2009: The year of the great recession, the year of white collar layoffs and job insecurities and struggling is over (at least on the calendar) and I, like many others was happy to see it go. I'm ready for a new day, a new year, a new decade.
I would be remiss if I were to go without mentioning what a fantastic, exciting and thrilling year 2009 was for me in so many ways. In 2009 I lived in three different states, made two apartments into homes on my own, moved into my dream city and then promptly moved out of it, relocated 250 miles in under two weeks, started working at a job that I love instead of a job that was just alright, dated, dumped and was dumped by more than a few guys, made new friends, reconnected relationships with old friends and let others go who maybe were never really friends in the first place.
While I am typically not one for nostalgia, I can't help but look back on 2009 with a certain fondness. The feeling I have on this January 1, 2010 seems years and years away from January 1, 2009. I feel safe, secure, and ready to take on the new year the only way that makes sense: one day at a time.
And sure, I might sleep until 1 p.m. and lay around in a snuggie watching cartoons all day. And I might only go grocery shopping once a month. And maybe sometimes I even worry about how the hell I am going to pay my electric bill. But all told, I still feel like an adult finally. A real, living breathing autonomous adult. And its freeing.
So here's a toast to 2010 and to new adventures in a new decade.
Friday, January 1, 2010
Monday, December 14, 2009
Yes, Im One of Those People
It is sort of surprising, given what I do every day, that I am sort of a hippie about medication use in America.
(As a disclaimer, I should say that I do believe that drugs save lives and, also perhaps surprisingly, I’m not really a skeptic about “Big Pharma”. I think the argument could be made that Big Pharma does MUCH more good than it does harm and that, while we would all like to live in a world where drug companies do what they do out of the kindness of their heart, there is a generally fair balance between supply and demand when it comes to pharmaceutical companies and patients. Of course, this is a sweeping generalization, but it is hard to speak in anything but generalizations when it comes to issues such as these.)
Disclaimer out of the way, I will say that I think there is a big problem with overmedication in America, but I think that problem is more because people are NUTS than because of Big Pharma. Yes, I am one of those people who will stay in bed for a week with a high fever instead of going on antibiotics. Yes, I am one of those people who thinks tap water is better than filtered water. And that hand sanitizer isn’t good for you. And that the amount of vaccines given to babies are likely having some effect on us as a population, although I can’t really articulate what that effect might be. And that people mold their symptoms into conditions to get medications that they don’t really need.
Basically, I think we are a nation of hypochondriacs. And I think we are a nation used to quick fixes. And the combination of the two leads to people ingesting drugs that they really don’t need and that, at least in the larger sense, do more harm than good. And, science aside, even if the drugs are benign in the chemical and physical sense, I think the larger problem is that people medicate for things that they should let their body handle naturally or should be dealing with in other ways. Such as behavioral therapy. Or physical therapy. Or just grinning and bearing it because life isn’t perfect. It’s a little right-wing of me, but it is just what I think.
Which brings me to today’s rage fest: http://www.nytimes.com/2009/12/13/business/13stream.html?_r=1&hpw
There are SO many things about this that make me want to kick someone.
1. Premature ejaculation is not a medical condition. It may suck. And it may make you feel like less of a man. And it may make girls laugh at you. But you know what? There are a lot of things that do those three things that aren’t medical conditions (ex. Singing along to Taylor Swift in your car, ordering an appletini at a bar). Suck it up.
2. I would like to publicly dispute the fact that men with P.E. (ugh the new buzz word, which I’m only using for simplicity’s sake) have shorter relationships. WTF is that? While I wouldn’t be thrilled to be with someone who had P.E. , if I liked them enough for other things (i.e. personality, sense of humor, boatloads of money) then I certainly wouldn’t leave them because of it. My guess is that their P.E. turns them into a giant, insecure toolbag, which is why they are unable to keep relationships.
3. Which brings me to number three. Although men would like to think that emotions have no affect on them, I would be willing to argue that a lot of the times, any sort of sexual problem like that has some sort of psychological root. It happens a few times and then you get nervous which makes it happen again. And then it becomes a pattern. Or maybe you are unhappy with your life, which is manifesting itself in physical ways. Perhaps, instead of popping a pill, men should take a second to examine the causes of this problem. Because I would lay a lot on the line to bet that most men could benefit from finding the emotional root of their problem, rather than placating themselves with medication that makes them less sensitive sex machines.
4. Maybe if we didn’t live in such an oversexed society, where men and women both felt the need to live up to such ridiculous expectations and standards, men wouldn’t develop such a complex about it to begin with.
5. I am so sick of feeling bad for the plight of the males and their poor penile dysfunctions. I’m sure this will also be covered by insurance, while women pay $60+ a month for birth control and higher premiums for insurance coverage because we are just so complicated. If only all of our issues were concentrated in our external genitalia like the mighty men, then maybe we might get some equal treatment.
6. Where is the female orgasm pill? Or the male birth control? Or any of the other 8972389723 sexual issues that could actually benefit from modern science that have yet to be invented?
7. Making it a health issue and then making people aware they have a health issue they need drugs for, probably really isn’t going to help the issue much.
The only good thing to possibly come from this is having Jason Biggs as the spokesperson for P.E., thanks to his infamous scene in American Pie. I’ve been waiting for him to make a comeback and picturing the commercials is already making me excited.
(As a disclaimer, I should say that I do believe that drugs save lives and, also perhaps surprisingly, I’m not really a skeptic about “Big Pharma”. I think the argument could be made that Big Pharma does MUCH more good than it does harm and that, while we would all like to live in a world where drug companies do what they do out of the kindness of their heart, there is a generally fair balance between supply and demand when it comes to pharmaceutical companies and patients. Of course, this is a sweeping generalization, but it is hard to speak in anything but generalizations when it comes to issues such as these.)
