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.

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:










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.

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.

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.

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.

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)

Long Overdue

Does anyone still read this anymore?

Well, I do. So for the sake of myself- here is a long winded blog entry about the last crazy three weeks of my life. You are welcome.

So it didnt really hit me that I was moving until...uhh I was moving. Even though my dad and brother came to clear out my apt a week before my last day in NY (which they were both REALLY thrilled about, let me tell you. especially my brother- never seen him happier), and I lived off an an air mattress, out of a suitcase and worked 12 hour days to finish everything up, everything still felt normal. That week was fun- spending time with NYC friends, walking around the LES just because I could, riding the subway because I knew I would miss that most of all- but it was still normal. My last day in the city was a beautiful, sunny and vibrant Saturday and I had to work an event for work before packing up my suitcase and air mattress and heading back to Jersey for the week. And although I was a little sad, I was mostly thinking that I hoped I got home before the sun went away and I could lay in my backyard with a beer and some magazines and enjoy the day.

(Seriously- I am a city mouse all the way, but I miss a good backyard on a sunny day)

The week in Jersey was stressful, because then it was actually time to think about moving 259 miles away. My coping mechanism to deal with such a HUGE CHANGE and not die of a panic attack was simple: finish one thing at a time and don't even think about the big picture. so, up until my last day of work I was thinking about only work. and then when i was home in Jersey there was everything else left to do- am i going to hire movers? where is my new place again? how do I move in? who will be helping me? how much is a uhaul? how am i going to pay for all of this? why cant someone just do this FOR ME?

but everything more or less figured itself out. I only cried once- although it was an embarassing and sobbing breakdown because the owner of my building was "mean to me" when I called to schedule a move in time. I picked up my uhaul on a Friday morning and my dad helped me load up the truck, i said goodbye to my dog for 10 whole minutes and drove myself down to Tia's in a truck that had more square footage than my entire apt in NYC.

move in day was surprisingly uneventful. although the "service elevator" we had to use was barely big enough to fit my little full size bed and we had to dismantle some furntture to get it up here. and to even get to the service elevator you had to go through this weird underground maze through the basement of the building. and there was a cleaning guy standing there leering at us as we were moving in who I am certifiably terrified of (and am also pretty sure is watching me right now on some sort of hidden camera, like a 20/20 special or something). but considering Tia and I moved everything in by ourselves- I was pretty impressed with how we did. I still have bruises- but the kind you are proud of- not the kind you get after falling out of your shoes after one too many beers.

So that was it. I was moved in and was officially a DC-ist. And the transition really wasnt as rough as I expected. I had already been working with the DC office for a few weeks so when I was officially there it didnt really feel like a dreaded "first day"- although I had a lot of work to catch up on. I really enjoy the people I work with- such strong DC personalities- although transitioning and trying to figure out exactly what they want as opposed to what NY wants is a little cumbersome. But I am getting there. I already have ten times the responsibilities I did in NY and I love it- I appreciate that they trust me so much already (although I am woman enough to admit that I am terrified of screwing up and almost went back to the office at least three times this weekend over silly things. the proving yourself stage is always the most difficult).

And surprisingly- although I felt like I would be alone almost all of the time- i am managaing to keep busy. My family is so close to me which I love and I have already seen them at least once a week since I've been here (in fact- immediately after I finish this post I will have to jump in the shower and metro myself out to White Flint to see my grandparents). I got to see my cousin before he moved to San Diego and my other two wonderful cousins are both here for the summer, before they continue on with their amazing lives in the fall. We had a cousin's night out last Friday which was a little rowdy followed by a perfect Father's day BBQ at my aunts on sunday, which wasnt rowdy but was delightful and made me realize that I am not really as far away from everything that feels comfortable as I thought.

In non family related activities, I have been keeping busy with friends- old friends from my Gtown days, close friends from Loyola and even a few from way-back-when. Its surprising how many people have ended up here (or at least stopped by on their way to ending up somewhere else).

DC is a lot more fun than I remember, although still a lot stuffier than I would prefer. I miss NYC- the rhythm of the city, the subway that really does go everywhere, the unique individuals who would be freaks and weirdos anywhere else, the good bar specials, cheap taxi rides, street festivals for no reason and the gyro guy on 17th and Broadway. Mostly I miss the feeling of knowing that I live in the best city in the world and feeling bad for all those suckers (read: me) who don't get to be a part of it.

But I am starting to appreciate DC- the fact that I have an apartment in a nice area that is big enough walk around in (with a COUCH and a tv and a walk in closet and a kitchen and air conditioning and an ELEVATOR- sweet jesus I love that elevator), how clean everything is, how smart and politically conscious everyone is, free museums, laying out by monument on a sunny day, the few good dive bars and the humidity that I am slightly embarassed to admit that I love (sorry, hair).

So basically- I am adjusting and for the most part, everything is going well. I promise to get back to writing more interesting things soon.

Its Official

Real post coming soon, when I am not spending the spare 5 seconds I have to myself after work every night getting ready to move 259 miles away. I'm exhausted.


But excited!

Prune Juice

I’ve been trying to think of a really quality blog post and thought I would have TONS of inspirational material, seeing as my life as of late has been absolutely INSANE. But, as it turns out, its been so insane that its hard to pick just one stupid little miniscule thing to blog about (aka- EmergenC) and instead all of the thoughts in my brain are trying to rush out at once and I am mentally constipated.

How’s that for an image to get you through the night?

So- friends, readers, lovers- this will not be my best blog post. I apologize. If you want to turn on “The Office” instead I’ll understand. We won’t be friends anymore (maybe still lovers) but I’ll understand nonetheless.

BUT- there is a cliffhanger at the end of the post!!! If that keeps you going!! Except its not a fun “whats going to happen on Grey’s Anatomy?” cliffhanger. It’s a “WTF IS GOING TO HAPPEN FOR THE REST OF MY LIFE!?!?!?!” cliffhanger. If my life were a TV show- it would be awesome. This would be the series finale. I would be driving in a car, soulful music would be playing, I would be staring at the road straight ahead- contemplative, beautiful, majestic.***

But first- some cutaways and plot lines that no one but me cares about.

