Note to Self

There's no such thing as a random act of kindness.

2011-12-24T12:00:00.000-05:00

Honestly, I don't watch a lot of the news.

I never have - I'm really more of an entertainment girl - but especially once I got to New York the local news was just too horrible and depressing.

But alas, I went and fell in love with a newsman.

I love that Brian Williams and sometimes, just sometimes, I'm willing to tune out the bad news for that sparkle in his eye.

So imagine my surprise when today's news stories went something like this.

The "layaway angels." This rampant good-deed-doing sweeping the nation, this paying it forward, this desire to make yourself feel better (and that is not a bad thing, not at all) - all started by some woman in Michigan. Go figure.

One hundred... and one. We do a great job collectively, I think, of rallying around a cause. Until the next cause comes along (and one always does). Or until our own lives get in the way. Until we forget. But this guy said nope. Nope - I made a commitment when Katrina's devastation was everywhere, and even though the images are gone from the minds and TVs of most of the country, he hasn't forgotten. He promised to build 100 homes in one of the most ravaged parts of New Orleans. Until someone told him about the New Orleans lagniappe tradition - think a baker's dozen - and he went the extra mile, to 101.

Oh, did I mention he's the CEO of Barnes and Noble? Just goes to show you - books make everybody better.

Fairy dogparents. Do I really even need to say anything else?

There are good, good people in this world. Everywhere. I hope to be the kind of person that makes other people want to do good things.

Merry Christmas to all you beloved do-gooders!

(Especially you, Brian Williams, you cute thing.)

Bigger than football.

2011-11-12T14:19:00.000-05:00

To everyone who thinks that college football is a detriment to our development, and that "kids today" can't be trusted to do the right thing, say the right thing, or step up to the plate,

that players today care more about bling than they do about God

or each other

or their communities

that these huge programs have taken over, and in their dominance have overshadowed why we go to college, why we cheer on Saturday afternoons, or what it means to be a member of something bigger than yourself...

I say you are wrong.

I'm proud of so many members of the Penn State family, the college football community in its united entirety, who have come together to remind us all the incomprehensible sins of some are not the attitudes of us all.
Hang in there, Lions.
Hang in there, State College.
Hang in there, everyone. Let's all do what we can to make sure lessons are learned.
O-H.

(5) Reasons to Be Happy

2011-11-12T11:07:00.000-05:00

An impending Saturday afternoon trip to Target is always a reason to be happy.

But today's shopping list makes me extra giddy:
1. some kind of a string-type thing
2. toys with bells inside them
3. treats - i'm thinking liver or chicken flavored
4. nature's miracle

That's right, all; there are two new Stones in the world.

Meet Scout and Jem. I'm a horrible mother - I can't even tell which one is which - but these are my two newest, fluffiest, sweetest, tiniest, bright-eyed and bushytailed reasons to be happy.

(5) Reasons to Be Happy

2011-11-10T17:58:00.001-05:00

After six long weeks of boot imprisonment, I get to go back to yoga tonight.
I'm sure my entire body will wimper and whine tomorrow, just as I'm sure my mind will find some much-needed rest.
It's been a tough week, complete with migraine and sick grandma and the unceremonious end of a college football legend.
Anybody else need a little namaste?

(4) Reasons to Be Happy

2011-11-02T20:44:00.000-04:00

When she's happy, I'm happy.
Really, are there really people in the world who don't get how important/special/wonderful/snuggly it is to have a little unconditional love every once in awhile?
And also, I'm pretty frickin happy at how I'm rockin' out those pajama pants.

(3) Reasons to Be Happy

2011-10-25T22:20:00.000-04:00

I'm not so much for cooking, but I make a seriously kick-ass grilled cheese sandwich. This was number somewhere-around-nine-in-a-row. And it was good. And I was happy.

(2) Reasons to Be Happy

2011-10-23T17:13:00.002-04:00

Okay, so, the struggling streak continues. This morning I was leaving my parents' house when I realized I'd left something inside. Jumped out, slammed the car door, and forgot to move my hand first. Two stitches (wimpy, I know), and blood and mascara all over my shirt. The woman wanted to put my finger in a splint; I just gave a long, meaningful look at my booted-up foot and said, "Lady... no."
I admit, I broke down and cried like a baby. It hurt like hell, but mostly it just made me feel a little like the universe is still acting like a big ol' bully to me.
But there are still some really, really, really great reasons to be happy. Why I was home in the first place, for example.
So today's reason to be happy:

Lifelong friendships, made even friendlier by pumpkin-pie flavored booze.

Reasons to Be Happy

2011-10-21T09:32:00.003-04:00

Ever have a spell where life feels just a little bit like it's picking on you?
I have to admit, I'm in one of those spells. Things have been a little rough lately in my world.
I got my heart a tiny bit broken.
I got my foot all jacked up, which came with its own sort of heartbreak: never, never would I have considered that there was a shoe in the world I could consider an enemy. Then I met the boot.

And while my sweet father thinks I'm overly sensitive to things like this, there's just been a lot of death in my face lately. In all our faces. First, forty animals -- forty beautiful, innocent, scared animals -- were killed by, and this is not a typo, their emotionally unstable owner. While I wish those policemen had had an alternative, they did not. I almost surprised myself by empathizing with them, but I do. These guys weren't on a hunting trip with their buddies. They were out in the middle of the night, in the rain, probably scared shitless, trying to protect and serve their communities in a way I'm sure they did not cover in the Police Academy. Some of them maybe weren't too terribly bothered by it. But some of them, I'm also sure, had to go home to their families, their children, and live with such trauma, such destruction, such senselessness, because a crazy asshole decided it wasn't enough to take his own life, he had to make sure that he unleashed danger and fear on both the animals he purported to love and the neighbors who, as far as I can tell, had never done him any harm. Shame on you, crazy asshole. I kind of hope you're in a cage somewhere.
And then there's the images of a cruel, horrible, merciless dictator in the moments before his death. Now, let me be clear that I don't empathize with him, I don't give him sympathy he spent a lifetime not earning, and I do believe the world and hopefully Libya are better today than yesterday. But I don't want to see ANY man, any human being, bloody and tortured and mocked and beaten as he's being led to his death. I don't want to see any man with a bullet hole in his head. It happens. I know. I also know there's reasons I am not ever called upon by secret agents to carry out covert operations. So far as you know.
So, there's crankiness in the world.
But. More importantly. In the midst of all that, and in case after reading this far you think I've mistakenly titled this post, there are reasons to be happy.
There. Are. A. Million. Billion. Trillion. Reasons. To. Be. Happy.
My beloved writing teacher and friend taught me that.
So I'm going to spend a little time focused there, and see if that doesn't change some of the dreariness around me.
I've got the perfect place to start on this perfect Friday for starting.
Friday's Reason to Be Happy #1:
As you may have picked up from the above rant, I'm not cut out for military life. But I'm grateful for those who are. And I'm in awe of the families that have to function in their absence.
Today, a little before 9pm, one of those servicemen comes home after seven long, long months away. His wife has raised their five-year-old son during that time with the help of her friends and her community, but mostly on her own. I'm not a mom, but I know moms, and even the best moms have got to want to hand their kid off to their spouse every once in awhile, no? She couldn't. She didn't. Instead, she did what moms do. She celebrated him and bragged about him and tolerated him and wrote funny stories instead of strangling him.
So today, I'm happy for my friend, and her child, and for knowing that there will be a hug to end all hugs somewhere in the world tonight.

2,753.

2011-09-11T00:22:00.000-04:00

I’ve been writing and writing. And deleting.

It’s hard for me to know what to say.

I have my memories of the day.

But they’re mine. And what I’ve realized is that I don’t need to add my voice to the chaos. You don’t need me to do that. They don’t.

Instead, I’ll add my prayers, and just ask you to do the same.

10 years.

Standing around the radio and confusion and curiosity.

Trinity Church and the wings turning and a minute of utter silence and screaming.

Arguing over whether or not we should take our laptops.

My serviceless cell phone and inappropriate, survivalistic laughter.

Carrie’s voice and Jeff’s and my father’s.

Battery Park and Amy’s tree and running towards the end of land and losing Erin and losing sight.

Dust.

Praying and the 1/9 station and walking across the bridge and Sharla’s swollen fingers.

A startlingly half-blue-half-black sky and seeing the Statue of Liberty in between the two.

The guy, but not his name, who was by himself and ended up with our group for the rest of the day.

The Hasidic Jews with the water and the man who put too many of us in his car in Brooklyn.

Pete’s apartment and his clean tee shirt to replace my filthy black sweater and listening to the president.

Wanting to be home.

The Hoboken station triage center, around 1am, empty of people to treat.

My voice mails and my cats and my bed.

September 12 and beginning the task of moving on.

Hoi Toide

2011-09-02T11:44:00.000-04:00

You’ll hear two loud clunks as each car passes off the ferry, when your tires press the metal of ramp down to meet the metal of boat. It’s a final goodbye to the water and mainland and a boisterous hello to the sandy island. It’s best to be the first car off, just like it’s best to be in the first car of a roller coaster. Nothing to impede your view. A soft right turn sends you nine or so miles down a narrow path of highway, “highway,” where the dunes rise up on one side and the grasses, holding the lanky egrets and holding back the water of the Pamlico Sound, sway on the other.

Intuitively, maybe a little magically, two or three miles in, all heads in a long line of cars will turn to the left, in unison, in anticipation of the first glimpse of ocean between the dunes. It’s always beautiful. Even in the rain or the clouds, but especially of course in the bright sun. It’ll tease you for awhile, ducking and hiding behind the piles of sand and the tattered wooden fence posts failing miserably in their duties, and simply imploring the sand to stay clear of the blacktop.

Over Molasses Creek.

Past the campsite.

Past the Pony Pen. They used to run free here. They seem to hold the slightest of grudges about that.

Careful not to miss the entrance to the public beach, where there are finally, mercifully, boardwalks to take you across the hot dunes. It used to be quite a workout.

Right next to that is the tiny strip of land where those lucky enough to have both access to a private plane and knowledge of this place can come and go as they please.

Slow to 25.

Welcome to the village.

There are a few shops here; a few more than there used to be. Same with people and restaurants and hotels.

And there is a harbor here. It is, I have to believe, the most perfectly safe place in the world. A haven. My refuge. God protects the people of Silver Lake, even if it’s just for the week. He lets you dream here. He helps you hope. He points you to a beautiful little flawless and white lighthouse to give you focus.

But, how rude of me, you must be hungry. You’ve come such a long way.Howard’s will always welcome you. Every day. Even Christmas. Probably especially Christmas.

You’ll get a pizza this week from Jason’s, crabcakes at Café Atlantic. Treat yourself to some ice cream at the slushie stand. It’s not been a slushie stand for a very long time now, decades, but that’s what I started calling it as a child when it was, in fact, a small wooden slushie stand. And I suppose that’s what I’ll always call it. Come to think of it, I don’t know what other people call it now.

You’ll end the week at the Back Porch, the island’s version of fine dining and, if I’m not mistaken, the only spot where it’s actually required that you wear shoes. Fancy, indeed. It’s also where I’ll have my wedding, if that ever happens for me. But that’s a secret dream. I’m not even sure why I’m sharing it with you. I guess because I’m sharing the rest of my island with you, so I must trust you.

