Spectacularly Normal

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Location: Brooklyn, New York, United States

I have a tendency to unconsciously appropriate other peoples' affectations, leading me to say things like y'all.

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Thursday, March 30, 2006

Performed personal assistance*

In a moment of recklessness I'm going to blow the wad up front and report that the new girl is now the old girl.

Yes, as in: she came in for a day and a half and now she's gone. Or, from my perspective: she wasted my time, alienated me from my desk-top, made me do actual work for a day and a half, and now she's gone.

I knew within hours of meeting her that she was not going to prove a successful choice for my position. The constant cell phone checking** played a part in my forming an opinion, sure, but it was more than that. My job requires keeping track of a lot of details, and where my boss is concerned it is all details or else, chances are, fire and brimstone will rain down upon you and your future progeny for all of eternity. Somehow she just wasn't really engaging in the details. I mean, I was giving her much more information than I'd been given during my training (in an effort to make things easier to understand), but she just really didn't seem to care.

She also seemed a little dumb. At one point I told her she could just delete a sentence in a document we were revising, rather than cut it, and I swear to you she was looking for a toolbar icon until I just hit the delete key.

All in, I still tried to reserve judgment, because: a) maybe I'm wrong; b) there has to be a good reason beyond her being tall and blonde that she was hired; and c) what the fuck do I care if it works out?...I'm leaving at the end of the week.

We got through the day, work was done and lots of ground was covered. Except that she didn't take any notes. I thought that was weird too. You always take notes...it's like saying: I'll do my best to make the transition as easy as possible, of course...it's just something you're supposed to do.

This morning I came in a little late to find her logged into the computer (oh good, she's taken initiative) and perusing her cell phone bill online (hmmm, wrong kind of initiative). As I took off my jacket, she then redirected the browser to yahoo and checked her mail. Okay. I am not a total tight ass or anything, but, um, hello?, professionalism? Yeah, who doesn't shut down the browser window as soon as their superior walks in? It was just weird. Shortly after I arrived, she excused herself to go to the bathroom and was gone for quite a while...I assumed making another call, but apparently, she had gone over to our office manager and told her how much she was enjoying working at the company already and how pleased she was that it felt like such a good fit.

Then comes the transcribing. There were three invoices dictated on a tape, by the boss, which needed to be typed up. This was specifically done for the purpose of familiarizing her with the bits of her job no one else would know about other than me. Well, she made it through two invoices and I started to think that maybe I'd misjudged her, but then she claimed that she couldn't understand a word he was saying and handed the headphones to me. I gave her some alphabetizing to do (to familiarize her with the client names) and she was totally lost. I mean, not because she didn't know the alphabet, but because she wasn't actually looking at the names in front of her and thereby assumed that the first two emails (for instance) were about the same client, which they clearly were not...by clearly, I mean there were two different names on the emails and the content of the emails was totally unrelated.

I let the new girl go to lunch 10 minutes early because I have that power and also because I really needed to have time alone with my desk (and email). Apparently, she rode the elevator down with the boss and they had a nice chit chat about where he lives (Mt. Kisko) and where she grew up (Bedford) and la di da.

We had a little birthday thing at the office during lunch and I ducked out early to do some emailing and blog reading, but come 2:15 I was asking myself: who comes back from lunch late on their second day? Well, the answer is the new girl who doesn't come back at all.

Yep, that's right. She left a voicemail for our office manager explaining that she didn't think it would be a good fit after all and that was it. No more new girl.

Now, I ask you: does that sound like a sane person? I didn't think so.

*this is taken directly from the old new girl's resume.

**I'm guessing there must have been another job in the pipeline and we were just an interim safety.

It's all downhill, really

I have maybe five minutes on my computer and so all I will say until later is this: I do not like the new girl.

Wednesday, March 29, 2006

Quite frankly it's inhuman

I think I forgot to mention yesterday that my replacement has been hired. I received an email from my office manager in the afternoon thanking me in advance for training "the new girl" and informing me that she would be in at 9:30 the following morning.

Um, has anyone else caught on that I have three (now two) days left at the company and clearly have no intention of coming to work on time? Somehow this seems to have been overlooked by my employers.

And when I said: I'd be happy to help make the transition as easy as possible, of course...well, that's just something people say because they're supposed to say that sort of thing? Right? No one actually follows up on that, do they? Well, at my office, they do.

The result of this arcane practice is that I have NO access to internet all day. It's downright wrong. How am I supposed to deal with the shakes? The mild twitch in my eye that comes from low LCD exposure? How do I deal with the verbal withdrawal? And the bloggers...they're still posting whether I'm available to keep up or not. How am I supposed to cope with all of this?

As for this new girl...she excused herself twice to run downstairs and make a call on her cell-phone, she never turned her ringer off and she repeatedly checked the phone even when it hadn't rung. All day long click, click, click as she snapped the thing shut. Who fucking does that on their first day? Utterly amazing. There were other little details, but I'm too tired even thinking about them to bother getting into them now.

Someone reassure me that this is not a sign of things to come. Unless it's a sign of what my boss can expect; in which case, justice is served.

Tuesday, March 28, 2006

So much better to post about

The last one for a while

I've been giving this whole string of posts about my mom a good deal of thought and what I feel is that if I keep writing about her, if I really put down the past, then this blog will definitely take a turn I don't want it to.

Rather than dredge things up. Rather than explain how the fight just suddenly happened and why it was such an amazing shock in the context of things preceding it, I think it's better to say that there are 30 years of history which has never been agreed on. And there is a lot of pain for me in the past*. To talk about particulars would start to sound too complainy I think, and worse yet, bitter. I don't feel those things.

My decision to step away from my parents is not an easy one. I've been fighting the thought for years. I have tried again and again to keep things working, but at some point it has to be someone else's turn to try. My mother contends that I too often disrespect her role as parent, but when hasn't she cast that responsibility upon me? When has she actually
behaved enough like a parent to earn that respect?

Sorry, I'm really not trying to cast aspersions. I'm weary from this subject and deep enough into mourning that I'm being remiss about self-editing as I go. I'm choosing, however, to leave everything in because it's the truth.

In our latest attempt to
learn about one another, I made it really clear right away that I was patchy in my availability (both in time and emotion) at best. Because I know myself. And I know my mother enough to know that she wants so so much more than I'm willing or able to give her. I never misrepresented myself.

At the onset of that same attempt, I decided to tell my mother about both my recent eating disorder and my bipolar diagnosis...in full. I thought setting up a foundation without secrets would be prudent and healthy. I now understand that I was too hasty. These personal struggles have become canon fodder.