Disclaimer out of the way, I will say that I think there is a big problem with overmedication in America, but I think that problem is more because people are NUTS than because of Big Pharma. Yes, I am one of those people who will stay in bed for a week with a high fever instead of going on antibiotics. Yes, I am one of those people who thinks tap water is better than filtered water. And that hand sanitizer isn’t good for you. And that the amount of vaccines given to babies are likely having some effect on us as a population, although I can’t really articulate what that effect might be. And that people mold their symptoms into conditions to get medications that they don’t really need.
Basically, I think we are a nation of hypochondriacs. And I think we are a nation used to quick fixes. And the combination of the two leads to people ingesting drugs that they really don’t need and that, at least in the larger sense, do more harm than good. And, science aside, even if the drugs are benign in the chemical and physical sense, I think the larger problem is that people medicate for things that they should let their body handle naturally or should be dealing with in other ways. Such as behavioral therapy. Or physical therapy. Or just grinning and bearing it because life isn’t perfect. It’s a little right-wing of me, but it is just what I think.
Which brings me to today’s rage fest: http://www.nytimes.com/2009/12/13/business/13stream.html?_r=1&hpw
There are SO many things about this that make me want to kick someone.
1. Premature ejaculation is not a medical condition. It may suck. And it may make you feel like less of a man. And it may make girls laugh at you. But you know what? There are a lot of things that do those three things that aren’t medical conditions (ex. Singing along to Taylor Swift in your car, ordering an appletini at a bar). Suck it up.
2. I would like to publicly dispute the fact that men with P.E. (ugh the new buzz word, which I’m only using for simplicity’s sake) have shorter relationships. WTF is that? While I wouldn’t be thrilled to be with someone who had P.E. , if I liked them enough for other things (i.e. personality, sense of humor, boatloads of money) then I certainly wouldn’t leave them because of it. My guess is that their P.E. turns them into a giant, insecure toolbag, which is why they are unable to keep relationships.
3. Which brings me to number three. Although men would like to think that emotions have no affect on them, I would be willing to argue that a lot of the times, any sort of sexual problem like that has some sort of psychological root. It happens a few times and then you get nervous which makes it happen again. And then it becomes a pattern. Or maybe you are unhappy with your life, which is manifesting itself in physical ways. Perhaps, instead of popping a pill, men should take a second to examine the causes of this problem. Because I would lay a lot on the line to bet that most men could benefit from finding the emotional root of their problem, rather than placating themselves with medication that makes them less sensitive sex machines.
4. Maybe if we didn’t live in such an oversexed society, where men and women both felt the need to live up to such ridiculous expectations and standards, men wouldn’t develop such a complex about it to begin with.
5. I am so sick of feeling bad for the plight of the males and their poor penile dysfunctions. I’m sure this will also be covered by insurance, while women pay $60+ a month for birth control and higher premiums for insurance coverage because we are just so complicated. If only all of our issues were concentrated in our external genitalia like the mighty men, then maybe we might get some equal treatment.
6. Where is the female orgasm pill? Or the male birth control? Or any of the other 8972389723 sexual issues that could actually benefit from modern science that have yet to be invented?
7. Making it a health issue and then making people aware they have a health issue they need drugs for, probably really isn’t going to help the issue much.
The only good thing to possibly come from this is having Jason Biggs as the spokesperson for P.E., thanks to his infamous scene in American Pie. I’ve been waiting for him to make a comeback and picturing the commercials is already making me excited.
Sunday, November 29, 2009
Do Me a Favor
Next time I start complaining about how much I miss NYC (so true) and how its by far a superior city (also true), remind me that this is where I live:
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I'll only resent you for about 30 seconds, I promise.
To make up for my utter sloth the past two days, I went on a 10 mile bike ride this morning. The trail was amazing, unlike any I have ever seen. My ass, however, is not doing so well. Nor are my legs...or arms...or back. Being active hurts.
Now I'm going to get a big cup of iced tea and read a gossip magazine. Tomorrow night I'm taking a yoga class, so I'm sure a hilarious post is only around the corner.
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I'll only resent you for about 30 seconds, I promise.
To make up for my utter sloth the past two days, I went on a 10 mile bike ride this morning. The trail was amazing, unlike any I have ever seen. My ass, however, is not doing so well. Nor are my legs...or arms...or back. Being active hurts.
Now I'm going to get a big cup of iced tea and read a gossip magazine. Tomorrow night I'm taking a yoga class, so I'm sure a hilarious post is only around the corner.
Saturday, November 28, 2009
A Saturday Night at ~Da Club~
Well, readers. Its 5:30 on a Saturday and I am sitting at home, alone, in the dark (when did it start getting so dark SO EARLY?). "What? This cannot be! You are so cool and popular!" you must be saying to yourself. And, while you are right, its turned out to be quite a lackluster weekend. My family left a lot earlier than anticipated (and without seeing my new couch, how rude!) and all my friends are actually spending time with their families instead of entertaining me. The jerks.
So, i did what any other person does on a Saturday with nothing to do. I put on approximately 987987 layers of clothing (because it was 44 degrees here today and I am a baby), went to Trader Joes, got groceries and $3 bottles of wine. Read until it got dark, watched T.V. until the clock hit 5:01 and then opened a bottle of said wine and drank half of it in a few sips. Adulthood -- its awesome.
And really, I hate to disappoint all my club rat readers, but I actually like being alone in my apartment. Entertaining myself is surprisingly easy. And I manage to very easily fill an entire day with: reading, eating, googling things I've been meaning to google all week, drinking alone and watching t.v. In fact, when I dont get an alone day at least once a week, I get really cranky and agitated and it throws me off. Its one of the many things I inherited from my dad: we are both loners and both curmudgeons when that loner-ness is compromised for long stretches of time.