But back to dinner. You’ve got to eat tonight. Night one on the island. It’s lovely.

I recommend the Jolly Roger; it’s where we always start. Cold beer and sandwiches are fine, but the sound of the boats rocking on the water, and the view of the sun setting over the calm water will make conversation almost impossible, almost disrespectful. Then the music will start and you’ll have permission to not pay attention to anything. Do that for the rest of your time here.

This is just a tiny piece of this tiny place. The main drag, if you will. The rest you’ll have to find for yourself. The roads wind and circle. I recommend a bike. Find the coffee shop behind the school. Find the Historical Society. Find the path that leads you to Sam Jones’s grave, and his horse’s, and then out to a part of the water not very many people ever find.

Find the Village Craftsmen at the end of Howard Street. Spend as much time on that street as you can; it is history come alive. It is breathtaking in it’s naked, natural beauty.

Visit the Ragpicker and Over the Moon and Ride the Wind. The fudge shop. The Variety Store. Find the bookstore and the cemetery and Kathy O’Neil’s jewelry and Albert Styron’s store and Oscar’s; make sure to find some of Ann’s pictures while you’re there. Find a hammock or a screened-in porch or a beach chair and a good book. A few of them. And find yourself. Even if it’s just for the week.

It’s the perfect place for just that kind of thing.

Welcome to Ocracoke.

Putting the Mother in MFer

2011-05-23T19:03:00.003-04:00

Years ago, when I first started writing down the random crap that pops into my head with frightening regularity and then decided, “You know, the general public should really be given an opportunity to read this stuff firsthand,” I set some ground rules for myself.

1. I would never just complain for the sake of complaining. Unless it was super funny.

2. I would never write anything mean about anyone. Or at least I would never name them. Unless it was super funny.

3. I would never use this blog as a tool for revenge against exes, homicidal dogs, boys I liked who didn’t like me back, or overachieving coworkers who make me look like an underachiever. Unless.... you get it.

It’s been a good run. Today, I break the rules.

Bitch, you know who you are.

And you know what you’ve done.

I am sick and tired of putting up with your crap and your crankiness and your sudden (and severe) mood swings.

What, you think just because you have “Mother” in your name no one can call you on your shit?

You think just because you have “Nature” in your name people will just assume you’re all warm and earthy and welcoming?

I call bullshit.

You need to get it together, lady.

Because I’m on the edge here, and if I have to hear “cold, damp, and humid” out of the weatherman’s mouth one more time, followed by phrases like, “for the foreseeable future” and “no end in sight” and “it’s not my fault dammit if you want sunshine move to f*cking Florida” I’m going to crack.

I miss my sundresses.

I miss my tan.

The novelty of my cute new Marc Jacobs boots wore off like FOUR MONTHS AGO.

I can’t get a decent shave to save my life, because I have goosebumps all the time.

I can’t understand why my voluminous umbrella collection is never where I am.

People are beat down, woman. You win. Please, just a smile. A sunbeam. Some sign of love and light before football season?

*A note of seriousness, though it’s not my thing. There’s a lot of horrible stuff going on in the world weather-wise. I get it. I may be complaining about wearing a sweater, but I did not have to pull that sweater out of a tree to put it on. I may need to pull up a blanket to sleep tonight, but I’ll lay down in a bed, under a roof. Please oh please oh please consider contributing to the Red Cross or The Humane Society or whatever organization pulls at your heartstrings.

Coulda, Woulda, Shoulda

2011-04-06T19:39:00.000-04:00

If you're anything like me -- well, first of all, God love/help you -- but if you're anything like me you spend a lot of time bossing yourself around.

It's the "shoulds" that get me.

I just got back from a whirlwind trip to New York (lovely), following a few weeks of puppy-sitting (cuddly), which meant spending more time at her house than my own. So I've not been home much for what feels like a very long time.

I walked in my front door and before I got up the stairs, I'd thought to myself, "I should go to the grocery." "It's so nice out; I should go for a run." "I should do a load of laundry before it gets too late."

The grocery. Exercise. Laundry. Mmm, sounds like a party.

Oh, and while I'm at it, I should lose 15 pounds, get to work earlier, go to yoga three times a week and the gym twelve, volunteer, call my mother, learn French and Italian and conversational German, and then lose another 5.

How come I never say to myself, "I should sit on the couch and watch TV?" "I should crack a beer and put my feet up?" "I should get off my own damn back for a couple of minutes and relax and enjoy a little bit of life?"

Now, don't get me wrong. I'm hardly a slave-driver. I relax, a lot. Seriously, a lot. But it seems like, generally, we're so mean to ourselves. So hard on ourselves. I'm the worst offender -- if I ever heard any of my friends speak to themselves in the same tone of voice as my perpetual inner dialog, I would wag my finger and shame them for being ridiculous and unrealistic with their demands and their harshness.

So before my self-indulgence wears off and the self-inflicted to-do list reinstates itself, I'm going to raid the fridge -- which currently holds two beers and a string cheese -- open the door so some of this springness comes inside to greet me, and read a book while Mario Lopez fills me in on the important comings and goings of Hollywoodland.

I encourage you to do the same, instead of the laundry.

The United States of Tara

2011-04-03T09:49:00.001-04:00

I'm up early today. I'm never up early.

And it's Sunday. I'm certainly never up early on Sundays.

It took me a few minutes to realize why I was distracted this morning. I let my mind wander -- over the things I need to get done, about what I should wear to church, whether or not it's ever, ever going to get warm again. I looked at the sunshine which (and you'll never catch me admitting this out loud) is always most special in the mornings.

And I smiled at my life.

A week ago, I celebrated one year back in Ohio, after almost a decade in New York. I'm still not sure why I chose that particular date, that particular time to realize it was time to come home.

And I thought, again, about one year back. Tara. Ahh, so that's what's on my mind.

One year ago today, my circle of friends lost one of our own. We found each other and reached out to each other and pulled in to comfort one another. We came together over Facebook and phone calls and a funeral. We reunited for the worst of reasons.

But... we reunited.

I'm a firm believer in silver linings. And my life, my tiny, inconsequential little life, looks a lot different than it did a year ago. I'm in a new city. I have a new job. I have a beautiful apartment all to myself and a group of funny, enjoyable friends. I have a dog curled up next to me who belongs to a pretty amazing guy.

Tara, you little magic maker. I know you've got your hands full up there, keeping track of everyone down here you loved, and who worshiped you in return. Hell, that crazy, wonderful, every-bit-as-spunky-as-you-ever-were sister must keep you on your angel toes 26 hours a day. It's bittersweet that Kristen is there with you. Who could have even thought it possible. But in some small way, my life looks different today because of you. Because of the people I'm lucky enough to know, who were lucky enough to know you.

I really think Tara brought a lot of people together this past year, her first in Heaven. And I think she really would have loved that.

Tara Lynne Scare, 10/23/74 - 04/03/10

Year in (Book) Review: The Fates Will Find Their Way

2011-03-31T16:44:00.000-04:00

March 31st. End of Q1 (how corporate sounding is that?) After setting my obtainably aggressive goal of 30 books this year, averaging out to about 2.5 per month, I have read exactly one. One book. I’m a reader. I’m a writer. The odds are not in my favor here, but I just booked two flights for the next few months, and I’m not getting off either plane until I’ve put back at least a novel apiece.

Anyway.

Mixed feelings on this one. I chose it on a whim, based on the girl-logic of... I liked the colors on the cover. The Fates Will Find Their Way, Hannah Pittard’s first novel, tells the story of a teenage girl who disappears. At least, on the surface that’s what it does. Really, though, it gives us an inside perspective from an unidentified narrator – one of a circle of neighborhood boys who grow up with her – on the peripheral young lives that are affected by her disappearance. How they romanticize her, how they project their own curiosities and fears onto her mysterious life, how the ghost of her affects their friendships with one another, their relationships with their own families, how they view and interact and relate to the women they choose for wives.

It’s really a beautiful, somewhat haunting (couldn’t think of a less cliché word there, so I went with the obvious), quite matter-of-fact tone of voice. Wait. I take that back. To call it matter-of-fact would intonate that there are, obviously, facts involved. And there are none. When someone simply disappears, the people she disappears from are left to fill in blanks, gaps, and thread together a story from bits of scrap.

And that, I think, is why I finished the book feeling a little unsatisfied.

I don’t much care for ambiguity. I don’t like loose. I don’t know what it is in my personality that repels open-endedness, but I expect that, by the final page, or the closing credits, that I’ll feel some sense of completion. Fulfillment. Just ask my exes, many of whom still get semi-annual follow-up calls to discuss where we stand, what's going on in our (now defunct) relationship, and what I can expect for the future. It's awesome. I think they all really appreciate my thoroughness.

I got nothin’. I got a bunch of maybes and a couple might’ves and one or two who-the-hell-knows-what-happened-to-her-reallys.

So lovely narrative, original and interesting point-of-view, frustrating ending for those of us who are too childish to enjoy when things aren’t wrapped up for us in big bows.

Meeting Minutes of The Lunch Ones: The VD Edition

2011-02-17T17:18:00.000-05:00

You know those top secret government papers that get released sometimes, only there are so many black bars censoring words that you can only see, like, three “ands” and a “the”? That’s what today’s meeting minutes would look like if the government released reports on The Lunch Ladies’ post-Valentine’s Day conversation. Here are the printable, key pieces:

TxO: Has anyone asked TxO about her Valentine's day?
TxO: No. But I hope it sucked.
TxO: Why?
TxO: Because she’s going to marry my brother.
TxO: Why? Should we ask her? Where is she? (gasp) Did she get laid?!
TxO: Bet so. Taking bets.
TxO: I say YES... absolutely. Wait, what? Has she ever even met your brother?
TxO: Don’t say “get laid.” That sounds crass. Say "got some nookie."
TxO: There are leftovers of a giant cookie in the break room. (TxO gets easily distracted. TxO would also never eat even a small piece of a giant cookie.)

(Conversation halts while TxO bolts to the break room. She returns presently with hot pink icing smeared on her chin.)

TxO: So. We think yes, definitely laid?
TxO: Don’t say laid.
TxO-in-question (appearing just in time for that gem): You girls are dirty. And I’m eating cookie. Which also sounds dirty. Did you know there’s a giant cookie in the break room?

(Conversation halts again while TxO bolts for round two of giant cookie.)

TxO: Sooo??!!
TxO: Spill it.
TxO: What the hell are you guys talking about? (TxO and TxO fill TxO in on the wager about her Valentine’s Day night.)

(A moment of quiet.)

TxO: How about those (fill in fave sports team here)?
TxO: I KNEW it!
TxO (the one with the brother, wailing): No!!!
TxO: Yes!! You go, girl.
TxO: NO! Wait, did you seriously just say “you go girl?”
TxO: Wow. To all of that. Wow.
TxO: Talk. Details. How was it?
TxO: Shit. Now I'll have to tell my brother you're not a virgin anymore.
TxO: Excuse me. I do not bone and tell.
TxO (sighing happily): This is way more entertaining than work.
TxO: I don’t have to tell you anything. And don’t you go telling him anything. Not that there’s anything to tell.
TxO: Oh yes you do. It’s Bone and Tell day.
TxO: Seriously, though. Did you play the skin flute??