I'm not a martyr. I'm not special. Being a mom isn't any harder or more exhausting or more time consuming for me than any other mother, and I am not looking for a pat on the back when I talk about how hard or exhausting or time consuming it is to be one. I'm not using Sophie as an excuse to avoid calling my parents (the gmail chats that lasted
all day should certainly prove that there was both a willingness and enthusiasm on my part to pursue a relationship with my mother over the last few months), but at the end of the day I want John. And sometimes I want to unwind by blogging. I don't want to spend half an hour on the phone talking about the nothing new that happened to me in the last 24 hours. I don't even talk to my friends on the phone, because I like and need the quiet of my life when the door closes to the outside world.

I'm still a little overwhelmed by mother's email, which was sad on the one hand and remarkably cruel on the other. I don't mean to give the impression here that she has never done good things as a mother. Of course she has. But her role in my life, in particular as I get older, is progressively more damaging. Our cultural differences and our outlooks and our educations (just in terms of where they happened and how they differed in content and such) seem to widen the gap between us and I feel like my mother has chosen to believe that I am a bad, sick, mentally ill individual instead of someone who naturally grew up and away from her.

My mother swears by loving platitudes, but when push comes to shove she just really doesn't like me. That's okay. I don't think you have to feel obligated to like the people you feel wronged by. Whether or not they are family. I know that my mother thinks I've slighted her and caused her pain and I don't argue that I haven't. The difference is that I honestly feel remorse for the things I've said that were directly intended to hurt her and I feel sorry that at times my honesty had the same effect. I can't really say that my mother's correspondence expresses the same level of accountability.

So, for the time being, this will be my last post about my mother. At least I think so.

*For more frustratingly vague reference you can check out the comment exchange with Kimber on the post below entitled "Response".


My mother sent me a letter in response to the post I put up a few days ago. I'm thinking about publishing a few key bits, but want to be fair. I'd like to avoid grossly misrepresenting her, but I'd also like the opportunity to show her side of this whole thing. I have to think about how to go about it.

In the meantime, I will say that directly after reading her letter I happened to go to the bathroom and picked up Psychology Today for what was probably the first time in my life. This month's issue has an article entitled: "When to Drop a Relative".

Hmmm. It seems I'm not the only one who's encountered this situation. The article isn't available on-line yet, but its gist was that if you've tried to set boundaries repeatedly and you've attempted to rebuild a relationship predicated on those boundaries and you've attempted to reinforce them, but nothing seems to work? And that relationship has proved damaging? Then that's your key to get out.

Important points in the article also included: a) children who grow up in families that frequently cut ties learn that this is a way of solving a problem (I wonder if that sounds familiar to my mom); b) one should only take a step like dropping ties with a relative if one has looked at and acknowledged their own roles/responsibilities and isn't just making a rash decision (which is the case here); and c) ask yourself whether there are good things to be gained from the relative before making this decision (in an pro/con list analysis, I'm sorry to say that the con list at this point is too long).

I am so confused

Alright. I have been working in my office for nearly two years now. I have three days left. Why are the following things suddenly happening:

a) my boss is being nice, patient, considerate, even respectful; and

b) I have work to do. I mean actual work. That's important?

Someone here obviously has an incredibly twisted sense of humor.

Monday, March 27, 2006

The group poop

Yesterday we spent most of the day at Sophie's best friends' house. The exciting thing about the play date phenomenon (assuming you get on well with the parents of your child's friend) is that you basically get to drink beer and eat all day while your child ignores you.

Yeah, that's right. We ate all day.

That is, until I heard a harmonious "Irina" called out to me in two little girl voices coming from the bathroom. I went to investigate, because even after all that food, I'm still the Mommy right?

Upon opening the door, I found Sophie and Gwyn completely naked and Sophie imploring me to help with clean up. As soon as she was done, but before I could dare flush, Gwyn sat down to take her turn. Needless to say, I let the other mommy in attendance deal with the situation.

During the conversation that ensued it was basically surmised that whereas boys can compete by writing in the snow, girls have the group poop reflective of their own brand of solidarity.

Somehow, I find myself grateful never to have participated in a group poop, nor have I heard of one before, which just proves that each generation really is that much more depraved (and liberal minded...woo hoo!) than the one before it.

My mommy is such a prude

Sophie and I had the following conversation on the subway platform last week:

S: (in a loud, clear voice) Mommy, did I come out of your belly or your pee-pee?

M: (after I managed to get my tongue back up out of my throat where it had wound up because I'd apparently swallowed it) Well, um, out of my pee-pee, honey.

S: Oh good, I'm happy that you didn't have to have soogery. It would hurt if you had soogery.

Saturday, March 25, 2006

Across the map

I've decided to do write about something I've avoided writing about: my mother*.

To be frank, I've been concerned that regardless of how I express myself, she will launch some sort of comment based attack that will be hurtful and juvenile. However, the longer I refrain from putting my thoughts down, the more angry and violated I feel. I started this blog as a way of understanding things in my life; not only as a chronicle of current events. I introduced my mother to it because I thought it would be an easier way for her to actually know me, which she really hasn't done before. As such, on all fronts, it seems remiss to keep out one of the most significant and confusing changes in this last month. I won't be a prisoner in my own life anymore; hoping that if I keep quiet, I can keep things from becoming complicated. I can't not address this thing with my mom, even in the abstracted, inarticulate way I'm sure I'm about to.

You'll have to excuse how disjointed my thoughts are. I know I have feelings about all of this, but I really haven't been able to organize them well. More than anything else I feel disappointed. I'm sorry to discover that my mother really is the person I always thought she was. For me that dramatically reduces, if not altogether eliminates, the possibility of a relationship in the future.

Every day I expect to find an email from her, but not because I want or need one...just because I think it would be the right thing to do. It's been two weeks and there has been no acknowledgement on her part that anything is wrong**. She hasn't once, even during the fight itself, owned up to the fact that she started something (without incitement) that killed off the sappling of a relationship we were trying to grow***.

Since our fight, my mother has sent me two or three one-liners in response to things she's read here on the blog. "Congratulations on your new job. Good luck." "Tell Sophie mimi loves her pictures." I find myself wishing she hadn't even bothered. In the course of my life, I can't remember a single occasion on which my mother has actually taken responsibility for her actions. Whether with lies or with ignorance, she's always managed to avoid accountability. She has repeatedly asked me to cover for her and lie for her. I am through taking up her end. I'm done picking up her pieces. I don't think she realized when she started this recent blow-up that she'd caught me at a time in my own life when I wouldn't be willing to take blame where it wasn't rightly warranted. I can only guess that she thought it would be like any prior incident: she fucks up and I apologize.

It's not going to happen.

