2009. That gives BF and me a full 15 months to make plans, change them again, gnash our teeth and wring our hands about how much all this costs, and, I hope anyway, not come out of the whole process hating each other.

I find that, in the case of our wedding plans, I'm seeing plenty of trees but no forest yet. For example, I already know I'm designing our invitations and I even have some specific ideas for them. Likewise, I've mentally constructed our centerpieces, and I know the style of dress that I want. We know the song for our first dance. I know the song I'd like to use for dancing with my dad. I should note, though, that we have yet to come up with a few minor details, namely the ceremony and reception locations, and — oh yeah — the date.

Meanwhile, it's a constant struggle to not listen to those who say wedding planning is an awful, stressful event. Even more important is not getting frustrated at everyone's well-meaning but rather annoying "vision" for what we should do: "Oh, you should consider this place (never mind the $10,000 site fee)." "I think horse-drawn carriages are SO romantic." "Have you considered gliding down the aisle on a float made of jujubes?"

Even better is when people find out BF is Catholic, and myself raised Presbyterian, and how we're working to find common religious ground so we can join a church -- not just for a wedding, but for the long term. A woman at the gym gave me a long speech about how I should go talk to her priest, and how having a Catholic communion at our wedding is absolutely essential, and if we join an Episcopalian church it just "won't be the same." Chalk it up to learning an important lesson about keeping my mouth shut.

But here's all that matters: We're very happy. We're in love. We're going to have a great life together. And we're getting married!

Best Compliment I've Received ...

2008-05-16T11:52:00.000-07:00

... regarding my fashion sense.

Woman at business luncheon, musing on the lack of style in DC: "I really like your outfit. You're not from Washington, are you?"

Hungry

2008-04-28T07:14:00.000-07:00

I just want — no, need — some reassurance.

First, it was a war that has no easy end, no victorious, triumphant solution.

Global warming became more than just scientific speculation.

Fuel prices went up, and kept climbing.

Now, people all over the world are going to starve soon.

The surge in food prices is highly unsettling. In yesterday's Washington Post, there was the story of a textile worker — I can't remember her location — who was living on tea for lunch, watery sorghum for dinner. Nothing more. "I don't know how long we can survive this way," she said of herself and her family. She is not isolated.

Climate is having an influence on food production, as a prolonged drought in Australia has far-reaching effects. It also seems that as credit markets tighten, speculators have turned to food to find fortunes. There is a fine line between greed and humanity. Which side will win?

Here in the West, we have the elixir of complacence, ignorance. We have Nutri-System, Weight Watchers because our comfort has led to widespread excess. But our supermarket bills certainly aren't getting cheaper. How bad will it get? Will it take the prospect of starvation for people to finally get outraged? To finally pay attention?

I can't help like feeling we're going headlong toward disaster. I just want someone to tell me it's going to be OK.

Earth Day

2008-04-22T10:15:00.000-07:00

It strikes me that, when it comes to being good stewards for the environment, we are very much products of our upbringing.

One of my earliest memories is of the paper drive that used to happen in my home town. Since it only came a couple of times a year, by then we'd have a massive stack of newspapers piled in a corner of our garage, all neatly bundled within brown paper grocery bags. We'd take the load to the town supermarket, where a semi trailer would be filled with months' worth of newsprint, headed for recycling.

Years later, I can recall walking with my then-boyfriend along the road that led to our high school. I don't remember the exact incident, but I think it involved him tossing an aluminum can into a field. I scolded him and said he should recycle it. He dismissed me like this whole "environmental" thing was just a waste of time and energy. It wasn't the first time he'd prove himself to be a complete imbecile. The relationship was short-lived.

By then, curbside recycling had come to my town. My mother taught me the proper way to go about it: rinsing out cans and bottles, breaking down boxes, bundling newspapers, sorting everything as it should be. My father was the "energy cop," advocating use of the house's massive vent fan instead of air conditioning, and later putting CFLs in the condo he once owned long before it was the chic thing to do. To this day, he rarely uses air conditioning, prefers using a kerosene heater in the winter (at least, until it becomes intolerably cold) and has added massive amounts of insulation to his creaky, drafty, 1880s-era home. He's had an organic garden since long before Whole Foods was even a gleam in an urban yuppie's eye. He is a composting Zen master.

Living with BF has proven this upbringing theory in some ways. His pre-Baby Boomer parents are somewhat older than mine. While mine came of age in the era of flower children, his were more of the sock-hop set. Environmental concerns are not high on their priority list. So I've had to become a bit of an ec0-nazi in our household, digging recycle-worthy things out of the trash, turning off the faucet while he brushes his teeth, questioning whether it's necessary to run the air conditioning just yet. Yes, I am a pain in his ass sometimes. But the message has been getting through, and he admits he never knew much about recycling before he moved in with me.

So on this Earth Day, gentle readers, I implore you to do this: Teach your children. If you don't know everything you can and should do, educate yourself. Small, simple steps can mean a lot.

Pass it on.

Just Wondering

2008-04-21T10:23:00.000-07:00

Having not enough material to do one coherent post ...

1. Whatever happened to Salon Selectives hair products? Used to be you couldn't go to any store without running into their stuff. It was heavily marketed. I was never a big user but that apple-scented hairspray could bring back memories of my big-haired high school years. Everybody, sing along: "Like you just stepped out of a salon ..."

2. When did Bethesda's "Urban Partnership" helpers start becoming Bethesda's Army? Used to be they were friendly folks in red T-shirts and black pants or shorts. Now they're walking around in combat boots (!) with their matching black cargo pants tucked inside, looking fresh from basic training. I had no idea walking around a leafy, affluent suburban enclave required such militance.

3. Is it possible to have beginner's luck with your hair? It seems every time I try something new (this week's experiment: duckbill clips at the roots while drying to add volume), it works fabulously the first time. Subsequent attempts, however, never seem to work out as well. Hmm.

4. Another question about my 'hood: What happened to the awful trumpet player who used to be at the metro station every morning? I even gave him money a couple of times in hopes he'd take some lessons.

5. Why would you let your toddler play in the middle of a freaking busy bike path on a Saturday afternoon? BF and I rode from National Airport to Mt. Vernon on Saturday. A couple was having a picnic a few yards away from the path. Their two-ish looking son was on the path, gibbering as toddlers do, and the couple was cooing back at him happily and not the least bit concerned. Meanwhile, I had just crested a hill and slammed on my brakes in case the tyke decided to step in front of me. Hello, peeps, bikes go fast, believe it or not, and you don't want your kid to take the hit, trust me. WTF.

Clinging

2008-03-31T09:47:00.000-07:00

"Remember that time he spilled an entire drink in your lap?"

"Hey, remember last year? The cat hid from you then too!"

"Remember when she was such a bourgeois sorority girl? She's so bohemian now!"

The three of us talked a lot about the past. The best-friends-since-college talked about sharing a room in their sorority house, separating themselves in the library to keep from talking, the whereabouts of many people whose paths have intertwined and diverged from their own along the way. And we had our own memories since we've become friends -- beach trips, bad relationships, sketchy dudes, inside jokes.

I've been maudlin lately about the forward march of time. Maybe it's because I've spent two consecutive weekends with friends who moved away, maybe it's because I've never been especially good at letting go. Sometimes, I also think it's because that through a couple of big moves and lackluster efforts at keeping in touch, I'm just not that close anymore with most of my friends from "back in the day."

I don't think I'm one of those people who just can't grow up, and I'd certainly keep my 30s confidence over my 20s metabolism. But I just wish I could've appreciated the fleeting nature of that time. Sometimes I wonder what 32-year-old me would say to 19-year-old me, given the opportunity.

"Work harder in school. Keep going straight into graduate school. Make an effort to keep in touch with your friends. You won't always be 'the youngest one,' and there will come a day when you stop getting carded. And by the way, you and Andy aren't getting married."

Then again, maybe it's best if we can't know the future. Maybe it's best if we just enjoy the moments while they're here.

The Space Between

2008-03-25T10:17:00.000-07:00

The trip's beginning could've been better.

Working on four hours of sleep. Shoes off and bins loaded only to get trapped behind a woman in security who decided that *this* was the time to repack her bag. Listening to a wailing toddler two rows ahead, whose father tried to discipline him only to be shooed off by grandma -- who was encouraging the cacophony. Repeatedly awakened by a captain who found it necessary to tell us our current altitude, our future altitude and every major and minor metropolis over which we passed. "We'll soon be over Huntington, West Virginia ..." "On the left, folks, Louisville, Kentucky .." "We're coming up on St. Louis ..." etc.

All that soon was forgotten, though. In the terminal bathroom, off came the sweater over my tank top, my slip-ons replaced with wedge sandals. 80 degrees, the desert sky clear and bright.

I had gone to visit a dear friend. She left the DC area in fall 2005, taking a risk on a future unknown after deciding it was better than the present status quo. It was rough going at first, and the final outcome not at all what any of us would've expected -- but she was right. In hindsight, the unknown was the path best traveled.

We spent money like we had a printing press, ate like we had tape worms, laughed like we were on hallucinogenics. Within her new life (which I suppose isn't that "new" anymore), there was comforting familiarity -- a pair of shoes I remember being well-worn on our "journeys" around Friendship Heights, the drinking glass I used to always choose as my favorite, photos of relatives and old friends.

It went much too fast, as the best vacations always do. Too soon, I was back on the plane, back east, back to reality. Afraid to step on a scale or look at the bank account balance. Feeling the pit in my gut that always comes when we say good-bye, when paths diverge once again.

But that moment in between was just like emerging into the desert sun for the first time after a long, cold winter.

Stupid, stupid. I'm so STUPID!

2008-03-19T09:21:00.000-07:00

Remember that old Chris Farley sketch on SNL when he'd pretend to be a talk show host, giving terrible interviews to famous people? During the interview, he'd ask the star about some obvious part of his/her career (to Paul McCartney: "Remember when you were in the Beatles?"), then say ... "that was awesome." Inevitably he'd start pounding himself on the head and saying, "God, I'm so STUPID! I'm such an IDIOT!"

Yeah. I think I know how he felt.

Up 'til now, my career had mostly been one of editing -- taking a finished product and reshaping it, or even reworking it entirely. I didn't do a whole lot of writing, except what you see here. What I did write was the kind of stuff that just required straight research and not much talking to other people. Hence, interview skills were never something I developed.

Well, in my current job, they want me to write more. Like real stories, with interviews and stuff. It's a small staff; everyone must contribute.

I've turned out a couple of small things that went reasonably well. Now I'm expected to write a big thing. And the topic, I'm finding, is rather vague and not easy to focus.

So I've been calling people in the know about this fairly vague topic. And my inability to focus it has meant I've asked many people a very similar set of questions. So my story, if I were to write it now, would be saying the same thing six different ways.

The curse of being an editor first and writer second is that you expect things to come out *perfect* the first time you type it. Despite my long-ago time in writing classes that taught us to just "get stuff down and refine later," that is not how an editor operates. So I'll stare at a blank screen for five minutes trying to figure out just exactly how to word something. That means in addition to being a crappy interviewer, my writing moves at a glacier-like pace. Remember those '40s newspaper movies where some hard-nosed reporter would run out of a courtroom, jump into the nearest phone booth and transcribe a perfect front page story for the next edition? Yeah. I'm not that gal.

Today's bad phone experience was talking to someone from a software company. Honestly, he didn't have a lot to offer my story, and I somewhat knew this going in. It still didn't ameliorate things. I got through my list of questions, looked at the timer on my phone and realized we'd been talking for all of six and a half minutes. And I was tapped out.

"Uhh, hold on a second, let me look through my list of questions here ..."

"Sure," my interviewee said.

Yawning silence.

I made up something on the fly about the company's competitors and asked how this particular offering was different. The way I phrased it made it come out in a silly, nonsensical rush that made me sound like a complete idiot. It reminded me of when I'm trying to be philosophical when I'm drunk. Sigh.

"Remember that time your company made that software? ... That was awesome."

Exactly What I Wanted

2008-03-17T11:39:00.000-07:00

I marvel at my hair stylist's ability to somehow bring to reality the babble that issues forth from me as soon as I sit in her chair.

"You know, I like the color now, but maybe something different. Something more like ... a purse I saw at Loehmann's the other day."

She'll nod and pad off to the back of the salon, blend up something and voila -- once again she's bestowed my head with the perfect shade. True story, I've had people stop me on the street to ask (1) "Is that your natural color?", and then (2) "Where do you get it done?"

This time I told her I wanted more red. Red, red, red. I could tell she wasn't sure of this idea -- after all, spring is almost here and a darker shade isn't normally what one does in this season. She quasi-warned me that my highlights would be covered initially but would "emerge eventually" after a few weeks.

Well, red I wanted, and red I got. Especially at the roots, where the "virgin" hair sucked up the color much like a nation of spring breakers taking down fruity frozen rum beverages. Seriously, I think the name of the shade must be something like "Lucille Ball Circa 1955."

Gone was that beautiful caramel shade my stylist had so artfully discovered for me -- the one that actually looked like it could be my own color. But I could not chastise her -- she had done exactly what I asked.

Now I'm trying to figure out how to make it fade. (The other kicker is that I laid down another $50 for some fancy shampoo and conditioner that's supposed to be the best for preserving color.) Fortunately, I'll be in the desert sun later this week, which should help bleach things out a bit. I've read online that a generous helping of Prell shampoo, or Dawn dish detergent, can help.

Meanwhile, sure seems like a good time to bring out the hat collection.

The Fine Line(s)

2008-03-14T12:06:00.001-07:00

I've been perusing my closets lately in search of ways to put together new outfits, spiff up old pieces, as well as cull the dead branches. (Rib knit shirt from 1996? Probably time we said good-bye.)

Additionally, I've been on the hunt for a few new items to make myself more stylish, even if it's only in my own little head. On my to-do list is a visit to Bethesda's several second-hand/vintage clothing shops -- rich people's castoffs, you know.

I've also been perusing the magazines and fellow metro riders for inspiration. One struck me with potential: knee-highs paired with a skirt. Kinda like you used to wear in grade school.

I witnessed this on a rather normal-looking woman who actually might have been a couple of years older than me. She had on a navy corduroy skirt, narrow striped knee-highs and brown leather wedges. (Remember when you had "school shoes"? They were in that spirit.) Granted, she was the tall 'n' lean sort, probably a good 3-4 inches taller than me, and she had fabulous legs. (Minus 10 lbs. since January, mine are getting there again!) It was a great look -- on her, at least.

I saw a similar outfit in a photo on The Sartorialist -- this time it was white full skirt (maybe a dress?) topped by a brown fur coat (faux I hope), brown peep toes, grey knee-highs and a brown chain-handled purse. I started picturing my own high heels paired with high socks. But I realize this outfit has contradictory potential, walking a fine line between natty-ness and ill advised.

I've been trying to discover that je ne sais quoi of personal style -- how two individuals of similar body type could be dressed in an identical outfit, but only one of them might own it. There is a talent that goes beyond matching colors to matching textures and putting something together that is coherent without the appearance of trying too hard.

When I was much younger, I let other people dictate my taste, to a degree. When an unworthy ex-boyfriend deemed me "too funky," out went a gorgeous brown velvet vest, and a velvet olive green short jacket with black ribbon trim. Both were vintage, picked up cheap at the Goodwill, the likes of which I likely will never see again. I miss them to this day. So it goes.

Bright peeks of color, artful layers. I'll own it, mine and mine alone.

Ask Not For Whom the Bell Tolls

2008-03-12T09:46:00.000-07:00

For whatever reason, the bells always made me happy.

Maybe it was their tintinnabular sounds I found so pleasing, or that they played Pomp and Circumstance just when I was in the midst of mid-terms, ready to give up and just "get a job" back home, like some of my friends, who actually had money and could afford regular meals. (Not that it was a serious thought -- other than when I was eating plain macaroni for the third straight day. Those friends? Not doing so well now.)

Though I didn't attend a college that was particularly prestigious, historic or even athletically noteworthy, I still hold a special affection for it. Those chimes made me feel connected to the campus' past. Trite as it sounds, I felt transported back to when "coeds" wore dresses and fraternity pins from their best beaux, when boys weren't allowed inside sorority houses but smoking most certainly was. Back when girls set their hair in rollers at night, and when the only phones in the dorms were pay phones at the end of the hallways -- for the whole floor to share.

So a while back, when I heard that the bells had been silenced -- the inside mechanics shot, the university not willing to pay for repairs -- I felt a little sad. One more tradition down the drain, along with Beta 500 and the skeevy pond on the east side of campus, now drained, filled and planted over with grass. Sigh.

By random chance, I looked up the campus newspaper's Web site yesterday. Lo and behold -- a story about the bell tower! It seems some folks had designs on getting the bells ringing again. They were considering coming to alumni for help.

The money was burning a hole in my pocket. I e-mailed the reporter. "Hi," I wrote. "I am an alum and used to work at the newspaper. Do you have any information for how to donate to the bell tower restoration?"

No info yet, she said. A mass mailing to alum might come out in a few months.

I imagine the wide-eyed student journalist likely rolled her eyes at my e-mail, like I used to when anyone over 25 tried to correspond with me back in those days.

I hope so, anyway. It's tradition.

Everybody Must Get Stoned

2008-02-19T13:41:00.000-08:00

Mostly, the sales people beamed at us from behind the glass-top cases. Happy for us, yes, but also smelling blood in the water. They unlocked and relocked cases, apologized for low inventory following Valentine's Day. Meanwhile, I wished I had taken time to fix my mangled manicure and somehow felt the experience was more than I deserved, was destined to somehow lead to a spectacular crash-and-burn just when things were going so well.

Such was our experience as BF and I embarked on our first real-deal engagement ring shopping trip.

We hit a lot of stores along the way, talking to sales people who were fresh out of high school (mall stores) up to those who actually had taken this jewelry thing on as a serious career (fancy diamond importer). We sat side by side, examining mountings as the associate carefully placed loose stones into the posts. I learned I had an affinity for the "cushion" and "radiant" cuts. It was all the more delightful to be at a mall store when the teen salesgirl gave me a look that was a cross between confusion and slight disgust. "We don't have those here," she said. "They're not that popular."

At some point, BF asked, "Why do women want diamonds?" He wasn't being petulant, nor trying to get out of anything. (I should note that this shopping trip was *his* idea.) And if I were about to spend upwards of $7,000 on something, I'd damn sure want to know why as well.

I couldn't give a great answer. "Because they're pretty and sparkly." (BF: So you just want it because it sparkles?) "Because they symbolize commitment." (BF: So you need a diamond to feel committed?) And the worst of all, which I never said out loud: "Because everyone else gets one when they get married and DAMMIT I WANT ONE TOO." At one flustered point I even told him he could get me a cubic zirconium and chances are I would never know the difference. (Remember those '80s "As Seen on TV" commercials for "diamelles"?)