I went to D.C. (uhhh…six weeks ago…). Stayed with Tia in her lovely apartment, got to see PIPPI (my ultimate lover), went out in Old Towne and met two interesting guys and had a marvelous time. The next night I went on a girls night out with my mom and aunt, which was so fun and made me feel weird and grown up- but in a good way. The next night was my grandparents 80th birthday celebration, which was quiet and small and fun. We ate reallllly good French food and had three desserts. My grandma bought me a casserole dish for my new place. It was the perfect DC/Maryland weekend.

The next weekend (five weeks ago- whoo! I am a bad blogger) I went to New Orleans. Which was also tons of fun. It was amazing to see everyone again and see the campus and the city. I still loved it and I still miss it every single day. Good trip- French Quarter fest, social and sunburns at the fly. Everything I wanted it to be.

Girls weekend last weekend for Melissas birthday, so Aimee, Mel and Shayna all stayed at my apt. We went to a male “dance show”. I got so drunk I somehow stumbled home by myself and the night between 9 pm- and 3:45 am pizza party remains a mystery. A good one though. I hope?

I have been loving my apartment and roommate. As for my roommate- shes awesome. We did brunch and baked cookies yesterday. For a small apartment, we still manage to give each other our space. The apartment is still great- no major problems, still in the best location in the city. On Saturday there was a random parade down A for no apparent reason. Its awesome.

Work has been busy. Really busy. I stay late probably one night a week, but I don’t mind as I have been given bigger and more interesting projects as of late.

Oh- did I mention I might be moving to D.C.? Like, soon?

I don’t really want to get into the messy details, but I was sort of offered a promotion within my company. But the job? Would be in our D.C. office. So if I take it, I would move there. Soon. Real soon.

This is the part where the constipation kicks in. Because I have so much to say about it. And so little comes out (haha ew). And well- I am going down there to meet with them on Wednesday. So- stay tuned?




***Look- I know its not AS exciting as Grey’s, but I hope as my friend you are happy that I don’t have brain cancer or didn’t get hit by a bus or pregnant or married.

New Apartment

Okay okay, the time has come.

Pictures of my place! I dont really have anything witty to say. I am still exhausted after my religious experience (see below), much like the way you are tired the entire day after you get a massage.

I LOVE it. It makes me happy everytime I come home. Its small, but new. Charming, light and in the perfect location. I adore my roommate, who is also 22 and a recent graduate. We are on different schedules, so a lot of the time its like living alone. I've been cooking, cleaning, assembling furnature, painting and a myriad of other grown up things. I can walk to work. I cant tell you what a huge deal that is.

Anyway, on to the pictures:



This is my room. That is my BLUE wall and my bed and my TWO windows (I know this may not seem like that big of a deal, but trust me- having a window is not the norm in New York). You cant see it, but to the side of me is my rather large closet, that fits everything I need. Its small, but really cozy. I never feel like the walls are closing in on me. I plan on putting a big painting in the middle of the wall. The fleur de lis will need to move, but that was the only place there was a nail already there.



This is my shelf, and I just wanted to show it because Im still repping NOLA- beads (natch) and my beloved piggy bank that I got as a pledge in AKPsi. Never leave home without them.




Our "breakfast nook" that I LOVE. I love this table, I love that its right by the window, love the height. Just love love love. This is my favorite place in the apartment.




this is the rest of our kitchen. Pretty standard. Mini-fridge, which I thought I would HATE but I actually sort of like it. I never over-buy. I just stop by the grocery store on the walk home and buy what I need for a meal. Its awesome. Lots of wine, obv.




Our bathroom. If you dont live in NY or have never seen a NY apartment, you probably cant appreciate how awesome this is. But you can STAND in it and its NEW and its a shower with a DOOR. Its awesome. These are my standards.

In summation? I love my apartment, I love my life, love living in the city and love the way things are going so far.

In Celebration of Easter

Today, I saw Christ, reincarnate.*

I know i know, its hard to believe. I mean, why would Jesus come back to talk to a Jew? Isnt he busy being nailed to the cross, leading a religion, having a champagne brunch and passing out mutli-colored eggs to children? You probably dont believe me and hell- you might not even believe in him. But read on and I think you'll be pretty convinced.

This morning i woke up hungover, tired, full (from apprx. 8 beers i drank last night and the fried chicken i got on the walk home at 4 am this morning) and pretty damn happy. I laid in bed, looked at my awesome BLUE wall in the morning light, took a sip of water and reached for my computer for a happy morning of checking facebook, blogs, news etc.

I flip it on and it tells me I have software updates. "Why not?" I say to myself "I have all day to do nothing, I can spare the 45 seconds". Updates finish installing and the computer restarts and all I see is this:



For those of you unfamiliar with macs, this is the cute little icon for HARDDRIVE DEATH. "How do you know this, Heather?" you are surely asking yourself. Well, friend, I know because it just happened to me SIX MONTHS AGO.

Immediately I start to panic. I bolt out of bed, throw on a sports bra, put on my sneakers, throw my computer in a bag and head to the Apple store in SoHo. On the nearly half hour walk*, I am mentally talking myself down from the proverbial ledge. Last time this happened, it cost $400 and a few days to fix and I don't have either one right now. $400 might as well be $4,000,000 to me and I leave for New Orleans (!!!!) on Thursday morning. I am on the verge of tears, on a hellbent path through the east village, glaring at strangers because, really, its all their fault. Its unusually cold out, windy and sunny and I have on a light trench and no sunglasses. I am miserable.

Finally, I arrive at the apple store on Prince Street, open the doors and tell the greeters what my issue is. He says that they are by appointment only (which i mean, REALLY? how are people who are going to break their computers know they will need to make an appointment?) but since its Easter Sunday (first sign) that they might be able to put me on standby. We walk upstairs and he passes me off to the Genius Bar. My fate is in their hands.