The saddest part in all of this, of course, is Sophie. Now, on the one hand I don't feel like she needs my parents in her life, but I've certainly never wished them out of her life either. As far as I'm concerned, it's always been up to them. But they're really lazy grandparents. They don't visit her. They don't call to talk to her. They gush about how much they love and miss her; they wait for me to fulfill their needs and when I don't they berate and malign me for it. As far as they're concerned it's my fault that they don't have a relationship with their grand-daughter. Because I don't force her to talk on the phone when she doesn't want to (which she rarely does, but is getting better at). Because I forget to call at all sometimes, since I have to sprint from my office to her school and then negotiate the subways with her and all I have in mind is to make her anything for dinner and pass out at the end of the day. Because I don't send her drawings to them. Because, because, because. All I know is that she has three other grandparents and not a one of them is insecure about their place in Sophie's life. Josh's parents do what they have to to make themselves present even from Tennessee and Washington. John's mom flies up to New York from Georgia every few months to spend time with Sophie. My parents haven't come up since last July and even then it was only my mother, and even then it was only because my brother was winning an important award in graphic design.

Don't get me wrong. I'm not unsympathetic. I understand that it's hard for my dad to get away from his business. I understand that money is really tight. There are dozens of excuses and reasons I'm willing to understand, but then why can't the same kind of slack be given to me? Do they really think it's easier for me to pick up and go to Florida? Until John came into my life I'd been a single mom on a single small income for nearly two years. What were they expecting of me? And the last time I got myself really excited and worked up to visit them (on John's suggestion when we first met), their behavior was abominable.

Even as I write this I feel so irritated. It's not anger anymore...it's frustration and annoyance that this is the woman (the family) that I came from. And that the normal means of communication have never applied. I don't know. I don't know what I can say that will help me to figure out the puzzle. My mother is such an entirely different animal. I've always felt that there was something in this life that is missing for her...that isn't enough...and that she's been waiting for me to fix it; to fill it in. I can't. It's not even for me to do.

Regardless, the impact at present (for me and mine) is minimal. I can't remember a time when I've emotionally needed**** or wanted my parents in my life...but that is an entirely different and far more painful story. When my brother and I were children we frequently played games in which our parents had died and we were orphans left to figure out life for ourselves. I remember feeling really free. I think about that and wonder: who does that? What kids have such morbid fantasy play? And enjoy it?

I may be a terrible person. I may regret my choices when I'm older and my parents are gone. But I'm willing to accept those things because I know that the time my parents were absent from my life (roughly a year) was the happiest, lightest time I've known.

I would never come in the way of a relationship my parents chose to have with Sophie, but I have to make choices for myself and my own well being based on her happiness. My parents are like poison. Like kryptonite to my supermom.

That's just not okay.

*Although this post is about her and the fight that she started, my father, inevitably, is the silent partner behind the deal. He is a different story that I'm not ready to tell yet.

** Remember when I mentioned in a previous post how I'd specified she shouldn't write to me again if all she had to offer were unkind words? What would you presume from her silence?

***There may yet be a few crappy metaphors in this one, brace yourselves.

**** I've hoped, like any other person with a beating heart would do. Who wouldn't rather have a family than not have one?

Finally, a nice enough day to ride the bike OUTSIDE of the apartment

Self portrait

Elephants...a study of contours

Spare me

I've decided to suppress my desire this morning to blog about any of the following things:

1) conversations I've had with John in the last 24 hours about computers, html coding, Smallville or the Atkins diet;

2) the way my pants (don't) fit;

3) my resulting blahness;

4) the fact that I seem to be the last person on the planet to listen to Imogen Heap and my obsession with her album; or

4) my anxiety about finding clothes for my upcoming job.

Instead, I will be posting more drawings by and pictures of Sophie.

Please enjoy my blessed silence.

Sometimes she just scares me

Friday, March 24, 2006

Ambitious, maybe. Stupid? Definitely

I have officially dedicated 7 hours of my day to figuring out and fixing that fucking button.

You know the one.

I have read so much code I have no idea what I read. I have beseeched the good people in my Blogger help group* to offer words of advice and consolation. And do you know what I've discovered? Because this is really interesting. This is incredibly important information that I have to share with you today. Now. Right here.

Never overlook the easiest answer.

Yep. That's it.

When your code says Value="Google Search"? You better believe that all you need to do is delete the word Google and the button magically does exactly what you want it to.

I hope all of you love...and I mean LOVE...the look of the blog, because there is no way I'm fixing it up again anytime soon.

*Hi, have I mentioned that any day now I'll be fitted for my pocket protector?

Change...my less than gradual descent into total geekery

I've just spent 3 hours (straight...seriously) tinkering with my template. The changes are subtle, but if you were able to see the new page and the old page next to one another, you'd know that they are very noticeable and probably ask me why I didn't make them sooner.

I would have no answer for you.

I think this is a more viewer friendly selection of colors.

My last sticking point, however, is the size of the submit button for Google searches. It's driving me up a wall and I've decided that I just have to let it go before my head explodes.

Why Yes, it IS that time of the month*

Last weekend I made the very very great mistake of trying to clothe myself for this new job. John and I went to so many stores with no results. It seems that a woman with my body type should just go on medical disability for morbid obesity and sit at home in her sweats with a bucket of KFC watching Jerry Springer all day. Ah, wouldn't that be the life though? Yeah, I think not.

Cupcake has been posting about some of her own weight/body troubles and I really hear where she's coming from. The thing that's really fucked up** about clothes is that size isn't the biggest issue. It is just as hard for me to find something in a size 4/6 as it seems to be for Cupcake to find something in a size 16. The real problem is that women are no longer allowed to have classically shapely bodies. I have some beautiful women friends who are really Twiggy, mind you, and they too should have a dearth of choices in any store, but why does it seem like they are the only ones who get to look really hot? Even when they're just kicking around on a hung over Sunday? Why can't there be pretty, youthful, sexy clothes for girls who are curvy? Where exactly am I supposed to find anything to wear?

This morning, it being a Friday and my boss being out of the office, I looked at my closet and thought: hmmm, what's comfy? And you want to know the answer? Nothing. That's right. My jeans have always been a little too tight, it's too cold for a dress or skirt and I was left feeling like Sophie's favorite animal.

The last time I was really comfortable in anything I own, and didn't have a hard time shopping, was when I was severely manic and between boyfriends and ate nothing...at all...ever. Now that I'm finally healthy in the head, it seems like the thinnest I am on any given day is as thin as I'm going to be (give or take summer or winter). This is my body. This is my size. I can accept that. In theory. But then I try to buy some work clothes and the whole thing falls apart. Either my boobs are too big for a blazer or my butt is too big for a skirt, or my hips and thighs throw the whole thing off entirely and there is some crazy-ass gaping in the worst places. And these aren't problems that could be solved with alterations. Where does that leave me?

My instinct tells me that this struggle is far from over.

* But that doesn't mean this post is any less important or legitimate.