And, generally speaking, staying in my apartment is usually cheaper than going out with friends or even by myself (as I have been known to do). Now might be a good time , however, to mention that I am in this man vs. nature vs. modern technology battle with my heat. Meaning, I am determined to go as long as I can without turning on the heat in my apartment. Last month, my electricity bill was $13.80 and I have literally told everyone I ever met that number, including my door man who said "damn, baby. good job!". Thank you, sir. Thank you.
Of course, as proud of myself as I am, it has to be said that it really hasnt been that cold since I started this battle (~50 degrees on average). And, while i am winning the ultimate battle so far, its only going to get worse from here. And, I don't know if its the cement walls or what, but my apartment has no natural heating going on whatsoever. In fact, I feel it might be a little colder in here than it is outside.
BUT, being a creature of fierce determination with a lot of clothes, I am a fan of layering. So today, while I was reading, I just kept putting more and more clothes on until I felt warm. I live alone, who cares what I look like?
So, today, I am reading in bed and after a while it gets dark and instead of putting on a light like a normal person, I decide to just move over to the T.V. and call it a night. I am warm and cozy, wrapped up in a Loyola blanket and drinking some wine, and talking to the T.V. (a new habit I've developed since living alone. Also, I hum and dance to theme songs and repeat phrases that I find particularly hilarious. This doesnt stop when other people are in the room, just ask Tia).
After a while, I decide I need some wings (for obvious reasons). I conveniently place my order on CampusFood.com (when this blog blows up, people will have to pay for those mentions). A mere 20 minutes later (seriously, I will take coupons if CampusFood's PR person is reading this), there is a knock on my door. I get up to answer it, open the door and am immediately greeted with this face:
Confused and a litle offended, I take my food and close the door.
"What a JERK!!! Can't a girl stay home on a Saturday night and order food for herself without getting the ultimate face of judgement?!?!?! WTF?"
And, just as I am getting really heated, I catch a glimpse of myself in the full length mirror and realize why I had been judged so hard:
Complete with the bottle of wine and blanket draped over my shoulder.
Touche, delivery man, touche.
So, i did what any other person does on a Saturday with nothing to do. I put on approximately 987987 layers of clothing (because it was 44 degrees here today and I am a baby), went to Trader Joes, got groceries and $3 bottles of wine. Read until it got dark, watched T.V. until the clock hit 5:01 and then opened a bottle of said wine and drank half of it in a few sips. Adulthood -- its awesome.
And really, I hate to disappoint all my club rat readers, but I actually like being alone in my apartment. Entertaining myself is surprisingly easy. And I manage to very easily fill an entire day with: reading, eating, googling things I've been meaning to google all week, drinking alone and watching t.v. In fact, when I dont get an alone day at least once a week, I get really cranky and agitated and it throws me off. Its one of the many things I inherited from my dad: we are both loners and both curmudgeons when that loner-ness is compromised for long stretches of time.
And, generally speaking, staying in my apartment is usually cheaper than going out with friends or even by myself (as I have been known to do). Now might be a good time , however, to mention that I am in this man vs. nature vs. modern technology battle with my heat. Meaning, I am determined to go as long as I can without turning on the heat in my apartment. Last month, my electricity bill was $13.80 and I have literally told everyone I ever met that number, including my door man who said "damn, baby. good job!". Thank you, sir. Thank you.
Of course, as proud of myself as I am, it has to be said that it really hasnt been that cold since I started this battle (~50 degrees on average). And, while i am winning the ultimate battle so far, its only going to get worse from here. And, I don't know if its the cement walls or what, but my apartment has no natural heating going on whatsoever. In fact, I feel it might be a little colder in here than it is outside.
BUT, being a creature of fierce determination with a lot of clothes, I am a fan of layering. So today, while I was reading, I just kept putting more and more clothes on until I felt warm. I live alone, who cares what I look like?
So, today, I am reading in bed and after a while it gets dark and instead of putting on a light like a normal person, I decide to just move over to the T.V. and call it a night. I am warm and cozy, wrapped up in a Loyola blanket and drinking some wine, and talking to the T.V. (a new habit I've developed since living alone. Also, I hum and dance to theme songs and repeat phrases that I find particularly hilarious. This doesnt stop when other people are in the room, just ask Tia).
After a while, I decide I need some wings (for obvious reasons). I conveniently place my order on CampusFood.com (when this blog blows up, people will have to pay for those mentions). A mere 20 minutes later (seriously, I will take coupons if CampusFood's PR person is reading this), there is a knock on my door. I get up to answer it, open the door and am immediately greeted with this face:
Confused and a litle offended, I take my food and close the door.
"What a JERK!!! Can't a girl stay home on a Saturday night and order food for herself without getting the ultimate face of judgement?!?!?! WTF?"
And, just as I am getting really heated, I catch a glimpse of myself in the full length mirror and realize why I had been judged so hard:
Complete with the bottle of wine and blanket draped over my shoulder.
Touche, delivery man, touche.
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
Holly Hobby
When you have a job where you talk/think/write about malfunctioning triple X regions all day (hello, incontinence. Nice to see you again, prostate cancer. Make yourself comfortable, breast cancer), it is of paramount importance to have a hobby. The reason being, that when you are in social situations, particularly with people you’ve never met, you may find yourself going on for ten or more minutes about well…why people experience bladder weakness. And while I happen to love my job and think our clients and my work are incredibly interesting, I’ve come to realize that others may not feel similarly. In fact, “uncomfortable” may be a better word to describe a dinner date where I went on for nearly the whole dinner about the controversy over prostate cancer screening and why he “really should get screened when he gets to be that age”.
That’s 100% true. If he still talked to me, he could vouch.
So, to get through those long dinners with friends and family and even longer dates with losers, it is pretty important to have something else to talk about. For most people, these other things are hobbies. Ah yes, hobbies. My friend, the knitter, who made me a scarf for Christmas one year and goes to craft shows to find interesting thread. My other friend the soccer player, who still plays fiercely and competitively on various intramural teams. The hunter who took me on a date to Lindys. The artist. The philanthropist. The musician. The culinary expert. The horseback rider. The people who fill their lives and their conversations with passions and interests.