I don't know a time table for any of this, or even if one exists. I do know BF has asked his recently married best friend for ring-buying advice. But for all I know, this is just to throw me off the trail, so I'm trying not to dwell on it. While I would trust BF with my life, the last guy in my life who hinted around about rings left me a crushed disaster, so I'm staying firmly in the "believe it when I see it" camp.

I want to see. I want to believe. Stay tuned.

P.S. Yes, I realize this is poor juxtaposition, what with my last post being a rant against the jewelry industry. I offer no apologies. I really am that hypocritical.

Le Gag

2008-02-06T10:58:00.000-08:00

Dear Jewelry Industry,

Yes, I realize you only get a few shots every year at guilting the nation's men into thinking the only way to say "I love you" is through gemstones and precious metals combined into whatever "trend" your blasé designers have created this year. (2007-08 version: The Journey Pendant.) But please ... can we form some kind of agreement here?

Now don't get me wrong, I love jewelry as much as the next broad. I've sauntered dreamily through Tiffany's, gone to Smithsonian's Natural History Museum with the express purpose of examining the "glittery pretties." I've dragged BF through New York's Diamond District (text message response from his best friend: RUN), and he's given me a few gems over the course of our relationship.

What irks me so much about you, jewelry industry, is the vapidity with which you treat your potential customers. Yes, I suppose there are men out there dense enough to forget that Valentine's Day is in mid-February, or that a tennis bracelet might make a lovely Christmas gift. Chances are those types aren't contributing a whole lot to their relationship(s) anyway, so maybe you should think about taking those kinds out of your target audience.

Otherwise, you're doing a really good job of portraying women as shallow, materialistic twits. Again, I know they exist, but maybe you could make your adverts not seem so overtly geared toward that type? Like, most chicks aren't gonna go weak in the knees if her dude gives her a necklace in a bloody musical jewelry box that plays "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star."

(As a side note, have you seen that [mostly] photo book, Porn for Women? The one with a cute guy on the cover, running a vacuum cleaner? I can tell you right now that I would be infinitely more turned on if I came home on Valentine's Day to find BF had stayed home to scrub the entire apartment, rather than if he presented me with a shiny bauble. That's just how I roll. I can guarantee that most women living with their partners feel the same way. Let your marketing geniuses chew on that a bit.)

(OK, maybe I'll make an exception if that shiny bauble were to be an engagement ring, but let's not get off track here. See! I can be shallow too.)

So let's you and me make a deal, jewelry sellers of America. You make your advertising into something that doesn't invoke a gag reflex in a person with at least average intelligence, and then only show those ads about half as much as you do now. I will make you a promise that people will buy your tripe no less often than they already do, and might even buy more since you won't be giving them a reason to avoid you. (Geez, I'd love to shop at Shaw's, but if I have to hear that fucking "heart is like a diamond" song one more time ...) You catch my drift.

Thanks much,
Blue

Rats

2008-01-21T08:52:00.000-08:00

There are certain things you just don't want to hear at 6:30 in the morning.

"Oh my God."

"What?" I called from the bedroom. BF said nothing. Fearing some kind of mortal cat injury, I slightly panicked. "What???"

"There's a dead rat in the middle of our rug."

And so began our week, one that capped off a weekend when I was the sickest I have ever been in my adult life (note to self: get a flu shot next year), and now we faced hefty metro delays (me) and an all-day meeting (BF).

I made BF "man up" and dispose of the rat (because I'm a big freakin' weenie), which likely met its demise thanks to Charlie. Or maybe Cecil. We aren't positive but we're at least somewhat sure it came into our apartment through the toilet. I found rat droppings on the edge of the bathtub right next to the toilet, likely where the critter emerged, was confronted by a feline, then shat itself.

Right now we are chalking it up to an isolated incident (we've never so much as seen a single cockroach in the apartment, nor have the cats left dead rodents for us before), but I can't help but get the heebie-jeebies from the whole thing. Should I be afraid of getting bit in the ass whilst taking a tinkle? What if it has a whole family who decides to come looking for their lost loved one?

Some days, it's just not even worth getting out of bed.

Meter maids: As miserable as you'd think

2007-12-19T09:58:00.001-08:00

Overheard on G Street between 12th and 13th ... and no, I'm not making this up.

Meter maid, errr, parking enforcement officer #1: (Indicating FedEx van) I already ticketed this guy ...

PEO #2: Mmm-hmm, girl. What about all these other ones?

PEO #1: Workin' on it. (Points across street) Hey, check out that guy ...

PEO #2: Uh-uh, in a bus zone and everything. And he's going inside!

PEO #1: I'm walkin' over there now. Girl, it's like Christmas early.

Mister Kitty

2007-12-17T08:49:00.000-08:00

Yeah, I have three cats. But Marley is my kitty. He's been with me since winter break of my freshman year of college (1994, if you wondered), when my ex-fiance gifted me with a little black and white ball of fluff from the county animal shelter.

The ex-fiance, well, became an ex. Marley spent 14 hours with me in the car, trapped in his carrier and none too happy about it, when I moved to take my first post-college job in Louisiana. He was with me through two apartments there. We packed up again and headed to the DC area just a couple of years later, this time with his younger brother Cecil in tow. We stayed in a corporate suite, a friend's apartment and finally our own joint, which is where we lived until just this past March, when we again moved -- this time to live with BF.

Four apartments, lots of new friends, a slew of ex-boyfriends. Marley has been there through the whole thing, cuddling up to me on the couch or in bed at night, sometimes seeming like the only person I had in the whole world. He makes me smile when he is silly and playful and smart, sometimes all at once.

He's 13 years old now ... an age when you realize they won't be around forever. Saturday, the cat who loves to eat more than take part in any other activity wouldn't touch his breakfast. He hid himself in the closet. I kept quietly hoping for improvement, cheering inside later when he ate a little tuna, drank water, used the litter box. But it was still clear that he was ill.

He's at the vet now, BF picking him up later today. The vet thought maybe it was a virus but is running more tests.

It's true it could be nothing; he could be just battling a kitty cold and might be back to his old self in a matter of days. I can't ignore other possibilities, though.

A few years ago, I was in the waiting room at the vet's office when it was time for a check-up and shots. Both cats cried from their carriers while I tried to reassure them; everything is OK. A couple came in carrying a keeshond wrapped in a blanket. The dog was obviously very sick; the man told the receptionist the dog's name -- Dutch -- in a grim voice. The woman with him was crying. I looked down at Marley, who was staring at me with mournful eyes. "No time soon, buddy," I said quietly.

I just hope this isn't the time.

Live Blogging After the Office Holiday Lunch

2007-12-13T11:37:00.000-08:00

2:44 This is probably a bad idea.

2:47 I can't properly focus on my screen ...

2:54 Actually being surprisingly productive given my level of intoxication.

2:59 Umm, having a problem writing complete thoughts. This is a problem.

3:02 Drinking during the work day = bad, even if the company is paying. Let this be a lesson to y'all, young'uns.

3:13 Ooh, must not allow eyelids to go to half-mast. Open! Be alert! Dammit.

3:14 Hmm, coffee. Yes, coffee.

3:18 The good news is that the pain I was having in my thumb earlier isn't there anymore.

3:22 I am totally obsessed with that OK Go video of the dudes from the band on treadmills. Like, how do you even think up that shit, much less choreograph it?

3:31 Wow, three things knocked off my list of six things to do. Perhaps except for the sloppy typing, drinking at work actually helps me be more productive.

3:34 Whoa, the shoes I have on are definitely waaaaay too perilous for me to stand up that fast ...

3:49 Buzz subsiding ... not sure if that's good or bad.

3:53 How on earth can I be hungry??? We just ate lunch. I should've had the steak instead of the fish.

4:01 This George Mitchell report thing sure is making me happy I don't work in sports journalism anymore, just knowing today is hell for a lot of MLB writers. Then again, they probably had their stories about this pretty much written for the last five years.

4:05 Would it be bad, or just really retro, for me to grab a nightcap (or, actually, metro-cap) for the ride home?

4:24 I. hate. Juicy. Couture. That is all.

4:33 Yaaaaay, five things off my list! I am en fuego.

4:42 For some reason, I'm having a flashback to my metro ride this morning, when some annoying-ass teenage girl and her mom were sitting behind me. The stupid girl was studying for some test. Quotes: "Like, some of this stuff is interesting, but this stuff about, like, Chinese history, I don't even care about." And: "Do you think daddy could take this test for me?" (spoken in the most irritating whiney teen voice EVER) Mom had at least a little common sense, despite her offspring, because she said "No." To which the teen-twit asked, "Why?" Couldn't hear mom's explanation. The future generation is sending us straight to hell.

4:48 In 15 minutes or so, I'm going home ... to eat peanut butter!

5:03 OK, I'm outta here! I think three-hour drinking lunches should be a weekly event.

My Cause Should Be Yours

2007-12-12T09:36:00.000-08:00

One of my many pet peeves (and one shared by many others) is when someone you know well -- usually a close friend or relative -- gets wrapped up in some "cause." Gets religion. Gets vegan. Gets political. Actually, it's not the "cause" part that annoys me, it's when this person feels like because they've chosen to have this point of view, now you should too.

This has been a frequent topic of discussion between BF's sister and myself lately due to an issue I won't detail here, but will only say it involves her impending motherhood. It's not BF's sister's "cause," it's someone else's.

I had a great friend growing up. Best friend, really, even when she moved to a neighboring town and eventually to another state. We went through sleepovers, unfortunate experiments with makeup and hair, high school hallway angst, crushes, first boyfriends, drivers licenses.

The change came when we were in college. New friends and even more physical distance put space in our friendship too. I got engaged, set my sights on a career. She had a live-in boyfriend named Frank. She said a couple of curious things about the two of them wanting to have a baby. I just dismissed it as talk.

But sure as shootin', she was pregnant not long after that. A planned wedding got moved up a few months, and Frank was joining the army to provide for them all.

Sometime around then, she also started going to a church. A pentecostal one to be exact -- the one where they speak in tongues and sometimes the women don't cut their hair.

It wasn't her newfound religion that got to me. It was the fact that now I couldn't have a conversation with her without being told I was a sinner, God this and Christ that. Judge not, lest ye be judged was one part of the Bible she hadn't read, apparently.

As the years went on, there were more children (she's up to four), and more distance ... I actually haven't had a conversation with her since she only had two kids. I get updates because our moms are still good friends. Her scorn for my lifestyle as a "single career woman" became more than I wanted to deal with, so I stopped making contact. It wasn't an easy decision, but I tend only to keep friends who actually support me, even if they don't agree with me.

My mom will say from time to time that my friend misses me and wants to hear from me. Things haven't been easy for her. She found out the hard way that raising a flock isn't easy, and isn't cheap. She moved to Colorado and finally finished college but hasn't found a career out of it. People at her church -- where she was volunteering almost full time -- turned on her after another member there said she was a "witch" because she was taking classes to become a midwife. Her husband, supposedly done with his stint in the army, has been sent back and forth to the Middle East over the last few years.

Someday, perhaps, we might reconnect. I do miss our old friendship. And while this will certainly sound callous, I kind of hope the hard knocks have taught her that there are no "absolutes," that choosing one path while looking askance at those who take another, is not a guarantee of happiness, or sanctity, or peace.

Safe to say, we've both learned a lot over the years.

It's a Boy

2007-12-10T08:06:00.000-08:00

BF and I must be crazy. We adopted another cat yesterday. So, for those of you keeping score at home, that now means we share our domain with three felines. If I still lived alone, my status as "crazy cat lady" would be official.

But actually, this wasn't my idea (though I can't say I did a lot to discourage it, either). BF and I were roaming the aisles of PetSmart a couple of weekends ago to buy stuff for the cats we already had. We stopped at the "rescue cats" area while I fantasized out loud about taking them all home. BF noted that one in particular -- an orange and white one-year-old male -- was "doing tricks" to get our attention. "Quite a salesman," BF noted. "He's friendly!"

We kept talking about the cat all week. "Can we go back and see him?" BF asked me at least twice.

I agreed (though my gut made me wonder if it was really a good idea), but kind of figured he'd be gone by the time we went back. But yesterday, there we stood in front of the cages again, and there he was. Next thing I know, I'm filling out adoption agreement paperwork and handing over the $135 in fees. I think we're going to name him Charlie.

BF is practically beside himself at finally having a cat that's "ours" (vs. the other two, who were with me for years before he came along). I can't say the older kids are sharing the joy at getting a new sibling. I'm hoping the hissing/growling/etc. subsides in about a week.

Today, I left him shut in our bedroom with his own litter box and food to reduce the chances of hijinks while we're gone for the day. Cecil, our "middle" kitty, was especially pissed about that, as he prefers to sleep on our bed during the day. But, I suppose it's an adjustment for all of us.

I'm still not sure it was a good idea, but I feel good that, if nothing, we saved a life. Or nine.

I Feel Pretty

2007-12-05T07:45:00.000-08:00

My affinity for cosmetics and related flotsam is well-known among my friends. BF calls me "Miss Scarface" because of my elaborate computer desk-turned-vanity, which apparently reminds him of Elvira Hancock. Well, except for the prolific coke habit.

(But speaking of addictions, I might as well confess now that I'm back on the Mary Kay. Stage an intervention now.)

Anyway, I found that makeup has another benefit besides just making me feel purty. Believe it or not, given my makeup-phile status, I actually only wear makeup at work about half the time. I never get up early enough to put it on at home, so unless I can sneak away to the ladies room for a few minutes when I first get in, I'll instead just walk around with a naked face.

But I've actually found that when I *look* tired (aka, sans makeup), I also *feel* tired. Hence, though the magic of foundation, concealer and a touch of eyeshadow and blush, I'm somehow magically able to not fantasize about sleeping under my desk.

Yes, this is entirely unscientific and makes absolutely no sense. The question is -- have I become so addicted to makeup that I actually am allowing it to affect my physical well-being?

Whatever it is, my new Mary Kay lady is thanking her little pink stars.

(So *this* is why I haven't been writing much lately ... I re-read this stuff and say, "Really? That's dumb." But anyway.)

Anthropologie: A Survey

2007-11-15T09:55:00.000-08:00

I'm embarking on a long-desired and actually needed shopping trip this weekend -- a by-myself, take-armloads-of-shit-into-the-dressing-room kind of trip. Among my quests are (potentially) wide-leg pants. And while I regularly receive their catalog and am quite intrigued by some things I see on their Web site, I've never actually set foot in Anthropologie. So my question is this: Is this retailer a skinny-chicks-only kind of place, or can a girl with a, um, more generous rear end and thighs actually fit into something there? They have a lot of said pants on their Web site.

Thanks for your input,
EB

Is it bad ...

2007-11-12T11:10:00.000-08:00

... that I have actually turned down opportunities to sub group exercise classes because there is a *chance* I'll be hungover that day?

Fortune, Indeed

2007-11-09T07:50:00.000-08:00

I can't say I'm too familiar with Fortune magazine. My line of work requires I pay attention to such publications as Business Week, Financial Times and the Wall Street Journal. I have a subscription to Money, though BF actually looks at it more than me. But Fortune mostly remains a vaguely familiar stranger.

But today, I was perusing some headlines from their Web site, a joint venture with fellow Time Warner media outlet CNN. Two stories caught my eye: The man in the no-iron suit, a missive by an old-school shirt-and-tie guy (and Fortune staffer) lamenting the rise of no-iron fabrics, and Building a better Bentley, a story by another Fortune staffer who shares that she drives a Bentley Continental GT but is now in love with the newer Continental GT Speed.

So, just how much are they paying editorial staffers at Fortune? 'Cause I think I need to update my resume.

Colvin, the no-iron guy, notes near the top of his story that he doesn't have to wear suits to work, but he does anyway because he likes to, then adds that most of his clothes are custom-made in London and New York. We-he-hell. Because of this, he says he's probably not the best person to be assessing these "space-age clothes."

Meanwhile, Susan Zesiger Callaway, she of the Bentley, swears she isn't overpaid. She bought it used! She'd live in a shack to drive a great car! I should note that there were photos circulating not long ago of one Paris Hilton (let's hope that's the last time her name appears here) stranded on the side of the road because she ran out of gas (Jesus) driving none other than one Bentley Continental GT. Oh, did I also mention that even a used model will run you around $115K? Nope, Callaway isn't overpaid at all. I'm sure she's got that thing parked out in front of a boarding room at the YMCA.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have a cover letter to write.

(P.S. Guess I shoulda done the whole OMG, I sorry I not post, I can has forgiveness??!1!!1! bit, but, well, not happening.)

Update on My Head, Inside and Out

2007-10-19T13:32:00.000-07:00

I have nothing interesting to say, really, but here's my latest gibberish:

1. After waking up with the. most. excruciating. pain. ever. at about 2 a.m. Thursday, I spent the day at work in a drug-induced haze. Turns out I got the dreaded dry socket in one of the "surgical sites" (aka former tooth hole), which basically means the blood clot detached too soon and left a whole bunch of nerve endings and bone exposed. Feels AWESOME, let me tell you.

2. Went back to the oral surgeon today for a follow-up. With the exception of the dry socket, everything else is healing wonderfully. He removed the pack from the dry socketed site, and I am simultaneously fascinated and horrified by the freaking CRATER in the back of my mouth. Like, you could park a truck in that thing. He gave me this nifty curved syringe thingy to "irrigate" it after I eat. It's really tough to look like everything is normal when you're hunkered over the sink in the office bathroom squirting food bits from your mouth. Yum.

3. Skin has turned from little tiny bumps to one big mask o'crust. I've learned that drug reaction rashes are a lot like chemical burns ... they just have to heal up on their own as the skin regenerates itself. Did I mention I'm meeting some of BF's friends from college this weekend? Yeah, and my skin looks like the surface of some distant, sun-scorched planet. With some mountains here and there. Yaaaaay.

That is all. Have a swell weekend. I hope to not be wallowing in self-pity again next week.

Of COURSE It Seemed Too Easy

2007-10-16T06:57:00.000-07:00

Ever undertake a task that many others before you labeled as "difficult" or "challenging," but find you can breeze through it with the greatest of ease? Then later you find out you did the whole thing wrong -- hence the reason why it came so easy? Certain school projects come to mind for me.

This is the story of my recovery from wisdom tooth extraction. I had considered myself extremely fortunate. I only had minimal swelling, mostly limited to the inside of my mouth. I wasn't in a lot of pain. (Of course, I also kept myself well-dosed on good pharmaceuticals, and BF was an excellent nurse.) I figured my oral surgeon was no less than a miracle worker and that I'd be as good as new in a matter of days.

Then ... Sunday rolled around.

I was on the couch, paying alternate attention to the Sunday paper, the Redskins game and my feline companions, while BF was on the computer. I noticed my chin felt a little ... odd. Pressing my fingers around my mouth I discovered -- what's this? -- hives!

I gave myself a closer inspection in the living room mirror. Yep -- big, patchy red wheals. I entered full self-punishment mode. "It's because I drank beer! I committed the evil, evil sin of mixing prescription drugs and alcohol!!!"