** Sorry Anonymous.

Thursday, March 23, 2006

Everyone's opinion counts

Moment's ago I received the following email:

Anonymous has left a new comment on your post "Be very afraid":
this would be a great blog if you would leave out the curse words

I decided to publish the comment and let it stand, but I thought I would address it too. The fact is that I've repeatedly pointed out that this is my space...take it or leave it...and as such I will express myself as I choose to within it. I really appreciate that people read my blog (people I don't know) and that they actually care enough about my babbling that they see fit to come back. I hope that more of my readers will start leaving comments, because honestly it would be nice to get to know what some of you think too. If I'm really lucky, some of you out there might become friends too.

I certainly wouldn't intentionally isolate anyone or make them feel uncomfortable, but you really can't please all of the people.

Therefore, what I say to Anonymous is: thank you for voicing your true opinion and whatever you do, don't link to dooce.

Nature or Nurture?

Does anyone else find the familiar similarity in judgement behind this outfit as alarming as I do?

You poor soles*

Unfortunately for all of you out there the content of this blog is at my whim. Even more unfortunate is the fact that I wore the First Date Shoes today.

What are the First Date Shoes, you want to know? Well, all in good time...I should start at the beginning so that when Sophie wonders whether her parents were ever, you know, normal people, she can come here and find out that they were actually just horny.

The beginning is that John and I went to the same party wanting to get laid**. It's true. Neither one of us wanted to find something real or enduring or serious. We were both so jaded by our recent dating histories that we'd sworn off that kind of thing. As Johnsmom puts it: we were a ripe pair of suckers. Based on witness testimonials, we only stayed at the party for about an hour and a half or so before going to my apartment to accomplish the intended mission.

I should let those of you who didn't see John that night know that he a) had a moustache, b)wore a suit and an untied bow-tie. His socks and his bow-tie matched (those are known as the First Laid Socks). It was a nice presentation.

The night we met was the first time I thought I looked beautiful when I looked at myself in the mirror.

When we woke up in the morning, after talking about so many different things, after John took my phone number and promised to call so that we could schedule our first date...and that was the term he kept using: "I can't wait to take you on our first date"...I felt like it didn't matter if he didn't ever call, because it had just been a really great night in and of itself.

For some reason, which even he to this day cannot understand, John decided to come and pick me up at my door the following Saturday for our first date. I wore my favorite slinky dress and a pair of very vampy very sexy patent-leather kitten heel shoes. The most expensive shoes I'd ever bought in my life. Then I sat around for a long time wondering whether I'd been stood up.

Now, the misleading thing about the First Date Shoes is that they weren't the shoes I wore to our first date, but they were the shoes I wore on our first date.


When we arrived in the city, John offered that we hop in a cab, but because it was a really nice night and I enjoyed having his arm around me and the Mermaid Inn was only 5 blocks or so away, I voiced a preference for walking. Three blocks from the restaurant my very vampy very sexy patent-leather kitten heels got caught in a crack and one of the kittens was ripped clean off. I made a painfully prolonged and valiant attempt at reattaching the heel myself, but it wasn't happening. It was late enough that most retail stores were closed and I was standing on one leg on the lower east side with a broken shoe in my hand, feeling like a complete fool and trying to think of how this date could possibly not be over. I was effed.

Enter the First Date Shoes. I realized that Urban Outfitters might still be open, because they basically are the McDonald's of the fashion world and so we hopped into a cab and voila: I was re-shoed. If given the chance to buy my First Date shoes of my own accord and not in a desperate situation, I probably wouldn't. But because they served me well, I take them out now and again and do them justice.

The crappy thing for anyone who isn't me is that the First Date Shoes get me all misty eyed and nostalgic, even if my feet are killing me at the end of the day.

*If you are one of my real-life friends, you may want to skip this one so as to continue the illusion that I'm an interesting person and don't tell the same story to anyone who'll hear (read) it.

** I tried to warn you, but would you listen?

Worst. Article. Ever?

John (in his Johnly way) directs me to another blogger that had a thing or two to say about The New York Observer article.

Shhh...did you hear that? I think someone just ripped Jason Horowitz a new one.

Further evidence that her father should never be allowed to dress her

If my work computer wasn't such a pissy bitch this would have been published hours ago

My friend Pooja's post today directed me to this article . Normally, I couldn't care less about what the Observer has to say about anything, but Pooja's immediate mention of Steven Pinker drew me in.

Pinker is big in our household. John and I are all about nature vs. nurture and the fact that each of us holds up one side of the argument makes raising a child a pretty interesting science experiment. Needless to say, John is all about the nature and I...well, I'm being swayed (slowly) into agreeing with a lot of what Pinker has to say. I think environment plays an enormous role in how we develop, but I've found in my own adulthood that ultimately nature does kick in, no matter how bad the initial nurture may have been.

My reactions to the Observer piece were: 1) wow, this article is fucking horrible. Who would print such a poorly written article about language?; 2) HOLY SHIT, Sophie talks exactly like this (maybe not so much with the terrible whine all the time and maybe without so much of the like, but there is a totally thrown in on occasion), should I be scared?; and 3) why do rich people have to make a mess out of everything? Okay, so I concede that the article isn't specifically alluding to the rich, just the financially secure, but still...why don't people have more respect for language? Especially when they can afford to. As a non-native English speaker, it honestly hurts me to listen to people talk sometimes. So this new trend of well educated, professional individuals speaking like they were raised in the back alleys of butt-fuck America, is (further) disheartening.

Then I read this paragraph, by Pinker himself:

But the important thing, argues Harvard psychologist Steven Pinker, is that the group that came up with it "was perceived as cool, cutting-edge, desirable, distinctive." He said that one possibility with uptalk is that it "ensures that your listener is really listening, really engaged. But then again, everybody in history would have been using it. It's also consistent with a conspicuous egalitarianism: I'm not lecturing or pontificating-I'm seeking your approval."

and I thought: what if this uptalk is all about insecurity? What if it's predominant in women not because they are the "innovators of language," but because for years they were put in their place (even after given admission to the workforce) and had to develop a meeker, more subservient form of communication as a way of insinuating themselves non-threateningly into a male-dominated world?

Pinker's take* seems to imply this, particularly that last bit about seeking approval, though this excerpt doesn't make it clear that he's only talking about women.

Certainly the characterization of his typical patient by Dr. Chwat as "late 20's or early 30's who tends to be single, highly self-conscious..." seems to support this possibility.

I can't help feeling that ever since women have managed to get on more solid professional ground, which is still relatively recent, my generation has been unwittingly pigeonholed into the same expectation of success. But in watching a lot of my girl-friends, who are ambitious and strong (and speak beautiful, clean, plateau talk) date, I get the sense that as a result there is suddenly a difficult challenge in finding a mate and starting a family. Now, after so much struggle securing equality, we have to uptalk our way back into basic biological womanhood**. Once again, women have to convince men that they are non-threatening by talking like whiney, ignorant, invertebrates.