A little boy who I can only assume was about 13, came over to help try and schedule me. He tells me they are too busy and don't have any standby appointments but if I would like I could make one for TWO DAYS from now so they can do the consultation and tell me whats wrong and then it would "only" take a couple more days to fix it. Or, I can just drop it off and they will call me in 48 hours and tell me what they want to do it and have me sign off on it and then take another few days to fix it. When i hear this, I am even more upset. Leaving your shit with apple means $$$$$$ and I dont even have $. Plus, I dont have a tv or cable, so the computer is what i do when Im home. We just got internet, and I am enjoying the speed and efficiency of actual paid internet (thanks for the 4 years of pirated internet though, Lowerline St.). I am upset.

Boy-whom-I-could-have-given-birth-to walks me over to the computer where I sign in to leave my computer and asks me what I want to do. I think about it: "I am an adult. Just yesterday I went to Ikea and assembled a kitchen table and I considered it the highlight of my week. I painted a wall all by myself. I have a 401K. I can handle. I can find a way to get the money. It will be okay".

Well, thats what I would have thought, if I didn't immediately burst into tears.

Yes, I cried in the apple store. And not, "oh your eyes are kind of wet" crying, but CRYING. I am a little embarassed but mostly FURIOUS AT MAC that I have to leave my computer for a week and pay them tons of money so they can just erase my whole goddamned hard drive and I can lose all my shit again.

Somewhere along the way, probably when the middle schooler realized he was dealing with a clearly unstable woman, I was passed off to another "concierge", who led me over to a genius to drop my computer off and get all my shit together.

When I first saw him, I thought nothing of him. Just another mere mortal who would say something to make me angry or cry or flail hysterically on the floor, no big. "Jay" (coincidence? nope.) opens my computer and puts his special apple thing in to view my harddrive on his computer. He asks me questions and I give him short bitchy answers, fighting back tears. He looks at me with a mix of confusion, sympathy and fear and keeps playing with my computer. I sit there silently crying and thinking of creative ways to make ramen noodles.

And I imagine that this is what a religious experience is like. When you are at your lowest, you can't believe its really happening at first. But sure enough, after he had played with it for a while, he looked at me and said "here, email the stuff you want to keep to yourself and Ill just wipe out your harddrive and reinstall it right now. Do you mind waiting twenty minutes?"

I instantly start to feel better, but I am cautious. "How much will this cost?"
"Nothing. We dont have to keep it so its no cost"

Can you hear the holy music people?

I literally almost made out with him, but I am pretty sure thats not the correct way to react when you meet Jesus. I couldn't believe it. This man, this deity, took me down to the end of the genius bar and walked me through the reinstall. In the meantime, he teaches me how to do things that I didnt know before. He sets up my computer the way I want it. He ignored the stares of the "conceirges" who told me I couldn't get help today. He stood up for me, just like he stood up for (most of) you. He saved me- picked me up off the floor, wiped my tears away and replenished me with wine and free gigabyte space. It was a religious experience.


At the end of it all, I felt like a new person. My computer is fine, fast, beautiful. I thanked him and apologized for being mean earlier and he laughed and said he understood. He really is forgiving.

So, if you want to have a religious experience- go to the Apple store on Prince street. Ask for Jay(esus).

Happy Easter, Jay(esus). Thanks for the resurrection.



*If you are offended by this post, eh. We probably shouldn't be friends anyway.

**The other night, on a date with a SEXY guy, he was walking me back to my apartment and I FELL out of my shoes (yes, plural) on my block, ate it hard (like sprawled out across the pavement) and got this nasty cut on the side of my foot that was bleeding everywhere. Its hurts to wear shoes, walk, stand upright, etc. So when I say walked, I mean hobbled. I'm pretty sure sexy guy will call soon. Who wouldn't want to date this?

An Inspirational Interlude

First of all, I have to say that since I have been facebooking/twittering about my brand new lower east side apartment, no less than three people* have asked me when I am going to blog about it. Which is AWESOME and I can’t tell you how much I love you all for caring about me, but more importantly, caring about my blog that much. Seriously, I love you all.

But, this post is not about my new apartment, mainly because I want to do an “OMG IM IN A NEW APARTMENT” post once I am actually in there and have photographic evidence and wireless internet and nothing to do on a Tuesday night because I will get home at 6:30 instead of 8:30.

No, instead this post is about an important life lesson I was reminded of this weekend and have been waiting to impart onto my legions of (seven) loyal readers.

When I was looking for a job this summer, one of my mentors set up a meeting with the VP of Corp Comm at a pretty big agency here in the city which was super intimidating. When I went in and told him what I felt were my main barriers to getting hired (no New York city experience, no New York city network and the economy). And he affirmed my fears and basically said “yeah, that’s going to make it a lot harder” which sent me into a frenzied panic attack I have only recently recovered from. But, he also said to apply everywhere and to see where I ended up, even if it wasn’t the exact right position. That as long as you got in, worked hard, did good well that the rest would fall into place. You can prove yourself and excel in any position, as long as you remain true to your work ethics and make your position your own.

It was excellent advice and was really a huge factor in my decision to take the job I currently have. I sort of lost sight of the wisdom for a while until this weekend, when inspiration hit me on 7th avenue.

It was Saturday and I came into the city to sign my lease. It was beautiful outside- a little chilly but still so sunny and pleasant. As I walked to Chelsea to meet my future roommate at work (she’s awesome, btw- but that’s for later) I walked by this hard working young (old?) man:




Yes, this man is dressed in a cheese costume. Handing out flyers for a pizza place, trying to get people to come in. What struck me odd about this was two things:
A. The cheese costume was so half-assedly put together and so ridiculous looking that it added absolutely no value to what he was peddling- to adults by the way, not kids. It wasn’t comical, it wasn’t over the top, it was almost as if I it was just a regular guy and I had imagined the cheese costume in some sort of weird endorphin induced hallucination.

B. He did NOT look pissed off about this. In fact, disgruntled flyer givers everywhere could take a lesson from this man and his blasé attitude to his Swiss costume. And, based on the fact that he’s wearing the costume to begin with, you have to assume that his managers are dicks and mildly oppressive, but he did not seem bothered at all.