Monday morning, me and my blotchy face returned to work, many of the hives even doing me the favor of developing tiny little whiteheads. All the better for getting leered at on the metro -- and maybe even earning a seat to myself. I was light-headed walking to the station, which at least helped ameliorate my mortification.

I decided I needed to call the doc.

"I have hives," I told the receptionist.

"Are you taking antibiotics?" she asked.

"Yes ..."

"Oh no! Cease and desist immediately! Stop taking them right now!"

Turns out ... I'm apparently allergic to amoxicillin and all its 'cillin cousins. It's been so long since I've been on the antis -- I honestly can't remember taking them in my adult life -- that I had no idea.

But that's not all. Last night, I also started feeling a whole lotta jaw pain. Like, the prescription-strength ibuprofen wasn't even putting a dent in it. Fearing the dreaded dry socket, I dipped into the vicodins. Between that and the Benadryl, I soon passed out into a heavily drugged slumber.

Things are slightly better today -- hives are there but seem to be subsiding, pain not as evident. (One great side effect of all these pain meds is that even though I'm paying the monthly bill, the cramps are completely nonexistent. Nice!) But this has taught me that long-standing lesson ... things are *never* as easy as they seem.

Side note: This marks HHandF's 200th post! Fweeeee!!!

Dental-Induced Vaca

2007-10-10T09:16:00.000-07:00

Will be out for a couple of days due to my fun wisdom teeth extraction. The sad part is that it's either a poor comment on the fact my schedule is overloaded, or that I'm utterly uninspired at work, because I'm really looking forward to a few days off. Even if I'll be holding ice packs to my face the whole time.

Carry on ...

Clueless Flaks Part II

2007-10-10T08:59:00.000-07:00

This might be even better than "asking for a mention." (BTW, that woman never did send me a press kit.)

I got an e-mail today from someone requesting our "editorial calendar for 2008" so's he can send it to a client who is "interested in your magazine." But he can't release said client's name, will only say it is "a major economic development agency." Basically he wants to pass it on to some nameless, faceless soul so he can let his client suggest ways of horning in on everything we do for the next 12 months.

Yeah. No.

Interpret This

2007-10-09T09:15:00.000-07:00

Last night, I had a dream BF and I got married on a grassy patch on a street corner near a Starbucks. It was just the two of us -- not even an officiant, so I'm really not sure how that worked. Then we went into Starbucks. I got a white chocolate macchiato. (Does such a thing exist?) It might have actually been caramel. BF got his usual -- venti coffee of the day. Marky Mark was our barista. I asked for a discount, seeing as how we were newlyweds and all.

Signs I'm Getting Older

2007-10-08T09:48:00.000-07:00

"What do you want to do for your birthday?"

Our topic of conversation: "Birthday season" in BF's family, which runs from October to early December. BF (10/23), all his siblings and his mom have birthdays somewhere in that span. I (11/17) fall right between his sister (11/16) and brother-in-law (11/18).

I honestly hadn't thought about it a whole lot, spending more time wondering what to get BF than what I want to do myself. I really don't feel up for the kinds of alcohol-fueled fetes that have punctuated the last few years. And not that I don't want to see my friends, but I'm not sure I want to drag them out for "all hail me" when I'm feeling so low-key. Oddly enough? My birthday falls on a Saturday.

For the "not-so-big" day, I think I narrowed it down to this:
1. Spa and/or shopping time ... alone, I think
2. A bucket of Popeye's chicken (extra spicy), maybe chocolate cake
3. Card games and beer with BF. (Perhaps I'll invite friends for that part.)

Gifts? I told BF to buy me a backpack.

All hail lowered expectations.

Punishment, Fitting the Crime?

2007-10-05T08:26:00.000-07:00

There was a mix-up.

Some time ago -- three months or more -- my mom had mentioned to me that my stepdad was going to attend a reunion at his high school in Front Royal, Va., which is somewhat in the area of DC. We had agreed to meet for lunch on that Sunday as they were headed back home.

It was my mistake for not writing it on my calendar. I thought they would be here the weekend of Sept. 22. Turns out it was actually the weekend of Sept. 29 -- when I made other plans to go to Bowling Green for my own homecoming.

When the mistake was discovered, I could tell she was hurt. I wasn't exactly happy either -- I had wanted to see her. But there were other people involved with my homecoming plans; children shuffled to grandparents' homes, days off arranged from work. And bottom line, I wanted to go. It was a chance to see people I hadn't seen in years. I don't regret it.

The last time I talked to my mom was probably three weeks ago. We're not the "call every Sunday" sort but we usually communicate more often than that. I finally sent her an e-mail yesterday, asking her about her trip, telling her about mine, updating her on a few things and asking about Christmas plans.

She hasn't responded. And unless her computer was stricken by some horrible technical fate, it isn't because she hasn't had time or because she seldom checks her messages. As far as I can tell, she just isn't talking to me right now.

My mom has been acting a bit on the loony/ridiculous side ever since I moved in with BF. More than one of my friends who are closer to her age than mine has labeled her behavior as nearly Draconian. Keep in mind, I've never cohabited before this. I've always been "the good kid." So why this one particular episode is so deeply troubling to her, I can't quite fathom.

And I'm also wondering what she's hoping to achieve by this. Will putting distance and hostility between us somehow change things? The amount of disrespect I feel she's showing toward BF is, unfortunately, not likely to be repaired easily. As the saying goes: "As ye sow, so shall ye reap."

Here's the kicker: I have a cousin, five years younger, who is an addict. She has caused much pain and grief throughout my family, has lied and stolen and used many of us over the years by selling false hopes that she'll do better next time. My mom has helped her many times -- bought her a car, found her a place to live. When she's come back after another "episode," there's my mom, helping her out. More often than not, getting used again.

But for me ... it seems I've taken one "misstep," if one could label it that, and suddenly I've sprouted horns. I am devil's spawn. I am not worthy. Despite the fact I'm educated, have had a great career, have always walked what's considered "the right path."

I'm an only child. I'm not particularly close to my father, though he's shown worlds more respect for my decision, by proxy my adulthood and maturity. But still ... it's times like these when I feel utterly alone and grandly despairing, wondering how to bridge the divide between "what mom wants me to do/will keep her off my case" and "what I want for myself," knowing that these two things often cannot co-exist. No matter how much I wish that I could.

I'm sorry, mom, but I am tired of having to justify myself. It's your turn now.

Homecoming Recap (Or ... Damn, My Sorority Got All Bitchy)

2007-10-01T07:29:00.000-07:00

Seven and a half hours in the car, each way. Banana bread and carrots augmented by plenty of junk food. Beatles on the CD player, '90s alternative tunes on Sirius.

This was the trip Kristin and I took to our fine alma mater in Northwest Ohio, our long-discussed but never-quite-executed journey back to Bowling Green.

There were plenty of "remember when" moments, reunions with people I hadn't seen since I graduated nine years ago. Stories of my dumped-out purse and overturned chair at one particularly drunken student newspaper staff party. Smoking in the newsroom. The way we hardly ever walked *anywhere* even though things were so close together.

It's hard for me to believe that it was 13 years ago when I first set foot on campus, a wide-eyed freshman feeling so happy to be free but without any particular sense of direction. The dark and dingy student union where I spent so many hours studying or using the computer lab has now been replaced by a sparkling new building. The lobby of my sophomore dorm is just slightly recognizable, with two front desks consolidated into one, a few walls knocked out and air hockey and pool tables moved in. (I am so jealous of that, btw.)

Perhaps the most disappointing part of the trip was going back to my sorority house. I won't name names, that whole "don't disparage a sister" thing and all, but wow ... the girls were way different than I remember, for sure.

I was somewhat anti-Greek when I decided to rush but was pleasantly surprised by everyone's friendliness and smarts and welcoming manner. Now? I was basically sneered at when I asked if I could look around. The girls are, shall we say, stereotypical. Alumni composites, which we used to hang all the way up the steps, were nowhere to be seen. The alleged alumnae "cook-out" is nothing like we used to have (she says in crochety old-woman voice) and there wasn't another alum in sight. I led BF on a quick tour of the house and left feeling a little sad. I really hope we didn't seem like that back when I was an active.

Otherwise, things are much the same and yet markedly different in BG. The once-familiar student services building, fashioned to look like a slide projector, is now a pile of rubble, the space soon to become another music building. The old campus pond was filled in, the rock that every chapter's pledges used to paint moved to just outside my freshman dorm.

It's the quandary of being an alum: Somehow, you think everything should've been preserved exactly how you remember it. Somehow, you feel like your memories were cheapened by the fact that everyone else moved on.

I was sad when we pulled out of town, remembering that feeling of endless possibility and the combination of recklessness and hard work that made up the whole experience. Not knowing where the world would take us, just pushing on for another day. Before bills, careers, kids.

It felt like I was home again, but not really home at all.

A Day In the Life

2007-09-25T10:25:00.000-07:00

Hey look, it's chapter 24 in EB's long-standing saga of "what do I do with my life/I don't like my job." (I should start tagging my posts again.)

An episode today left me wanting to drive my stiletto heel through a certain someone's temple. As in, "Here is a mistake you made, I am going to rail on it over and over and over again until you are literally unable to contain your urge to openly glare at me, meanwhile I made a bunch of other similar and no less egregious errors, though I feel I am above reproach." This is not the first time such an incident has occurred.

Anyway.

I already know I won't be in this job long-term. But ... I'll at least be in it for a while. Since I only stayed all of four months in my last job, I know I need to stick around so as not to start looking like a job-hopper. Also, I need benefits. And my non-retirement savings aren't enough that I'd feel comfortable just leaping into the great wide open with nothing on the other side.

That said, I'm really thinking that I'd like to do something more entrepreneurial and freelance-based, instead of being tied to some soul-sucking FT job. Sometimes I think I have issues with authority figures -- I really think I'd be a heck of a lot happier being my own boss. (I would've never made it in the military.) Then again, it's only poorly-skilled authority figures who piss me off. But I digress.

I've been thinking about getting a personal trainer certification and trying to sustain myself through a combination of group exercise classes, personal training clients and maybe some freelance or part-time editing. Maybe I could add some direct sales to the mix to boot ... I was once a Mary Kay addict in a former life.

The things that scare me? The lack of benefits. The lack of a consistent paycheck. Of course, if I did make these moves, it would be a gradual thing ... you know, get the "other" stuff established before quitting the day job.

I don't know what I want to do. For now, I will put my head down, keep showing up every day, try to do the best job I can and not let my boss make me feel like I'm a bad editor -- something he's doing pretty well right now.

Tick, Tick, Tick

2007-09-24T11:56:00.000-07:00

BF became an uncle again early last week, his oldest brother's wife giving birth to a healthy baby boy in the wee small hours of the night.

I finally met him yesterday, swaddled in a blanket from the hospital, dressed in a blue onesie while his tired but proud parents gazed dreamily on their first-born. I held him in my lap, mesmerized by his tininess, his not-yet-formed belly button. Mostly, though, I was amazed at his face ... as BF's oldest brother looks a lot like, well, BF, certain expressions made me think I actually had BF's child in front of me. In other words, my ovaries were on fire, gentle readers.

I don't know if it's a product of my "biological clock" or just my predisposition toward worrying ... but I keep having concerns about my fertility. Like, that it's not there. I had a LEEP about a year and a half ago and I worry about what will happen if those problems come back.

But I also worry about other problems, like giving birth to an autistic child (1 in 150, current statistics say), or one with Down Syndrome, or one with spina bifada, or any other of the thousands of problems that can come into the world with a baby.

Maybe my mom's hammering on me about having children has some influence on this too. And while I know she would never vocalize it, I can't help thinking that if I did have a baby with a birth defect, she'd think to herself, "I told you so." Because I waited too long. According to her.

BF and I are not in a position to have children now, obviously, and I don't know how long it will take until we are. I'm not trying to rush things because I realize the tremendous sacrifice that comes with being a parent.

But in the meantime, I keep hearing the clock, ticking away.

I'll Take Clueless Flacks For $500, Alex

2007-09-18T10:51:00.001-07:00

Dear Public Relations Professional:

Throughout my media career, I've dealt with you on a number of occasions, some more pleasant than others. But going forth, I have just one request for some of you: Please get a clue.

When you essentially cold-call me to ask how you can "get a mention in the magazine" for your client, please understand that it just doesn't work that way. This is Journalism 101. I will be happy to forward your request to the ad department, where they will help you get all the mentions you want. Of course, renumeration is involved. But you also aren't dealing with the Super Saver or Homes & Land.

Now, if your client has done something *newsworthy*, then we can discuss said mention. By newsworthy, I mean something that pertains to what we cover here, not that your client hosted a golf tournament or just gave 15 employees A+ Gold Star Awards for perfect attendance last year.

Also ... please know who it is you're calling. Do a little research. If you call me with some kind of pitch about something that has zilch to with what my publication covers, please don't try to twist it into something I might find more acceptable. I know my publication, but I can tell that you don't. And by the way -- the ad and editorial departments are separate. In the case of where I work now, they're not even in the same state. So no, I don't take off my editors' hat to go call people about ads.

This request comes on the heels of an exchange I had today with one of your colleagues.
She wanted this "mention" for her client. But she couldn't tell me why, or in what capacity. She said her client wasn't above paying for advertising (well golly, thanks!) and seemed to quickly get the idea that she wasn't easily getting her "mention." But all is well that ends well -- I passed her info onto both the ad department and the reporter who might be able to use her client as a source. See? Progress!

*No, I don't mean to slam the entire PR industry, because I know some are quite hard-working and are willing to help out in a useful capacity. Who knows, I might even make the "big switch" some day. But there's a lotta crap out there too. Lotta crap journalists too, though.

Monday Rant

2007-09-17T07:55:00.000-07:00

So the ultra-efficient AC here is still happily churning away, despite the autumnal temperatures outside, leaving me freezing despite the fact I even dressed more warmly today (corduroy blazer!) and am now wrapped in a pashmina, my "work woobie." Additionally, my impending period has me bloated like a waterlogged corpse. And Mondays just suck ass anyway.

I'm fantasizing about a world that would allow me to be cozily snuggled on my couch, dressed in sweatpants and slippers, sipping hot tea and gazing at my dozing kitties.

That is all.

Clotheshorse

2007-09-13T11:29:00.000-07:00

Well gang, my urge to be thrifty has finally given way to an urge to shop, what with all those new fall fashions salaciously displaying themselves in store windows like Amsterdam prostitutes. Even worse, I'm getting new catalogs at an alarming rate, probably because I innocuously joined White House/Black Market's mailing list, only to be bombarded with everyone from J. Crew to Frederick's of Hollywood.

The look I'm now craving to achieve is '70s chic: wide-leg pants, tuxedo blouses, stacked-heel boots, long necklaces, belted dresses.

I just feel like life would be so much better if I could obtain:

1. An oversize winter white handbag. Found one at Filene's that I'm in love with, though it costs something like $265. Sigh.

2. A sweater purse, though I think if I got crafty I could make one from thrift store sweaters.

3. A brown or light blue winter dress of some kind, to go with my rockin' blue and brown hat, and tall brown suede ribbon-trimmed boots.

4. A winter white skirt -- perhaps one with a subtle flare or ruffled hem.

5. Clogs. Had a pair in high school and I don't care if they make you look like you should be picking tulips in Holland. They're the most comfortable shoes ever.

6. A sweater dress -- grey, deep red or winter white.

7. A long, chunky knit cardigan to wear with jeans or corduroys.

8. Oh yeah -- corduroys.

9. Winter white pumps. (I'm diggin' the winter white, obvi.)

Hmm, that list isn't so bad. Today I settled for a pair of sunglasses, since my other pair broke yesterday. Then again, there's something to be said for continued financial piety. A dear friend -- quite a clotheshorse herself -- had to go on "shopping moratorium" when she quit her job to move away and hadn't yet found another job. She said since she wasn't buying anything anymore, she kind of felt like it had been more about instant gratification than anything. Then again, she's also said that since she moved -- to San Diego -- she is often overdressed. (Yet another reason why I could never survive in Southern California.)

Anyhow. Should I give in to my consumerism?

Breaking: Old People Have S-E-X, Like It

2007-09-13T08:14:00.000-07:00

From our friends at USAT (yeah, because that's the only news site I check regularly) comes a story that folks of a certain age are still gettin' it on, and still liking it.

Well, stop the presses.

My question is, *why* exactly is this a big deal? Sure, we don't exactly think of the senior set as being the hook-up type, but the writer of this story, one Sharon Jayson, even includes the ultra-patronizing line (in the second paragraph) that they are "old enough to know better."

Well, Ms. Jayson, I sure hope *I* never get to be "old enough to know better."

Where Were You?

2007-09-11T09:09:00.000-07:00

I was in the shower. It was Tuesday, and I was getting ready for work on the "slow" day in our production cycle.

Anticipating the usual morning call from my boyfriend at the time, I had taken the cordless into the bathroom with me. He called right on time.

"We're under attack!" His voice was high-pitched, excited. But he was an excitable guy, so I just wasn't sure how serious he was.

He described it more, and I abandoned the shower to watch the news. The second plane had just hit. Eventually, word came that the Pentagon, too, had been hit.

I sat on the couch in my robe, hair dripping. Could only sit and watch, didn't get dressed until much later. Finally I called work to tell them I wasn't coming in ... half the staff was off on Tuesdays anyway. Our building then was a mere mile from the Pentagon. More calls to family, to friends, watching people jump to their deaths. Watching the towers fall in a cascade of steel and glass. Listening to crazed rumors -- fires on the National Mall, car bombs.

I had not yet been to New York at that time; could not grasp the grandeur of the Twin Towers, perhaps not even the heartache and grief, until I made my first trip about two months later. A friend of my boyfriend's had an office that overlooked Ground Zero. By then, even from the 33rd-floor view, it mostly looked like a big construction site, but there were still a number of surrounding skyscrapers shrouded in netting — which are now, too, gone. The office next to the friend's had a prominent scar on the wall from where a chunk of debris had crashed through the window and embedded itself.

That day, a stunning contrast of a beautiful fall day and abject fear, has made me wonder — what if it had been, say, storming on the East Coast? What if those planes had never left the ground? Would another day have made a difference? Maybe. But probably not.

Unable to be alone any longer, I drove to hang out with a friend. The beltway was eerily empty at 3 pm, traffic more akin to an early Saturday morning. We sat, bleary-eyed, in front of her TV. As day turned to night, we went to the roof of her building and watched the many aircraft lights in the sky, knowing that they were not the familiar passenger jets making their way in and out of BWI and Reagan.

Six years later. Still fearful. Still not sure if we're any wiser for what happened that day.

2007 Shoes and Fashion: Oh, the Humanity

2007-09-06T08:11:00.000-07:00

(Ed's note: This post is all snark, all the time.)

Just got the DSW "style guide" in my inbox (yeah, me and 150,000 other people). They highlight the "new trends for fall." Girls, if this is what is hip this year, please count me as unfashionable until something more wearable comes back.