I know, this is harsh and I exaggerate a little, but have you been to a bar lately?

I may very well be off base here and I welcome anyone's input on this one.

* after talking with John in a very unwhining way, I now know that apparently what the NYO article does not give any indication of is that Pinker has a theory of gender and language whereby women are usually empathetic rather than convincing speakers. Meaning that a woman will use shared experience to make her point, rather than simply try to get you to agree with her argument. I think this would have made a significant addition to the crappy NYO article, if not just more interesting reading in general.

Let's not even get me started on mothers' rights in the current professional climate.

Wednesday, March 22, 2006

She had no idea that her future was in the balance

On Tuesday mornings, when John leaves for D.C., the one thing I really look forward to is the little bit of time and extra energy I can devote to Sophie before her dad picks her up for school. The normal routine on such mornings goes as follows:

I wake up at 6:00 or so to see John off in his cab, then make the bed, tidy things up (like all of the pants, dirty socks, dry cleaning, etc. that John likes to collect on his side of the bed) and put Sophie's lunch together.

By that time it's roughly 7:00 and I hear the confusingly loud tromp of Sophie's relatively small feet coming from her room.

I hook her up with breakfast (typically a waffle, pop-tart, or other dry hand-held food) and head for the shower. She sits in the bathroom with me talking through her breakfast and hangs out while I do my make-up and pull all of the clothes out of my closet in an attempt to get dressed for work*.

Then she gets dressed and we exchange lots of hugs and kisses when her dad comes.

The end.

Well, this morning, as I'm finishing up my self-imposed chores, I hear her pounding down the hall and turn to greet her with a big smile. The face that greets me is similar to this one**:

except that it's more sleepy and disheveled. Her first question...is today a school day?...as she rubs her eyes and looks way too cute to be as evil as I already know she will be. Of course, as soon as I answer in the affirmative, the cute is replaced by the whining, miserable, foul-tempered little tyrant Sophie will be for the rest of the morning.

Apparently, she'd woken up with the...um...insane idea that we could stay home together and bake cookies. (I'm thinking that when John reads this he'll be happier in his hotel room than he's ever been because he managed to avoid all of the crying and whining and general unfounded discontented that made my morning hell.) After that, nothing could make her happy, not even the television, and I could barely repress the conviction that there was bound to be a lesson in getting turned out of the house in your pajamas on a very cold spring morning, with bare feet, at a young age.

No, I didn't say trauma, I said l-e-s-s-o-n. Who's with me on this one?

* Sometimes, she'll opt for the Powerpuff Girls instead because she's discerning and realizes that eating a pop-tart in the bathroom is nothing short of gross...even for a 4 year old.
**Yes, there was a tense change there and frankly, whether it's appropriate or correct doesn't matter so much; keep up.

The wait is over and this feeling fucking rocks

Sophie made it into our (her) top choice school*.

* John predicted I will spend the rest of the day apartment shopping about 4 months too soon.
* Josh pointed out, I'm a little bit incorrigible.
* I pointed out: we've made the most awesome small human ever to walk the planet.

Tuesday, March 21, 2006

Be very afraid

Have any of y'all heard about chocolate covered potato chips? My friend Bess tells me that they may be just a Southern thing. And they're ridged.

Holy shit, I think I've met my dream food.

Because I'm not eating chocolate

I don't care if I have to go to India* to find this pan, but I will make these.

Mark my words.

(And no, this is not why my ass is expanding either.)

*Or Jackson Heights, whichever

What I think about money

This is in response to my cousin's post earlier today:

H is right - it isn't fair that good people wind up in shitty situations, but as a woman who is almost 20k in debt post-separation, I can safely say that anyone in that much financial trouble has no one to blame but themselves. The fact is that even though I needed to charge things just to get by (and to feed/clothe Sophie), there were plenty of things I could have lived without. An ipod, an ibook, new clothes for my new dating life, a whole face that required the buy out of the nearest MAC store...things of that nature. Also, Sophie probably didn't need 6 pairs of shoes.

The unfortunate thing about credit is the convenience...you can live the illusion of being in an okay financial place even though you couldn't be farther from it. You can charge the lunch or the sweater and then the next thing you know you are completely and totally fucked.

The best thing anyone can do for a person who has no idea how to comport themselves in a budgetary manner is to point them in the right direction so that they don't fuck themselves up again. Throwing money at a problem like massive debt (as well intentioned as it may be, like in H's case) isn't a good enough solution because the debt will be gone, but the motivation, once the burden is lifted, to go out and rack up the debt all over again will still be there. Lending someone money won't change that. It's the impulse that needs to be addressed, because chances are that's coming from somewhere...and no, I don't mean to get all psychological about it, but the fact is that people want more stuff (especially stuff they can't afford) for a reason. Whether it's societal or personal, that appetite stems from somewhere.

So, my point is: the next time you think about charging yourself a new pair of shoes, go to the nearest Starbucks and order a venti marble mocha macchiato and the requisite sunshine cupcake (the yellow styrofoam lump in the display case), which will put you into such a sugar coma that you'll instantly forget about your consumerist woes.

Believe it or Not

Contrary to the normal rules of physics in which object expand in heat and contract in cold, years of research have finally confirmed that my ass does in fact expand in the winter.

And no, this has nothing to do with chocolate. Why would you think that?

Monday, March 20, 2006

The final frontier

Over dinner tonight (which, needless to say, she did not eat), Sophie delineated what she'd learned at school today:

1) The earth spins around the sun.

2) Astronauts float around in space.

3) The days of the week song.

4) Astronauts go up in space in a rocket and then if there are too many people in the rocket, it explodes and then the astronauts have to float around in space.

I'm glad Josh is paying $16,000 a year to not only satisfy the morbid whims of our child, but to make an installation of the song Space Oddity by David Bowie, which will be stuck in my head for the next week at least.

One day at a time

The song Don't Go Breaking My Heart (Elton John and Kiki Dee) was playing in the taxi on our way home on Saturday night. My immediate association was with the show One Day At a Time. Remember the episode in which Valerie Bertinelli plays Elton and Mackenzie Phillips plays Kiki? Is there anyone under 50 who knows what I'm talking about? I remember watching it in syndication every day and even then thinking that while it wasn't so good I couldn't really break the mind-meld either. At least, I think it was syndicated...jesus, I may have actually been watching the series itself, which makes me older than I think I am and a lot less cool.

John claimed that the show sounded familiar (after I'd named the characters, actors, laid out the plot and even threw in the detail about Snyder rolling his cigarette pack into his t-shirt sleeve), but I think he was only indulging me, thereby proving once again that he is the salt of the earth, because, frankly, if he'd just confessed to me that he was a chronic fan of One Day at a Time, I can safely say that I probably would have thrown myself out of the moving cab.