When I went to sign the lease and walked back a few hours later, he was STILL there. Not-pissed-off-about-being-in-a-cheese-costume man, handing out flyers on 7th Avenue. And I couldn’t help but wonder where he was going in life and admire how hard he was working to get there.



*Okay, one I sort of forced into asking by merely suggesting that he may want to see a write up of the story instead of listening to me laboriously discuss all the details. And the other said it sort of sarcastically, like “oh, are you going to blog about it?” Whatever…still counts.

An HR memo to Spring

Dear Spring,

I know its your first day on the job and everything, and believe me, I sympathize. My first week on the job I created a media list so large I couldn’t even send it through email. Sometimes, you get a little overeager when you are trying to impress and things don’t always turn out the way you wanted. I totally get it.

However, if you don’t hear a little criticism then you’ll never learn, right? So lets try to keep the snow away, especially on your first day. Maybe you haven’t had the chance to read the manual yet, but snow on the first day of spring is really soul-sucker. It really just makes people want to drown some small animals and I don’t want to be fielding calls from PETA all day because the new guy screwed up. You’re not the only one with a job to do.

But like I said, everyone is allowed a few mistakes at the beginning. Just make sure to get your shit together by April 1, because I am moving and not taking any winter clothes with me. That’s how much faith I am putting in you, Spring. Don’t let me down.

As always, please don’t hesitate to contact me or your supervisors (God) with any questions. We’re really excited to have you on board.

Best,

The Northeast United States Human Resources Department


P.S. I have an overactive imagination and there are 3 out of 12 people in my office today. I may update again. Who knows where this day will go?

P.P.S. I may have found an apartment (I went the really small, great area route)! Details to come.

The Apartment Hunting Chronicles Episode Two: I Officially Hate Everybody

Its not so much that apartment hunting makes me want to kick small puppies, its more the liars. LIARS make me want to kick puppies and if you find yours suddenly bruised, I am not liable for any emotional or physical damages.

In episode one, we discussed the ads. The craigslist ads for apartments. Craig and his silly bitch list for liars. And, for reasons still undisclosed, that’s pretty much as far as I got the first time around. This time though, its serious.

The problem with New York, that I believe is more so exaggerated than anywhere else, (although DC may come in at a close second) is that unless you are a grillionaire playboy, theres no such thing as a good apartment in a good area. If you’re lucky (for those of you paying attention- I’m not), an average person can mayyyyyybe find an okay apartment in an okay area. But usually, the way it works is you can move into shitty, closet-like amenities in a great area or an amazing fantastic apartment across the street from the projects (not an exaggeration, the forerunner on my list right now is literally across the street from state subsidized projects- but the apartment is beautiful).

So really, I guess its not a huge shock that all the legitimate ads are a little exaggerated. And, it might not be really lying, but more the kind of lying that you start to believe because you have to for your own sanity. Lies such as, “its not a bad area, it just has a lot of local color!” orrrr “my exboyfriend is clearly only dating her because she is exactly like me, how pathetic” orrr “at the end of the day, Hurricane Katrina was a great learning experience”. You know, the kind of shit that gets you through the night.

When all is said and done however, I’d like a little heads up before hitting the worst streets of NYC, checking directions on my Iphone and toting a designer bag. All of the apartments I am looking at are sort of on the border of good and evil, and it would be nice to get a “don’t come alone after dark” orrrr a “btw, when I say its close to the train station, I mean it’s a fifteen minute uphill walk through Spanish Harlem”. I’ll concede that might be too much to ask for, seeing as I’ve lived in proximity to NYC nearly all of my life and should know better. Fine.

The shit that really pisses me off is when I get to the top of the hill and finally meet the person, suddenly everything changes. The rent listed on the ad was for the first month only- after that it increases by $200. The only utility included is water (WTF people, EVERY APARTMENT includes water in their rent). The room includes a closet- its just in the hall on the other side of the apartment. The room is furnished- with a 15 year old futon on a metal frame. The 20 year old female who will be showing the place? Whoops, I meant 35 year old man. What a crazy typo. Or the people who just don’t show up. FUCK YOU PEOPLE WHO DON’T SHOW UP. I could be at home watching spongebob instead of standing on a street corner in Bushwick, watching cars with tinted windows roll slooooowly by me.

Its all sort of comical I guess, unless its you dragging your sorry ass up to these great apts in terrible areas after a lonnnnnnng day at work, expecting to meet a nice musician named Anne (25, from long island) and instead its her 40 year old LIVE-IN boyfriend holding their pet ferret (ew) showing you a room that is smaller than my creepy, dead-child storing closet in my apt in New Orleans (Note to reader: WE didn’t store the dead children, we’re just pretty sure that’s the only thing it could have possibly been used for prior to our moving in).

So, moral of the story is, never grow up. If you do grow up- live at home forever or kill yourself before you have to move out. Or hire a broker to do your dirty work for you (please note, this requires making much more money than I make). Or don’t ever move to NY. Or, make friends who will move with you instead of forcing yourself to make awkward small talk with a 40 year old holding a ferret who you KNOW you will never ever move in with.

And the sad part? I am really keeping my fingers crossed for that place across from the projects? Other than the whole “dangerous, impoverished neighbors” thing, it’s a great place with a really sweet roommate.

The sadder part? I have FOUR more appointments tonight. Oy vey.

Ch-ch-ch-ch-changes

I am moving.

To new York

Probably Brooklyn. Everything is happening sort of fast and I may not be 100% (or well, 50%) ready. But I am doing it. I am quite sick of living my life from the Jersey sidelines and after receiving confirmation from work that they love me as much as I love them, the time feels right. I feel more secure, more mature and more ready to take this next big step in my life.



(Most of you know why it was put on hold, so there’s no need to rehash)



I would be lying if I were to say that I wasn’t scared, because I am. More scared than I thought I would be. Especially because, uhm hi. Living far from home isn’t exactly a new thing. When I moved away the first time, I basically picked a place that couldn’t have been more opposite than the community I called home (and really- pretty much opposite from every other city that everyone else calls home. Suckers). I dived in headfirst to the craziest and most rewarding experience of my life so far- which was living in New Orleans. Everything about it was new and scary and different and I don’t even remember feeling fear. Just excitement.