First off ... ankle boots have made an unfortunate return for a second season. Seriously, unless you are a gazelle -- 6' tall and 105 pounds with legs to your chin -- these will not look good on you. I rather think they make one look like one of Robin Hood's Band of Merry Men. Second, they only look good with skinny pants (or leggings or tights) -- and skinny pants are clearly only meant for skinny people. Check that, scrawny people. I shall have no part in this.

Second: DSW touts the wonder of patent leather boots -- you know, a lot like the ones Julia Roberts was wearing when Richard Gere picked her up off the street. Seriously. But, it's good to know that prostitutes and strippers can now get footwear at a mainstream store, rather than having to shop at those overpriced sex boutiques! The style guide showcases several pairs of these shiny wonders and they all look like S-H-I-T.

While I'm ranting, let me move on to Fashion Week. What is bothering me is a considerable lack of FASHION ... but plenty of celebrities! I have seen very few runway pictures, with the exception of Gwen Stefani carrying her kid at the end of her show. Otherwise, it's all photos of decidedly unfashionable celebrities mugging it up for the cameras. Can anyone please explain to me why Bam Margera is bothering to show up at Bryant Park?

BTW, This celebrity-as-designer fad has gotta go. Thanks Gwen, but that punk-rock schoolgirl look just ain't for everyone -- really, it's not for anyone past the age of 17. One review described some pieces as "costume-y." I predict similar short-order implosions for Fergie's bag line and Baby Phat. (Side note: I actually attended Baby Phat's fall show last year ... except for the deafening music and the -- again -- unfashionable celebrity appearances, it was rather unimpressive, save the swag bag and one kinda cute flight attendant-inspired outfit.)

That's all. I gotta keep gettin' my bitch on by making fun of homeless people or something. (Who am I, Mandie Erickson?)

To Those Traveling on Old Georgetown Rd.

2007-09-06T07:13:00.000-07:00

Specifically, those who were on the road yesterday at roughly 5:40 pm, between Wisconsin and Woodmont.

I would like to apologize for my ill-timed jaunt over the subway grate while wearing the light, flouncy skirt that tends to get, um, unsettled even at a slight suggestion of wind. Unfortunately, I had to avoid a giant SUV that was pulling out of the Safeway garage, which forced me over said grate. The fact that a severe gust came from below at that moment was only an unfortunate coincidence.

That said, I apologize to anyone who was exposed to my pasty buttocks and thighs. Trust me, I will exercise more caution in the future.

Sincerely,
EB

From the World of Sports ...

2007-09-04T13:13:00.000-07:00

Because it ain't just High Heels, it's High Heels and Football!

1. I'm still chortling over the Greatest Upset of All Time ... Michigan vs. Applachian State! Sure, we've seen plenty of times when those Week 1 throwaway games turn into something of a nail-biter, but for it to become a genuine upset? And MICHIGAN, no less? The gods of football were surely smiling upon us, gentle readers.

2. Why is Tiki Barber suddenly acting like such a jerk? Dude says he quit because of coach Tom Coughlin, then takes the extra step of ripping his former teammates. Klassy! Dude, you could've been remembered as one of the Giants' all-time greats, and now your legacy is one of Big Fat Whiner. Oh, and complaining that the Giants shorted you $10M over your career? Cry me an effin' river.

3. Y'know, I realize it's kind of late to mention this, but it's just sort of sad to see ABC without NFL. Roone Arledge is still spinning in his grave somewhere.

4. Speaking of Monday Night Football ... You know, every year, they make some kind of broadcasting change, which I will note with a touch of indifference. Then, when it actually happens, it just seems that much more shocking. Like ESPN's 7 pm and 10:15 pm back-to-back MNF games. Now, I suppose if I were living on the West Coast, this would be a fantastic development, but it still seems ... I dunno ... weird. I'll be especially honked if the 7 pm game is a snooze. Such is life.

But on that note ...

SQUEEEEEEEEEE!!!! THE NFL SEASON STARTS IN 51 HOURS!!!!!

Say It Loud, I'm Cheap and I'm Proud

2007-08-31T09:34:00.001-07:00

So kids, two weeks into this food/spending diary thing, and I think I've started a personal revolution in my life.

One thing is that it never before occurred to me how much I was just mindlessly eating. A candy bar here, a croissant there. I've been trying to limit myself to 1,600 calories a day -- something I don't always achieve -- but keeping track has curbed putting things in my mouth without thinking twice. I'm not usually hungry, either (yeah, that's what all the dieters say), I just eat a lot more fruit.

The results? When I weighed myself at the gym last Monday -- just a week in -- I had already lost 3 pounds. I actually had a dream last night that I had regained my once-svelte(r) physique.

And money? Well, let's just say I pride myself in going for days without putting a single thing in the spending diary. When BF suggested we go out for dinner the other day (another thing I would've done previously without so much as batting an eyelash), my reaction was something akin to, "oh the horror, do you realize how much that would cost?" (Not to mention, the calories.)

Who knew that the secrets of the universe would lie simply in two small 4x6 spiral-bound notebooks. (Just please promise you'll stop me if I become an utter killjoy.)

A Vehicle for Asshats

2007-08-30T09:32:00.000-07:00

If you really want to know what the idiots of the world are thinking, I'd suggest a visit to USA Today.com.

No, it's not the staff of USAT who are morons. It's the people reading their stories.

Some months ago, USAT made the decision to make their Web page more ... I don't know, blog-like? ... and allow for comments after all the stories. (To be fair, a lot of media outlets are doing this, I just happen to visit USAT's Web site more than the other ones.)

Well, hilarity has ensued. If someone from another planet were to rove the online internets in search of what John or Jane Doe from the good ol' U.S. of A. is thinking, the extraterrestrial Web surfer would learn that we are all misogynist and lazy. Sometimes racist too. Oh, and we can't spell either. And the mainstream media are all a liberal conspiracy.

Yesterday, a story was posted about the results of a survey that was purported to find that women do more housework than men. (Ed.'s note: duh.) The headline was: "Married Women, Unite!" because allegedly they now had statistical backing for what they've been saying all along.

The comments that followed were something akin to listening to a philosophical debate at somewhere like a West Virginia bar housed in a pole barn. One that I remember: "Husbands, Unite! Men Make More Money."

There was something about more men dying in risky jobs, more men working full time, etc., that were somehow supposed to justify something that's fairly, well, inconsequential. When one women stood up and said something about how a lot of men expect their working wives to be the primary caregivers to the children, cook a hot meal every night, do all the laundry, clean the house, then get up at 4:30 the next day to do it all again (which, in some situations, is true), one of the esteemed scholars made reference to it being "that time of the month." Awesome!

I'm not sure why media outlets are suddenly thinking that they need to know everything their readers are thinking. For USAT (and I'm sure many others), they must've felt it was a way to drive more traffic on their site. Problem is, it's usually only a very select few actually leaving comments. I'm not sure they're gaining new eyeballs.

Newspapers are trying everything they can think of to gain new readers, but the problem is that they're also doing a good job of turning off those of us who've been here all along. You can count on a major redesign about once a year now. One thing that newspaper business people do not understand is that people actually like consistency, and if they come to expect that the obituaries will be on the second page of the metro section, they will not be happy to discover that one day they are not.

Call me old-school, but the only place I want to see reader thoughts is in Letters to the Editor.

Abby, Drew, Leslie, Maude

2007-08-29T08:18:00.000-07:00

Back in early grade school, I want to say around 2nd or 3rd grade, my elementary school brought in some kids with, as we euphemistically say, special needs. They weren't ADD or blind or deaf, they were profoundly mentally handicapped. Back then, we still said "retarded."

I'm not sure what led to this program's genesis or eventual demise. My adult theories are that it was a lack of other resources within the district, or maybe an early-80s ideal that having these kids around "normal" students would better socialize them, while also making us "normal" kids more tolerant of people who were different. (I have to say, at a school where the student population was 99.5 percent white, they were maybe onto something. I didn't attend school with a single black kid until the ninth grade, and there were only three in the whole school.)

There were four kids ... Abby, an always-smiling redhead who was kindergarten-aged; Drew, her blond twin brother who also had an ever-present smile; Leslie, a large red-headed girl who was probably in her early teens; and Maude, a girl with a brunette bowl-cut who was also likely a pre-teen, and also was the loudest and most out of control of the four.

Before I go further, let me say ... I do not think that such children should be locked away from "normal" activities, but I also don't think this was the best place for them. The teachers at my small-town school lacked the resources and knowledge to deal with them. I recall our gym teacher actually spanking Maude during gym class, in front of all of us ... for what I can't remember. But even in my childhood idea of adult-child interaction I remember thinking that this was the only way the gym teacher knew how to get through to this girl, that she was feeling frustrated and helpless.

They were only around for a year, maybe two. I've wondered what happened to them, though. Are they still alive? Did they ever have any kind of "normal" life?

I think my memory has been drawn to this because of a man I've seen on the metro twice in the last two weeks. He gets on at Metro Center, like me. He finds a seat and puts his backpack in the seat next to him. Nobody challenges him to say they would like to sit there, despite the crowds. Once, someone got bumped from behind and accidentally ran into him, and he was loud and angry ... he does not speak but he is a large man, and he menacingly waved his fist and growled at the offender while everyone else watched tensely. The offender merely cowered in his seat, with a look of fear.

Yesterday, he sat behind me, and I was ashamed to admit that I was afraid. Actually afraid! And so that brought me back to thinking of Abby, and Drew, and Leslie, and Maude.

And I wondered if I actually *did* learn anything way back then. Or if, again, I am just "normal."

What If?

2007-08-28T13:21:00.001-07:00

Don't get me wrong, I'm perfectly happy with my life. Thrilled, even. Indeed, I have been blessed.

Still, I think all of us, no matter how happy, might occasionally wonder what might have been.

What if ... I had gone to college somewhere else, a place most people don't think is in Kentucky instead of its true location in Ohio?

(My mind says: Well, chances are you would've ended up with different friends, and the friends you have are perfectly fine, so why are you complaining? It's not like you shorted yourself on good times over those four years.)

What if ... I had gone straight through to grad school, instead of agonizing over it now, when I'm used to a certain comfortable lifestyle and plenty of sleep?

(My mind says: Chances are, you wouldn't have ended up in DC, because you wouldn't have stayed in Louisiana, which eventually led to your transfer to USA Today.)

Here's the big one. What if ... I hadn't met BF, and had instead stuck to the edict I had given myself when we first met, that I would "stay single for a while"? And instead of staying in the area when I gave USAT my walking papers, what if I had moved to New York, which was weighing heavily on my mind way back when I met BF?

Well, that one's more complicated to answer.

I know for certain that my love life wouldn't be better for it. Instead of dating self-absorbed DC jackasses, I'd be dating self-absorbed New York jackasses ... another breed altogether, in a city where everyone is in constant search of "something better" ... jobs, apartments, significant others.

But I can't help my love affair with The City. I am lusty about its attitude, its opportunity, the feeling that everything you could want is right there. When I've been there, my head is swimming, my heart is racing, I am giddy for that first kiss. I am sad when we part and can't wait until the next date. I could do this, I've said, as I navigated the subway without a hitch. As I've cruised the job postings. As I've considered cramped 400-sf Lower East Side studio apartments, the kind that take 5 minutes or more of faucet running for the water to heat up.

But New York, for all its glamour, is tough too. Everyone is competitive. Everything is expensive. While a lot of people are very kind, a lot of others can be judgmental and petty, much more so than we're accustomed to here in DC. It is gritty; it is unforgiving.

It's not to say "BF" and "New York" are exclusive ... he loves it too, and he has said more than once that we should think about moving away. But honestly, I can't see us doing it. I think he says that as a person who has always lived here. I think of it from the standpoint of someone who has lived elsewhere, and find this area to be just fine.

This morning, I woke up with our bedroom still hazy and greyish, the sun not yet high enough to cast light outside of our west-facing window. Through my half-mast eyes, I could see BF's face sleepily smiling at me.

So far, I've made the right decisions.

Nothing To See Here

2007-08-27T09:28:00.000-07:00

So far, I've considered blogging about:

1. The first time I played three-man likely since college, paired with the sudden recollection of why I liked the game so much in my younger days;

2. My new-found miserliness (see previous post on food/money diaries);

3. The new recipes I'm trying this week (stuffed tomatoes and bulgur/corn salad ... maybe should consider starting a food blog?);

4. Hosting dinner for BF's brother, sister-in-law and mom, though it was rather uneventful;

5. The growing problem I'm starting to have with maintaining the barrier between my thoughts and my words; which goes with ...

6. An urge to do a work-related post/rant that could get me in trouble, so I'll keep my trap shut;

and

7. The crap-ass John Irving book I've been half-ass reading for the last three weeks, even though it certainly hasn't merited that kind of time investment.

But none of them are doing much for me, so alas, I'll relish you with deep thoughts and wise insight once I'm feeling inspired again. Carry on.

Vere Are Your Papers, Fraulein?

2007-08-23T06:59:00.000-07:00

I have certain traits I think might be inherent to my German heritage. (My great-great- grandparents were the first over from Deutschland.) My love of a good beer, especially the darker varieties. My affinity for processed meats in casing, and sauerkraut. My desire for things to be as efficient as possible. And another thing I'm not so good about, but will occasionally obsess over: record-keeping.

This week, I started keeping both food and spending diaries. I want to lose weight. I want to save more money. Keeping track of everything is an eye-opening experience, to say the least.

There's just something about having to write it down that gives you a certain ... self-restraint. Now I am accountable to a spiral notebook. Tablespoon of peanut butter, surreptitiously enjoyed after walking in the door from work? 94 calories. Slice of cheese while making lunch? 160 calories. It adds up, kids.

I've been better about the spending than the eating ... I went without an entry from Monday until today, when I paid my cellphone bill and added money to my Metro card. But so far, nothing frivolous ... no $80.34 to Filene's, no $15 lunch at the kabob place downstairs. It's made me a faithful brown-bagger ... which goes quite nicely with the food diary.

Here's hoping I actually stick with the program. I'll keep you posted.

The Princess Bride

2007-08-20T07:23:00.000-07:00

BF and I have talked a lot lately about moving our relationship "forward," and the timetable upon which such forward movement should happen. While neither of us have reluctance toward taking that next step, what's holding us up from that is, maybe not surprisingly, headed with a dollar sign.

Yes, gone are the days of the cake-and-punch reception in the church basement. Nowadays, entitled princesses everywhere pout, huff and tantrum their way into an event they feel is some kind of birth right. Wedding planners owe their very existence to this. This is why there is a show called "Bridezillas," why the wedding industry makes a gajillion dollars every year and why the average wedding costs upwards of $20K. BF actually knows someone who sold a condo to pay for his wedding.

Maybe it's because we watched Princess Di's wedding as children -- she arriving in a horse-drawn carriage, wearing a billowy dress with a train that was so long as to be about three time zones behind her. Young impressionable girls decided that we MUST have a ceremony like that, that we too would hire make-up artists and eight-piece bands and would float on a cloud to the altar, where we would be the most prettiest princess EVER for our most special-est day. Then we would have a reception with a 15-tier wedding cake, ice sculptures and a sit-down filet mignon/lobster dinner. Served by candlelight on china, natch.

When planning my first wedding (the one that didn't happen), I think I was caught up in that. I was more about the day than the actual marriage. Now that I'm older and presumably wiser, I realize that it's really just about us. At a weekend dinner, an acquaintance's remark about "a beer truck and a field and the most fun party ever" got me to thinking ... perhaps I should change my outlook.

"So taking money out of the equation, what's important to you?" BF asked.

I decided:
1. Having our friends and family there
2. Cake -- not huge but pretty and tasty, and preferably chocolate (screw tradition!)
3. Food -- also, not necessarily fancy, but good (IOW no deli platters, or crappy, overpriced country club fare)
4. A pretty dress (but not one costing more than $500)
5. Some nice flowers

So there likely won't be a make-up artist, or $2,000 worth of teeth whitening, or cocktail-hour jazz trio. We just hope our friends will show up, get drunk off the cheap beer and wine, and have a great time.

Either that, or we can wait 10 more years to get married.

Dear Michelob Ultra

2007-08-16T10:27:00.000-07:00

Yes, I know you try to market your shitty, watered-down beer like it's actually kinda good for you, or at least not bad for you, and push it toward the fitness freaks out there as a way to splurge without really splurging. (Not unlike "whole grain" Lucky Charms!) Well, this fitness freak ain't buyin' it. I'll stick with my Shiner Bock and Smithwick's, thanks, because if I'm going to have a beer, I'm going to make it worth my time.

But that's not really at the heart of my beef with you. As you probably don't know, I'm subjected on a daily basis to the art director's radio back in my designated work area. While I'm thankful he doesn't listen to country, I still have to listen to crappy radio commercials ad nauseum. And among those crappy commercials are your own radio spots.

The goal of your ads seem to be to put out the message that you are the Official Beer of Sexy, Fit and Flirtatious People (SFFP's). One SFFP says, after purportedly completing some type of 5K or 10K or other timed running event, that "This is the best Michelob Ultra that I've ever had." Gosh! That's really saying something!

Then there is the other SFFP who states that she has run in a bikini before (hope those triangle cups had athletic support!) and would consider running in a viking outfit. Oh, and the other SFFP who says he "just saw a girl, so everything's gonna be OK." OK! There's also some story about guys trying to run with a tiki bar, and some other chick talking about running behind a naked guy. Gee, when I ran a 5K, it wasn't NEARLY that exciting! I must be missing out!

Really, Michelob Ultra, fitness professionals have a hard enough time convincing the general public that some of us really do have gray matter between our ears, and that we don't hang out at the gym just to look good and hook up. You're not helping us in that mission.

So can I ask a favor? Will you go back to marketing to couch potato slackers, just like in the old days? They're probably more likely to drink your shit anyway under the pretense of "dieting."

K thanks.

Sincerely,
The Staff of HHandF

Rearranging My Face

2007-08-14T12:40:00.000-07:00

Well, I finally did it. After 5+ years of procrastination, I have finally made an appointment to have my impacted wisdom teeth -- all four of them! -- surgically removed. Break out the pudding and the pain killers, kids, it's gonna be a fun ride.

I don't actually get it done until Oct. 11, the first extended weekend that fits into my predicted busy schedule. (I could've done it before Labor Day weekend but BF's niece/goddaughter is getting christened that weekend and I didn't think the swollen face would look good in the pictures.)

In addition to getting the teeth yanked, my procrastination also means I'll be getting some bone augmentation. Double the swelling, double the fun! Gawd I hope the doc prescribes some good pain meds.

In the meantime, I have some preparations to make:

1. Teach BF to make mashed potatoes, my favorite food on God's green earth. I can make them quite well myself but fear a serious mishap with the mixer in an anesthesized state.

2. Check out the weekend TV schedule (I'll be home Thursday-Monday); thank heaven we'll be in the midst of football season.

3. Stock up on reading material ... I've got plenty of books awaiting my attention but I'll need to augment them with some copies of OK!, Life & Style and other fine literary publications.