I'm relieved to report that further research proves that the show piloted the year I was born. Unfortunately, it ran for 9 years, which means that not only did I watch it, but I simultaneously watched back episodes in syndication too. I was also roughly 7 or 8 at the time.

According to TV.com, the show is ranked 8.2 by its community. The community, however, consists of two people and I am proud not to be one of them (obviously the only redeeming detail in this post). Of the four shows that TV.com recommends as similar I have seen every episode of three: Alice, All in the Family and Roseanne.

I bet you're thinking this makes me an even more fascinating person than you'd ever imagined possible. Am I right?

Even further out of the bag

Here's a piece of information I found interesting enough to share: apparently, I have survived longer as my boss' assistant than anyone else had (has?).

I was both surprised (I had no access to this information before) and not surprised (I do work for him afterall) to learn that.

Out of the bag

So I gave my notice and it's now official. I won't be working here anymore...at least not once I'm done working here. My boss was the least emotional I've ever seen him, which leads me to wonder why I bothered sticking around as long as I did. I mean, once John was working again and I didn't have to worry about making rent, why didn't I more aggressively make a move to leave this place? And why was it so hard and awkward to quit? Now I just can't really wait to get the hell out.

We spent all day yesterday shopping for business clothes. I hate shopping. It's always depressing, never works out and costs too much money. After attempting Loehmann's and Filene's, we went to Jcrew where the suits were either too expensive or the pieces were just off in size. By the time we got home I resolved to only ever internet shop if possible, because at least then I can feel like a fat ass in the privacy of my own home. Small comfort, but comfort nonetheless.

What is the point of this post? I don't know. I'm sleepy. I'm bored. I'm pms-ing and I can't always be interesting.

Cut me some slack, please.

Sunday, March 19, 2006


Happy Birthday to the most wonderful woman in the world, who also happens to be a powerhouse, an inspiration, an incredible example of motherhood, an amazing grandmother, a dear dear friend and my mother-in-law.

Mom, without you life just wouldn't be this.

Thanks and we love you.

Saturday, March 18, 2006


I arrived for my interview yesterday morning about 30 minutes early. Etiquette dictates that you don't go into the office more than 15 minutes early, so I decided to buy and put on a pair of pantyhose. Somehow, my suit looked sort of incomplete without them. I don't ever wear pantyhose. Ever.

Conveniently enough, there is a Duane Reade both on the corner where the building I will be working in is located and another across the street, and on a third corner was a Starbucks. Now, I don't support Starbucks if I can avoid it, but their open door restroom policy is handy in situations like putting on a pair of pantyhose minutes before meeting your future employer.

After I'd gotten myself fully dressed, two things in the coffee shop struck me: 1) the new marble mocha machiatto; and 2) a sign above the bar that read: SAVOR OUR NEW SAVORY: TRY A BLUEBERRY MUFFIN.

Allow me to address these in order of importance:

2) Who the fuck considers something blueberry a savory food? Do these people know nothing about the distinction between fruits and say, meats? Do they even know the meaning of the word savory and who was the genius that came up with that little seller? If nothing else, their license to offer foods of any kind to the public should be revoked. Alternately, the person responsible for the sign should be either fired or sent to school or bought a dictionary.

1) I suppose this has a better ring to it than Ass in a Glass. It will probably sell better too, but come on, how is it fair to slip consumers that much fat and that many calories and not put a health advisory label on the cup? It is described on the website as such:

Marble Mocha Macchiato is the perfect marriage of our White Chocolate Mocha and our Caffe Mocha. A shot of Espresso "marks" the foam on top, delivering bold espresso flavor upfront, with a sweet white chocolate finish, topped with a signature cross-hatch of Mocha sauce.

I think this is a remarkable piece of writing. What I like the most is the quotation marks around the word marks. Is it supposed to mean something or lend some unclear significance to the whole concoction? Is it just a bad pun? What kind of "foam" are they alluding to exactly?

Additionally, the sign encouraged having a marble mocha macchiato along with a sunshine cupcake...have you seen the sunshine cupcake? It's a mound of yellow and orange sprinkles with a candy flower stuck in the top. It wasn't clear whether there was actually a cake under it all.

I would hereby like to recommend that Starbucks consider putting 6 oz of their chantico drinking chocolate into the marble mocha macchiato, increasing the fat and calorie content by a factor of 1,000 and creating a beverage with the addictive quality of crack. As an accompaniment, they might consider a crossbreed between the Krispy Kreme original glaze donut and the sunhine cupcake, which would probably help ride the high out longer and cut back a bit on the depressive side affects that are normally associated with crack use.

In case it wasn't already clear

John just taught me how to use html escape codes, which is why my
  • 's can actually look like they do rather than a dot, which is what they would look like otherwise.

    Most of you couldn't care less, but I am so psyched about this new information...it's almost as much fun as personalizing my page and finding the corresponding color codes in css language all by myself and then figuring out where to actually apply the code so that I could get the look I wanted.

    Have I lost most of my readership yet?

    Just wait until I start my new job and am full of insightful commentary on how companies can improve their financial image in the eyes of the investing public.

  • Typical email exchange

    From: Irina
    Date: Mar 15, 2006 2:41 PM
    Subject: Blog...what else?
    To: John

    Someone answered my plea on the blogger forum for help. Now the spacing problem is all fixed. Problem was (because I KNOW you want to know) that some of my <li>'s didn't have corresponding </li>'s to close the term.

    So there. Another feather in my little dorko cap.

    From: John
    Date: Mar 15, 2006 2:44 PM
    Subject: Blog...what else?
    To: Irina


    From: Irina
    Date: Mar 15, 2006 2:50 PM
    Subject: Blog...what else?
    To: John


    Friday, March 17, 2006

    Practically free clothing...or, please visit my friend's store

    My friend Erin has recently opened up an Ebay business selling discount high-end designer clothes (e.g. Prada, Versace, Michael Kors, Armani, Chloe, Dolce & Gabana, Gucci) to fashionista women all over the world.

    As a talented (and I'm not kidding people, this woman is freakishly talented) costume designer, you can be sure Erin knows more about clothes than the average woman. She has a great eye, and discerning taste and I'm generally reduced to nervous sweats when I know I'll be in the same room with her.

    Her husband would have you believe that Erin's incomparable taste applies to him as well* and apparently, if you agree with him you have a standing invitation to drop by at their apartment to drink whiskey and try on beautiful clothes.

    You can find all of Erin's clothes on Ebay. Her business is called Miss Billee's and her online store can be found at http://shop.vendio.com/MissBillee.