(Pause for dramatic effect, so everyone has a moment to fully embrace that the term “The Skin Flute” has now entered our vernacular.)

TxO (clearly tickled at herself for introducing a new naughty word): Ooh, I'm telling my brother you have mad skin-flute-playing skills.
TxO: Uh, more like the skin-fucking-clarinet, if you know what I'm saying.
TxO: What a weird thing to get competitive about.
TxO: Really, TxO? Do you and your brother talk about that stuff?
TxO: Yes?
TxO: Awesome. Mind if I start calling you Angelina Jolie and her weird blonde brother?
TxO (defensively): Well, mostly I talk and he laughs.
TxO: Have you guys made out?
TxO: You guys suck. Sorry I love my brother.
TxO: No, that’s cool. Just don’t, like, love your brother.
TxO: (Sings brother’s name over and over and over again.)
TxO: (And some more.)
TxO: Make it stop.
TxO: (And one more time.)

(Conversation halts while TxO and TxO’s boss walks down TxO and TxO’s aisle.)

TxO: Busted. Too much bi-aisle giggling.

(Conversation halts while TxO goes back for round three of the giant cookie. Comes back singing, “I Did It All For The Cookie. The Cookie.” When asked if there’s any left, explains that no, there’s not, because she grabbed the whole thing then ran furtively from the break room.)

TxO: Can you write a blog about this?
TxO: I’m not sure how to unleash the term "skin flute" onto my poor readers.
TxO (clearly unhappy with the irregular blogging schedule I vigilantly don’t stick to): You don’t have readers IF YOU DONT HAVE ANYTHING TO READ.
TxO: Always keep ‘em wanting more, TxO. Words to live by.
TxO: Oh. I’m more of a “spread it and forget it” girl.

(Conversation halts while we all pray for TxO’s soul.)

TxO: Anyway. My bun is so bad today.
TxO: I think your post-nookie bun looks great!
TxO: Thanks TxO. I took the literal approach to sexy bed head.
TxO: Jesus.
TxO: TxO has bun envy.
TxO: It's pretty neat for bed head. You must be a conservative lover. Unlike my hubby and me, who managed to lose his wedding ring during our Valentine’s Day nookie.
TxO: Ask her where they found it...
TxO: If I were a guy, I'd totally do you.
TxO: God, I normally leave (enter boyfriend’s name here) looking like Amy Winehouse.
TxO: Christ on a crutch.

(Conversation halts while we all pray for TxO’s soul. Again. It’s obviously not working.)

Year in (Book) Review: The Blessings of the Animals

2011-02-15T22:36:00.000-05:00

I can't help it. I procrastinate. I always think I'm going to stop, and then something distracts me and I don't.

But here we are, only halfway through February, and my goal of 30 book reviews in the new year seems perilously in danger.

Luckily for me -- and for you -- this first one is a lovely start. I promise to pick up the pace.

You may remember last summer I reviewed a haunting, inappropriate-for-a-summer-getaway-but-so-damn- good-that-I-couldn't-stop-reading-it-even-though-it-was-creeping-me-out-and-sort-of-ruining-my-4th-of-July- holiday book called The Kindness of Strangers, by Katrina Kittle.

You may also remember that very same author was my uber-cool sophomore English teacher and has over recent years morphed into my writing mentor. And also a friend, I think. Or, at least, we'll be friends once I get over not being able to address her as anything other than Miss Kittle.

She's knocked another one out of the park with The Blessings of the Animals, and the more I read from her the more excited I get to read what's next from her. And because she is not a procrastinator, there's always something next.

Blessings opens: "On the morning my husband left me, hours before I knew he would..." and somehow, the simplicity and straightforwardness of this line sets the tone for everything that's to follow. Our narrator is empathetic, because she's heartbroken. We've all been heartbroken. She's pragmatic, even about heartbreak. I've never been pragmatic about anything, I'm fairly certain, but I can admire and respect it in others. And she's funny. And she brings Muriel the goat into our lives and that, in and of itself, is enough reason to fall into this book.

Last year, post-Independence-Day-Pedophilia-Debacle, I expressed anxiety over reviewing a book by someone I knew, someone I adore, because I wasn't sure how to maintain my integrity if it sucked. I'm so glad it didn't, I'm so glad this one is even better, and I'm so glad I can happily spread the love here.

Awesome side note (or, at least, awesome to anyone who thinks this is the kind of thing that qualifies as awesome): when discussing the "blurbs" for the cover of Blessings with her agent, or publisher, I can't remember, they asked Katrina who she'd most like to have write it. She said Sara Gruen, fresh off her overwhelming success and mid-movie-making for her wonderful, wonderful Water for Elephants. They agreed, she'd be an amazing quote. They also told Katrina, politely I'm sure, it was never gonna happen. So Katrina, quite the pragmatist herself, Facebooked Sara and asked, animal lover to animal lover, if she wouldn't mind taking a break from her movie making and book selling to read a new novel, and perhaps, should she feel moved to do so, write a sentence or two. Sara obliged. I hope Katrina stuck her tongue out at those skeptics.

"In this beautifully crafted novel, Katrina Kittle deftly illustrates the devastation of betrayal and loss, the healing power of love and compassion, and the joy and comfort that comes from knowing -- and relating to -- animals." Sara Gruen, New York Times bestselling author of Water for Elephants.

Way to kick ass, KK.

Just Some Things To Think About

2011-01-23T22:22:00.000-05:00

Generally speaking, I'm a pretty smart girl. I can't do math in my head and I ended up in Cleveland once on my way home to Dayton -- from Columbus -- but outside of arithmetic and geography I can pretty much hold my own.

But tonight some flaky girl I hardly know made a comment on my Facebook page about how she doesn't "get girls who like sports." Aside from being a weirdly rude thing to write on the Facebook page of someone -- a girl -- you barely know and who clearly likes sports, I realized I'm completely confused by girls who don't like sports. Not offended by them or anything (except for maybe that one), but just sort of sad for them.

So then I started thinking about other things that confuse me.

In no particular order and hardly exhaustive, here is my list. I should note, most of these apply directly to me.

People who call in to a hotline to vote "I have no opinion on that."

People who say "It's me" when they call or leave a voice mail. (I do this at least once a day.)

When traffic cops stand in the middle of an intersection at rush hour and just tell people to go with the light.

Magnets that don't hold anything on the refrigerator.

Bad, seriously bad, television. The people who watch it, the people who make it, the people who "act" in it, all of it very, very bad.

People who don't get just a little bit, just the slightest tinge of, melancholy at the holidays.

Fat people who come to the gym just to go tanning.

How all church people can sing.

Why I hate wearing pantyhose, except for those first few seconds when I'm pulling them on. For those few seconds, I feel more like a woman than almost any other time. It's one of the most feminine, timeless things you can do, really.

How quickly I can get over that femininity by cussing like a sailor when I put them on wrong and they're all twisted around my calf like a tourniquet and I have them on differently than the last time I wore them so the toes are funky and backwards. Why they can’t put a clearly marked tag in pantyhose? Every other piece of clothing has a designated front and back.

How I have the same body loathing complex I did in high school, only NOW I look at pictures of myself from THEN and realize I weighed 7 pounds LESS than my current goal weight.

The expression "It is what it is." That just seems like an unhelpful waste of breath.

People who don't understand the depth of Jimmy Buffett, the soul of Joe vs. the Volcano, or why sports are so fucking awesome.

Michigan fans, Red Sox fans, and people who hate New York City.

Meeting Minutes of The Lunch Ones: January

2011-01-18T15:42:00.000-05:00

*Meeting originally called for 12:00. Meeting moved to 11:30 because we're all hungry pigs.

*The Tiny One held up meeting start six minutes, by trying to cook her food in the crowded microwave room 30 seconds at a time.

*The Funny One decided that The Cute One* needed to immediately change her status update to “single and ready to mingle” and then go mingle. Leading to discussions including, but not limited to:
          *Can the oldest and the youngest among us mingle in the same spots?
          *The pros and cons of online dating.
          *How long it would take TCO, or any of us, to get Ruffied if we followed TFO's dating advice.
          *TFO’s thoughts on how slutty she would be if she was single.

Which led to...

*The Blonde One feeling compelled to speak up when TFO demanded TCO explain the current state of her cherry.

*Some confusion as to whether TCO is a virgin or not. TCO herself seems... unsure.

*The Number discussion, after I blurted my discovery from last night: I’m Facebook friends with more than half of my Number. The number ranged from unsure (TCO, see above) to two (I’ll never tell) to unsure (TFO, for very different reasons than TCO).

Which led to...

*Discussion on who among us were good girls, and who were less than. Four of five agreed that we were all good girls, TFO being the only, and obvious, exception. Rather than disputing our findings, TFO told a story about schlongs.

*Horrible, ugly laughter (me, again) when TCO expressed confusion, requiring an explanation (graphic) that schlongs are not, in fact, male underwear ("I thought a shlong was, you know, like, a thong for a guy"). TCO now familiar with the term “banana hammock” and charged with finding one appropriate way to use it in a sentence before our next meeting.

*Discussion on facial hair (male) prompted by unidentified, questionably cute, hairy-faced boy entering the cafeteria. TCO and TBO, against. TTO, depends on the man and the amount of scruffiness. TFO, totally for: “The dirtier the better.” No surprise there.

General consensus and overall takeaway: sex is way more fun to talk about at lunch than poop.

*Formerly known as The Baby One. Too much confusion with two TBOs. Started to call her The Little One, but since there’s already a Tiny One I was afraid readers would think I was lunching at a daycare center or with midgets. Also, no titles here are meant to imply that each of these girls is not, in her own right, funny, tiny, or cute. They are all equally funny, tiny, and cute. But only The Blonde One is blonde.