4. Make sure there's plenty of pudding and applesauce on hand, as well as smoothie ingredients. (BF is quite good with the smoothie, especially with rum added.)

5. Have a large sketch pad available so I can trace the actual size of my swollen head.

Only 58 days away! I'd better get busy.

An HHandF Call to Arms

2007-08-09T07:24:00.001-07:00

Via the internets and news services everywhere comes word that Johnson & Johnson is suing the American Red Cross for copyright infringement over their use of, um, the red cross.

Apparently they're honked off that ARC puts the red cross on first aid kits and other merchandise, and the company has called for the destruction of any merchandise bearing the symbol, and also wants all the proceeds, plus interest, gained from sale of said products.

Is that all?

So I have a simple request: BOYCOTT JOHNSON & JOHNSON!

ARC is a nonprofit organization that exists solely to help in the community. I've been attending their first aid and CPR classes for years. I've heard stories from people who have saved lives from the skills they've learned in those very same classes. ARC shows up when there are hurricanes, earthquakes and floods. They're really not out to make a buck, which is more than can be said for J&J.

I hope a serious reduction in sales suggests that J&J reconsider their limitless greed. Then maybe they can go on to sue the Salvation Army or the Sisters of St. Ignatius or some other ne'er-do-wells.

That is all.

I Just Don't Like to Work

2007-08-06T08:53:00.000-07:00

After weeks (OK, more like hours) of soul-searching, this is the conclusion I have drawn. I just don't want to work anymore. At least, not full time.

It isn't specific to the job I have. Really, as far as jobs go and compared to ones I've formerly occupied, the one I have isn't bad -- the hours aren't overly demanding (usually), it doesn't follow me out of the office, management (at least within the office) is mostly rational and fair. Co-workers are pleasant and my commute is a fairly unharrowing 30 minutes on the metro -- no driving, no bus, no parking.

I really don't think I'm lazy, either. I don't picture my life of leisure to be one of sitting on the couch nonstop, though I would spend a good deal of time reading. I've got so many things I could do in that time ... keep the apartment spotlessly clean (an ongoing obsession), take cooking and dance lessons, volunteering.

Perhaps this is just my Office Space moment ... the time when Ron Livingston's character comes to his own epiphany that human beings aren't meant to sit in little cubicles for eight hours a day, that perhaps we have a bigger purpose in life (ourselves) than trying to help someone else's company earn money without any direct benefit, other than a piddling 2-3 weeks off every year.

I wrote a post before (to which I am too lazy to link ... hm, maybe I am lazy after all) about the myth of loving your job. I honestly don't believe that there are people who work for other people can love their jobs, at least not in the long-term. Job loving is for entrepreneurs, or people who can subsist on a very small income and find fulfillment by helping little children, wizened old folks or furry little animals.

A close friend of mine -- remember my Monavie post? -- is now making more than $70K a year through multilevel marketing. True, she does have to host a tasting every now and then, and she goes to conventions and meetings on occasion. But mostly her work seems to consist of getting on the computer for an hour or so and maybe making a phone call or two. She doesn't get up before 9, almost ever. She doesn't "work" more than ten hours a week. This is MLM, people!! Those crazy-ass 4 a.m. infomercials hold at least a small kernel of truth.

But, alas, I need income to pay those pesky bills. I have finally tasted financial freedom and I am not looking to endanger that. So ... hi-ho, hi-ho, it's off to work I go. Maybe I can talk myself into a change of outlook.

Dear Reader(s)

2007-07-25T10:53:00.001-07:00

Hey campers, I'm going on vacation from tomorrow until next Wednesday. And while I'm not going anywhere, except for a fitness convention in the palatial climes of Alexandria, Va., I'm sure not going to be in front of the computer much during that time either. So no, I'm not abandoning the blog again. Carry on.

Seriously?

2007-07-20T13:37:00.000-07:00

Things boggling my little mind:

1. VH1's "Rock of Love" series. Similar to when the network tried to hook up Flava Flav, they're now trying to help Bret Michaels, he of Poison fame. Remember back in the '80s/early '90s when that dude had chicks just dying to put his thorn in their rose? He just ain't lookin' so good these days, and his constant wearing of head coverings makes me think he's likely bald. Ick.

2. Usually my summer metro ire is geared toward tourists. Not this year! The new trend in public transit irritation? People with shopping cart-sized strollers cramming onto crowded trains and/or hogging up the escalators. Seriously. Some family got off in Bethesda yesterday, and yes, mom decided she should take her giant kid jalopy up the escalator ... clogging up the WHOLE THING around 5:45 pm ... elevator be damned!! Everyone gave her your best "Seriously? You're doing that?" look, but who knows if she noticed.

Ditto for a woman who decided, in the midst of a typical red line catastrophe, to also shove her way onto a teeming car with her own giant kid jalopy. Bonus points 'cause she made sure to get all pissy because everyone wasn't getting out of her way!!

3. Bush having colonoscopy, temporarily handing presidential powers to Cheney. Oh, so many jokes. Think Dick will seize his 45 minutes of power to, say, start bombing Iran or Saudi Arabia or Syria?

That is all.

Owning up

2007-07-20T08:49:00.000-07:00

Know what I hate? I mean, besides the approximately 4,532 other things I've bitched about in my 18 months or so of blogging. But ... it really honks me off when people refuse to take blame when they've screwed up.

Not that I haven't tried to get away with a few things in my time, but ... I'm usually quick to admit when I'm at fault, or even when I had a part in something going wrong. Sometimes this is to my detriment. It's just not usually slick to shoot your hand up in the air when some authority figure (usually a boss) says, "Who effed this up?"

This came to mind yesterday when a colleague came over to my desk mid-afternoon to plunk down a copy of an issue from a few weeks back. Apparently, someone's name was misspelled. Said colleague was the one who wrote the item. But rather than show any hint of contrition, she simply seemed to take the attitude that this was my fault because I was the editor and had not gone behind her to double-check the name. It wasn't a case of Richard being spelled Rihcard, either. It was an extra letter at the end of a last name that was otherwise undetectable. (Think something like John Milli when it should've been just John Mill.)

I give her at least a measure of understanding because she is not actually a staff writer -- her job is a different function on the staff -- so chances are she is not fully aware of how this writer-editor thing actually works. So rather than tell her that if we were to double-check every single niggling thing in every story, we'd never get anything done, and no, we are not paid to babysit, I simply smiled and told her I'd see what we should do.

No apology. No "my bad." Not a single shred of recognizing fault or guilt or otherwise just plain messing up.

That's just messed up.

Would you ... just ... let it ... GO

2007-07-17T08:52:00.000-07:00

If you put stock in Myers-Briggs -- and I do -- you would learn that my personality type, INFJ, is quick to forgive but has a hard time with that forgetting thing. We also hate confrontation and will stay in a relationship long past its usefulness, often for that very reason. (Also, we are idealists and all about justice and "the cause," but that's not relevant to this post.)

This is the only reason I can come up as to why, despite being in a great relationship with a man I never thought I'd find, I still insist on mentally berating my exes. Like, I have fantasies about being able to tell them what effing idiots they are. This is in no way healthy.

So, just to get this out of my system ... (identities masked to protect the guilty)

To my college-era ex, I would like to say that you are unmotivated, close-minded and an all-talk, no-action kind of guy. I wasn't sure what life would be like once we broke up, but clearly it turned out better, at least for me.

To my post-collegiate ex, I would like to say that you are lazy and immature. You expect everyone else to take care of you, hence that you didn't want a relationship so much as another mom. I'm sorry, but I need to take care of myself, and I had neither the time nor desire to wipe your nose and ass. I know the woman you are with now, and I like her a lot, and it is therefore incomprehensible to me why she's putting up with you (if she still is). But, such is life.

To the ex after that ... a relationship is about TWO people, not one.

And to the ex after that ... you are paranoid, delusional, overly dramatic, self-absorbed and manipulative. I really should've put you out to pasture long before I did, but we can't live with woulda, shoulda, coulda, can we? Oh, and please stop texting me. There is a reason why you don't get a response.

*Phew.* Let us never speak of this again.

That is all.

Last Chance!

2007-07-16T10:51:00.001-07:00

Oh, why are we so surprised by that moment of horror?

You know the one. You head to the store in need of hair spray/socks/cat food/lipstick. When you get to the aisle, though, oh, the humanity ... the brand you love is either completely GONE or the remaining containers of it are covered in those bright pink "75 percent off" stickers. Oh, shit.

I've lost three beloved products lately:

1. Suave Naturals Aloe Vera Smoothing Gel. I liked this stuff because it had a fresh, pleasant smell, it came in a giant bottle, it worked like a dream and it only cost something like $3. But now, alas, Suave has mostly canned the Naturals line and says it's products are now formulated for "moms." (WTF? Don't they know college students are their top customers?) Since I only used a quarter-sized dollop, the ginormous bottle would last me something like seven months. Well, now it's gone, and nowhere to be found, not even on eBay. Other cheap gels just don't do it -- they either smell like ass, or they promise something like "thermonuclear hold," for which I have no need. Ugggh.

(I used to love their moisturizing shampoo and conditioner in college, btw, but haven't seen it in years. Would buy it by the case if it were still around.)

(And if anyone sees any of the above products, let me know. I'll make it worth your while.)

2. Old Navy underwear in the 3-packs. Old Navy has been pretty much my exclusive underwear provider for the last three years. Much to my horror, I have learned they are discontinuing their thong and bikini three-packs in favor of more expensive (and less functional) a la carte undies. Seeing those shock-inducing fluorescent clearance stickers, I bought them up like as if commies were invading to take over. Now what am I going to do???

3. Physique Precision Wax. The whole Physique line is kaput after a short life, though it did seem to have a lot of promise. A jar will last you a year, so I've got a ways to go before needing a similar product, but I've never found anything nearly as good. *sigh*

Love, Thy Name is Goldenrod Purse

2007-07-16T10:11:00.000-07:00

So. The trip to MofA wasn't bad at all. Mom and I got along just fine without any major dust-ups. I did some major shopping, which will put me on moratorium until, say, Christmas. Save for on-ground and in-air delays coming home (ever been in a plane that circled the airport so many times you got nauseous?), it was a snag-free trip.

Among my scores: A black pair of sandals identical to a beige pair I bought earlier this summer (so comfortable I would buy them in every color given the chance), three skirts (pencil, pin-striped pencil, A-line), a glorious magenta/brown/white/black print dress that I'm modeling today, some lovely summer tops, a bevy of basics from Old Navy, and the coup de grace ... the next big fashion trend ... the goldenrod purse.

I'd seen some more fashionable ladies on the metro carrying leather purses in shades described as "mustard," "dandelion," "daybreak." A punchy yellow but not obnoxious. It matches a surprising number of prints and provides an unexpected shot of color to an otherwise muted outfit. It can also glide gracefully from summer to fall. I had to have one.

Of course, I'm carrying it today. It's slightly smaller than the behemoth white bag I've been lugging lately, which my shoulder appreciates, though I can't stash extra shoes and Safeway purchases in there like in the Great White Tote. Such is life.

I'm strutting around like some kind of fashion queen. All hail the goldenrod purse.

Wow, there are three Claire's here!!!

2007-07-13T12:35:00.000-07:00

In about an hour, I'm headed to the airport. I'm flying to Minneapolis to meet my mom. She wanted to go to the Mall of America.

I have to admit this wasn't my first choice of destination. When she suggested we get together someplace with "great shopping" my first suggestion was New York, followed by Chicago. Once she determined my stepdad had no interest in the MofA, that's what she settled on. Well, it was her 60th birthday a few weeks ago, so I didn't object.

I wonder how this trip will go. Ordinarily, my mom and I would have a good time together. But this is the first time we'll be face to face since I started living with BF. She made no secret that she's displeased about it. She's actually started asking about him again, but I wonder if there won't be some grumblings from her while we're on this trip. And normally, she'd just come to visit me here in the DC metro, but I guess my living arrangements disturb her so much that she can't bring herself to do that. I think it's all very silly but, whatever.

But I wonder, should said topic of conversation come up, how shall I approach it? Younger me would've immediately gone into combat mode. Older me thinks perhaps I should just make a joke about it and blow off all further discussion. I'm not going to change her mind, and she's not going to change mine, so what's the point of even having the argument?

I really hope it doesn't come up at all. But I know that my mom, like me, sometimes just can't let it go.

Reason 6,332 Why I Thank God For BF

2007-07-09T13:04:00.000-07:00

... comes courtesy of Details magazine, "Is it OK to Demand Anal Sex?"

Read it and weep, ladies. Especially note use of the word "demand." That fuckwit you met last weekend might be eating up this shit. Honestly, I like to believe that the average man isn't really this ... fucked up, but when I come across stuff like this, it makes one wonder.

The Circle of Awesome Instruction

2007-07-09T07:09:00.000-07:00

I've been doing this part-time group exercise instructor thing for, let's see, four years now. In that time, I've gone to four big-time national conventions and a number of one-day workshops to gain "continuing education." But I'm not sure anything can beat what I experienced this past weekend.

When one of the gyms where I work announced it was introducing Body Pump, a Les Mills program, to replace one of its other classes, I was less than thrilled. I had two classes in the format being replaced, though, meaning it was either become a Body Pump instructor or say good-bye to two classes, one of which I've had for a couple of years. Les Mills, for the uninitiated, has a number of programs -- Body Pump (strength), Body Jam (dance), Body Attack (hi-lo-ish sports conditioning), RPM (cycle), etc. They are all "preformatted" classes, meaning LMI sends out new releases to its instructors every three months, and all the instructors teach that exact program in their classes. In other words, it's a script -- the instructor doesn't come up with his or her own choreography, and they use LMI's music.

So you can see where this would be upsetting to many in the fitness world. Additionally, LMI has some fairly stringent certification requirements -- in order to get your final certification, you have to send in a video of yourself teaching the class and an assessor decides whether you pass or fail. Something as simple as standing too wide can make the difference between making the grade or failing. Rumors have flown that instructors have failed for being too fat or too ugly or otherwise not having the desired LMI "look."

So I went into the weekend with an open mind but a fair amount of trepidation. The workshop leader didn't make me feel much better with the initial LMI rhetoric -- that most instructors aren't "good" at doing their own choreography, that an LMI-licensed club is guaranteeing a safe, quality program, etc. It felt like a cult, and I wasn't sure about drinking the Kool-Aid.

But beyond that, it turned out to be an incredible experience. We were pushed to our limits, both physically and mentally. We learned about the "circle of awesome instruction" -- setting up, working the room, bringing it home. I found out how much I can bench press, did so many plyo lunges that my legs literally fell out from under me. We learned how to use our voice and eyes to connect to our classes. We sweat and grunted and laughed and hooped and hollered and became one big happy family, actually getting a bit teary at the end and feeling sad that we weren't going back today. Who knew?

The problem with group exercise, compared to other careers, is that you're mostly left to your own devices to become good at it. You don't get a degree in it, you don't always have a mentor to show you the ropes, you're fairly isolated from your peers. It's tough physically, but also mentally -- if you're good at it, you'll spend almost as much time outside class planning as you do actually teaching. And still, you'll get that occasional gum-chewing eye-roller who half-asses her way through class, only to tell her friends later, "that instructor isn't very good -- I didn't get a good workout."

At the end of the weekend, I earned a full preliminary pass for the program, meaning I can send my video in any time for assessment. The workshop leader said most people get a pass-withheld, meaning they have to team-teach and get club management approval before moving forward. Maybe she just said that to make the withheld people feel better, but I still felt proud and validated to get the A-plus.

Maybe I'm not so bad at this after all, huh?

A crapload of kids

2007-07-05T07:56:00.000-07:00

So yesterday, in the midst of their Fourth of July BBQ, BF's sister and her husband made the altogether unexpected announcement that they are pregnant, due next February. This after both of them carried on in a rather insistent manner that they were content just to be "dog" parents for now and wouldn't be having children for some time, a stance that brought on considerable pressure and haranguing from the husband's mom. Liars!

So after the hugs and screeching had subsided, we started envisioning Christmas 2008.

A rundown: BF's next older brother has a soon-to-be 2 year old and his wife just had another baby in mid-May. BF's oldest brother will be a dad in September. And now BF's sister is expecting in early 2008. So Christmas of '08 will feature a 3-year-old, one 19-month-old, one 15-month-old, and one 10-month-old. And that also supposes that BF's oldest brother and his wife haven't added to the troop again by then, which is entirely possible.

All this baby-dom meant some sidelong glances at BF and me ... "Guess you're going to have to start with twins to catch up," was one such comment.

Egad, we're getting outnumbered.

It always ends with me depressed

2007-07-02T10:19:00.001-07:00

It used to be, after a weekend or holiday visit with my mom or dad, I'd feel a certain giddiness to get back to life in the metro DC area. I'd return to the airport with an excited air, or point my car east on Ohio 7 while dialing friends on the cell phone to exchange holiday stories. I just wanted to return to life as "normal," after a lack of expanded digital cable channels (dad's) or freedom to consume a second glass of wine without a wary eye turned my way (mom's).

I don't know when things changed. Now, that giddiness has given way to an intangible sadness. It's funny how after being with my family, I somehow end up feeling utterly alone.

Sometimes I wonder if it's because I'm an only child. I have no sibling bonds, nobody to reassure me nor disprove my notions about whether what I'm feeling is, quote, normal. Or maybe it's the passage of time -- my folks both turned 60 this month. My dad still carries himself with his familiar strength and reassurance, but I can't help but worry about his weight, his diet. I My mom is still as lively as ever, but those little "health problems" seem to keep creeping up. There is my silent fear: When they're gone, it will be just me.

I always leave feeling like there should be more time, that I should do more. When I went to see my dad this past weekend, it had been a full year since we'd been together. I see my mom maybe 2-3 times a year. Plus, while it used to be just me, it is now usually BF and me, adding a whole new dimension to our visits.

In my teariest post-parent moments, BF will do his best to reassure me — "We'll have our own family" — and he's right.

Sometimes, I wonder. I've made a lot of down-the-nose looks at the ones from my hometown who never left, or didn't make it very far outside the area. I figured they lacked a sense of adventure, or couldn't stand to be outside a comfort zone. But they also have something I have given up, perhaps with less thought than I should have given.

No, I'm not moving back to Ohio. But maybe it's true that you don't know what you've got 'til it's gone.

I went back to Ohio ...

2007-06-28T09:14:00.001-07:00

BF and I are headed for my dad's house tomorrow, nestled in the quaint, picturesque town of Marietta, OH. It's actually a lovely drive through the mountains to get there, and there are some points of interest along the way, such as the Silk Stockings dancing-girlie bar of West Virginia, which is actually a pole barn that often has a number of pickups parked outside. Also, the Kontry Kurls Salon that isn't much further away. (Not making it up!) Oh, there's also a gewgaw shop on the route that advertises itself as having "Pretty Things."