I have to take a moment here to tell my mom’s favorite story about me. (If she ever finds the link to this blog and reads such story, she will likely pee herself for seeing it in print. I have heard it more times than I care to recall and I am channeling her as I am writing it). I was a fierce independent spirit as a kid, so much so that I robbed my mother of many precious moments and milestones of parenthood. When I say “as a kid”, I am referring to the period of birth until uhhhh now. I went to a big elementary school of about 1,500 kids and I am the oldest child in my family. On the first day of kindergarten, my mother (like all the other mothers) parked the car, walked me into school and waited with me on the little kindergarten line until we went into class. On the second day of kindergarten, I (rather brightly) observed the other parents dropping their older children off in front of the school where they walked in by themselves.



Adorable, curious little me: “Mom, why are you parking your car when the other parents are just driving up to the front of the school?”

Mom, sharing a precious moment with her daughter: “Well. Those are the older kids so they don’t need their mommies to walk them in. One day, when you’re ready, I’ll drop you off there too”

Tenacious, independent, fearless little me: “Oh. I’m ready now. You can just drop me off”



And she did. And I got my 5 year old little butt out of the car and marched my jellies right into the school of 1,500 kids. And I never looked back.



(Side note: I told that story to a former boyfriend and he looked at me, rolled his eyes and said “I’m not surprised. you should tell that to guys as a warning before they start to date you”. I’m pretty sure it wasn’t a compliment.)



And now? Maybe its my old age catching up to me. Or maybe it’s the doom and gloom, apocalyptic-type hype around the recession. Maybe because it isn’t happening exactly how I pictured it. Maybe its because I don’t really know as many people as I thought and don’t really understand how to go about meeting people outside of work as an adult. Maybe its because I am actually paying for my own rent (shut up). Whatever my deal is, I am really freaking nervous about making this leap.



But also- EXCITED. I am looking at apartments this weekend and if all goes as according to plan (which, lets be real, when does it ever?) I’ll be official on April 1. A real person. A grown up.



Well….sort of. It’s a step in the right direction at least.



Up next?

Learning how to cook

Making friends (anyone in NYC wanna holler at your girl? I’m really a lot of fun and not NEARLY as crazy as this blog may lead you to believe.)

Learning how to be frugal, possibly by default (when I first wrote that, I wrote “buy” default. This will be SO much harder than I am picturing)

GO TO NEW ORLEANS APRIL 15th!! (WHAT WHAT)

Enjoying summer, spend as much time as possible and wear sunglasses 24.7



So uh, wish me luck? Send me money? Hang out with me? Move here?



Mazel tov?

Have a Nice Trip

Because I am competitive by nature (and also- kind of a bitch) every morning I engage in a death-match race with a stupid little (what I can only assume is a) Russian (accent) girl to get to the lone one-seater on the top level of the train. Although it is childish and largely one-sided, I can’t help but feel victorious when I settle into my own little seat that I will not have to share with another commuter, stretch my legs out and look out of my own window to face the day ahead.

The best thing about this seat is that it is right by the stairs to the lower deck, so I am usually one of the first ones off the train and do not have to fight through masses of angry Jersey-ians to get up the elevator and into Penn Station. Today, however, I discovered another benefit to sitting right by the stairs when a young, boyishly handsome man made eyes with me as he was getting off the train- and then fell down the stairs.

What made this particular fall epic, however, was that as he was falling down the stairs he sang a song about falling down the stairs.

Yes- a song. Well, more of a little ditty. It went something like this: “ahh ahh I’m fall-ing down the stairs”. (Sing in ditty form).

Now, I am no stranger to falling. In fact, I fall once a week and tripped twice on the way to work this morning (new shoes). I fall so often that I have actually become good at it and when people see me fall for the first time they often comment on how graceful I am. I don’t fall so much as slide elegantly toward the ground at inappropriate moments and inconvenient places. Its something I am sort of proud of- like my useless knowledge of the American Revolution or ability to remember the names of my nail polishes (“Big Apple Red” this week- thanks, OPI).

I am also no stranger to epic falls. Last summer, during orientation, I got into the first of what would be many fight with Terrible Tom of the Oppressive Office of Co-Curricular Programs at Loyola. Terrible Tom fucked up my life hardcore that semester by completely disregarding any conversations or plans I had responsibly made with the OOCCP the prior semester AND then had the nerve to call AKPsi nationals and essentially tell on me (in case you are reading this Tom, even they thought you were a huge douche). We met the first day or orientation and by the last we were already glaring at each other across the quad and would continue glaring until I graduated. But, Tom unwittingly got his revenge, or more accurately, I handed him his revenge on a silver platter- when I emerged from the school bus transporting the orientation leaders and freshman to our own alcohol-free night at Venue (LOL) wearing an adorable black dress and my Marc Jacobs heels . When I say “emerged”, I mean “ate it hard down the stairs and landed spread eagle on the bottom step”. And, the piece de resistance of the epic nature of the tumble- Terrible Tom was standing right there, helping girls in their heels get off the bus. He was so close that if I were a less graceful fall-er, I surely would have landed right on him.

So anyway, long story short- I fall a lot. And I think if I could sing while falling, it would really add some flavor to the routine. I mean, I already have the physical aspect down, so really the only thing left is musical accompaniment. Sometimes, I involuntarily shout “FALLING!”, but that’s about as advanced as I get. So now I have to get to work on doing some serious composing. And, taking into account that a fall usually happens in less than 10 seconds, it will take considerable time and talent.

Sometimes I am amazed by my continual evolvement.

This is What Feminist Looks Like (Apparently)

Anyone who has been around me and/or talked to me in the past two weeks knows that I have been closely following the story of this wackjob in California who had octuplets recently (in addition to the six children she already had). I sort of had to at first- it directly pertains to one of our clients. But, as the weeks wore on and the client became satisfied, I still can’t tear my eyes away from this story. So many things offend me about this that I don’t know where to start. So, lets make a list:

1.Her publicist is an idiot and if Nadya Suleman paid me whatever she is paying this sketchy LA agency she could walk out of this mess with a somewhat decent reputation.