Year in (Book) Review: 2010

2010-12-31T17:20:00.000-05:00

While it's true I've slacked off completely with reading for the past couple of months -- in fact, I replaced all creative activity with things like curtain shopping and chair assembly -- I have so enjoyed this little project and the life it took on.
Actually, YIBR started as a New Year's resolution last year; I had a horrible habit of reading books I loved and then completely forgetting about them when someone asked me for a recommendation. So I promised myself I would document everything I read for one year... little did I know how much fun it would be. It was a bit of a labor of love at times, when I just wanted to read whatever was next and I couldn't, because the rule was no moving on to the next book before the current one was reviewed and posted. It was also, surprisingly, a team effort.
But mostly, it was a fantastic conversation starter, a charming little insight into my friends, and a way to spread the literary love.
Not everyone agreed with my reviews, and that was awesome.
Everyone had an opinion on one book or another, and that was doubly awesome.
By the second half of the year, nearly everything I read came from one of your recommendations, and you guys were reading things based on what other readers had to say.
I love books.
I love imagination.
I love the possibility.
And I'm excited to see what will get read next year -- thanks, my fellow bookworms, for being nerdy with me. Here's our recap:

Loving Frank, by Nancy Horan
The Man of My Dreams, Curtis Sittenfeld
The Lovely Bones, Alice Sebold
The Shack, William P. Young
The Associate, John Grisham
The Lost City of Z, David Grann
Committed, Elizabeth Gilbert
This Is Where I Leave You, Jonathan Tropper
The Fig Eater, Jody Shields
Bridget Jones's Diary, Helen Fielding
A Reliable Wife, Robert Goolrick
Dear John, Nicholas Sparks
The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo, Stieg Larsson
The Heretic's Daughter, Kathleen Kent
The Kindness of Strangers, Katrina Kittle
How Did You Get This Number, Sloane Crosley
The Girl Who Played With Fire, Stieg Larsson
Olive Kitteridge, Elizabeth Strout
The Book of Joe, Jonathan Tropper
On Writing, Stephen King
The Castaways, Elin Hilderbrand
When You Look Like Your Passport Photo, It's Time To Go Home, Erma Bombeck
In Cold Blood, Truman Capote
The Imperfectionists, Tom Rachman
Water For Elephants, Sara Gruen

Lunch Ladies

2010-12-22T09:51:00.000-05:00

As most of you know by now, I rejoined the workforce and normal-pant-wearing society about a month ago, when I took a grown up job. No drawstring flannel allowed, true, but coming to an office has its perks. Like, they pay me to be here. And like a genuinely lovely group of women to work with every day. I’ve dubbed my aisle of cubes Sorority Row; there are a dozen or so smart, sharp, strangely attractive girls in my immediate vicinity, and I get to admire the pretty high heels sadly missing when my office was the dining room table and my coworkers were my dad and the bunny killer.

There are downsides, though, I do have to say. Having spent the past few years out of the general public (not quite recluse status, but significantly more than the average girl’s allotted time in pajama bottoms), I’d forgotten -- if I’d ever known, I blocked it out -- about the frightening trend running through the intestinal systems of young office-working girls everywhere.

Today, having lunch in the cafeteria with some of my sparkly new friends, the conversation naturally (?) turned to having to use a public restroom when you have to... you know. You know.

“I never do. I can’t.” The Funny One.

“But what if you have to? I mean, come on, sometimes you have to.” The Tiny One.

“How is that possible, exactly? How do you... hold back?” The Baby One.

“Well, I’ll tell you,” explains TFO, helpfully. “You just close your eyes for a few seconds, squeeze everything, and wait. Eventually the feeling passes.”

She looked at us expectantly, waiting for the agreeable nods that show a speaker her audience is with her, understanding and commiserative. I was fascinated -- by her willpower, her freakish muscular control, and the very fact that these delicate, ladylike girls were in fact having an in depth conversation -- at the lunch table -- about crap.

“So, if you wait long enough, it just goes away? Like hunger pains?” The Blonde One.

“Exactly like that.”

“But... I mean, that’s just like... it’s like... Pooperexia.” Me, just trying to take it all in.

Mind you, we are the only table of girls in the entire cafeteria. The IT guys (who will tell you they “play cards” at the same table every day, very manly like. Look closer. Those are Uno cards, man.) turned to stare. The Analyst guys (not a one of them outside the khaki Dockers and bland plaid button down uniform they’ve so perfected) did the same. Part of it was, as I said, we’re the only girls in the room and those boys are genuinely struggling with feelings of fascination and fear to begin with. The other part of it was probably the loud shrieking sound I make when I really get to laughing. And believe me, I was laughing. She’s not called The Funny One for nothing.

And the bad thing is I was laughing so hard -- that squealing, snorty, red-faced, ugly kind of laughing -- that it made me, I mean, kind of, I sort of had to... you know.

Year in (Book) Review: Water for Elephants

2010-12-20T15:43:00.000-05:00

This one is so long overdue I can barely remember what I wanted to say, let alone how to make it eloquent and articulate. I read Sara Gruen’s Water for Elephants mostly because one of my most trusted recommenders said I should, and also a little because Ms. Gruen was kind enough to write a blurb for my mentor’s latest book, because my mentor was brave enough to simply reach out and ask her. I’m all for continuing the cycle of good author karma.

The long and short of it: if you haven’t already, go read this book. Right now. Go. Now. Seriously, now, since the movie trailer is beginning to circulate (the film comes out in the spring) and I am a huge proponent of book first, movie second. Even in the best book-to-film adaptations, you lose the details that give a story its life, and you lose the ability to let the characters form their own shape and appearance in the expanses of your imagination.

All that being said, it’s a charming, lovely tale about two of my favorite things – people in love and lovable animals. That’s a lot of love going on there in that sentence. Told in memory and flashback from Gruen’s now-senior narrator, we are taken along during a very life-altering turn of events in his young life. We meet the people, and the creatures, he meets, we feel the sadness and the hope and the lust he feels, and we believe in the happy endings he dares to believe in. It’s got all kinds of exciting, sometimes downright tense things going on, and while it’s a quick read, it’s a thoroughly enjoyable one. And at its core it’s a book about second chances and following your heart. It’s a hopeful book. I can't imagine anything nicer to say about a book, really.

Note to Fatty McPlumpy

2010-12-13T22:32:00.001-05:00

Okay. I know. It’s inexcusable. And I, therefore, have no excuse. But tonight, as I sat on the couch watching meaningless TV and pretending that if I put ice cubes in my wine it only counts as half a glass, I thought... huh. Maybe I should do something even the teensy tiniest bit creative, no? Crazy thought. But just maybe. Maybe. Particularly since I was supposed to spend the evening with my beloved writers’ group, and my mass amounts of wussiness kept me from driving the snowy streets back to Dayton for the evening, just maybe I could use the designated time to actually do what it was designated for, and create something.

Here’s the problem.

I’m not creative.

Seriously. Every ounce of any creative energy I might’ve ever possessed seems to have seeped out of me. I don’t even know if I can call it writer’s block – it’s more like everything block. The problem? I sold out. Yes, I sold my soul to the man, and all for a CRV. And an apartment all to myself, decked out in Ikea’s finest offerings and filled with absolutely no one but me. I can’t lie, people, I think it may have been worth it. But now I spend my days writing and editing boring stuff for other people (whom I like very, very much, I do have to say)(well, no, I don’t have to say, but I am saying it, because I actually really mean it) and when I get home at the end of a very long, very very cold day, I can’t find what it takes to be an artist. I can find what it takes to heat up a Lean Cuisine and crack a Stella, but that’s as far as I get. And also, Lean Cuisine my ass, because I’m getting fat. Like, call me Pudgy McFatterson fat. It can’t be impossible to work and not get fat, right? Right?

Help me. You're my only hope. I know there are artistic, busy, skinny employed people who read this, who have found a way to get shit done and still be happily creative. Unless you all got tired of waiting for me to come back and found other, more interesting (read: actually written) blogs to follow. What’s the key?

Year in (Book) Review: The Imperfectionists

2010-10-18T23:02:00.000-04:00

A few months ago, one of my beloved book junkie friends forwarded me a link to a book about to launch, with the note that it had received the most rave write-up in The New York Times Book Review -- by no less than Christopher Buckley -- she'd ever read. (Wow. Alliteration overload. I kind of like it. I'm keeping it. Obviously, since you're reading it.) So I ran out and bought it, because I pretty much run out and buy whatever Ariel tells me to (she's super fashionable, to boot), and saved it for my beach trip. (Much better vacation choice than the last amazing, disturbing book I tried to read while relaxing.)

Not that you all need me to confirm that the folks over there at the NYTBR know what they're talking about, but yes. This was amazing stuff.

Tom Rachman's The Imperfectionists is a collection of intertwined short stories, giving readers the tiniest, most intimate insight into the lives of a collection of newspaper people. Interspersed into their stories is the overriding thread of how the newspaper, an Italian-based international daily that's floundering, to put it kindly, came to be. Some of the stories are overtly heartbreaking and some of them are unexpectedly hysterical, but most of them just do an incredible job of putting you right into the lives, or a snapshot of a moment of them, anyway, of ordinary, flawed, wonderful people. They are familiar, and recognizable, and empathetic, and us. Good things happen to them, bad things, sometimes nothing much happens to them at all and it's still riveting.

Even more riveting, I think, is the author's still-very-young life. This is his debut novel (awesome, no pressure on the rest of us there, Tom) and it's insanely good. Check out his background and acknowledge that we're all a little less cool than he is.

This one makes top five for the year so far, for anyone who's keeping track. And if anyone keeping track could let me know that would be so helpful, since I'm not.

Year in (Book) Review: In Cold Blood

2010-10-18T22:50:00.000-04:00

I read Breakfast at Tiffany's a few years ago, because I so adore the perfect, classic movie. It's on my list of those films that stop me midstream whenever it's on. I have to stop and watch. (Side note: By that "midstream" standard, I discovered today Top Gun is also one of those movies. Huh. Did not know that about myself.) So, being the literary girl I am, I thought it was important to read the short story that gave us Holly Golightly and Moon River and Cat. It was the first thing I'd ever read by Capote, though I knew quite a bit about him from both of the biographical movies that came out around the same time a few years ago. (Philip Seymour Hoffman won the Oscar for his portrayal of Capote, and he was absolutely brilliant. But in terms of the overall movie, I actually liked Infamous better. I don't remember why. It was a long time ago. You'll just have to take my word for it.) He was quite a character, that's for sure.

Either way, both of those films highlighted the time in Capote's life he spent researching and writing In Cold Blood. I'm almost at a loss for words. (That's never true.) Everything I write sounds like me. I don't know if that makes sense to people who don't write, but it basically comes down to this, and I think everyone can back me up on this one: if you want to write interesting, believable characters, they have to sound interesting and believable. It doesn't matter if they're real people or not. Which means whenever I try to write anyone who's not thirtysdflasfh year old spectacle with a chip on her shoulder and a penchant for melodrama, I'm screwed. So the idea that the same person who penned Breakfast at Tiffany's could also write the journalistic explosion that is this book floors me. But maybe that's just it -- it barely feels journalistic. It feels like you're reading a novel, with characters and a plot written by one of the most talented writers, ever. He can describe everything from the Clutter family farmhouse to the size of the hands of the woman who works at the post office in their torn-apart town, and they seem equally important to the story. It's a horrible story, to be sure, although in this day and age I feel like we're almost immune to it. Just as I was finishing the story, a man in Connecticut was finally convicted for the brutal, unthinkable murder of a mother and her two daughters -- the family's father was able to escape and survive -- in a case that drew obvious comparisons to this one. It was even worse. Why does everything have to keep getting worse? What does that say about people today? What was I talking about?

I think it's important to read books that the world deems historically important. I don't think it's important to like them all, but it's important to read them. This is unquestionably one of those books.

Year in (Book) Review: When You Look Like Your Passport Photo, It's Time to Go Home

2010-10-18T22:31:00.000-04:00

Okay. I get that chances are slim anyone will run out and pick this one up. I'm not even actually sure you could. It's super old. But there was an old tattered paperback copy of it in the cottage on vacation last month, and I picked it up to leaf through it. Such a good decision.

Erma Bombeck is my hero. She's like the pre-David Sedaris.