I don't mind visiting my dad at all, but what bothers me is that since I've lived away from the Buckeye State ... and that's been since May 1998, albeit it in two different locations ... he's not once come to visit me. He just doesn't much like leaving home. I'm not sure why, it's just how he's always been.

Over the years, I came to envy people who had tight relationships with their dads. Envy gave way to acceptance, though, and I just came to terms with how we are with each other. I'm not exactly the most open book out there, either. I know he loves me. I know who he is, and he was always around when I was growing up, which is a lot more than so many people can say.

So we'll flutter around each other this weekend, something like moths, sharing the same lamp but keeping some distance from the light. Sometimes I wish it were more, but in any case, it will be enough.

Ha ha, Whole Foods

2007-06-27T09:22:00.001-07:00

I have to say I've never much been a fan of Whole Foods. I went there a couple of times soon after I moved to the area because of all the "buzz" around it -- "Have you been there? Great produce section." "All organic ... so healthy." "Nice flowers." Blah blah blah.

Well, I never found the store to be all that great. Maybe it was the ridiculous prices. Maybe it was the self-righteous douchebags who shopped there with the attitude that they were personally saving the planet. Once Wegman's came around (with a MUCH better produce section, btw), I knew I'd never set foot in Whole Foods again, at least not by choice.

But I can't help but wear a smug, I-told-you-so smirk after getting the latest issue of Money magazine. Money has a big spread about how Whole Foods really isn't really good for your wallet, or the environment either.

It's no secret that their merchandise is overpriced, even the nifty store brand. But while shoppers think they're doing the environment an enormous favor by buying organic products, Money points out that it's more about how much fuel it took to get the product from fields to the store. It's all about the carbon footprint these days, kids. As the story says: That organic orange didn't just walk from Mexico.

Want to do the environment a real favor? Shop locally if at all possible. Farmers' markets are great for that. While I've found the Bethesda farmers' market to be a huge disappointment, there are many others in the area -- and a lot of "regular" supermarkets stock a good selection of local and regional produce. My beloved Wegman's doesn't usually stock a lot of out-of-season stuff if it means bringing it from far afield locations. That's why you won't find much citrus there at this time of year, nor a lot of peaches/plums/nectarines in the dead of winter. (Yes, I love that place, so just leave me alone about it.)

Sure, one article in Money magazine isn't likely to stop the legions of luxury SUV-driving shoppers who descend on Whole Foods every day ... but it sure gives me a fat dose of justification, and isn't that what it's all about?

Just wondering ...

2007-06-26T09:33:00.000-07:00

Does Cameron Diaz even know who Mao Tse-Tung is? Also, unless you're an ardent communist or trying to be ironic, what reason is there to clothe yourself with the image of a man responsible for the death and/or oppression of millions?

Why is it, when I'm really in a hurry to get somewhere, like my class is starting in five minutes or what have you, there's always some slow-moving yay-hoo who somehow has a radar tracking device in the back of his or her head and manages to step in front of me with synchronized swimming-type precision? They can usually manage to cut off my path by way of inanimate object, such as a trash can or newsstand, or by way of other slow-moving yay-hoos. It's not always tourists, either, just someone who moves like they're adrift at sea.

Is there a reason why DC activism is so ... I don't know, similar to proselytizing? Yes, I'd love to stop global warming, and guess what, I hardly drive anymore, I recycle, I minimize my electricity and water use, and with the exception of the driving, I've been doing all those things for years. But no, I don't want to talk about it with you, because I have somewhere to be (see above), and I don't want to give you any money. No, I won't stop bitching and start a revolution, thank you very much. When will these street-corner hustlers just give it up and leave me the eff alone???

Just wondering. That is all.

My kitties are perfect

2007-06-25T09:16:00.000-07:00

"A clever person turns great problems into little ones and little ones into none at all."
-- Chinese proverb

When it comes to raising my cats, I am the stereotypically bad indulgent parent. Think of the screaming brat in the toy department at Wal-Mart. My cats have pretty much got what they want, when they wanted it, with few rules -- or sporadically enforced ones -- to hinder what I have rationalized as "keeping them happy."

Since I lived on my own for so long, and really didn't have too many visitors, since I was in somewhat far-flung Fairfax, this was never much of a problem. They were cute, happy to see me when I got home, the very few men in my life who hadn't hurt or disappointed me immensely.

This changed once BF and I moved in -- the next rare man in my life who hadn't hurt or disappointed me immensely. He, however, took issue with my tolerant ways.

I suppose that, after three months of living together, he'd had all he could take. While he loves what he calls "the kids," he didn't love their intruding on our dinner, nor their inhalation of copious amounts of dry cat food, only to puke it up minutes later on the rug. So what had started as a suggestion turned into a plan of action: The cats had to go on a diet. And they needed to learn some manners.

Let me say, this turned into the first great clash of our post-cohabiting life. Yes, I have an occasional tendency to overreact to things that don't amount to *diddly* in the grand scheme of the universe. This was one of them. There were teary discourses; me standing, arm-crossed and glaring, while poor BF could only be mystified by why the hell this was making me so upset.

I couldn't explain it. The only straws I could grasp for was that they had been in my life for so long, had always been there for me even when it seemed like there was nobody else, that I felt some obligation to keep them satisfied at all times.

Over the course of days, and with some back-and-forth on the "plan," I finally came around. There have been snags, such as middle-of-the-night wake ups and, just last night, an overturned trash can as one feline went searching for the remnants of the chicken we had for dinner. Now I'm actually believing it to be a good thing ... they aren't puking, and maybe my older, zeppelin-like kitty will actually lose some weight. Huh. Stranger things have happened.

Last night, before bed, we snuggled under a blanket during what's become our nightly routine. The news featured a horrible story about a pregnant woman from Ohio who put her faith in the wrong man, paying a terrible price. But I looked at BF's handsome face and thought of all he is -- honest, caring, funny, kind, trustworthy. It could be so much worse.

It could be so much worse.

We will be just fine.

Housekeeping inspection? WTF?

2007-06-21T13:59:00.000-07:00

So I came home last night to find a memo from management left on everyone's door. Apparently the property manager will be conducting what they call a "housekeeping inspection" next week.

Now, I've lived in lots of apartments -- from my count, this is no. 8, including a stay in long-term corporate housing -- and I have not once been subjected to a housekeeping inspection.

I suppose they're just looking to make sure you haven't turned the place into a crack house, but WTF? BF and I aren't slobs ... we keep the place picked up and we clean on a regular basis ... but are they looking for dust bunnies under the couch? Or something more like piles of animal feces littering the floor?

I can't say I know her very well but the property manager seems ... a little too ingratiating. Like she might be the type who'd be all nice to your face, while simultaneously plotting against you and then "accidentally" opening a couple of your drawers during said "inspection" in a search for contraband. Like the kind who'd smile and keep the sickeningly sweet tone of voice she always seems to use while she's kicking you out of the building. I think she missed her calling -- she'd do quite well working at an inpatient eating disorder clinic, for example. Of course, I say all this without knowing a single thing about her beyond her name.

This is a first for me, but maybe it's just life when you're living in a high-rise dwelling that costs almost $2,000 a month. Still, seems like bullshit to me.

A Space for Friends

2007-06-21T07:44:00.000-07:00

Once, BF's sister asked if I had a MySpace page.

"Oh, that's for you young'uns," I scoffed. She's 26. I just figured it was mostly a bunch of high school and college kids looking to hook up with each other and post photos of assorted drunken shenanigans. (Ed.'s note: BF's sister is neither looking to hook up nor engage in drunken shenanigans.)

But when Googling some old college friends, I found that some of them actually had profiles on MySpace. Some high school friends, too. So I went ahead and posted my own profile.

Let me say ... the site is highly addicting. The first thing that strikes you is the skank factor ... it's true, there are a lot of young things showing boobies and butts and posing seductively, mostly just looking desperate and, well, dumb. But I've been searching for old high school classmates. While there aren't scads of them from "my era", there are a good amount, including my best friend from those days. So it was nice to reconnect.

It was also interesting to see where people have ended up, and what they've become. Shy, awkward teens have become confident adults. Kids who were considered "brains" didn't make it past community college. Others who weren't classified as such have become mathematics Ph.D's. A disturbing number have something like two or three kids, and they're only in their early 20s.

But maybe the most amusing were the ones who hadn't changed much at all, despite the passage of time and supposed acquired wisdom and maturity. One guy who was an enormous douche in high school (graduated a year ahead of me) apparently holds to this. He is a chiropractor. He listed Maxim magazine as his favorite book. He has two apparently illegitimate children. The background image on his page is a Cadillac Escalade. Lots of them.

Next, I'll be looking for old college pals. I just hope someone stops me before I post a photo of myself doing a keg stand, or wearing little more than my underwear. You can get fired for that sort of thing, you know.

Yahoo Beta BLOWS

2007-06-20T12:04:00.000-07:00

So last week, I noticed that Yahoo Mail had a new Beta version. Great! It works much like a combination of Gmail and Outlook, much friendlier to navigate vs. classic Yahoo mail.

The problem ... it sucks out loud. It only works right about half the time. You click "send" and it whirls and whirls and whirls before finally coming up with some bizarre error message and telling you to try again. It won't download messages properly. It takes several refresh clicks to get it to do so.

I'm contemplating a switch to Gmail (I've had an account for a while for Blogger purposes). But the issue is that I've had the same Yahoo account since, I kid you not, 1998. And not that I'm expecting correspondence from a long-lost lover or anything, but compared to folks whose address has changed every other year or so, people always know where to find me. I suppose I could just have the Yahoo mail forwarded to Gmail, but ... *sigh*

(As you can tell, there aren't many crises in my life today if I'm griping about free Web-based e-mail. I should count my blessings.)

A bad day, and not even 6:30 am yet

2007-06-19T07:29:00.001-07:00

I had another tornado dream last night.

They used to be of a recurring nature for me until I was actually in one --when I lived in Louisiana, there was one that hit the building where I worked sometime late in the afternoon. I thought it was cool until I realized that the flying debris shattered all the windows in my car.

But anyway. The dreams were always of a common theme: There was a tornado coming, and I would be trying to convince friends or loved ones to take shelter, but they wouldn't believe me.

Last night's was a little different. BF and I were in our living room. Our friend Johnny was there, only he had long curly hair and had somehow come in through a side window (?). (We live on the seventh floor ... one of those things that only makes sense in dreamland.) We looked out our big living room windows and there was an enormous funnel cloud headed straight for our building. I was screaming "We have to get out in the hallway NOW" and frantically trying to find my cats.

Here's the angst part: I was begging BF to help me with the cats, and once we got out in the hall I was shielding them with my body while he just stared indifferently and acted all smartass-like. (In real life, that is VERY unlike BF.)

So I woke up from that a bit freaked out ... it was very vivid ... and got myself together to teach a 6:30 am cardiobox class. The coordinator was there -- she's usually not -- and she informs me that someone from my step class told her that I do the same routine every week. Uhhh, whaaa? I told her that is definitely not the case. And it's not.

I've been teaching long enough now that these things usually just roll right off my back, but to have someone pretty much lie about me to my boss is just not cool. I saw it happen to another instructor with whom I share a class at a different gym and was just appalled, but unfortunately it happens. I mostly enjoy teaching at this place because they pay well and the participants are, for the most part, nice, but there are also plenty of jerks, which makes me wonder if it's even worth it. To her credit, the coordinator didn't question me ... it could just be that this particular member is a professional complainer. Every gym has at least one.

So that was my morning. Not even 6:30, and I already felt like the whole day was ruined.

Oh, grow up

2007-06-18T08:30:00.000-07:00

You must believe me when I say I am quite loathe to write about this. I can't believe I'm wasting even more precious space on the internets to talk about someone who's already taken up too much glossy paper, peroxide, hair extensions and oxygen, but I must get this out of my system.

BF and I like to buy what we call "junky magazines" for our poolside reading. (Though I have to say I think BF has become a little *too* addicted and now seems to buy them for everyday use ... but anyway. I take it as a tradeoff because he got rid of his Playboy subscription before we moved in. Though now I'm thinking that might've actually been better reading material. But I digress ...)

The headline on one such fine literary periodical was making reference to Paris Hilton (and Lindsay Lohan) ... "Jail ... Drugs ... Booze ... Where are their parents?"

Ummm, I'm sorry. Paris Hilton is 26. 26 years old! At that age, I was on my second post-collegiate job, and third non-roommate dwelling apartment. I was paying bills, going to work every day, even getting promotions and shit. Where were my parents? Well, frankly, not with me, because I stopped living with them eight years earlier. Somehow, I managed to survive. At that age, you should be fully able to take responsibility for yourself without needing a curfew and an allowance.

I shall stop writing about this now. I just couldn't handle it anymore. I do hope this is the last time Ms. Hilton's name ever appears on this blog, unless I'm writing about a trip to France.

Make it STOP

2007-06-15T07:19:00.001-07:00

At my relatively new job, the art director keeps a radio on. Oh, and the art director and I share the same space. Never mind that it can sometimes be an absolute distraction when I'm trying to edit something along the lines of the chopstick packet (Welcome to Chinese Restaurant, please try your Nice Chinese Food With Chopsticks). What's worse is the number of songs played ad nauseum on the chosen radio station (the "new" 94.7, now 66% crappier than the old version) that have the same nerve-grating factor as, say, taking a long car trip with Elisabeth Hasselbeck, Ann Curry, Topper Shutt and Pat Robertson*:

1. Read My Mind by The Killers
2. Anything by Snow Patrol
3. Billy Idol, over and over
4. Devo's interpretation of Satisfaction and Workin' in a Coal Mine
5. That super-whiny How to Save a Life song

*To further clarify: A long car trip with these individuals during which one or all of them chain smokes and won't roll down the windows, whilst also listening to the aforementioned soundtrack and simultaneously suffering from one of those big, honkin' under-the-skin zits. Like I've got on the side of my nose at this very moment.

Living the Dream

2007-06-12T07:59:00.000-07:00

"You should look forward to work every day. You should absolutely love your job."

That's one of those BS statements you hear in life, kind of like "your high school years are the best of your life." Honestly, how many people jump up every day about to wet themselves with the prospect of going to work? I don't hate my job, and I've certainly had far worse, but I'm not skipping to the metro either.

Sometimes I think I'm inherently lazy, but I also know that I wouldn't be happy with no kind of schedule ... on days I've called in sick without genuinely being ill, boredom has a tendency to set in after the guilt has passed. Then again, I have called in sick to clean my apartment. More than once. Maybe I have a thing for self-inflicted punishment?

I've been thinking a lot lately about the kind of life I'd lead if I didn't have to work, or if I could select a part-time job or two without the 9-to-5 grind. I've come to the conclusion that it would include the following:

Grad school
Cooking classes
Dance classes
Art classes
Group exercise classes (teaching AND taking)
Makeup artist-ness (learning to become one)
Freelance editing
Horseback riding

So I'd still have lots going on, but wouldn't be overly obligated to any one thing (grad school excepted). There wouldn't be much answering-to-the-boss stuff. I'd also schedule a fair amount of sleep, if at all possible.

I think this all came to mind because we recently brought in a part-timer at the office. I haven't asked what he does the rest of the time. For all I know, he's got a full-time job on the graveyard shift and just works for us because he's up to his ass in debt. (Doubt it, though.) But I envy his schedule, his freedom from an entire day at the office, and his apparent freedom from needing the full-time paycheck.

I bought Powerball tickets yesterday. No, we won't win, but nonetheless, it's fun to have 48 hours of dreams. I think I'll Google L'Academie de Cuisine's class schedule.

The long and winding road

2007-06-11T08:28:00.001-07:00

And I don't want the world to see me,
'Cause I don't think that they'd understand ...
When everything's made to be broken,
I just want you to know who I am.

It was Iris, by the Goo Goo Dolls. I hadn't thought about it for a long time.

My college days were coming to a close, with which I was both OK and not OK. I knew life was going to change drastically and I knew I'd miss my friends. But I figured it'd still be fun, and I'd still be happy, and moving on was one of those transitions whose time had come.

I was engaged back then, and had been for about a year and a half. The wedding was almost fully planned. I had my dress (there are pictures of me in it somewhere), the DJ and photographers had their deposits. I had tasted cakes and decided on a catering menu. Rings were purchased, a cruise was booked, and even though we had no clue what we'd do after the wedding, it all seemed happy and fine and like we'd just float along like we had been for the last four years.

It changed around April. "There is this guy I met the other night who thinks you are HOT," my roommate -- and best friend, at the time -- told me one night.

"Uhhh, whaaa?" I hadn't really thought of other guys since freshman year, when the fiance and I first hooked up.

So the story went, this mystery guy was a frat brother of another one of her friends. Mystery guy found out that Melinda and I were roommates. Turns out mystery guy and I had been in some classes together. I had no idea who he was.

So sometime in the ensuing weeks, we were out at the bars, and upon returning from the bathroom, roomie informed me that mystery guy and his friends were there. Oh. My. God.

Maybe it was the thrill ... it had been a long time since I'd been involved in "crushes" and "flirting" and "dating" as I'd so long been in the safe haven of a relationship. So we met that night, and talked, and moved into exchanging some e-mails. Eventually, we decided to spend a day together, and we took a long drive through the country on a sunny spring afternoon.

Let me say, he knew I was spoken for, and sometimes I wonder if that wasn't part of my appeal. It was met with disapproval from our friends who knew about it. It's not hard to understand why.

Our first kiss was in front of the drinking fountain, downstairs in his fraternity house, under the bright fluorescent lights, at 2 a.m. We spent the night together, fully clothed, and my roomie called ... "You will not get away with this," she warned ... but I didn't care.

In reality, I did get away with it. I was going to Louisiana for a summer internship, and hence our fling ended. My fiance was none the wiser, but the gulf between us, already in place long before mystery guy, grew wider. We too spent our last night together fully clothed, in the same bed but a mile apart. I spent the summer listening to Iris and thinking about mystery guy and wondering if we were too star-crossed to ever get together for real.

I can't say I regret what happened. Mystery guy turned out to be a big fat jerk, culminating in a dramatic screaming match between him and roomie months later when I was back for a weekend visit (long story). But the whole episode pointed out the differences between my fiance and me, and that wasn't a bad thing. We likely would've been driven to divorce by either his lack of ambition, or his mother's smothering presence.

But hearing the song today took me back to that time, when a sunny summer afternoon and the open road held so much promise, and so much fear.

Editrix

2007-06-11T07:33:00.000-07:00

Some days at work, I feel like the copy I'm editing was written by the same person who came up with this lovely prose, which I found on a packet of chopsticks I got with some noodles last week:

Welcome to Chinese Restaurant.
Please try your Nice Chinese Food With Chopsticks the traditional and typical of Chinese glorious history. and cultural

Suburban Blight

2007-06-08T13:56:00.000-07:00

"Urban revitalization" is one of those magnanimous-sounding terms, where a downtrodden neighborhood is infused with cash, new businesses and improved housing that will supposedly free its residents from the shackles of poverty and crime. The dirty little secret is that usually, the residents, unable to keep up with the skyrocketing cost of housing, are forced to live elsewhere, again into the shackles of poverty and crime.