I’ve always had a problem with hobbies. I mean, not in theory. In theory, they sound great! Devoting yourself to something other than working, sitting in front of your T.V. and drinking (only on the weekends, of course). A chance to meet people with similar interests, depending on the hobby. Or create something beautiful. Or better yet- delicious. My problem is, nothing has ever really stuck.
The main problem is my lack of hand-eye coordination. As made evident if you’ve ever been around me for more than three seconds, I am kind of clumsy. I fall a lot, I often miss my mouth when trying to insert food and beverage, I clip my arm against the wall when walking through doors. This narrows down my options quite a bit- no sports really (aside from Yoga, which is fun, but expensive) and anything terribly artistic is pretty much out too. I don’t have the delicate and deliberate hands of an artist. Mine would better be described as the rough and heavy hands of…a bear cub (give me a break, I haven’t blogged in a while and it’s hard to think of metaphors sometimes).
It started when I was a kid and hasn’t really gotten much better since then. I wanted to be a girl scout- until they made me clean dishes on a camping trip. I wanted to play roller hockey- until I went to the first practice and I was the only girl. I wanted to play the clarinet- until after the band trip. I wanted to be a ballerina- until I got stage fright. I wanted to sing- until I realized I couldn’t. Just recently, I signed up to build houses with a Jewish youth group but didn’t go because I didn’t have the proper footwear. It’s become cyclical- anytime I want to try something new I say “oh wait…you already tried that and didn’t like it” and then turn on the Office.
For a while I got really into crafting. It started with those wooden things you buy at Michael’s craft store and paint to your liking. Then it advanced to making screen print t-shirts. And then, I started “sculpting” with clay that you could bake in your oven. I could only make bears and turtles, but god damn if I didn’t make a lot of them. But then one day, I just looked around and realized everything I made was completely ugly and I was a talentless loser. So I stopped crafting and it left a bitter taste in my mouth, mostly because it is one of the only things that Midwestern women wearing Kitten sweaters can do better than me.
All I know is, I like to read nonfiction fiction books. I like to bike. I like to write blogs that no one reads. I like to dance to music in my apartment in my underwear. I like to find the places with the best eggs Benedict in the city. Ilike to read the news and then talk about it with people who don’t really care. I like to watch entire seasons of a show I like in one sitting on a Sunday afternoon. And you know what, I’m okay with that.
But, in the interest of having something to write (and talk) about, I’ve decided to recommit myself to hobbies! What hobbies? I have NO idea. I’m thinking about photography again maybe, which I really enjoyed until I broke my camera. But maybe historical reenactment? Or beadwork? Yoga and Pilates? Arts and crafts? Cooking? Animal rescue? I am open to suggestions.
This is all a really long way of saying that, if you get a clay bear or turtle from me for the holidays, please don’t be surprised.
That’s 100% true. If he still talked to me, he could vouch.
So, to get through those long dinners with friends and family and even longer dates with losers, it is pretty important to have something else to talk about. For most people, these other things are hobbies. Ah yes, hobbies. My friend, the knitter, who made me a scarf for Christmas one year and goes to craft shows to find interesting thread. My other friend the soccer player, who still plays fiercely and competitively on various intramural teams. The hunter who took me on a date to Lindys. The artist. The philanthropist. The musician. The culinary expert. The horseback rider. The people who fill their lives and their conversations with passions and interests.
I’ve always had a problem with hobbies. I mean, not in theory. In theory, they sound great! Devoting yourself to something other than working, sitting in front of your T.V. and drinking (only on the weekends, of course). A chance to meet people with similar interests, depending on the hobby. Or create something beautiful. Or better yet- delicious. My problem is, nothing has ever really stuck.
The main problem is my lack of hand-eye coordination. As made evident if you’ve ever been around me for more than three seconds, I am kind of clumsy. I fall a lot, I often miss my mouth when trying to insert food and beverage, I clip my arm against the wall when walking through doors. This narrows down my options quite a bit- no sports really (aside from Yoga, which is fun, but expensive) and anything terribly artistic is pretty much out too. I don’t have the delicate and deliberate hands of an artist. Mine would better be described as the rough and heavy hands of…a bear cub (give me a break, I haven’t blogged in a while and it’s hard to think of metaphors sometimes).
It started when I was a kid and hasn’t really gotten much better since then. I wanted to be a girl scout- until they made me clean dishes on a camping trip. I wanted to play roller hockey- until I went to the first practice and I was the only girl. I wanted to play the clarinet- until after the band trip. I wanted to be a ballerina- until I got stage fright. I wanted to sing- until I realized I couldn’t. Just recently, I signed up to build houses with a Jewish youth group but didn’t go because I didn’t have the proper footwear. It’s become cyclical- anytime I want to try something new I say “oh wait…you already tried that and didn’t like it” and then turn on the Office.
For a while I got really into crafting. It started with those wooden things you buy at Michael’s craft store and paint to your liking. Then it advanced to making screen print t-shirts. And then, I started “sculpting” with clay that you could bake in your oven. I could only make bears and turtles, but god damn if I didn’t make a lot of them. But then one day, I just looked around and realized everything I made was completely ugly and I was a talentless loser. So I stopped crafting and it left a bitter taste in my mouth, mostly because it is one of the only things that Midwestern women wearing Kitten sweaters can do better than me.
All I know is, I like to read nonfiction fiction books. I like to bike. I like to write blogs that no one reads. I like to dance to music in my apartment in my underwear. I like to find the places with the best eggs Benedict in the city. Ilike to read the news and then talk about it with people who don’t really care. I like to watch entire seasons of a show I like in one sitting on a Sunday afternoon. And you know what, I’m okay with that.