She had me cracking up laughing, she never wrote anything that was more than five or six pages (some were barely one), and one of her chapters was titled "Centerville, Oh." When I am old and married and have lots of kids (one out of three ain't... well, yes, it is. It's bad.) I will use them lovingly for target practice, just like Ms. Bombeck. So consider yourself warned, future husband and unborn children. I'm very excited to get to make fun of you.

The Sisterhood Code of Silence

2010-10-04T21:32:00.001-04:00

How do you blog about a Code of Silence, you ask? Well, I'll tell you. You, if you are me, are a rat and you blog about pretty much anything. Unfortunately for you, if you are me, most of the ratting out to be done is on yourself. So, no one really cares if you blog about it.

It was Homecoming at my alma mater this weekend, and I met up with a bunch of my sorority sisters for an evening of nostalgic fun. I haven't been back to Bowling Green since a year or so after I graduated. Even the billboards were the same. Sort of creepy, but also comforting. The girls, however, have gotten nothing but better.

Ways you know the weekend has gotten away from you:

The afternoon begins with DG4 telling you "you should blog about this" in reference to fun things like people who sing curse words anywhere other than rap songs. (FYI, she was against it.) The evening ends with DGs1-6* begging you "for the love of God don't blog about this" in reference to everything that happened after around 9pm.

There was a serious discussion at one point about DG1's camel toe.

You check in to the hotel (a term I use loosely) and immediately check for bedbugs. DG2 refuses to put her suitcase on the floor for fear of things jumping into it. When you get home that night (another term I use loosely), DGs2, 5 and 6 sleep on the floor.

DGs1 and 3 hump the anchor. Oddly, this happens before any drinking has started.

DG2 accidentally orders a beer the size of her head -- literally -- at lunch, and officially declares her night over before it has begun.

You visit the sorority house, find your composite (in the study, on the third floor, where old DG pictures go to die and young DGs go to laugh at the bad hair and makeup choices), and get invited to an after-hours party at the Delt house. Just like old times.

The nineteen year old who invites you to the house party is overheard having the following phone conversation: "I'm sitting here with some alumnae... they found scrapbooks of themselves and they're telling funny stories about when they were in the house... I invited them to the Delt party... I mean, yeah, they're old, but don't worry, they seem cool." Slightly less like old times.

DG1 finds an adorable picture of DG5 in an old scrapbook. In it, DG5 is laughing and clapping. And has a bow in her hair. DG1 passes the photo around. DG6 notices something strange going on in the background of the photo. DG3 turns a strange shade of pink, and explains that the scene in the background -- two DGs in a compromising position on a folding table in a classroom surrounded by people -- is in fact her Sneak. (Sneak is when the pledges find out dirt on all the seniors, then crash chapter one night and reenact what they learned, and everyone has to guess which senior they're making fun of. Some are really innocent -- our Homecoming queen that year got engaged and walked around with bridal magazines all the time. Some, as DG3 discovered, involve the naughtiest of numbers.)

You make a meant-to-be-funny comment about "cougaring the shit out of that town" on Facebook earlier in the week. DGs3 and 4 make good on it. (For what it's worth, those kids wanted to be cougared. They were literally begging for it. And by "it", I mean for us to buy them alcohol.)

When you leave for the night, there are two people in your room. When you wake up the next morning, there are four. Two of whom are unnameable.

At 3:00 on Monday afternoon, you notice there is still a black bar stamp on the back of your hand. Which means it's probably still somewhere on your face.

*These numbers are arbitrary and made up and really just for fun. So don't bother trying to figure out who I'm talking about.

Today's Story Brought To You By Planned Parenthood

2010-09-30T15:57:00.000-04:00

Some things are just not funny. I won't drag us all down by naming them, but there are a few -- a very few -- things in the world that even I can't be irreverent toward.

I would have thought abortion was one of those things. But this morning, abortion became funny. Or, more accurately, the lack of one particular abortion became funny.

*Before I continue, a note. I do not care how you feel about abortion. I know exactly how I feel about it, and that seems like all I need to know on the matter. No one -- okay, no one who reads this crap, anyway -- cares.

As a writer, I eavesdrop. It's innate. I can't help it. I don't do it on purpose and if you give me enough dirty looks, I'll probably stop. If you get up and move to another table I definitely will, because I'm too lazy to pick up all my shit and move with you. It's not even that hard these days, eavesdropping. People have outlandishly personal conversations so loud they must want other people to hear them. Ride a New Jersey transit train some time. It. Will. Shock. You. In fact, I challenge you to spend an afternoon in any public place and not overhear the intimate details of a perfect stranger's life.

This one, though. This one was a doozy. Here is today's story.

Two kids -- probably late teens, early twenties; I'm of the age nowadays where that qualifies you as a kid, and also where I say things like nowadays -- caught my attention when she showed up to the coffee shop, a few minutes after him, looking nervous and guilty. Or maybe I was projecting. I was supposed to be working. He stood up quickly when she walked in and gave her a big, tight hug. By the time they settled back down into their chairs she had her arms wrapped protectively around her belly, he was clearly trying not to cry, and I wasn't trying at all to hide how enthralled I was.

He took her hands and asked her how she felt. She shrugged and I think she said "fine." Her head was down and I desperately wanted to ask her to tuck her hair behind her ears so it didn't block me out so much. I was afraid that might be overstepping my boundaries so I just scooted my chair closer instead.

"Man. I wish I coulda been there with you." Boy.
"Yeah. Well, my mom woulda freaked. Plus it seemed dumb for you to just sit in some waiting room." Girl. I'm noting -- taking actual notes at this point -- that Girl is not making eye contact with Boy.
"Did it hurt?" His earnestness was heartbreaking. And kind of hot, in a sensitive, emo way.
"Well... no." I'm suspicious of her, and not just because her sensitive, emo boyfriend is clearly too good for her. He's trying hard to get her to look at him. That hair is like the Iron Fucking Curtain. When he takes her by the chin and lifts her face gently, I am fairly sure I'm not the only one in the place who let out an audible "ohh." But I might've been. Mine was pretty loud.
"It kills me you had to go through this. I'm so sorry. We'll be more careful from now on. But it's all behind us now, right? It's over. I love you so much." Girl says nothing in response to this. Girl is an asshole.
"Girl?" Obviously, he doesn't call her Girl. I am protecting her, and protection is clearly something that has been lacking up to this point in her young, promiscuous life. By now, Boy is starting to sense something is off. Boy may be sensitive, but Boy is not too bright.
"Girl?" This time he says it with a little more insistence, and he's taken his hands off of hers. "It's over, right? I mean, you did it? You did do it, right? You went through with it, right?" Boy is less sensitive-seeming now, and more desperate. Angry desperate. Not hot.
"I tried."

I'm going to give you a few moments here to consider what you think might have been an appropriate second part of Girl's response.

I couldn't go through with it? Makes sense.
I realized I wanted to have your baby? Perfectly romantic.
I'm not morally comfortable with the lifelong ramifications to both my mental and emotional state, as well as my physical wellbeing, when it comes to making a decision of this magnitude? Seems a little lofty for this Girl, but feasible, I suppose.

Instead, she offered up this gem:

"It didn't take."

It didn't take. I missed the next few interchanges, my mind reeling to figure out what they're talking about. Clearly they weren't talking about what I thought they were talking about, right? Because "it didn't take" does not fit into the vernacular of what I thought they were talking about. All I could think was "Run, Boy, run." I tried so hard to think it into Boy's mind that I probably looked like I was trying to abort something of my own.

If they were characters, I would have to concern myself with all kinds of details at this point. Why did she change her mind? Did she ever intend to go through with it in the first place? How, exactly, does she plan on getting away with convincing him it's possible for this sort of thing to not take, like some feeble, failed attempt at a backyard garden? But they're not characters. Not my characters, anyway. And so they're going to have to sort their own shit out. I plan on going back to that coffee shop in about nine months, just to see how the story ends.

Year in (Book) Review: The Castaways

2010-09-22T21:39:00.002-04:00

Sometimes, it's been noted, I make strange choices. Like reading a devastating, poignant book about child abuse while relaxing on holiday. This time, though, I think I hit the nail on the vacation-appropriate head.

Elin Hilderbrand's The Castaways is easy to read, enjoyable, and just the right kind of fluffy for when you need to zone in and out every few pages. As do all her books, it takes place on the island of Nantucket, so already it's hard to imagine how it could be anything less than fun. Unlike all her books, it starts off with dead people. So, while she's frothy beach reading, she also packs a little punch.

My only criticism would be that there are a few too many people to mentally juggle, particularly when you're lying on sand. The Castaways is a group of friends -- eight, to be exact; four couples -- and their children. That's a lot of main characters to keep track of, and I spent more time than I would have liked trying to remember who belonged with whom.

Two thumbs up if you're looking for a good travel book, something that will keep you engaged and interested and then leave you alone.

Year in (Book) Review: On Writing

2010-09-22T15:21:00.000-04:00

One of the most important elements of these little book reviews, up to this point, has been all-inclusiveness. I think, thematically and hypothetically, what I review can be read by anyone. If you're a guy and you want to read The Heretic's Daughter, or a lit snob secretly reading Dear John, who are we, fellow bookworms, to judge? (Okay, I'm totally going to judge you for the Dear John one. It's so bad.)

This one might be the exception, and it makes me kind of sad. I've just finished Stephen King's On Writing, and I was none too happy about it. My gauge for a good book is that I'll read the first two thirds of it as quickly as my eyes and sleep will let me, then slow down almost to a standstill for the final third, simply because I don't want it to end. This has little to do with the caliber of author or of the writing -- I followed this pattern with the finale of the Twilight series in exactly the same way I have done with every F. Scott Fitzgerald book.

Some books, apparently, have just an imperceptible amount of crack sprinkled in the pages. This is the only way to explain Twilight. It is not a particularly well written book series, really, and the story is just weird. And yet, could you put it down? Well, I don't care if you could or not. I could not. I read, in my bed, unfed and unshowered and unimpressed by world events, for four days straight.

That is how I felt about King's memoir: half history, half mechanics ... like I could -- should -- snort the pages. Like I would -- could -- eat the words right off the page.

Perhaps the most surprising part to me? That Stephen King at one point weighed in upwards of 215 pounds. That, even in the times when he was by his own estimation light, he weighed nearly 170. Those are probably not the parts of the story he was hoping his readers would cling to. But it's almost like everything else he writes is so prolific, so profound and perfectly creative and inspiring and earth-shattering, that something as simple as realizing that Stephen King is not, as I might have imagined him had I ever taken the time to imagine him, a wimpy, minuscule kind of guy. Go fucking figure. Also, and my regular readers won't be surprised by this at all, I love, I mean LOVE, that he says fuck. A lot. All the time. For absolutely no reason. Just because there are people in the world -- people like me and people like Stephen fucking King -- who say fuck a lot. We aren't unintelligent. We aren't even uneducated. We just say fuck a lot because it fits and it sits so comfortably on the tongue.

I don't know how a book on the craft of writing will fit into the literary genre of you, my intelligent and well-read friends, who are either not writers or huge fans of the science fiction/horror genres. There are a lot -- millions, literally -- of insanely excellent books to read, and it's sadly impossible to get to them all. But this is a great book. It's a great insight to how a genius writer makes his genius work.