Exhibit A: Her publicist admitted she was on food stamps the SAME DAY that Nadya did an interview with dateline and said she never accepted any government money. Get your story straight, ladies.

Exhibit B: They both were on camera saying they didn’t expect to make any money off of this (although apparently Nadya was trying to sell her story to Oprah for $2 million, she ended up giving the first interview to Ann Curry at NBC for free) and then yesterday they set up this nightmare: http://www.thenadyasulemanfamily.com/ Setting the crimes against human decency thing aside for a moment, from a public relations perspective that was the most idiotic move I could ever imagine making. Wanting people to take you seriously and denying adamantly that you are asking for money and then SETTING UP A PROFESSIONAL WEBSITE (that probably cost a pretty penny) OF WHICH THE EXPLICIST PURPOSE IS TO ASK STRANGERS FOR MONEY.

That’s two lies (of many more to come, I am sure) that not only drag Nadya through the mud, they really give public relations a bad name, since people seem to think we are professional liars when really the whole job is about telling the truth and making sure a company and/or person never gets caught in a lie.

2.She calls herself a feminist and anyone who doesn’t support her choice to bring 14 children into the world without a partner (or job, incidentally) is judging her because of her lifestyle choice to be an independent single mom.

Hang on. I have to take a break because I am SEETHING WITH RAGE.

I am a feminist. I believe in equality of people. I believe that women can do anything a man can do and, conversely, that a woman does not need a man to do anything. Including having children. In fact, I think it is pretty badass when a woman does not let her marital status stop her from having children if that is what she wants.

Nadya Suleman, however, is a loonybird wackjob who only had babies to satisfy her own loneliness(this is not my personal judgement- she readily admitted this to Ann Curry in her dateline interview. Another obvious failure of media training from the crook in LA who is taking her money to ruin her reputation). When she started popping them out, she was uneducated and unemployed (she has a bachelors now, but is still unemployed). She lives in a house her parents own. She collects food stamps and workers compensation from the government. She needed to be a mother and needed someone to love her so bad she had completely reckless disregard for the 14 lives she was about to ruin (15 if you include her own, and 17 if you include her obviously embarrassed and horrified parents).

These are not the choices of an independent feminist. Nadya did not have children because she wanted them and could support them, she had them in a desperate attempt to try and fix herself. She had no identity and decided to create one as a mother and didn’t really give a second thought to how she would actually care for these human beings she was about to bring into the world.

No one is judging her because she is a single mother. We are judging her because she is clearly mentally unbalanced.

3.All of her eight kids have the middle name “angel”

No further explanation necessary.

4.She didn’t even know an eighth baby was in her womb until she had already birthed the other seven in under 5 minutes.

This doesn’t infuriate me as much as it does gross me out. When you have so many people living in you that you cant even count them all- well, it’s a problem.

And, okay I know they took them out via C-section but I cant be the only one who is dealing with some very serious and disturbing “slip n’ slide” imagery. Right?

5.No money for food, but plenty of money for fake nails.

Sunshine through this Wintry Mix of a Day

It’s cold and snowing and my throat hurts and its SO QUIET at work its almost creepy (yes, I am blogging from work, but only because this is really important and will take me five minutes). I am in a bad mood, a “wintry mix” of misery, if you will. But then I came in this morning and read this:

http://adblog.msnbc.msn.com/archive/2009/01/27/1763315.aspx

which then led me to this gem: http://www.peta.org/content/standalone/VeggieLove/Default.aspx

And, if you know me- you know I love weird shit. I have an appreciation for weird things that most people reserve for fine wines or luxury cars. When I am accidentally weird (I don’t have the ability to make it a full-time thing, but I dabble occasionally), I am oddly proud of myself. In fact, one of the most treasured memories of my ex is the first time we hung out for an extended period of time and he looked at me, head cocked and said “you can be really strange sometimes”. It pretty appropriately set the groundwork. It’s a passion of mine- right up there with TV commercials, spinach and big hair.

And well, these too hot for TV PETA commercials pretty much made my morning. Maybe even my whole day. Because I will go on the record as saying I hate PETA- I hate their attention catching antics, their offensive criticisms, their emphatic belief that animal rights come before all else, their guerrilla tactics that turn people away from the good message of being nice to animals. But damn- I love a good commercial, especially a weird one that involves big hair and spinach. And the other ones are just as great.

And, you have to appreciate the weirdness to pull this off. Not only making the commercial, but trying to buy ad space in the most mis-targeted inappropriate venue- the freaking SUPERBOWL. If there were a weird Olympics, this would definitely get PETA past the qualifying round. If PETA was a kid in middle school, he would be loudly playing by himself in the corner during a math test - completely unaware of how ridiculous, rude or out of place he was. And you know what? I would date that kid, even though I would never play with him.

So anyway, the point is- if you are looking to buy some more completely useless and mis-targeted ad space, PETA, I think we can work something out. I may wear leather and eat meat, but I can appreciate you like NBC never will.

Because sometimes the levee just breaks

I try hard not to get too political. Because when I get political, I get scary and out of control and no one wants to be my friend (in fact- I am pretty sure my parents didn’t want to be my parents during the months preceding the election. But they’re republicans). But today wasn’t really about politics- which is what is going to make this administration different from the only ones I’ve ever known. It is why for the first time in a really long time I felt proud to be a part of this country. Because as pundits and commentators were listing the flaws of this country, the history of segregation, humiliation and degradation it was much more than textbook rhetoric- for the first time in my lifetime it was an acknowledgment of substantial growth and the good direction the country is headed in. Just as I am sure that things will get worse in the coming months- I am just as positive that things will get better because I believe in the person who’s job is to make it that way. And that isn’t about being a democrat or a republican, it’s about the future of this nation and how much I believe in it.