But, in the interest of having something to write (and talk) about, I’ve decided to recommit myself to hobbies! What hobbies? I have NO idea. I’m thinking about photography again maybe, which I really enjoyed until I broke my camera. But maybe historical reenactment? Or beadwork? Yoga and Pilates? Arts and crafts? Cooking? Animal rescue? I am open to suggestions.
This is all a really long way of saying that, if you get a clay bear or turtle from me for the holidays, please don’t be surprised.
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
Because It Has to Be Told
When people hear I went to school in New Orleans, the words “mardi gras” usually follow not too far behind. And I can understand why – boobs and beer and parades and debauchery must seem exciting to most people. And, while I value Mardi Gras as a significant part of New Orleans culture, it was never really my scene. My BFFL A-Payne always LOVED Mardi Gras in a way that I never did- making sure not to miss a SINGLE PARADE and going so far as to know the names, the celebrities and the good parade spots. I went along for the ride, as long as there was beer involved, which is not a Mardi Gras exclusive policy, but a good one none-the-less.
My favorite Mardi Gras story, however, happened not at a parade. It happened on the way to one. The sheer thought of it makes me laugh out loud and want to cuddle with Anna and then take a shower. And now, I am immortalizing it.
The Mardi Gras of 2006 was the first after Katrina and also, in my opinion, the best we have ever had. The energy in New Orleans was electric and hopeful and we were all so happy to be back with our friends and school.
On the Thursday before Fat Tuesday, five of us (Anna, Tia, Emilia and Cameron) piled into my car and headed down Freret Street to find a good parking spot on the parade route. Anna, my trusted confidant, was at the wheel (likely because I was already drunk or working on it). As we got closer to the parade route traffic picked up and we crawled through the streets- looking for a place to park.
We drive around for a while in unbearable traffic until finally, Anna sees it- the perfect spot. As she maneuvers the car to best park, impatient drivers behind her start to honk. Frustrated and vindicated, she spins the wheel around, pumps her fist in the air and yells to no one in particular “honk now, bitches!” and drives my car triumphantly into the spot. We all get out, get our Mardi Gras accoutrement, and walk to the parade route to enjoy it. We catch a lot of beads and cups and at one point, a man reaches down from a float, pulls Anna up onto it and she rides the rest of the parade on the top float like the Princess of New Orleans, waving to her minions below.
Well, that’s the way it would have happened. Except, instead of a parking spot, Anna parked my car in a suspiciously dark and smooth pile of sand dug into the ground. And well, if you have never driven your car into a sandbox, you might not know that it looks something like this:
(In Anna’s defense- although that is CLEARLY sand in that picture, it was getting dark and totally looked like a spot. I may or may not have had beer goggles on, but that’s beside the point.)
So, there we are. All five of us in my car. Involuntarily leaning forward into a sand pit. Wondering WTF happened and trying to strategize.
“What did we just drive the car into?”
“….Sand….? ….Dirt…..?”
“Should we get out?”
“…I guess…”
Having assessed the situation, we did what we thought the logical thing to do would be. Anna stayed behind the wheel and turned the car back on and the rest of us came around the front to push it out. Since the back was conveniently still out on the pavement, blocking traffic, we logically assumed that it would be relatively easy to push the car back up onto the pavement. Kind of hilarious, but not a big deal and would make a great story when we saw all of our friends later.
For those of you who HAVE driven your car into a sandbox before (or have a 5th grade understanding of physics), you are shaking your head at me in bemused disapproval. You are letting out a haughty laugh at our amateur mistake. “Fools!” you are saying. And you are right.
For those of you who haven’t, let me impart a life lesson onto you. For tires to effectively move a vehicle or bike or gyro cart, they need to have traction. And, interestingly, since sand does not provide that traction what happens when you push the gas and the tires spin is akin to spinning tires into a huge puddle of water- sand flies everywhere. And, since sand is flying out from under your tire, what its effectively doing is digging a hole. Making your car go even deeper into the sand.
Having seen after only a few tries (we were hopeful! Don’t judge us!) that this was NOT going to work, we came up with a new plan- call Tripple A. And so I did. Which was infuriating for more than one reason, but the most being that since it was Mardi Gras, after I spent 20 minutes on the phone going through the hideously tedious prerequisites of even getting them to call a towing company, they gave me a time estimate of 12 hours before they would get there.
“Should we just go to the parade and come back in the morning?” Anna asked, hopefully.
Most people who read this blog have seen me in a crisis situation. I don’t know if it is adrenaline or my redheaded temper, but something FIERCE comes out in me in the face of adverse situations and long waits. I was not waiting for 12 hours by my car. I WAIT FOR NO ONE. And I sure as HELL was not going to leave my car half way in a sand ditch, half sticking out into traffic in a bad part of New Orleans. I am no mechanic, but I was pretty certain that someone with some more know-how than me could get that puppy out in a second and sell it for parts or just cut off the back half so people could get through. I wasn’t going to risk either one.
So I do what any logical person would do- I get on my hands and knees in Katrina dirt and start digging. Cameron leaves to go find a wooden plank and a chain somewhere (it’s a bad part of New Orleans, which made that a surprisingly un-difficult task). Tia is digging with me. Emilia sits in the car and directs strategy (texts). Anna takes pictures:
The plan was disastrous, at best. Again, a lesson in physics- when you dig sand out of a hole, more sand just comes in and takes its place. And well, this plan didn’t really help with the whole “traction” issue. Because there was no way to get under the tire far enough to make the wooden plank effective. And, while I can’t prove anything, I am pretty sure something in that dirt is festering inside me to this day.
Just for good measure:
(Notice the T.J. Quills cup that was fashioned into a shovel. I just happened to have a few of those bad boys in my backseat. What a happy coincidence!)