The LSG Explains It All

2010-09-08T11:33:00.000-04:00

The cute thing about being the LSG in your group of friends (that's the Last Single Girl, you silly) is that you get to impress all your Old Saggy Married Friends with your dating prowess and general knowledge of the MSG. (Modern Single Guy. Please try to keep up or this will take forever.)

The most recent example of this came at a Dayton Dragons game, with one of my old (she is thirty three days older than me and looks every minute of it)(nothing on her sags, though, dammit) married friends and her seven year old son. The baseball game, a present from me to the little boy, fell on the night after what we were trying to decide was a third date or not. You know ... the third date. I'm paraphrasing, of course, and in some places just totally making shit up, but the conversation went something like this:

"Third date, huh?" OSMF.
"Oh yeah. I mean, sort of. I think. Third ... ish." Me.
We promptly set about trying to determine exactly which date number I was on. Really, though, if you read between the lines, we were trying to determine whether or not I'm a slut. I'll summarize.

First date: Group date. To a karaoke bar. (Everyone who has ever heard me sing is cracking up or cringing for me right now.) Turns out, I later learned, he had no idea who I was, what I was doing there, or that there was a setup happening. Call me old-fashioned but I'm not tallying this one up in the date category.

Second date: Just the two of us, after he politely called me up on the phone to invite me to drinks and dinner. Totally a date. By every definition, a really nice date.

Third date: This is where things start to get murky. Another big group, to a Reds game. Somewhere in upwards of 100 degrees, and mass amounts of sweat was produced by all. Kind of a date, but mostly just me and a girlfriend knocking small children out of the way so we could hog the mister fans.

Next few dates: Actually a combination of evenings, taking place at the wine bar below the yoga studio where I have a mad crush on my new yoga instructor. Seriously, she's beautiful and flexible and spiritual. I love her. Love her. A few of these nights ended, very late, with him giving me funny looks because all I could talk about was my adorable yoga instructor.

Somewhere around maybe the sixth date: I climbed his tree. This is not, as my dirtier-minded friends assumed, and as you probably did as well you dirty-minded reader, a euphemism. I actually climbed his tree. He mentioned cutting it down, he did some grilling, we went to Krogers like an old married couple, I inexplicably climbed a tree, it was my favorite night so far.

So now OSMF is up to date, you're up to date, let's continue. I should mention here this particular OSMF was responsible for the initial set up, so she's practically gloating. And right now, while her seven year old is distracted by baseball and an inconceivable amount of food, she gives me the look.

"Awww. That's really cute. I'm so happy for you." I thank her. She keeps giving me the look. "So...?"
"So what?" I love playing dumb. Or not, since she hits me hard in the arm.
"I knew it." I don't know how she thinks she knew it, but apparently, she did. Now she's really gloating. "So can I see pictures of him on Facebook?" This is not where I expect her line of questioning to go, and I am momentarily taken aback.
"Facebook?"
"Did you change your status?"
"Whaaaat? I'm not his Facebook friend, for fuck's sake." It's like she just accused me of having a casual heroin habit. My voice gets so high-pitched the plastic Bud Light bottle the man next to me is holding threatens to crack. Bud Light man gives me a look of his own, one that says I probably shouldn't say "fuck" in the presence of a seven year old.

OSMF looks at me with obvious and -- if we're being honest, here, which clearly we are -- understandable confusion. Skepticism, you may even say.

"So... wait a sec. You guys --"
"Yep."
"I mean, like, all the w --"
"Mmm hmm."
"And which date was it again?"
"Five and three quarters, I believe." I say this with the celibate pride of the well-disciplined and self-controlled.
"But ... you won't Facebook friend him?"
"Noooo. God no. He'll think I'm a clingy stalker."
"Okay."

The nice thing about having lifelong friends is that they get you. And also, they are so generally worn out by you that they just can't muster the strength to ask for clarification.

There you have it. A brief glimpse into the perplexing world of the LSG, and her appropriate non-use of the Friend Request Button. If there is anything else I can help you understand, please do not hesitate to ask.

Year in (Book) Review: The Book of Joe

2010-08-24T09:54:00.000-04:00

Jonathan Tropper makes me wish I was a dude. Or, at least, he makes me wish I could, sometimes, write like one.

The Book of Joe is actually my second Tropper book of the year, the first being This Is Where I Leave You, which made me fall a little bit in love with him. The Book of Joe confirmed, if it's not love, it's at least a pretty serious crush.

This was actually an earlier book, and it felt like it. He has my propensity for sometimes being just thiiiis much too clever with his turns of phrase. For using eighteen words where six might work, as it were. But, the thing is, he is clever. He writes some really funny, really biting, occasionally unexpected stuff.

Quick synopsis (by request, since apparently I rarely ever actually say much about what the book is about, and some of you would like the elevator pitch): Joe is a guy in his mid-thirties who has recently hit the big time with his debut novel. He's rolling in money, driving a great car, and sort of a little bit miserable. When his father falls ill, he heads out of New York and back to the small New England town he's not returned to in nearly seventeen years. Because, teensy weensy detail, the book he wrote was about said small New England town, and most of the people in it, and it was ... let's say, unflattering. Chaos inevitably ensues. There you have it.

Every once in a while throughout his novel Tropper sounds a little bit like a guy trying not to write a guys' book, and gives in to a sort of sappy tone of predictability. Still, it's nice to hear a guy writing about a guy and not being afraid to include some fear, some serious self-doubt, and some true, childhood love that has (almost) nothing to do with sex. His characters are well thought out and lovable, even the idiots, and he lets you care about them all. I don't know what the male equivalent of chick lit is called, but this is a shining example of it.

Year in (Book) Review: Olive Kitteridge

2010-08-23T18:09:00.000-04:00

Continuing in my summer long style of reading some really beautiful, and sometimes somewhat slow, narratives, I stepped up to the big leagues with Elizabeth Strout's Pulitzer Prize-winning novelistic collection of short stories, Olive Kitteridge.

At last month's Antioch Writers' Workshop, Strout's name hung in the air; she'd been one of the guests in attendance two years ago -- the same year she published Olive Kitteridge -- and people seemed to speak her name in rather reverent, hushed tones. People say my name loudly and often as the butt of a joke, so I was intrigued.

Olive is a quiet book, centering around -- wait for it -- an aging small town retired teacher named Olive Kitteridge. Some of the stories are about Olive and her family -- her kind husband and her troubled only child son -- and in others, she's merely a background player for the folks who come and go in and out of her little world.

I have a tremendous respect for the art of the short story; it's a deceptively difficult thing to create an entire, complex story in a limited number of pages. Strout handles it beautifully, weaving together a really lovely tale from a lot of different lives and stories. I just love Strout's approach to voice and language -- it's something I've been concentrating on a lot lately ... since all my characters sound suspiciously just like me.

Perhaps the only negative I might assign to Strout's book is, well, just that -- it's a little negative, for a complete lack of a more interesting or inspired word. I feel a little about Olive the way I would about Angela Lansbury -- my mom used to watch Murder She Wrote and, without fail, would comment that if she ever saw that woman ambling into town, she'd hightail it out -- you can be pretty certain that once she shows up, something bad is going to happen. Within the hour. I just wish Ms. Strout had given us a little more of the positive side of the Kitteridges and their neighbors -- I don't think the nostalgic, almost melancholy tone would have been lost.

Year in (Book) Review:The Girl Who Played with Fire

2010-07-28T18:02:00.002-04:00

Second round with little Lisbeth and her cohorts.

I do have to say that I enjoyed this one more than the last one, which I did enjoy, and I do have to say that I have no good explanation as to why. A few theories: while the first of Larsson's trilogy revolved mostly around Kalle Blomkvist, which I cannot pronounce and therefore call him, simply, 'Mike,' Fire is a lot more Lisbeth, and she's a cool character. (Side note: you know how sometimes you get something stuck in your head, even when it's ridiculous? Somehow, my tiny blonde -- and so maybe sort of Swedish-looking? -- friend is the only human being I know over the age of eleven who is as tiny and as spunky as Lisbeth is described to be. And once I thought of that, now I can't picture anyone else in the movie in my head that plays as I read. Kim is neither apparently autistic, tattooed, or known to have killed anyone, so... yeah. Moving on.) Also, this one just felt more active to me. Not that Dragon Tattoo didn't keep things plowing forward, but this felt more like a thriller to me. More of a page turner. I hope it's a trend that continues through the Hornet's Nest and, if it should come to pass, the fourth book.

What I didn't love so much. The book begins with some interesting characters and happenings that go... absolutely nowhere. I don't like getting to the end of a book only to find out that the first third of it was filler. I don't think books should start with filler. That doesn't make much sense, now does it. The circumstances don't advance the plot at all, and they don't give us any information or insight into Lisbeth's personality that we haven't already been privy to from the first book. (Another side note: some people will tell you that you don't need to read the first one in order to enjoy the second. That may be true, but it is my opinion that you absolutely need the first one to really have any clear idea what or who you're reading about in the second. And also I don't really understand people who would read the second book in a trilogy without reading the first. Those people make me uneasy.)

I take some small issue with Larsson repeatedly handing his characters the tools -- skills, knowledge, and sometimes actual, literal tools -- they need to get out of the situations he puts them in. I sort of think if they can't get out of them themselves, maybe the writer has no business putting them there in the first place. But this is nitpicky, and probably unavoidable, and is why I don't write thrillers.

But, after some of the slower stories I've been reading lately -- some good, some eh -- this is a great way to get back to movement. He'll keep you up at night with the "one more chapter" syndrome, and that is, I would have to say, probably the best thing a writer can do.

(A final side note: Just Netflixed the Swedish film version of the first novel, which is supposed to be amazing. I'm a little freaked out, not completely sure I want to see some of those things played out in front of me, but I'll let you know if I recommend it! Anyone seen it yet who wants to weigh in before I watch?)

It's Not You

2010-07-21T17:35:00.000-04:00

I am famous in small circles and my own mind for my interesting choices of mates. I have no "type," I've always said, at least not physically anyway. I can get just as giddy over a preppy green eyed blond as I can over a dark and spiky haired artist. I don't much care for ugly, because it's not pretty, but I do have a soft spot for the nerds. The cute dorks. Always have. It's the four-eyed bookworm in me. It's intangible, as it probably is for a lot of people, but I like what I like and I know it when I see it and I can't imagine ever giving someone the chance to "grow" on me. Like algae. Or fungus. (Huh. Are algae and fungus the same thing?) Either way, ew.

The one thing I always thought bound a good number of my beloveds together was the complete and utter totality of their commitment issues. I get into a relationship and then stubbornly stay there, come hell or high water, even when, as one ex put it, we seem sort of doomed to be together. Together... but not married. Together ... but ... not really. Not so much. Like magnets, my clinginess and their complete lack thereof simultaneously attract and repel each other. It may not be going anywhere, or even particularly healthy, but I can count on it. It's just the nature of my type.

Now imagine the size of the hole blown into this theory last weekend, when not one but two of my exes got engaged. Neither of them to me.