    *of course, he's totally right

    If only we could all look this good with a fever

    This morning, before I left for my interview, I took these photographs in which Sophie makes her transformation from hustle to flow:


    Okay, so my good thing that I couldn't discuss? I think it's okay now, so here goes:

    On Monday I had an interview with a staffing agency. I'd met with two headhunters previous to this, so I wasn't holding my breath. I was also feeling like: whatever...if it happens it does and if not, then I'll figure it out. Can y'all already see where this is going? The agent told me I was a great candidate and that she already had a few things in mind that might be good situations for me...I'd been given exactly the same closer the last two times, so I wasn't really counting on this to get me any closer to a new, better job. I assumed, actually, that this was the industry-typical polite brush off. On tuesday, I sent her my computer testing scores and said I'd wait to hear from her.

    On Wednesday, I got a call from her at 10 in the morning. She'd sent my resume to a company that morning and they wanted to see me at noon. Now there were a couple of problems: 1) I was wearing jeans and a sweater, not my typical interview outfit (but thank god I'd decided to actually wash my hair); 2) I had my mediation appointment at 3:30 that afternoon and wasn't planning on taking a lunch hour; 3) I wouldn't normally take lunch at noon anyway and certainly not without giving my boss a proper head's up.

    After much back and forth with my agent it was decided that the company wanted me to come in even though I was under-dressed and that they would see me at 1 (the time I normally go out). I went to the interview feeling like they had to accept me the way I was, since I hadn't been given enough warning or time to prepare for the meeting. I think that I didn't really take the interview seriously anyway, since it was a little less of a salary increase than I'd hoped for and the whole rush factor seemed suspect.

    After meeting with the current office manager/executive assistant (whose position they were seeking to fill) and the comptroller, I got the sense that it would definitely be a better, more challenging job than the one I have now (read: I wouldn't be able to blog surf all day out of boredom), it's certainly more money than I'm currently making, with better benefits, and yet I wasn't quite won over. I can't explain it, but the office seemed really unremarkable. I just wasn't sure I would enjoy being in such a blah place everyday. I know, really dumb, right? But it seemed significant...like maybe there was some other reason it didn't feel right. They asked me to come in Friday morning to meet with the founder and the president of the company. I decided that would be the make or break for me.

    So I went in this morning, while John stayed home with a re-fevered Sophie, and met with the president of the company, who made a wonderful impression. We talked for roughly half an hour, during which time it became ubundantly clear that they had found their ideal candidate and that they'd made their decision on Wednesday.

    While we talked, and he asked some really great questions and made a fantastic pitch for the company and it's attitude toward their employees (how integral they were and how strongly encouraged each member of the "team" was to lend their creative input), I realized something: no job is going to be the perfect fit for me. I don't want a job. I want a business. I want to be baking everyday and until I can do that every job will just be a job, so all I can hope for is to find one in which I can make a great salary and feel happy (the latter being more important, of course). I realized that if these people were in a different setting (e.g.: fancier offices), there wouldn't be a question about taking the job.

    When the interview was over and they offered me the job, I accepted.

    On Monday, I'll give my notice.

    Thursday, March 16, 2006

    By the power vested in me

    My friend Emily sent me this link yesterday.

    I think the article is really fascinating and while I have a lot of thoughts in reaction, I'll let it speak for itself.

    Anything but normal

    This has been one of those weeks.

    The little pimp has been moody and is now running a fever of 102 or so. If she could actually keep the thermometer in her mouth, thereby cooperating, I might have a real number, but my mom-o-meter tells me it's closer to 103 degrees. Right now we are sitting at the kitchen table where she is complaining because she has to eat a bowl of ice cream. Actually, that was about fifteen minutes ago...in the meantime I've managed not to convince her to take Tylenol orally and have instead been forced to administer is rectally as a last resort. Note to future parents: small children do not like having things administered rectally...even if it's good for them and even though all they talk about is their own rectum and what comes out of it. So now she's tucked into my bed (where her germs can collect and fester and lie in wait for us to sleep in them) watching Ice Age.

    Early this week, my mom started a vicious fight with me. Subsequently I have not had contact with her in two days. This is not alarming for most people as most people don't talk to their parents as often as I do, but taking into consideration that we had an almost daily email check-in and the fact that the last email sent (by me) specified that she shouldn't make contact if she had only hurtful things to say, I take this as a probable bad sign. I've mentioned my mother a little bit in previous posts, but because she actually reads this blog I can't go into finer detail than to say that our history is very complicated and emotional and more often bad than good. We see the past very differently and one of us really likes to reinvent history. I realize that chances are I've just openned myself up to backlash, but this is my blog and I will say (within what I have decided is respectful reason) whatever the fuck I want to.

    What I can't understand is where this new uprising came from. It immediately followed the longest, most intimate conversation we've had in a year (as well as my posting of Laura's photo and the link to my cousin's blog, in which she probably gives me a bit more credit and praise than I deserve) and it was really unfounded and rather severe. By the time the emails had flown across inter-space and the Gmail chat yell-a-thons were over, we had both said some incredibly unkind things to one another. That's the effect that my mother has on me. She bites and then all that's left in me is poison and rage and the blind desire to take her down. It sounds awful, I know, and when it's over I feel whiped out and miserable and sad to have seen such an unfamiliar side of myself, but there's also this feeling of relief in the quiet that follows. There's peace for me in the fantasy that this fight might be the last fight and that I won't have to be emotionally beholden to or responsible for her anymore. The sad truth is that sometimes family just isn't a good fit and while many people are able to make a go of it anyway, there are those of us who just can't.

    Something good happened this week too, but I can't post about it yet.

    Due to some sort of security issue at the D.C. airport, which has backed up and over-crowded all flights, John has been forced to come home by means of some out-moded form of transportation known as Amtrack. It will take 3 hours and he will have to be working the whole time. He'll come home exhausted and I won't have time to enjoy him because I have an early morning appointment regarding possible good things I can't post about that I should be fairly well rested for. It's a drag.

    I have knots in my neck like you wouldn't believe. And I'm coming to the end of recovering from the two bottles of wine I split with my pal Bess last night, whence I learned that comic book geeking doesn't only get you into bad conventions (I went to a comicon only once ever, I swear), but also makes bartenders fall in love with you.

    Oh, and mediation is over. Josh and I worked out the last of the issues and now all that's left is for the agreement to be drawn up, reviewed, signed and submitted to court. After nearly 3 years, I'm actually going to be single.

    I started this post over an hour ago...during which time
    I've had to stop frequently to cater my very hot, very snuggly daughter. Rereading what I wrote puts what I have in my life into such sharp, wonderful perspective. I am a lucky woman and I'm a good mom...the latter sentiment being one that I don't get to feel with this amount of confidence very often. But standing over a hot griddle, making pink, heart-shaped pancakes for Sophie (we're talking freehand with pastry tip and bag method, not with a mold) because that's what she wanted for dinner...that felt really good; and when I put her to bed and found that her forehead was no longer hot to my touch, I felt an affirmation of all my choices in life.