Eventually, some guy comes by in a huge pick-up truck and tows us out. We go home and shower and head out for a night of drinking. Tripple A calls me to confirm a pickup time the next day at 2 p.m. (!) and I politely tell them to please go fuck themselves. But it remains one of my best New Orleans memories to this day.
My favorite Mardi Gras story, however, happened not at a parade. It happened on the way to one. The sheer thought of it makes me laugh out loud and want to cuddle with Anna and then take a shower. And now, I am immortalizing it.
The Mardi Gras of 2006 was the first after Katrina and also, in my opinion, the best we have ever had. The energy in New Orleans was electric and hopeful and we were all so happy to be back with our friends and school.
On the Thursday before Fat Tuesday, five of us (Anna, Tia, Emilia and Cameron) piled into my car and headed down Freret Street to find a good parking spot on the parade route. Anna, my trusted confidant, was at the wheel (likely because I was already drunk or working on it). As we got closer to the parade route traffic picked up and we crawled through the streets- looking for a place to park.
We drive around for a while in unbearable traffic until finally, Anna sees it- the perfect spot. As she maneuvers the car to best park, impatient drivers behind her start to honk. Frustrated and vindicated, she spins the wheel around, pumps her fist in the air and yells to no one in particular “honk now, bitches!” and drives my car triumphantly into the spot. We all get out, get our Mardi Gras accoutrement, and walk to the parade route to enjoy it. We catch a lot of beads and cups and at one point, a man reaches down from a float, pulls Anna up onto it and she rides the rest of the parade on the top float like the Princess of New Orleans, waving to her minions below.
Well, that’s the way it would have happened. Except, instead of a parking spot, Anna parked my car in a suspiciously dark and smooth pile of sand dug into the ground. And well, if you have never driven your car into a sandbox, you might not know that it looks something like this:
(In Anna’s defense- although that is CLEARLY sand in that picture, it was getting dark and totally looked like a spot. I may or may not have had beer goggles on, but that’s beside the point.)
So, there we are. All five of us in my car. Involuntarily leaning forward into a sand pit. Wondering WTF happened and trying to strategize.
“What did we just drive the car into?”
“….Sand….? ….Dirt…..?”
“Should we get out?”
“…I guess…”
Having assessed the situation, we did what we thought the logical thing to do would be. Anna stayed behind the wheel and turned the car back on and the rest of us came around the front to push it out. Since the back was conveniently still out on the pavement, blocking traffic, we logically assumed that it would be relatively easy to push the car back up onto the pavement. Kind of hilarious, but not a big deal and would make a great story when we saw all of our friends later.
For those of you who HAVE driven your car into a sandbox before (or have a 5th grade understanding of physics), you are shaking your head at me in bemused disapproval. You are letting out a haughty laugh at our amateur mistake. “Fools!” you are saying. And you are right.
For those of you who haven’t, let me impart a life lesson onto you. For tires to effectively move a vehicle or bike or gyro cart, they need to have traction. And, interestingly, since sand does not provide that traction what happens when you push the gas and the tires spin is akin to spinning tires into a huge puddle of water- sand flies everywhere. And, since sand is flying out from under your tire, what its effectively doing is digging a hole. Making your car go even deeper into the sand.
Having seen after only a few tries (we were hopeful! Don’t judge us!) that this was NOT going to work, we came up with a new plan- call Tripple A. And so I did. Which was infuriating for more than one reason, but the most being that since it was Mardi Gras, after I spent 20 minutes on the phone going through the hideously tedious prerequisites of even getting them to call a towing company, they gave me a time estimate of 12 hours before they would get there.
“Should we just go to the parade and come back in the morning?” Anna asked, hopefully.
Most people who read this blog have seen me in a crisis situation. I don’t know if it is adrenaline or my redheaded temper, but something FIERCE comes out in me in the face of adverse situations and long waits. I was not waiting for 12 hours by my car. I WAIT FOR NO ONE. And I sure as HELL was not going to leave my car half way in a sand ditch, half sticking out into traffic in a bad part of New Orleans. I am no mechanic, but I was pretty certain that someone with some more know-how than me could get that puppy out in a second and sell it for parts or just cut off the back half so people could get through. I wasn’t going to risk either one.
So I do what any logical person would do- I get on my hands and knees in Katrina dirt and start digging. Cameron leaves to go find a wooden plank and a chain somewhere (it’s a bad part of New Orleans, which made that a surprisingly un-difficult task). Tia is digging with me. Emilia sits in the car and directs strategy (texts). Anna takes pictures:
The plan was disastrous, at best. Again, a lesson in physics- when you dig sand out of a hole, more sand just comes in and takes its place. And well, this plan didn’t really help with the whole “traction” issue. Because there was no way to get under the tire far enough to make the wooden plank effective. And, while I can’t prove anything, I am pretty sure something in that dirt is festering inside me to this day.
Just for good measure:
(Notice the T.J. Quills cup that was fashioned into a shovel. I just happened to have a few of those bad boys in my backseat. What a happy coincidence!)
Eventually, some guy comes by in a huge pick-up truck and tows us out. We go home and shower and head out for a night of drinking. Tripple A calls me to confirm a pickup time the next day at 2 p.m. (!) and I politely tell them to please go fuck themselves. But it remains one of my best New Orleans memories to this day.
Monday, November 9, 2009
Like a Sculpture, But Longer
Okay, so I am the worst blogger ever. I admit it. It’s true. Call the e-cops and take me to e-prison, for I have forsaken you.
But, while contemplating my delinquency, it occurred to me why: my life is boring.
Bear with me for a second here. When I started this blog, I was at a very tumultuous point in my life. Post-grad existential crisis, living at home, working as a 22 year old intern for $10 an hour- it provided endless comic relief. Not to mention, moving to the second most eccentric city in the nation (NYC) closely followed by having spent 4 years in the most eccentric city on the continent (NOLA), well, it provided a lot of material.