I watched the inauguration at Haru café with a bunch of my coworkers and I couldn’t take my eyes off the screen. All morning I was bouncing in my chair, live streaming CNN and just waiting ( I tried to work- I really did, but that didn’t really happen). I really wished I was in New Orleans for this, because when I think of the disenfranchised and the voiceless I think of the Ninth Ward- which should convince any nonbeliever that racism and classism are still as alive as ever. Which was why it was fitting, and why I was especially touched, when Obama mentioned us and mentioned them and the importance of kindness of strangers when the levee breaks. It was especially important (and for me- quite moving) because although our former president, the president who resided over the crisis and didn’t get his boots wet, who failed to mention us in his State of the Union address that friends of mine watched from FEMA trailers and who basically forgot about us as soon as the camera crews left -our current one recognizes and acknowledges the importance of Katrina 3 and a half years later.

And to be honest- levees are sort of breaking in my life right now. And in a lot of people’s lives. The recession is real and it is affecting everyone and nothing is really stable or secure. As much as I love Obama, I was raised by a brilliant economist and I know better than to think our problems can be solved by legislation. Our economy is cyclical and there is no way to bypass a recession. But I also believe in the crisis of confidence and I think that has a lot more weight now – I believe that the government spending will may inspire people to spend again. But even moreso, I believe that the crisis of confidence in the administration, in the fear and distrust of our leaders will also be resolved in 2009. You cant prevent these things (recession, war, etc.) from happening but you can believe in something more, in deserving something more as a nation and believing the people in charge will do their best to give it to you. And that’s not about politics, its about your life- its about trusting someone to take you in when the levee breaks.

P.S.- I cant mention/write/speak about Obama without mentioning how FIERCE and amazing Michelle is and damn, girlfriend delivered today. I used to think that I loved her but now I’m pretty sure I want to be her in a way that is mildly creepy. I’m okay with it if you are (and if you aren’t – just kidding! I would never think something so weird…). I am so excited to see her dress tonight, and her plans for this administration, but mostly her dress.

P.P.S.- Didn’t you just MELT when Obama was too excited to properly state the oath? Like- he’s so composed and held together and then finally you see him lose his shit and it was AWESOME. This whole time he’s been sort of brushing the dirt of his shoulder and it was as if it just hit him and I love that he was laughing because that’s exactly what I would have done- laughing because it wasn’t even real .OMG I am still melting thinking about it.

P.P.P.S- Does anyone else just want to cuddle with Joe Biden? No? I am loving his speech at the luncheon. I really want him to be my grandpa (even though I love the ones I have- I am just greedy)

P.P.P.P.S.- The gay man in me was SQUEALING when Aretha Franklin came on. And that hat? Yes, please.

I Might Regret This Later

There is nothing like a trip to target to inspire some deep thoughts. My mom texted me (from downstairs) that she was going go go and asked, knowing how much i fucking love target, if i wanted to come with. now- for those of you lucky enough to not be in the northeast, let me explain that it is about 5 degrees outside and I proclaimed as I came home from work yesterday that I was not leaving the house for anything unless it got twenty degrees warmer (which would still be well below freezing, btw). but i went- because thats how much I love target. And as I waddled down the aisles (i was wearing three pairs of sweatpants), haphazardly placing things (Penelope, season 10 of Friends, Mario Party for the Wii, air fresheners, face wash, a hamper, a sweater) in the cart that I didn't have to pay for it hit me- I fucking LOVE living at home.

Now- I know this may seem like a slightly pathetic thing to say. Living at home with your parents after college still, for some people, has some sort of stigma. A mix of sympathy ("omg that SUCKS. i would hate to live with my parents") and judgement ("really? time to move out, loser"). But to those people I say- who made YOU chocolate chip pancakes with a side of love this morning? No one? Thats what I thought.

And really, I think the stigma is mostly in my head. Most of my friends moved back home with their parents, and if not, their parents support them financially. Just the other day I was reading an article on MSNBC about how people in their late 20s and early 30s are moving back home because- in case you havent heard- we're in a recession. Although the thought of having to move back home with my parents in my 30s is mildly horrifying, I can't say I don't understand it. Living with your parents is not only seriously cheap, but when you are down on your luck (which you have to be to move back home in your 30s), moving in with the people who have to love you unconditionally could be a great ego boost.

So, to help those people, my friends and myself come to terms with moving back home with their parents, I've created a list of reasons why living at home is the fucking boss.

Reason Number One: A Severely Reduced Cost of Living
Now, living at home is obviously cheaper, but in ways you can't even begin to imagine. When you don't have to pay for rent, groceries, utilities, bills or food, all of your income is expendable income. For someone like me, for which shopping is a low-grade and more expensive form of crack-cocaine, having only expandable income is dangerous and amazing at the same time. But for someone like me 4 months ago, who didn't have an income at all, it is literally the greatest thing ever. You don't even have to become accustomed to a cheaper lifestyle. In fact, its an upgrade in most circumstances because most parents don't live like college students. And, as a bonus, my parents like to buy me things, like movies and Wii games from Target. My mom will sometimes even just hand me $20 as I am walking out the door for no other reason than the fact that 22 years ago she pushed me out of her body in a sterile room while my father watched a Redskins game. For me- its economical. For them- its a financial burden that is a mix of their DNA.

Reason Number Two: An Immensely Easier Way of Life
When something breaks, or starts leaking or starts burrowing a nest into the attic space above your bed there are no more lengthy and tiring back and forth calls between landlord and you, landlord and plumber, plumber and you and again between you and landlord when you walk into the kitchen to get a granola bar and the plumber has shown up unannounced WITH A KEY and already made himself comfortable in your kitchen without even telling you. Now when something breaks, all I have to do is go downstairs and say "dad the toilet is running again!!!" and the problem is magically solved, as if there never was one to begin with. And, if I don't feel like going downstairs, a simple email will usually suffice ("Subject line: Your House is Falling Apart Through No Fault of My Own". Body Message: "A hole has appeared behind the door in the den because someone slammed the door after playing an infuriating game of Mario because, seriously, there is NO WAY TO BEAT that big brown monster in level 4, you can only run around it for hours and you know how much I hate running.")