    I have actual work to do people. What's that about? Has there been some sort of rip in the time space continuum that I'm only just learning about? Doesn't my boss understand that I have better things to do with my time than reviewing contracts? Like blogging? Um, hello?

    There is much to report and I will be back , if I'm lucky, this afternoon to do it. Otherwise, the cat will be away tomorrow and you can count on roughly 20 posts then.

    In the meantime, I leave you with this photo of Sophie, because, you know, it's hard out here for a pimp:

    Tuesday, March 14, 2006

    Holy Shit

    Did anyone else know this was a real word?

    crapulous \KRAP-yuh-lus\, adjective:1. Suffering the effects of, or derived from, or suggestive of gross intemperance, especially in drinking; as, a crapulous stomach.2. Marked by gross intemperance, especially in drinking; as, a crapulous old reprobate.

    Just because my mother-in-law is awesome AND beautiful

    This was taken in India last summer.
    I know it's random, but this is my blog, so that's okay.

    Nothing but time

    Can someone tell me exactly where all the time goes? I mean, theoretically it's there, right?, 24 hours in a day, 7 days in a week, but then somehow I find myself with more lists of Things I Didn't Do But Probably Should Have than I'd like to.

    Particularly since I'm downright neurotic.

    I know how to prioritize people.

    So what the hell is going on? Is the answer to time in chocolate? Because I will eat chocolate if I have to in order to get things done.

    Sometimes I think that it would be great to say, go for a run or do some yoga...but when is that supposed to happen exactly? In an average day I have to get Sophie ready for school (with which John is a big help, but still), get myself ready and out the door for work, be in said office for 8 hours*, run to Chelsea to recover child and bring her home*, then give her dinner and get in some time with her before bed.

    We get home at about 7. She goes to bed at 8. I go to bed at 10ish...um, can someone explain to me the math that will allow for the miracle of expanding an hour into 2 or 3?

    I feel totally worn out. How is a girl supposed to have time to take care of herself? Or exercise? Or shop for an engagement ring? How is a girl supposed to see her friends? Or go to movies? Or schedule playdates? For that matter, how is a girl supposed to just slow down, take it easy and not be a raging bitch for 5 minutes?**

    *insert any errand that needs to be done including, but not limited to: grocery shopping, picking up dry cleaning, perusing the MAC counter at bloomingdales, running to NY Cake and Bake Supplies, browsing H&M, buying a banana, running to the liquor store for more shiraz, going to the restaurant next to Sophie's school for dinner, restocking hair-crap at Ricky's, avoiding Krispy Kreme Donuts, avoiding Ben & Jerry's, picking up prescriptions at local pharmacy, atm withdrawal just in case we're ordering out because we didn't go grocery shopping on the weekend (see previous post).

    **John, please do not post a comment confirming that I am a raging bitch...I meant that only on the inside.

    Monday, March 13, 2006

    Blog Blog Blog*

    S (calling out from bathroom): can someone help me to do clean up?

    J looks at M for reprieve, takes initiative with a loud exhalation, and gets up from couch

    S (overheard by M in livingroom): why you always come and do clean up?

    J: It's one of the things I do because I love mommy so much, but I don't like to do it.

    (M's laughter heard throughout the apartment)

    S: you're not the only grown up. Mommy could do clean up too, you know.

    J: mommy is welcome to do clean up anytime she wants to.

    S: yeah, mommy only likes to blog, blog, blog.

    *some portion of the preceding had to be spliced together in post-production

    The travails of being both stupid AND a blogger

    Sometimes, not always, but sometimes when you're out drinking with your friends and one of them is really upset about something (say, a boy) and she says: sure, you should blog about the jerk, it's prudent to double check that those are still her wishes when she's sober.

    Hopefully, this post will be meaningless to her.


    I: why do you smell like chocolate?

    J: Boo, I'm sorry, but I've been sleeping with the enemy.

    Fast forward an hour...

    J: are you eating chocolate chips?

    I: I figured we could make it a threesome.

    What didn't happen this weekend, but probably should have

    1) Grocery shopping

    2) House cleaning

    3) Going out of doors (for longer than getting my clothes out of the dryer two blocks away)

    4) Returning that skirt to Jcrew (this would have helped to remedy error #3)

    5) Baking little cheese cakes (to work out the materials fees for this Housing Works venture)

    6) Meeting up with Bess and her fiance (while he was in town, but he's gone now...you suck Bess, see you Wednesday...kisses!)

    7) Staying away from the open bag of Ghirardelli's double chocolate chocolate chips

    8) That massive windfall of money that's due me through karma

    Sunday, March 12, 2006


    Today I'm aware of something new...let me rephrase, I'm newly aware of something: Sunday's suck for me. Even if everything is great on Saturday, even if I'm feeling really good about the rest of the weekend, somehow on Sunday morning (and for the rest of the day) things are bad. I don't really understand yet whether this is the result of staying up too late two nights in a row (since I'm supposed to be in bed by 10 o'clock every night) or whether there's some other source entirely, but I always feel blue on Sundays.

    Worst yet is the fact that all of my body stuff comes back on Sunday. I feel fat, I feel ugly. I spend the entire day feeling cranky and resentful and irritable. It's weird and I can't do a good job of turning my mood around and I can't figure out why I feel it. I'm frustrated.


    Saturday, March 11, 2006

    Recovering alcoholic

    I want to confess that I got totally trashed last night. It's rare that I party so hard I spend the entirety of the next day in my pajamas watching t.v. and pounding Tylenol*, but last night was one of those occasions. I haven't showered and didn't change into actual clothes until 10 minutes before Sophie was due to be dropped off. We've been watching Smallville and eating popcorn chicken.**

    Thank you to all of my friends who made this day possible.

    *we ran out of Aleve...the wonder drug...and also, I probably don't need to be trashed to spend a whole day in my jammies

    **gross...but, uh, yum

    Friday, March 10, 2006


    Apparently, if you're in your office (your computer in full view to anyone who cares to glance, by the way) and you inadvertently type in craiglist.com instead of craigslist.org, you're immediately directed to porn.

    Am I the only one surprised (and a little excited) about this?

    Fight the power

    The most wonderful thing has happened. A Dunkin Donuts has been opened up in the courtyard of the CitiCorp building. This means that on any given day I can have good coffee in the morning instead of the shite we have in the office (which I will then drink during the day only as filler). At long last there is a choice!

    Fuck you Starbucks and your reign of tyranny and dictatorship over midtown. Fuck your mochafrappalattewhatta, which is always over-roasted anyway. Now people can pay a reasonable amount for coffee and not have to use 20 minutes of their morning to order it.

    Also, it's springy and pretty outside.