I lived in a closet! In Alphabet City! With a bright blue wall! In a five story walk up! Hilarious! It’s like the pauper version of Friends.
And well, I’d hate to admit it, but my life is pretty boring now. I live in an almost-real sized apartment, with enough room to walk around without clipping corners and shifting furniture. I have a steady 9- (mostly) 6 job that keeps me busy and happy for 40 (50?) hours a week. I have friends who I enjoy quiet evenings on the town with- a few beers at the bar and brunch in the morning. I run errands on Sundays and walk around when the weather is nice. I have more cleaning products under my sink than snack foods in my pantry. I bought a real couch that I sit on quite frequently. It just goes round and round.
And, while I am really enjoying D.C., I have to admit it is the perfect setting for a quiet and happy and boring life- there are things to do of course and a lot going on, but nothing that smacks you in the face with its ridiculous. I’ve never come home to find my street closed off for a Dominican Easter Parade featuring a Jesus impersonator bearing a large wooden cross or arrived home to my apartment building to find my key doesn’t work because management changed the locks overnight without informing anyone, and for the most part, I am okay with that.
But oddly enough- those are the same reasons I miss NYC. The ridiculous and absurdity of it all. The never knowing what is going to happen.
This weekend, I was talking to a friend, who has never been to NYC, about why it is so great. He was skeptical.
“What’s so great about NYC? What does it have that we don’t?”
“Museums! And restaurants! And bars! And shows! And a subway that goes EVERYWHERE!”
“We have all that here” , he rightfully replied.
And it’s true, D.C. does, for the most part have everything I want and need. Instead of a bodega on my corner, I have a CVS. Everything I want is, for the most part, within walking distance. I have found my brunch place (Jack’s), my dive bar (the Big Hunt), my dance bar (Madam’s Organ), my favorite museum (the Corcoran). I don’t want for anything, except for something that the tourism board can’t direct me to- I miss the weird. Weird is missing from D.C. and perhaps, because I have lived among the eccentric for so long, I miss it in a way that I can’t describe. D.C. is decidedly normal: work suits and pearls, polo shirts and fitting in, normal hobbies and boring clothes and jobs that save the world. Everyone fits into the mold here and it adds to the boring-ness. No one is spicing it up. No one is taking a chance on being the biggest weirdo on the block.
Well, most of the time.
Yesterday, it was unseasonably beautiful out for a day in early November. Hovering around the high 60’s and low 70’s, it was the perfect day for the last bike ride of the season. I hopped on my bike and decided to leave my phone/iPod at home- determined to be alone with my thoughts. And, for whatever reason, that conversation about NYC, more than anything else, was really sticking with me. What was my problem? Had I been brainwashed into the romance of NYC? Was it really ever as great as I thought? Why did I have such an allegiance to a city that did nothing but work against me?
As I was contemplating, I subconsciously headed up toward my favorite place in the city: Columbia Heights, which has a distinctively urban feel to it and draws me toward it more than any other part of this city. Old buildings, divey-dive bars, beautiful old and quirky houses- something about it just feels like home. As I biked through the residential streets, I noticed some big structure in the backyard of one house. Curious, I biked around the block a few times, trying to see what it was. It would be about the size of a shed when it was finished, but for right not it was mostly just a wire frame…of what? A head? I couldn’t tell.
At one point, I had stopped in front of the house and was blatantly staring into this backyard trying to figure out what the eff it was and a young-ish (early 30’s?) man came bounding out of the house. Startled, I turned my handlebars around and put my feet on the peddles, ready to bike away in embarrassment.
“Are you staring at my sculpture?!”, yelled a man from his porch.
“Uh well…yeah. I was just trying to figure out what it was” I yelled back, face turning red.
“I’ll show you, want to see it?”
I did want to see it. And although I have been adequately taught my stranger danger lessons and watched enough true crime shows to know how it could have turned out, I put my kickstand down and followed him into the backyard (sorry, Mom).
“I started it about two weeks ago as a form of protest- I couldn’t think of another way to adequately express my feelings about it ”
And there, in the backyard, I could see what this sculpture was. A HUGE soon-to-be paper-mache sculpture of two men kissing.
“Oh cool. Are you making this for any particular reason? Like…a parade? Or something?”
“No” he said decidedly. “Just because. My girlfriend is actually coming over to help me finish up in a bit”
I thanked him for showing me and got back on my bike- my heart swelling with a familiar feeling of admiration and judgment. This man, a straight man nonetheless, was building a paper-mache tribute to gay marriage in his backyard. It was so D.C.- so overly political and yet, so NYC in its unapologetic weirdness. And it was then that I realized that there are fucking weird people everywhere and that D.C. weirdos were almost better- smarter- in their weirdness.
And it was at that moment that I missed my blog.
The paper mache sculpture of two men kissing made me realize that even though I have a boring life, theres plenty of weird shit going on in the world. Weird shit I like. Weird shit I don’t like. Weird shit I have an opinion on. So, why not blog about that? It doesn’t ALL have to be about me (although I am fascinating). It can be about politics, feminism, health care reform, balloon boys and girls. There is so much material in the world, why deprive my tens of readers of my opinion about them?
So I am back baby. And, as a personal pledge to myself, I promise to blog at least once a week. There’s a lot of weirdness going on in the world and I want to be a part of it.
You’re welcome.
P.S.- Had I been the blogger I aspire to be, I would have taken a picture with my phone to accompany this post. I am still growing and learning, so forgive me. I’m not even really sure what street it was on –or honestly, if I was still in Columbia Heights when I saw it- but if we get another nice day this weekend, maybe I’ll go back and look for it for you, my loyal reader (Tia)
But, while contemplating my delinquency, it occurred to me why: my life is boring.