You can't exactly say that Bethesda is being "revitalized." The average home price is one of the tops in the D.C. area and, indeed, the entire country. To keep myself amused on the walk home from the metro, I count how many BMWs I see (no joke). But the planners-that-be would certainly like to turn Bethesda into a brand-spankin'-new land of high-rise condos and upscale retail space. Consequently, local businesses and houses located too close to "downtown" are having a tough time sticking around.

The local zoning commission requires that when a development proposal is filed, that a large sign be posted at the location in question to describe said proposal. I've seen them in front of a Methodist church ("60-unit multifamily dwelling"), a whole tract of 1930s-era houses ("15-unit multifamily dwelling/retail space") and a Chinese restaurant of which I am particularly fond ("80-unit multifamily dwelling/retail space").

And if something isn't about to get torn down in favor of something more financially lucrative, it's probably going to shut down because the cost of rent is just too darn high for a Mom and Pop operation.

I wasn't real annoyed by this until what appears to be the demise of my favorite local book store. Second Story Books, on Fairmont Street, isn't saying that they're closing down. But the signs are there. The entire inventory is 65 percent off. There is a big "lease" sign in one of the windows (though it could be for other space in the building). And now, the latest sign: they're selling their bookcases by the end of the summer.

Second Story has other locations, and they've made no mention on their Web site about shuttering the Bethesda store. They're still buying inventory. But I just can't stay encouraged about it.

I love the place ... the shelves are organized chaos. You need time to dig around, because things will be in the proximity of where they should be, but usually aren't exactly in place. The books are stacked two deep in the shelves, some are in boxes. They still have LPs. A lot of LPs. It smells like decaying paper. They have an odd selection of old electronics, like Beta VCRs. On a recent visit, I bought six books for all of $8. Glamorous? No. Quirky? Yes. Fabulous? Without question! It's a reader's dream.

But the signs of its demise cannot be ignored, and I am bracing myself. There is nothing similar within walking distance of our apartment, save the library, and that doesn't count. My guess is that the moneyed folk of Bethesda can't stoop to shop in a used book store, and certainly not one so dirty and disorganized as this one. They might scuff their Italian leather shoes.

So probably before the summer is over, Second Story will no longer be with us. The only other option in built-up, richie-rich Bethesda will be the Barnes & Noble. *sigh.*

Crumbling in the Country

2007-06-05T13:38:00.001-07:00

As I come from the Midwest, and a small town in the Midwest at that, I have a certain ... connection with? affinity for? the countryside. There's a certain respect I have for wide-open spaces, for fields of soybeans and corn, for those houses at the end of mile-long driveways, even for living a life that is less sophisticated and yet less convenient than urban dwelling.

On our drive back from a weekend wedding, I kept noticing it. We were driving through miles of Maryland and Delaware farmland. And signs of desertion were not far and few between.

It was the abandoned buildings that were so striking to me. Houses, large and small, that were completely overrun by the surrounding foliage. Once-glorious barns sagging and covered with little more than paint chips. It was like they were simply reclaimed by their surroundings.

I guess it was so striking because in densely populated areas, empty buildings don't stand for long. They are reclaimed and renovated, or torn down and replaced with something taller, more aesthetic. Something to do with an overall lack of space, I suppose.

The most striking: An entire farm, resplendent with a proud and grand farmhouse, a series of massive barns, silos that could stand for at least 100 more years and a whole host of outbuildings. Now the paint is peeling badly, some of the windows broken out. It was likely once the pride of the county, home of the Clarks or Edwardses or some other locally prominent farming family.

I wonder about what led to leaving. Was it foreclosure? Did everyone pack up one day and go?
Or was the defection a slow one-by-one procession, until one day there was just too much work and not enough help? Did they hit the lottery?

Whatever the story behind it, all that's left is empty buildings, a mere shadow of what was once a tall silhouette.

P.S. I just realized I did a post about a year ago about a fully functional and not-that-old car that had been abandoned in the parking garage where I used to work. Do I have abandonment issues? Maybe ...

Ode to the Jersey Knit Dress

2007-05-30T14:04:00.001-07:00

The row of you
Hanging in my closet
Tempts me daily
Calling me with your comfort,
Your easy, carefree spirit.

How I love you
The soft, comfy feel of your knit
The flattering cut of your A-line skirt
The way you hide my lumps
After a weekend of gluttony.

Facing a suitcase
Filled with sandals, purses
Hot rollers, makeup
Running shoes
I squish you to the size of a peanut
You come out unwrinkled, splendorous

At the beach, with flip-flops
At work, with pumps and scarves
On the weekend, with a big bag
To parties, to shopping
You are always there
You are always perfect

You are the jersey-knit dress
You are the love of my fashion life.

I knew you'd come crawling back

2007-05-30T13:12:00.000-07:00

So I said I was done. Can we reconsider?

Now that I have zero readers, from the three or four I had before, I figured it'd be a good time to mount a comeback.

No, seriously. I just needed time away. When I left you, I was in the middle of moving (moving in with BF no less), I had just started a new job, things were turbulent. I needed to step away.

But I MISSED you! There were always things happening that made me think, "Wow, that would've been great on the blog."

Another thing I realized ... I write for me, not the douchebags who try so hard to make blogging some kind of popularity contest, or who throw stones from afar. Writing has always been for ME, not anybody else, so it matters not what some faceless, nameless, spineless dipshit has to say about it.

So here I am. Fling away.

Done.

2007-03-05T11:01:00.000-08:00

Well, if anyone out there has even visited this site lately, it's obvious that I haven't posted for a long time. There are a lot of reasons for that ... the time I used to spend updating my blog I now spend actually working. My new job has proven to keep me very busy. I just moved, and clearing out six years' worth of stuff was no small task. So, on the list of priorities, HHandF went way down.

I still enjoy writing, and I think I always will. Many topics and events have come up that make me think, "Wow! That'd be great for the blog." But alas, no post. No time. And maybe no interest either.

So this, kids, is my swan song. HHandF is about to be no more.

Beyond the no-time-not-much-interest thing, I'm also finding the blogging community to be downright scary sometimes. I posted before about the crazies who start "stalking" blogs, or lying on their own blogs (about other people), or just otherwise acting like asshats -- all under the cloak of anonymity. I think a lot of these people take blogging much too seriously. So it just doesn't seem fun anymore. And I'm not so sure about posting the details of my life, or even my own private thoughts, for the whole world to see. I'm a fairly private person in real life, so "putting myself out there" seems counterintuitive.

(Apparently I got nominated for some "messy relationship ooh-la-la" thing that makes no sense to me ... despite the fact I have not written about a messy relationship, nor anything all that scintillating by any means. I am puzzled. This is what I mean about the whole thing being scary. And I haven't posted for weeks!!)

If you came by to visit, thanks much -- hope you enjoyed it. For as negative as this post might sound, I did enjoy it. I got nods from Wonkette and DCBlogs, so I guess I had a good run. Perhaps someday I will reincarnate as 7thFloorChick or CrazyCatLady or who knows what.

So like many a relationship ending ... it's not you, it's me. I can't handle this commitment thing right now. I will always care about you and I will treasure our memories. Can we still be friends?

Love,
EclecticBlue

Getting the rug pulled out

2007-02-02T11:25:00.000-08:00

You know what I really hate? When you turn on your favorite radio station one day to find out, alas, the format has changed.

Now, don't even get me started on the absolute monopoly the radio biz has become. The vast majority of stations in this country are owned by Clear Channel or Westwood One. That's a whole 'nother issue.

This problem of "getting the rug pulled out from under you" seems quite prolific in the DC area. It wasn't long ago we were all nursing the bruise of longtime area rock station WHFS suddenly switching to a Spanish language format. Some of us got kind of attached to 103.9/104.1 after that, only to have its sorta-alternative format suddenly switch to classical one day.

The latest? WARW 94.7, a classic rock station for at least as long as I've been here and likely long before that. Now, they're still playing classic rock, but they've also added new tunes to the lineup. So you might hear The Doors, then Nirvana, then Green Day, then Led Zeppelin. They've also anointed themselves as "The Globe" after being "The Arrow" for the past few years. (Before that, they were "The Eagle" or something. Frankly, I can't remember.)

Back in the day, in my idyllic Dayton, Ohio, youth, there were several stations like "The Globe" ... those that played what I call just plain ol' rock. You'd hear old stuff, new stuff, everything in between. Then the stations became more specialized as new rock found its way to "alternative" stations while old stuff was relegated to "classic rock" stations (and never the twain shall meet). So I guess I shouldn't be bitchin', because I've been saying for years that there should be stations like that again. I mean, at least they didn't switch to country, for gawd's sake. Then I'd be particularly apoplectic.

But what really honks me off is that a station will never warn you about the impending changes. The DJs will twitter on just like always, no announcements, no hints, and then one day -- bam -- said DJ is on the street, and you're suddenly listening to Ashlee Simpson on the same bandwidth that had been playing Bob Dylan just 24 hours before. I suppose the DJs aren't allowed to say anything, but wouldn't you think that just one of them would be pissed enough to let us in on the "surprise"?

Radio execs, listen up: We are sick and tired of being "surprised" like this. We know you are all just greedy bastards looking to make the next quick buck in between your power lunch and your afternoon massage. But honestly, by turning off half your listenership with the latest and greatest thing, are you really helping yourselves? Do new people really tune in?

It wasn't until today that I actually realized I was somewhat attached to the DJs at WARW. Serph? Weasel? Shelby? Do you guys still have jobs? Weasel's been on local radio for ages, it seems, and was a virtual encyclopedia of information about the local music scene, and rock music in general, going back years and years. We need guys like that. Somebody has to know about our heritage.

*sigh* ... guess it's back to XM for me.

Good-bye, Molly

2007-02-01T06:39:00.000-08:00

At the age of 62, columnist Molly Ivins lost her battle with cancer. Another of the greats is gone.

I met Molly at a copy editing convention in Dallas several years ago. I was a wide-eyed 23, fresh out of college. She was the keynote speaker. It was one of the greatest honors of my journalism career to meet her face-to-face. I'm glad I had the chance to tell her that.

Molly was unabashedly liberal, funny as hell, a short-statured Texas tornado who stood tall through blazing barbs and acerbic wit. She called W "shrub" long before he was elected president ... she got ahead of the trend by hating him back when he was governor. After hearing her thoughts on him, I thought there was no way he'd ever get elected. Technically, he didn't, but it made me that much more dumbstruck that so many voters didn't get it.

But that's beside the point.

I can't help but think that Molly is in the afterlife hanging out with Ann Richards right now, the two of them having a high time. Two spitfire Texas ladies who were strong and then some. There aren't many in their class, and it's doubtful we'll ever see anyone like them ever again.

We'll miss you, Molly. You were, simply, the best.

This is it. Really, really it.

2007-01-31T13:19:00.000-08:00

Triangle Towers called today.

Our apartment is ready.

As of March 1, it's ours. All 1,100+ square feet of it.

Oh. My. God.

It'll be strange going home today, knowing the countdown has begun. Knowing that soon, I will be sharing my space with someone else, unable to act as careless as I've become accustomed to doing. Knowing that, holy crap, I gotta pack up my stuff!!

More than anything, I feel I need to work on being a good citizen. I can tell that compromise has become something less than a strong suit for me. I want to do things my way, on my schedule, when I'm durn good and ready. I realize that, if this is going to work, some relearning is in order.

But, for the next 30 days or so, I'll enjoy my solitude, while reflecting on the good things to come. I'll throw my underwear on the floor. Leave dirty dishes in the sink. Stay in the shower for 30 minutes. Sleep smack in the middle of the bed.

There are so many details: What to do with all the furniture I'm getting rid of? It's not exactly high-quality stuff, so I'm not going to palm it off on friends. Then there's the other stuff, like ordering boxes, getting the cable and phone disconnected, sending out all those change of address cards. My oh my.

Oh, and I still haven't told my mom.

Younger, Richer, Thinner

2007-01-29T09:48:00.000-08:00

Through a serendipitous and unplanned chain of events, BF and I ended up meeting one of his friends at a bar in Georgetown on Saturday. Not just any bar, but Rhino's Pumphouse. BF had never been there. I tried to warn him.

"What's it like?" he asked.

"Well, I've been there twice, once on a Thursday and once on a Saturday. The Thursday was OK. The Saturday was ..." I mimicked shooting myself in the head.

But, it was a friend he hadn't seen in a while, so off we were.

Sadly, my prediction was right. First, there was a cover. Then, the place was packed. With G'town students. As if I didn't feel old enough already. Oy vey.

Having a front row seat to the chaos eventually became entertaining, especially after I had two gin and tonics and a couple of shots down the hatch. We saw it all: The drunk oaf who steps up to start a fight but doesn't quite get there. The stupid chicks in tank and tube tops despite the freezing temps outside. The nearly-on-the-floor-crouch dancing.

All I could think was, "Man, my knees definitely couldn't take that anymore."

Ahh yes, Georgetown. The summer when I lived in Rosslyn, I visited there quite often. It was just across the Key Bridge, a lovely summer's walk over the Potomac. I was only 24, so it was easier to fit in. I thought its mix of high-end shops and packed-to-the-gills bars to be rather endearing at the time.

Now, I just forget about it. We don't go there. There is no metro stop. It's a world unto its own. And as I turned and said to BF at one point, "I think I know why I hate this place. Everyone here seems younger, thinner and richer than you."

So maybe it's just envy. Maybe it's because it's too crowded, the masses too immature, the atmosphere too materialistic. Maybe it's just because I now expect a comfy seat, a quickly served drink, free admission at the door.

Maybe I really am getting too old.

Hot for ... public television

2007-01-16T09:54:00.000-08:00

I have to say, in my inestimable opinion, PBS is far too underrated.

Yeah, I'll admit, I've ignored it just like you. My cable system gets all of three PBS stations, and yet I will blithely pass them by in search of something glossier, slicker, glitzier or dumber. And yet ... on those occasions when I tune into NewsHour and leave it there, I am often fascinated and all-out sucked in by what I see.

My dad has been an adamant PBS viewer for years. My childhood TV-viewing experiences with him often consisted of Nova, Nature and This Old House. (Oh, also Justin Wilson, and the now-disgraced Frugal Gourmet.) When I go to visit him now, I can count on seeing at least one episode of Frontline. Yes, he is a "loyal viewer like you."

The other night, I got stuck on a rather interesting program called Science Investigators. It featured several segments in which the "investigator team" set out to find answers to certain scientific mysteries. In this episode, the team explored human's genetic relation to neanderthals, as well as the global demise of frogs and the physics behind the knuckleball.

So yeah, it was the kind of thing your high school science teacher would throw on when he was hungover and had nothing else planned, but get this ... the "team" members, and most of their sources, were freakin' hot!

So wrap your mind around this ... PBS ... science show ... hot guys. Hot, smart guys. The frog guy, especially.

First, I felt a little ridiculous for sweating scientists on public television. Then I felt a little guilty for ogling biologists and physicists, what with BF in my life. But then I realized that once we move in together, I can watch this show (which doesn't appear regularly, btw) while he'll be none the wiser, thinking I'm just off on another one of my nerd tangents. Done and done.

Never in my wildest dreams did I ever expect PBS to be fulfilling my lusty fantasies. I've never been dorkier in my whole life.

Ambien? No. Fan? Si!

2007-01-15T09:46:00.000-08:00

A lot of people, it seems, need something to sleep.

It might be Ambien or Lunesta, or maybe a good stiff drink at bedtime. Some kids can't sleep without their blanky, binky or teddy (and some carry that dependency into adulthood). I'll admit to the occasional use of melatonin or, on especially rough nights, Benadryl.

But none of that can do it for me like one certain electrical household appliance. That, my friends, is a fan.

I started sleeping with a fan a couple of years ago. I don't remember exactly why I bought it, but likely it was in a time when my building management had shut off the AC for the season and one of those (now regular) ambush warm days came along. Since I normally sleep with the AC blasting, or with the window open in the dead of winter, I knew I wouldn't make it without some form of cooling.

Since then, it's become an addiction. Beyond keeping the room a snooze-friendly temperature, the white noise is a soothing benefit too.

On one of those stupid warm days we've been having lately (global warming sucks), I was trying to put my fan up higher on a couple of stacked milk crates. Being tired and not realizing the instability of my structure (duh), I could only cringe when my beloved tower fan took a tumble and crashed to the floor. When I tried turning it on, it just made a loud grinding noise and smelled like something about to catch on fire.

My quest for replacing said fan has been fruitless. I've tried Target, Bed Bath & Beyond and Home Depot. While all three are stocking plenty of space heaters (HELLO, it's 70 degrees outside), none had any fans in stock. The nice lady at BB&B offered to order one for me, though.

While it's a ridiculous 60-something outside today (I wore a denim jacket to work), temperatures are expected to drop through the week, meaning I might be able to sleep again. I'm still considering placing an online order for when the next inevitable wave of East Coast warming overtakes us. Shouldn't be any longer than a week from now.

(I was going to go on my soapbox about global warming and what we all should be doing -- hell, once I move I'll hardly ever see the inside of my car anymore -- but I'm not feeling so self-righteous at the moment. But c'mon people -- reduce, reuse, recycle. Cut down your fuel and electricity consumption. They told us that in third grade.)

Back, for now

2007-01-15T09:41:00.000-08:00

OK, I realize that a three-week absence is reason for banishment from the blogosphere. I apologize. Excuses: I have been extremely busy at work (and the last thing I want to do at home is sit in front of a computer), we didn't have reliable internet connectivity for most of last week, and most of all, I've had nothing of interest to write about.

I again thought of shutting down the illustrious HHandF, just because I wasn't feeling inspired to write and started questioning the whole thing about whether or not posting your private thoughts/experiences was really a good idea, and if anyone really gave a s*** anyway. So ... I really don't know how long this blog will be operable. I'm back for now. I don't know if I'll stay. Maybe massive inspiration will hit me and I'll post twice a day for the next five months. Maybe I'll stay just as indifferent as I have been lately. Who knows.

Oh, the new job is going great. BF and I are next on the list for our apartment. Otherwise, things are very much the same as they always were.

Taking off the stilettos for now ...

2006-12-26T07:02:00.000-08:00

It's been a great holiday season so far, complete with ill advised excess drinking in the company of coworkers, last-minute panic over food and gifts, family tension (not mine, fortunately, though I guess BF's family is practically mine), but good stuff too ... presents and laughs and good food and all that stuff that doesn't make us just give up on this holiday togetherness stuff.

That said, tomorrow is my last day at my current job, and I plan to spend the rest of the week cleaning closets, sleeping in, doing all that stuff I'd like to do with the time I've never otherwise had. In other words, staying far away from the computer, with the exception of perhaps checking e-mail once or twice.

So ... HHandF is now officially on holiday sabbatical.

I hope you've been as blessed as me this season, and I'll catch up with you again soon with juicy tidbits on the new job, progress toward the big move, etc.