Reason Number Three: Benny

My parents would never let me take him with me.


Reason Number Four: It's a Lot Different The Second Time Around

Now, having left my house the first time at the ripe old age of 17, my memories of living at home weren't quite so peaceful. I had a lot of feelings, and most of them were bad and made only worse by my parent's unconditional love and support. They were smothering my angsty spirit, preventing me from leaving the house in clothes that were too revealing, showing up drunk or getting a tongue ring. It was constant lying and curfews and "are you high?!" (yes) and who needs that in their life? This time around though- much different. Not only do my parents seem genuinely disinterested in what I am doing, who I am hanging out with or where I am going, they are openly accepting of my lifestyle choices. My mom tells strangers in line at the grocery store how cute my tattoo is and my dad, unlike my "friends" never lets me drink alone- because he's drinking too and probably more. They aren't smothering my spirit- they are enhancing it, or at the very least- ignoring it. I once came home completely wasted as my mom was getting up for the day and she cocked her head, looked at me and said "oh, you're alive. good." Yeah, it is good.

Reason Number 5: Built In Friends of Convenience

You know how you have friends who you will call if there's nothing else to do, but would never invite them to your birthday party? Well, meet Mom and Dad, the friends who are always there when there is nothing else to do. When there is no one around and you want to go to Applebees, split some half off appetizers and talk about your day- your parents probably don't have plans. And you know, its the craziest thing, but parents are people too and they have interesting things to say that may even add to the quality of your life. Things about their lives, about raising kid and being married, about coming of age in the 60's and having years of experience to impart unto you. And, if not, they will pay for your meal and maybe even give you $20, which is just as good anyway.

How Much Is Too Much?

While dealing with a very personal and rather disgusting health problem this week, I had an unexplainable urge to blog about it. Well, not completely unexplainable. It was disgusting and unbelievable, but also epic in many ways and I felt it had the right to be documented. Also, because of the type of problem- it would have been a hilarious blog post. And no- its not an STD.

Anyway, it got me thinking about what the line is between “funny blog post” and “too much information”. I assume its different for everyone, but I needed some guidance. As an avid blog reader, I turned to other blogs to see where their line was and well…there really wasn’t one. But that may be because of the type of blogs I read and not really because such a line doesn’t exist. For the mommyblogs I read at work the line is pretty clearly drawn (either that or nothing funny, offensive or sexual happens in your life after you have children- which is also likely). But this is not a mommyblog and- God willing-it never will be.

So I was left to turn inwardly, which is never a good solution. Anyone who knows me know that I am an overshare-er. Once I have met you for five minutes I assume you want to know about my menstrual cycle, my sex life, what I ate for dinner three nights ago, my very firm stance on mittens vs gloves, my undying love for Montel Williams, my secret desire to get hit by a NY city taxi, the medical history of my family etc. And, I assume you want to hear about it loudly. Because I am an overshare-er and an overspeaker- which is at times a deadly combination.

I blame this personality defect (or enhancement! Depending on how you look at it)on two things: 1. I am Jewish, which by very nature lends itself to being loud, abrasive and expressive. For further reference, please see every stereotype of a Jewish mother. And 2. I am from New Jersey, which by nature lends itself to being loud, abrasive and socially unaware. For further reference, please see the famed MTV documentary “True Life: I am a Jersey Shore Girl”.

Ironically though, I don’t have the same feeling about this very public blog about my very public life as I do about general social interactions. While I generally cannot keep myself in check during conversations with friends (or dates, or acquaintances, or relatives, or complete strangers who are unfortunate enough to be sitting near me), the blog is different. I can keep myself in check. I can remain composed. I can hit “delete”. There have been many times where I said something, immediately regretted it and was thankful that there was no video camera or stenographer following me around. This is one of the many reasons I would never want to go on the Real World or why I linger a few minutes rather than share an elevator ride with the SVP of my company- there is no verbal delete button and I am missing a brain-to-mouth filter.

An aside: The only exception to this is at work when I am talking to the media, but usually I have some sort of notes or outline or pitch to go off of. I am often impressed with my composure when I hang up the phone with a journalist and then I turn to my coworker to discuss the phone call and say something completely nonsensical and/or awkward…loudly. Maybe I should start hanging out with only reporters and editors?

Anyway, instead of writing a post about a rather disturbing, yet hilarious and interesting thing that happened to my body, instead I am writing about not writing about it. I am also going on the record as saying I probably wont ever write about sex- unless something totally hilarious happens and I just have to (which, for those of you who know my sexual history, is not out of the realm of possibility). I tried to think of something else to round it out to three, but that’s all I got. Apparently my line is straight vertical and runs from sex to body oddities.

In other news: its fucking cold in New York. Almost too cold to justify being alive. I am on some pretty heavy-duty antibiotics so I can’t drink (read: have fun). I got some…interesting…news from work this week that I don’t know how to process. Its supposed to snow tonight. I just spilled water all over my sweater...in front of our managing director. I have been so out of the loop since Saturday- thanks to snow and then deformity- that I have not done anything social since Friday and I miss my friends.

But, on the bright side of life: Jose is back in the states so I can call/text/harass/love him whenever I want from the safe distance of 1,000 miles. I finished that awful book and I am so angry at it that I cant even write a post about it- but the good news is I get to start my social media book. I got a full night of sleep last night which hasn’t happened in almost a week, thanks to aforementioned health problem. Asher comes back this weekend- FINALLY- and it’s a three day weekend which leaves even more time for making out. I somehow got free lunch today. I won iphone solitaire FOUR times on the way to work this morning (and I didn’t even play the whole train ride which I’m pretty sure makes me some sort of solitaire prodigy). I feel 3 million times better than I did yesterday. My favorite blogger ever just started updating again after a month long hiatus and I am not (okay, I totally am) embarrassed to say that I missed her. I am booking my ticket to New Orleans sometime this week (really). I am wearing thermal leggings under my work pants (or, as I prefer to call them because it’s funnier and I am secretly a 70 year old lady- long johns) and I don’t really know why that makes me happy- but it does.