I can't lie; that'll make you stop hard in your tracks. Particularly when "you" is "me" and "me" is way over this side of 30, childless, and whining on an endless loop to friends, God love 'em, who have long since stopped listening to me bitch about being old and childless. I always assumed I wasn't married to these particular guys because they had "issues committing." But if they're engaged...

Oh my God.

Maybe it's me. Maybe I'm the commitmentphobe.

And maybe I'm just whining about it because I feel like I'm supposed to? I like guys. (Seriously. It was one kiss, drunk in a bar, so don't even go down that path.) And I like kids. I do. I don't like the idea of not being able to have them. But, even at this advanced age, I can't quite hear my biological clock. Maybe mine's on vibrate? I'm sure it's ticking, it must be, but it's not prompting me to action. I'm just sitting here, still single. Still old and childless.

But really, what's that action supposed to be? Am I to go after guys now like a heat seeking missile, just tracking down someone with a decent head of hair, a controlled beer paunch and some spare sperm? Am I to lower my standards, giving that sort of creepy guy who leers at me every time I go into CVS a chance? (Mind you, he doesn't work there. He's just always there. And he doesn't have a decent head of hair or any control over that gut.) And a chance at what, exactly? Oy.

It's been a retrospective week. A sort of sad one, even. Not because I was supposed to marry either of these guys, because apparently I wasn't. While it's hard not to feel just a little left behind, I trust -- I hope, anyway -- that they have found just the right person for them. I would love for them to be happy and content and have lots of little exes.*

It's just that ... if it's me, I think I'm sort of screwed. I think I can fix anything else but that.

*This is not a completely accurate statement. In fact, it's an outright lie. I tried to be PC but I feel badly about being dishonest. This should read something more along the lines of: I believe completely that one of them has found the right person, and I couldn't be happier for him. He's my friend. One of my best. Our relationship has changed dramatically and continuously in the seven or so years since we met, but I think it's grown and shifted into what it was meant to be. A really great friendship. He's still a shit sometimes and doesn't call me when he's supposed to (you were supposed to call me last week) but he cares about me. He cares to know me and stay in my life and I truly, deeply hope his beautiful young wife-to-be will as well. The other one ... the other one. Not so much. That's all I have to say about the other one.

Year in (Book) Review: How Did You Get This Number

2010-07-20T11:49:00.000-04:00

I have a healthy sense of irony, I think. I get that saying anything even remotely critical of a girl who writes about every trite and trivial thing happening in her life may make your eyebrows go up. I get it. So if I sound critical, just realize it's really nothing more than envy.

That's what Sloane Crosley does in her second book of personal essays, How Did You Get This Number -- she writes about every trite and trivial thing. Only what is trite and trivial in her life would land in the "five coolest things ever to happen to me" column in my life. Her first collection, I Was Told There'd Be Cake, came out a few years ago and had much the same impact on me as this one: insane jealousy that people live much cooler lives than me and therefore have more, and wackier, stories to tell.

I will compare her to David Sedaris, which is truly the highest compliment I can pay to an essayist. Indeed, every night after bathtime when it's time to say my prayers, He (God, not David) hears something from me along the lines of, "Dear God, please oh please oh please let someone compare me someday to David Sedaris." Sometimes it comes before my plea for a rich, gorgeous husband and a new pair of Louboutins and sometimes it comes after, but it's usually tucked comfortably in the middle.

The only times I got annoyed with Ms. Crosley were the moments she seemed to be veering down one path and then, ooh ... something shiny ... and she was off in another direction. I would rather read (and write, I guess, is probably really what I'm saying) a million short, tight stories than a rambling one that could probably be really funny except that you completely lost me and I have no idea what you're talking about so instead of laughing at/with/potAYto/potAHto you I'm just annoyed with you for talking too much. Again, ironic, I know. I know.

I do have to concede, though, this would have made a much better beach book than a heartwarming, beautifully executed tale about child sexual abuse. You can pick it up, put it down, read it quickly, skim, all attributes of a book destined to be resort reading. Not much meat, and that's okay, because who wants meat on the beach?

Actually, I'm going to tell you all to go get it, and read it, and then report back to me what you liked and what you didn't, so that when I start writing my own book I'll know what you want. Okay, go.

ADDENDUM TO Year in (Book) Review: The Kindness of Strangers

2010-07-14T23:01:00.000-04:00

It took me a long time to read this book, because I knew I would have to write a review.

It's not that I shied away from the subject matter or that I'd heard anything less than praise for the novel. It's that I pinky-promised myself last January I would review every single book I read, even the embarrassing ones. No skipping, no matter what -- if it got read, it got reviewed.

It just never crossed my mind that I would read a book by someone I know. In this case, it's not even just someone I know, but a former English teacher and current writing mentor. How the hell do you do a book review on your writing mentor? I can't even bring myself to call her anything other than Miss Kittle and she hasn't been my teacher since like 1991. We're practically the same age. And still, there is reverence given where there is reverence due.

That being said, I feel a need to reassure you that it's an honest review. She can't grade me anymore. If I hadn't liked the book, a lot or a little, I would have told you. It is an exceptionally well-crafted story. Phew.

Year in (Book) Review: The Kindness of Strangers

2010-07-14T22:53:00.000-04:00

Imagine the darkest thing you can that could happen to a child. Now, take it one shade deeper into blackness -- into the unimaginable, really -- and that's what we're asked to deal with in Katrina Kittle's The Kindness of Strangers. The name and the book jacket are lighthearted and lovely. The life of its youngest main character is anything but.

In turn, fortunately, Kittle's telling of his story is anything but bleak. It's impossible, I would have to believe, to write about crimes against children in an honest and raw way without making your readers very, very uncomfortable. I choose to write about things like bikini waxes gone bad and ill-behaved house pets, so clearly she has a level of maturity I've not yet found. But she tackles the issue head on, without ever tiptoeing around it or doing a disservice to her characters by not making us, as readers here by choice, go through the same crises they must face.

She leaves you guessing, nearly to the end, who you can root for and who you should spit on. Much in the same way middle-schooler Jordan wants so much to believe in the best in people, even in really, really bad people, Kittle makes us want that too. She sweeps us up in his adolescent need for normalcy and family, and reminds us those are needs we never outgrow.

It's a beautiful telling of an ugly truth.

Side note: Because I frequently make inexplicable and suspect choices, I read this book on vacation. While I highly recommend reading the book, I equally highly recommend not reading it on a beach. It just feels weird.

Year in (Book) Review: The Heretic's Daughter

2010-07-01T12:28:00.000-04:00

Ladies and gentlemen, we have a winner. Favorite book of the year (so far) goes to the hauntingly beautiful writing of Kathleen Kent in The Heretic's Daughter. Recommended to me by my writing partner (and I use that term loosely, since in between our brief flashes of brilliance we spend most of our time gossiping and talking about her charmingly frustrating four year old), it is the first book in a long time that's kept me up way past my bedtime, because I just had to have one more chapter in me before I closed my eyes.

First, the backstory. Ms. Kent, as many of us do, grew up with stories of her ancestors. One in particular was Martha Carrier, who would have been her grandmother nine times back or something like that. One of the most prominent figures in the infamous Salem witch trials of the late 1600s, Martha was hung for being outspoken, critical of the judiciary process she was held slave to, and for generally not being well-liked by her neighbors. That's pretty much all it took in those days, in that town. The author was so fascinated by the stories that she spent a significant amount of time researching both the trials themselves and her own family's involvement. She dug through historical research, myriad archives and transcripts, and her family's memories. The result is her debut novel, and I think it is really lovely.

Told from the fictional perspective of Martha's young daughter (the daughter was real, just the storytelling was imagined), Kent brings to life an absolutely beautiful and devastatingly harsh time. Fear of Indian attacks ran rampant. Smallpox swept unceremoniously through households and towns and killed in indiscriminant multitudes. The Puritanical life was barren. But, as Kent gently reminds us, families were close to and dependent upon one another, and kids were, as they will always be, kids. Sarah, our narrator, is equal parts stubborn -- like her mother -- and sarcastically observant of the iniquities of the time. She witnesses, and experiences first hand, some of the worst atrocities our country has been responsible for committing against our own. It was terrifying, and Kent does justice to the enormity of the situation, without ever once being flowery or overly stylistic. She stays true to the voice and nature of her characters, and since they wouldn't be melodramatic in the telling of their tale, neither is Kent.

She writes poetically, effortlessly. It's a distinctive style and specific to the era, but she never forces anything on her readers. It flows, and she paints. They say that an actor has to respect whomever it is that they are portraying, even if the audience sees an evil tyrant or a selfish drunk ... both of whom appear in The Heretic's Daughter. Somehow, though, all of Kent's characters are beloved and heartwarming ... well, okay, maybe not all of them, but the main ones, anyway -- even the most fatally flawed of the bunch.

It's a slow unfolding, so if you're looking for action, action, action you should probably put this one on hold for now. But if you decide to pick it up, and I hope, hope, hope you will, have a computer close by -- I found myself repeatedly needing to Wikipedia the people and circumstances she was describing, because it was so unbelievable to me that this stuff really happened. It really did.

Year in (Book) Review:The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo

2010-06-25T15:26:00.000-04:00

First of all, I love -- and I mean passionately LOVE -- that we live in a country where there can be buzz and hype and controversy surrounding a book, of all things. That a tiny little square of paper and ink can spark debate and invoke emotion and make people think. That we're educated enough to appreciate things others write, whether or not we agree. You will nearly never hear me talk about politics, or religion, or things of that ilk -- the former because I couldn't give two hoots and the latter because I hoot very deeply -- but I will go on record as saying that I feel blessed and proud to live in a place where any old person can read any old thing they want to. It's a gift we take for granted, and if you ever question whether or not our military is fighting for things that matter, please try to imagine a little girl somewhere who can't fathom being able or allowed to read anything at all, let alone something controversial or question-inspiring.

And, as soon as I climb down off of this here unexpectedly high horse, I'll get back to the business of book reviews. Giddy up.

I know I'm a little behind the times on this one. The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo is the first in a trilogy by Stieg Larsson, and the third book has just been released in hardback. So, I've got some catching up to do, but I wanted to start at the beginning. Surprisingly, while I've heard tons of buzz about the series, I knew nearly nothing about the book itself. Which caught me a bit off guard, and I'm still trying to decide if that's a bad thing or a very good one.

The back cover of the book talks about a murder mystery (ooh...), love story (ahh...), and financial intrigue (o... a... wtf?) White collar crime is hardly the stuff of legendary drama, I thought to myself, but maybe there will be enough murder and enough love to make up for it. There was.

Larsson started off a bit slowly, honestly, and I was a little concerned that I was in for another dud. (I've learned, the hard way that a lot of buzz around a book does not necessarily indicate a good book. Just a buzzed about one.) It picked up though, fairly quickly and in a big way. The title character -- who, interestingly enough, is a key player but not actually the main character, at least in this one -- is a tiny little punk girl who finds herself helping out a disgraced journalist on a case he's been hired to write about. The characters are well-developed and believable, even with their eccentricities and outlandishness, the relationships are fantastic, the pace is great, and I'm looking quite forward to the next one. Word of warning, though, and perhaps a bit of a spoiler: the book goes to some dark places, much darker than you would expect a book about "financial intrigue" to go. I'm not sure how I hadn't heard that at all and so it was really jarring, but again -- good or bad? I wouldn't have wanted any details -- and I won't give you any -- but I think I might have liked a little heads up. So there's yours.