Bear with me for a second here. When I started this blog, I was at a very tumultuous point in my life. Post-grad existential crisis, living at home, working as a 22 year old intern for $10 an hour- it provided endless comic relief. Not to mention, moving to the second most eccentric city in the nation (NYC) closely followed by having spent 4 years in the most eccentric city on the continent (NOLA), well, it provided a lot of material.
I lived in a closet! In Alphabet City! With a bright blue wall! In a five story walk up! Hilarious! It’s like the pauper version of Friends.
And well, I’d hate to admit it, but my life is pretty boring now. I live in an almost-real sized apartment, with enough room to walk around without clipping corners and shifting furniture. I have a steady 9- (mostly) 6 job that keeps me busy and happy for 40 (50?) hours a week. I have friends who I enjoy quiet evenings on the town with- a few beers at the bar and brunch in the morning. I run errands on Sundays and walk around when the weather is nice. I have more cleaning products under my sink than snack foods in my pantry. I bought a real couch that I sit on quite frequently. It just goes round and round.
And, while I am really enjoying D.C., I have to admit it is the perfect setting for a quiet and happy and boring life- there are things to do of course and a lot going on, but nothing that smacks you in the face with its ridiculous. I’ve never come home to find my street closed off for a Dominican Easter Parade featuring a Jesus impersonator bearing a large wooden cross or arrived home to my apartment building to find my key doesn’t work because management changed the locks overnight without informing anyone, and for the most part, I am okay with that.
But oddly enough- those are the same reasons I miss NYC. The ridiculous and absurdity of it all. The never knowing what is going to happen.
This weekend, I was talking to a friend, who has never been to NYC, about why it is so great. He was skeptical.
“What’s so great about NYC? What does it have that we don’t?”
“Museums! And restaurants! And bars! And shows! And a subway that goes EVERYWHERE!”
“We have all that here” , he rightfully replied.
And it’s true, D.C. does, for the most part have everything I want and need. Instead of a bodega on my corner, I have a CVS. Everything I want is, for the most part, within walking distance. I have found my brunch place (Jack’s), my dive bar (the Big Hunt), my dance bar (Madam’s Organ), my favorite museum (the Corcoran). I don’t want for anything, except for something that the tourism board can’t direct me to- I miss the weird. Weird is missing from D.C. and perhaps, because I have lived among the eccentric for so long, I miss it in a way that I can’t describe. D.C. is decidedly normal: work suits and pearls, polo shirts and fitting in, normal hobbies and boring clothes and jobs that save the world. Everyone fits into the mold here and it adds to the boring-ness. No one is spicing it up. No one is taking a chance on being the biggest weirdo on the block.
Well, most of the time.
Yesterday, it was unseasonably beautiful out for a day in early November. Hovering around the high 60’s and low 70’s, it was the perfect day for the last bike ride of the season. I hopped on my bike and decided to leave my phone/iPod at home- determined to be alone with my thoughts. And, for whatever reason, that conversation about NYC, more than anything else, was really sticking with me. What was my problem? Had I been brainwashed into the romance of NYC? Was it really ever as great as I thought? Why did I have such an allegiance to a city that did nothing but work against me?
As I was contemplating, I subconsciously headed up toward my favorite place in the city: Columbia Heights, which has a distinctively urban feel to it and draws me toward it more than any other part of this city. Old buildings, divey-dive bars, beautiful old and quirky houses- something about it just feels like home. As I biked through the residential streets, I noticed some big structure in the backyard of one house. Curious, I biked around the block a few times, trying to see what it was. It would be about the size of a shed when it was finished, but for right not it was mostly just a wire frame…of what? A head? I couldn’t tell.
At one point, I had stopped in front of the house and was blatantly staring into this backyard trying to figure out what the eff it was and a young-ish (early 30’s?) man came bounding out of the house. Startled, I turned my handlebars around and put my feet on the peddles, ready to bike away in embarrassment.
“Are you staring at my sculpture?!”, yelled a man from his porch.
“Uh well…yeah. I was just trying to figure out what it was” I yelled back, face turning red.
“I’ll show you, want to see it?”
I did want to see it. And although I have been adequately taught my stranger danger lessons and watched enough true crime shows to know how it could have turned out, I put my kickstand down and followed him into the backyard (sorry, Mom).
“I started it about two weeks ago as a form of protest- I couldn’t think of another way to adequately express my feelings about it ”
And there, in the backyard, I could see what this sculpture was. A HUGE soon-to-be paper-mache sculpture of two men kissing.
“Oh cool. Are you making this for any particular reason? Like…a parade? Or something?”
“No” he said decidedly. “Just because. My girlfriend is actually coming over to help me finish up in a bit”
I thanked him for showing me and got back on my bike- my heart swelling with a familiar feeling of admiration and judgment. This man, a straight man nonetheless, was building a paper-mache tribute to gay marriage in his backyard. It was so D.C.- so overly political and yet, so NYC in its unapologetic weirdness. And it was then that I realized that there are fucking weird people everywhere and that D.C. weirdos were almost better- smarter- in their weirdness.
And it was at that moment that I missed my blog.
The paper mache sculpture of two men kissing made me realize that even though I have a boring life, theres plenty of weird shit going on in the world. Weird shit I like. Weird shit I don’t like. Weird shit I have an opinion on. So, why not blog about that? It doesn’t ALL have to be about me (although I am fascinating). It can be about politics, feminism, health care reform, balloon boys and girls. There is so much material in the world, why deprive my tens of readers of my opinion about them?
So I am back baby. And, as a personal pledge to myself, I promise to blog at least once a week. There’s a lot of weirdness going on in the world and I want to be a part of it.
You’re welcome.
P.S.- Had I been the blogger I aspire to be, I would have taken a picture with my phone to accompany this post. I am still growing and learning, so forgive me. I’m not even really sure what street it was on –or honestly, if I was still in Columbia Heights when I saw it- but if we get another nice day this weekend, maybe I’ll go back and look for it for you, my loyal reader (Tia)
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