HAPPY HOLIDAYS! And God bless.

The perfect gift for the right-wing nutjob on your list

2006-12-19T07:11:00.000-08:00

I'm almost through Margaret Atwood's "The Handmaid's Tale." I'm downright terrified.

I read "1984" some years ago. While George Orwell's story was more communism-centric, looking at the dangers of an all-seeing government that controlled all and quashed independent thought, Atwood's novel is a what-if look at society if religious zealots overtook the country. I imagine it's not all that far off from what Afghanistan was/is under Taliban rule, only Atwood's fanatics are Christian, not Islamic.

The book came out in 1986, right smack in the middle of Reagan-mania. While there was a breath of liberalism through the '90s, current events show there are still a lot of conservative crazies out there, those who'd like to overturn Roe vs. Wade and undo a lot of the other "liberal damage" brought on by the Clinton administration. You know, caring for the environment, making large corporations accountable to investors and employees, all that nonsense.

The main character, Offred, formerly known as Kate, is reduced to more or less a baby vessel. Women have almost no rights in this newly formed Republic of Gilead. The zealots killed the President, shot up Congress. They suspended the Constitution. They didn't allow women to own property, hold jobs, even read or write in most cases. There was no money, just bartering for goods. Women were divided into "class," holding different positions based on what they were assigned.

Perhaps what is so terrifying is that I know there are people out there who would feel this type of society wouldn't be a bad thing. I think specifically of my aunt's ex-husband, a near-illiterate charlatan (in my opinion) whose utter douchebagged-ness continues to amaze us to this day, nearly 10 years after he left our family. He's especially skilled at twisting Biblical passages to say whatever he wants them to say. It's impossible to hold a rational conversation with him. Not that you'd want to.

Granted, I can't see this individual having the wherewithal to take over a whole country. I mean, he didn't even graduate from high school. But I guess it's bands of them that scare me. I know there are others out there like him, because that's with whom he associates. For some of his actions, such as using his alleged piety to scorn and judge others ("do not judge others, lest ye be judged"), I imagine that God is most eager to welcome him and his type to the Pearly Gates. Not for admittance, but for a good laugh, just to see the look on they're faces when they're told they won't be entering the Kingdom of Heaven. To me, God isn't vindictive, but He's got a great sense of humor sometimes.

Offred expresses several times that she doesn't believe God wanted it this way. I think she's right. It isn't God we need to fear -- it's some of His followers.

If Cohabiting Doesn't Kill Us, Building Management Will

2006-12-18T06:42:00.000-08:00

Friends, we made it. BF and I climbed the mountain. We have seen the apex. Now it's just a matter of hauling all our shit up here with us.

Saturday morning and afternoon were devoted to apartment shopping. This followed a cavalcade of Web searches, phone calls, e-mails and a good deal of back-and-forth on location, price, amenities, etc. We ended up visiting five different buildings (in addition to the two we had already seen). Of course, like wedding dresses, cars and puppies, we fell in love with the first one we saw on Saturday and compared all others to its glory. (Especially one particular Connecticut Ave. building where we got an eyeful of a 350+ pound gentleman wearing nothing but his tighty whities and pushing his generous flesh up against the window for God and everyone to see, but let's not get into that. I'm scarred for life.)

Our hopeful next residence is in a Bethesda high-rise, very close to where BF currently resides. It's less than a 10-minute walk to the metro. The apartment itself is a very generous 1,100 SF, and the building features a fitness center, rooftop pool and quite palatial party room available for resident use. The building is right in the middle of all the B-town bars/restaurants/shops, near my fave Indian restaurant, and across the street from both a California Tortilla and a sex shop called Night Dreams (!). What can you say, the place has it all.

Getting into the place is proving to be a minor struggle. First of all, we want one with the exact floorplan that we saw (they have six different 1BR layouts). They have one available right now and another on Jan. 4, both of which are too soon for us to give notice to our current housing authorities, not to mention clearing out our accumulated excess in addition to packing. They aren't willing to wait a week or so for the Jan. 4 unit, so we've gone on a waiting list. Ahh well. Strike one.

The next struggle is the application process. BF was to stop by this morning to drop off our paperwork -- forms, pay stubs, photo IDs. I had also sent along the offer letter for my next job, just in case they called my current employer and found I wouldn't be with them much longer.

My phone rang around 9:15.

"Hi honey ..." BF says. I knew this meant some kind of difficulty. "Those pay stubs you gave me ... one is from December 7, and the other is from October 23. They need something more recent than the October one." Strike two.

I, of course, went on a tirade about how stupid that was ... "Can't they see the year-to-date earnings on the December stub? This is freaking ridiculous!" and so on and so forth while poor BF, who was standing in the leasing office, just said, "Yeah, it is a nice day outside."

I didn't have anything with me to send over, so after a number of phone calls to my employer's HR office, I finally succeeded in getting them to fax me a statement of sorts that would be acceptable. All right! Mission accomplished.

After BF left the office, he called again. More discussion about the process, the wait list, etc.

"Did you give them my offer letter?" I asked.

"Ahh s*** ....."

A dull thud echoed through the office as my head struck the desk. Strike three.

"Sorry honey ..."

I'm off to fax this statement over, then call and explain the offer letter situation. Maybe they won't need it, but something tells me they will.

But, nonetheless ... here goes nothin'!

I queeeet, Part 2

2006-12-14T08:04:00.000-08:00

Well, for the second time in six months, I have resigned to take another job.

It gets less scary with practice.

I just couldn't handle the contracting thing. Maybe it's the agency I work for. I don't know. There were a lot of double standards, back-stabbing, stuff that offended my personal ethos, however flawed it is. I was also offered a pretty good opportunity at my new gig, one that involves managing staff, travelling to cool places, and working in a building that has both a Filene's and a liquor store in the lobby. Woot!

I don't want to burn bridges, so I won't get into what drove me to leave my current employment after just five months. I did learn a lot and I've made some friends. But being a contractor is tough. You're on the outside looking in a lot. Fed employees treat you like you're inferior, even though you get a lot less time off and chances are that you're working a lot harder. It might not be this way at other agencies, but that was my own experience.

It's also tough to work in a place where a good percentage of the people have no clue what an editor actually does, or think, "You just read stuff, what's so hard about it?"

But I digress. I just wanted to share the news with y'all. Onward, upward.

Doing more

2006-12-12T11:34:00.000-08:00

On Sunday, BF and I went to look at an apartment in Tenleytown. We headed down Wisconsin, through Friendship Heights. It was a beautiful day, more pleasant than the earlier days of December. The sun was bright, and many had left behind their jackets as they ran their weekend errands.

We stopped at the light where Wisconsin and Nebraska come together, at Tenley Circle. We were in front of the large Catholic church there -- St. Ann's, I think -- and I realized something wasn't right.

St. Ann's is one of the magnificent old churches, with towering arches and impressive carvings that remind one of a mini Notre Dame, or even St. Patrick's Cathedral. There is a large set of stairs that leads to its front entrance. I've seen war protestors sitting there, kids sitting there, people coming and going from mass.

At the base of the steps, an old man was lying on the ground. His glasses were a couple of feet away. A young woman was kneeling beside him, cradling his head in her hands. Her face wore an expression of concern and fright. A few feet away, another young woman was on a cell phone.

"That man fell ..." I said. His hair was pure white, his body spare and spindly. All I could do was stare. By now, BF was looking too.

I recalled my many Red Cross training sessions. I'm not certified in first aid, but I do know how to handle an emergency. I was thisclose to leaping out of the car, but held back ...

I wondered if I was doing the right thing. The woman kneeling over him seemed to be doing everything right. She had his feet propped on the steps, good to ward off shock. I could tell she was asking him questions, trying to keep him alert. I was glad the other woman was there to call 911. If not for her, I would've been out of the car, no question.

As the light changed, mass let out. People started pouring down the steps. And I watched as we pulled away, wondering if I should tell BF to circle around. I could see the started look of the parishoners as they descended the steps. The young woman started pulling the old man up slowly and gently, getting him to sit up. I could see a large wound and a lot of blood on the back of his head. I knew that kind young woman had to have blood all over her hands, and probably her legs too.

We drove past the scene again about a half-hour later, after our viewing appointment. The old man was gone, his caretakers gone, the parish members off to lunch or the mall or wherever else the day would take them. "It's lucky he fell in front of a church ..." BF said. And he was right.

I realize, logically, that I would've been more a distraction than a helper in that situation. It's not like I have advanced medical training or anything. But it still haunts me ... I still feel like I should've got out of the car, should've checked to see if they needed more help, instead of being a faceless gawker in a passing vehicle.

Nonetheless, I hope the old man is OK.

Quirk'd

2006-12-11T07:48:00.000-08:00

Kristin tagged me with this one, and seeing as how I am suffering my usual Monday lethargy/apathy, I'm giving it a go.

The challenge: List six traits that make you strange.

What are we always told, something about us being snowflakes or finger prints, each one unique? Yeah. Anyway, here goes ...

1. I absolutely hate confrontation. It doesn't even have to be my own confrontation. When I hear people arguing loudly, more often than not, I will find a means of getting away from it as quickly as possible. Obviously, I don't handle it well when it's in my own court.

2. I am terrified of balloons. Correction: I am terrified of balloons popping. Put one in a child's hand, point the little cherub toward me, and I will most assuredly be climbing the walls. I don't know why this is; I have been this way since I was a child myself. (There were never balloons at my birthday parties.) I don't fear the Mylar ones as much as the old-school latex ones. For this same reason, I am uncomfortable around guns.

3. I mentioned once or twice or maybe 10 times that I don't do movies much. I guess the odd thing is, I don't know why ... the thought of actually going to a movie is rarely appealing to me. The best reason I can come up with is it's because of the time involved. (Though what else would I spend that time doing? My apartment is still a mess; I still don't spend much time actually relaxing.) But, nine times out of 10, once I'm actually in a theatre, I have a perfectly pleasant time. But it's not enough to send me rushing back. Hmm.

4. The thing I desire most right now is not money, a fabulous tropical vacation, or even a new car. It is three, maybe four days in my apartment when I don't have to go anywhere or leave the building for any reason. On those days, I would tear apart my closets, clean out my drawers, and remove every single cat hair, every speck of dust, every tiny bit of dirt that lingers anywhere in my dwelling. I am getting a short break at the end of December, but I won't get to be a total hermit. Oh well ... meanwhile, some SAHM somewhere is saying she'd love to be able to get out of the house and go to work again. Well, maybe.

5. If I sit facing backward on the metro, I can read. If I sit facing forward, I get mad motion sickness. I think it puzzles people when they offer me a forward-facing seat, but I decline. I'd rather stand in the aisle and be able to read (albeit awkwardly) than sit facing forward with nothing to do other than stare at everyone and watch the stops go by. The iPod can only help so much.

And finally ...

6. A hodgepodge finale. I am allergic to cashmere (so sadly), lanolin, kiwi fruit, artificial nail primer, and now certain types of eyeshadow. I used to have recurring tornado dreams 'til I was actually in one; now I have recurring plane crash dreams (not being in them so much as witnessing them). I picked my cat's name (Cecil) by pointing to a random name in the phone book. And unless someone is highly disfigured, I usually think cosmetic surgery is wrong and makes the individual look worse than if they'd just been themselves. (Remind me of this when I go in for my first Botox or cellulite removal treatment ...)

The Self-Punishment Diet (Or, Get in Shape, Girl)

2006-12-07T09:37:00.000-08:00

I just wasn't in the mood to wear a skirt. Most of my pants were tossed in various heaps around my disastrous bedroom. A search in the closet revealed a darling pair of winter white pants I hadn't worn yet this season. Finding a matching sweater, I was ready to go.

Then I put on the pants.

Two words: sausage skin.

Yeah, I've bitched a lot over the last few months how my new job and subsequent loss of three group ex classes has made me a bit chunkier than I'd like. Of course, that wasn't enough to make me actually hit the gym regularly on my own accord, or stop visiting the cavalcade of fast food/pastry venues that surround the office. Popeye's, Au Bon Pain chocolate croissants, Quizno's, Corner Bakery's cheddar broccoli soup ... yeah. It's no wonder the winter whites make my ass look like a movie screen.

I was running late (as usual), and the pants really weren't obscenely tight, just snug. Checking to make sure I didn't have camel toe or any other embarrasing pants-inflicted condition, I shrugged and headed out the door.

But I decided that this day, in which I've been constantly aware of my engorged, cellulite-covered thighs, has been good for me. It's just the kind of self-punishment I needed. These pants fit me comfortably, even loosely, a year ago. Now I realize ... talk is cheap.

I've been good the last few days. I took two spinning classes (not mine), drank plenty of water, ate a minimum amount of crap (save for a multiple Hershey Kiss incident). I took some Hydroxycut this morning and figured I'd better just start mainlining it. I'm teaching tonight and again Saturday morning. I went grocery shopping, which means I can bring my lunch, which means I can avoid the Dens of Sin.

Ahh, old body. I used to complain about you, now I miss you so. Come back to me, baby. I'm trying to make it up to you, I promise.

NetTomes

2006-12-06T06:40:00.000-08:00

I'm not much of a movie person. Compared to most of my friends, and BF, who is lucky enough to have a theater right next to his office and actually sees movies in the middle of the day, my paltry 2-3 average yearly trips to the cinema are rather weak.

But that doesn't stop me from thinking NetFlix must be one of the coolest inventions to ever hit the planet. This is mostly because my 12-13 hour-plus days don't give me an overabundance of free time (or any abundance, period), and the idea of being able to sit at my computer to begin a transaction, then drop something in the mailbox to end it, is beyond appealing. No muss, no fuss, no pesky business hours.

So I wonder if it's too ridiculous to ask the same business model to be applied to books. For a monthly subscription fee -- say, $10 -- you just make an online queue of books, then receive them in the mail, and drop them back in at your convenience while awaiting the next one. You could even have the subscription levels just like NetFlix, whereas you can check out just one or as many as five or six books at a time, depending on how much you pay.

The business name? NetTomes, or NetReads, or even DigiLib or something else that combines new-fangled technology with books.

Maybe readers everywhere can start some kind of paperback swapping service. Say you'd like to dispose of your copy of Blink and pick up My Name is Red, and some other nerd across the country is in the opposite fix. You find each other, send 'em off in the mail, and there you have it.

Entrepeneurs, are you listening? I'm much too unambitious and distracted to start such a business myself. But please, let me know if you have such drive. I'll gladly pay my subscription fees while you get rich off my idea. Just give me a 10 percent cut, heh?

Visions of Sugarplums

2006-12-05T13:33:00.000-08:00

Reality check for me.

It's December 5.

And somehow, I am mildly panicking because I have yet to even open my package of Christmas cards, and because my shopping is only about 2/3 done.

IT'S DECEMBER 5!!! Which gives me 20 days -- almost three weeks -- to complete all of my holiday chores.

So let me examine what I have finished:

1. I have put up a tree and put all "indoor" decorations on display. I'd like to put up some outdoor lights, but that may or may not happen.

2. I have made a gift list and completed almost all purchases for my family members. BF is partially done, as are members of his family. Ditto for my friends. And I do know what I'm getting everyone, which is half the battle. Thank God for online shopping.

3. Tonight, I will purchase cookie-making ingredients, plus a few more gifts.

I have a dream. I dream of wonderful Christmases of yore, when one found joy simply in the bosom of family and friends, perhaps sharing a wonderful meal, giving simple gifts like oranges and nuts and peppermint sticks. We'd stand around to sing carols together, and maybe play some antiquated 19th-century game like Blindman's Bluff. Or charades. And we'd glow at our holiday cheer, radiant and warm as a crackling fire, while glorious snow falls outside our frosted windows. It would be a restful, merry occasion, and I'd spend days leading up to it reading inspiring books and sipping hot apple cider.

Reality: It's December 20, and I'm standing in a 30-minute-plus line at the post office. My cards are an unsent afterthought. Cookies never materialize. On actual Christmas, my grandmother starts complaining about her gifts before she even has them fully out of the wrapping. (Yeah, I wish that was a joke ...) Other members of the family put me on a massive guilt trip for the years I choose to celebrate somewhere other than their locales. Blindman's Bluff isn't PC (today it would be something like Visually Impaired Individual's Touch Identification Game) , so instead we just stand around drinking and maybe play a wholesome round of BS or poker. Oranges, nuts, peppermint sticks? Maybe for the office secret santa, and even there it would likely inspire ridicule.

Really, I can't -- or actually, shouldn't -- complain. I was totally unprepared last year. Didn't put up a single decoration. Got cards out at the absolute last minute, some after Christmas. Packages? Uhh, don't ask. Let' s just say they didn't all get sent. So this year, I'm much more ahead of the curve. And despite any dysfunction in my family, we have always had good holidays together. There has never been immense tension/discomfort/screaming. Being a grownup means I can ply myself with wine when my maternal grandmother asks me, for at least the 20th time, to tell her "exactly how" my paternal grandmother makes her "famous oyster dressing," and I tell her, for the 20th time, that I've passed on everything I know. (Long story, but just know that it's been an ongoing plot for several years.)

So, deep breath. The first week of December hasn't yet passed. Online purchases are making their way to my doorstep. Some packages await wrapping. Every day, a little more gets done.

I'll be sippin' cider in no time.

I (heart) Noo Yawk

2006-12-04T07:29:00.000-08:00

BF and I made our first joint trip to The City this weekend. Beyond some nerve-splitting moments entering and leaving Manhattan (BF INSISTED on driving), it was a fabulous weekend, as all NYC weekends are, at least to an outsider.

Before BF and I got together, I was seriously considering a move to New York. All the good publishing jobs are there, I have a few friends there, and it's the most fabulous city on earth. While fully realizing that it's the kind of place that can chew you up and spit you out, I also knew it would be a great "next chapter" to my life.

But, as the saying goes, "the best-laid plans ..." I met BF and it appeared that we would always make a home near DC. And really, that's great, especially compared to the place(s) I've lived previously.

But in the midst of all New York's energy, there we were, talking each other up.

"How much you think those places go for?" BF would ask, gesturing to some high-rise or brownstone or other dwelling place. We figured we could actually afford some Lower East Side/Upper West Side-type neighborhood.

"We could live here," he'd say. While visiting a friend who lives in the Village, we tried to decide whether or not we would kill each other if we lived in such tight quarters.

"I'm sure we could both find good jobs," I'd counter.

And so on and so forth as we gazed dreamily at high-end buildings overlooking the park, then more realistically at the 500-some SF tenements that would more likely be our home.

Truth is, we could live there, and we could fall in love with it. The question is, for how long? How long in a place where it's really too much of a hassle to own a car, a place where space is at an absolute premium? How long until we feel too crammed? What about bringing children into the picture, something that would dramatically alter our needs? How long until the confines of living in the city become just as straining as the vastly different ones of a smaller town?

Today, I scanned NYC apartment listings on Craigslist. It's still a beautiful dream. But honestly, reality right now -- even if it isn't in New York -- is beautiful too.