Hoping to read the second book over the Fourth of July holiday -- nothing says love your country like tales of murder and woe!

Interesting little aside: Author Stieg Larsson, Swedish himself, as are the characters and most of the settings of his book, led a very interesting life, most of which was not as a writer but an activist. He lived for several decades with a woman with whom he protested and did activisty type things. He died, very suddenly of a heart attack, having written his trilogy but not published it. The success of the three books came after his death, but because he had no will, under Swedish law his profits and estate have gone to his next of kin -- in this case his father and brother. To date, his life partner of over thirty years has been given absolutely nothing from them. But ... she has Larsson's laptop ... which contains the fourth script in this insanely popular and profitable series. Now that's an intriguing story, my friends.

Year in (Book) Review: Dear John

2010-06-21T18:25:00.000-04:00

I'm in a pickle, people. I know I'm going to get a good chunk of you all riled up about this one, and I'm bracing myself for the pickle-throwing storm. That may well be the most bizarre thing I've ever written, but you know what I mean.

I have long since claimed to be open-minded about the books I read. I will happily say I read trash, and I revel in it; I soak it up just as thoroughly as I can absorb my favorite Austen or genius Fitzgerald or any one of those lovable Bronte girls. Just like with film, there's a place for everything. I just watched Rachel Getting Married (Brilliant. Brilliant.) and then Pineapple Express. (Brilliant. What?) I can watch anything, read anything... As Long As It's Well Done.

How, then, do I deal with a blah book, that people happen to love? And there's no doubt that this guy is feeling the love, hard core. By the tens of millions, as women flock to the shelves to line his pockets with more money than God and the Queen combined. (I say with near certainty that no man has ever read a Nicholas Sparks book. Not even the gay ones.)

I picked up Dear John at my sister's house. (I won't say which sister, so I'm not technically outing her.) It violated my first rules of literature, which is to never read a book with movie stars on the cover. If the movie version of a book that I want to read has already come out, I will scour the back of the bookstore until I find the original book cover. But, being the literary non-snob that I am, I thought I'd give it a go. It's summer, and it seemed like a nice, summery romance.

Here's where I will give him credit. The story takes place in Wilmington, North Carolina, and I absolutely love Wilmington, North Carolina. I've been in love there, and had my heart broken there. So far, I'm on board.

That might be kind of it. The rest is ... tepid. I can't say bad, I guess. I've read some books -- not many, but some -- that I fully blame for the dumbing down of America. This wasn't that. It was just a moderately readable story, with mildly interesting characters. I had a really hard time buying into the love story that the book revolves around, not because it was relatively unfeasible (which it was) but because I just don't think he worked hard enough to make me buy it. Two young people fall in love in just a matter of days, and that's it. Now, I am hopelessly, happily romantic enough to want to believe that. But I'm world-weary enough to need some proof that, after a mere matter of hours, two people can find a love that will sustain distance and conflict and, in this case, a national tragedy and a handful of personal ones. It just wasn't there. Sparks was lazy and, I think, a little arrogant in assuming that his readers would just go along with whatever he told them, and however little he told them, without putting in the work to create an engaging, believable, heart-wrenching love. And, clearly, he was right in assuming that, since he's sold roughly a bazillion copies of this book. And the film rights.

I just can't get over the notion that it's simply not that well written. And I'm glad I didn't spend money on either one.

I'm sure I've ignited some sparks with this one -- and yes, my pun was intentional -- so I'd love, truly, to hear from some of you guys that read him a lot.

What am I missing?

Worse Than Dead Bunnies

2010-06-16T11:36:00.002-04:00

This damn dog is going to be the death of me. Okay, that may be a slight exaggeration (although she did step on my foot this morning and it really, really hurts) but it's no exaggeration at all that she may very well get me booted from the family-friendly neighborhood.

I'll explain.

Yesterday morning, I patted myself on the back the whole hour long drive (another exaggeration) to my writers' date. (A new friend of mine from my writing class and I have been meeting every morning to sit and write. I'm flying along and it feels amazing to watch this piece get longer and longer. Not necessarily better and better, or more and more interesting, but for now we'll take long as a victory.)

On the way home I went to the gym.

Once I got home I polished off two projects and delivered them, before deadline, to happy little clients.

So, I thought mid-afternoon, I shall reward myself. I shall put on a bikini and sit in the sun and read my book, with my (parent's) beloved dog by my side. So I did. I even got a giant Diet Coke to take in the backyard with me, just to sweeten the deal.

It was bliss. Idyllic. The very picture of why people live in the suburbs.

For approximately five minutes.

It wasn't the bunnies that distracted her this time. It wasn't the incessant barking of the little shit dog that our neighbors tied to a tree and left outside for, apparently, ever.

It was the TruGreen guy.

Now, when Cokie went absolutely ballistic and started barking at the fence, I probably should have paid attention. The problem is, Cokie is the little dog who barked wolf, and she goes ballistic when the mailman drives by. When anyone drives by. When a butterfly flitters past. When nothing flitters past. So I let her bark, because that's what she does. She barks. I was reading and baking and sipping and wasn't to be bothered.

This is probably an important time to mention a seemingly unrelated fact, which is that I hate tan lines. More on that in a moment.

But even for Cokie this was sounding a bit extreme, so I forced myself to lift my heavy head and lower my heavy book, and to my surprise there was a man standing there. Creepy. Holding some kind of a hose. Disturbing. More disturbing though was the sudden lack of barking. "This seems backwards," I thought, as I stared up at this hose-wielding stranger who was standing in my backyard -- inside my fenced in backyard -- "Shouldn't Cokie be barking more when the intruder has infiltrated her space?"

"I'm here to spray the stuff." Seriously, dude?

So I got up, tied the loose straps of my bathing suit around my back, and responded in the only way possible, "That's what she said."

Hose Boy had left the gate open. The dog was gone. Some protector she was. I bolted out (another exaggeration. I sort of loped. That dog really does drive me nuts.) to the front yard just in time to catch Cokie's rear end hightailing it around the far side of the next door neighbor's yard. I won't bore you with the details, but chase ensued. I ran, she ran. She ran way faster than me.

Finally I went inside -- Hose Boy was still in the backyard, I'm fairly certain either casing the joint or peeing in our bushes -- and grabbed a leash, some cheese, and a pair of flip flops. When you put flip flops on, you have to look down at what you're doing. You know, to get your toes in there right. When I looked down, I didn't see toes. I saw boobs.

At some point, in the midst of my dog run that spanned several neighbors' yards, my bathing suit top had fallen down. I don't know when. I don't know where. I do know that Hose Boy didn't mention it. Or even seem to notice, which I found oddly insulting.

At the same moment that I decided I would never be able to leave the house again Cokie came meandering into the back yard -- Hose Boy gone, gate still open -- and settled down on the back porch, with a strangely smug "mission accomplished" look on her face.

Stupid dog. Stupid Hose Boy.

Year in (Book) Review: A Reliable Wife

2010-06-09T15:51:00.002-04:00

Now this is what I meant by creepy in a good way. A Reliable Wife, Robert Goolrick's debut novel, was recommended to me by the reliable Abigail, and she didn't let me down. (She's, well, reliable like that.)

The story revolves around a young woman, an older man, and the intertwining of their lives in ways both plotted and not so much. It's the early 1900s, it's winter -- Wisconsin-style, so, like, seriously winter -- and we know right off the bat that things, both between these two and about each of them individually, are not as they seem.

Goolrick does a wonderful job of bringing these tragically damaged characters to life, and achieving the very difficult task of making them both relatable and empathetic. As is the case with all good suspense stories, there is a melancholy undertone and a sense of foreboding that carries readers through a good chunk of the book; we're left to constantly wait for the proverbial other shoe to drop on one or both of our protagonists. It aims for equal parts harrowing and hopeful. And I think A Reliable Wife succeeds where The Fig Eater failed, by managing to be dark without the heaviness, and stylistic without being tedious. I didn't always love some of his writing choices -- there's a purposeful amount of repetition that got on my nerves every once in a while -- but the story and the characters reel you in and the language stays fluid and forward-pushing.

The twists and turns, while perhaps not entirely surprising, will keep you engaged and will shake up your idea of whom you'd most like to root for -- and against.

Friday Night Light

2010-05-28T22:29:00.000-04:00

I wish you were here with me now.

I wish you could see what I see.
Green.
Two cats lolling. Shooting me dirty looks when I hit the keys too hard and shake the chair.
The sun still doing its part to keep the sky blue and the clouds white, even as it dips below the treeline and prepares for rest. It's the most magical kind of light, I think. You probably do, too.

I wish you could hear what I hear.
Din.
The nothingness that is really something, really life just outside the city.
Strains of the season's first ice cream truck melody as it turns a corner somewhere nearby, and elicits the muscle memory our faces store from childhood -- perked ears, wide, bright eyes and a perfectly shaped "o" as our mouths suck in the air and let out the sound of happy surprise.
The birds calling to one another, making plans for the holiday weekend ahead. The whippoorwill, flirting with the cardinal, eyeing the sparrow.
Laughter and chatter and people happy to be around one another. Happy to be where they are. Happy to be here.

I wish you could feel what I feel.
At ease.
The peace, the calm, the promise of summer in the air.
Relaxed.
Restless too. Ready for what's next. Another city, another chapter. Another beer.

I wish you could breathe what I breathe.
Freshness.
The air is different here, really. It's crisp and it's perfumed and it makes you want more of it. I could tell you about the flowers that force your head back and your nostrils open, make you pull deeply in so the fragrance enters you physically, except I don't know the names of very many flowers.
Someone's grill, smoky and thick and meaty.

It's just a backyard. There are millions of them. They've all got windchimes and neighbors and porch swings and beer bottles. I like to think that right now, right this minute, they're all warm and cool at the same time. They all hold the secret to good times and good things to come, to summer soaking in and time slowing down. And they're all lit, just like this.

I wish you would want what I want, to be here, with me, now.

Year in (Book) Review: Bridget Jones's Diary

2010-05-17T14:06:00.000-04:00

Okay, first things first: everyone must, from this sentence forward, read the rest of this book review in a British accent. It makes everything more fun, and if Renee Zellweger can do it, surely you can too. I will try to sprinkle in a few fun English words like "crikey" and "jolly." Actually I think crikey is Australian, so scratch that one. Anyhoo...

Such high hopes for this one. I picked up the Helen Fielding phenomenon at the library last week (because that's a practical, exemplary and safe low-budget thing to do), thinking to myself that I'd really like to write a funny book that would become a funny movie and cast myself in it and just sit back and watch all my dreams come true. These are the ways I spend my days, for all curious. So I thought, again to myself, that perhaps it would behoove me to pick up a book that I wished I'd written that prompted a movie that I would have liked to be cast in. Enter Bridget, of course.

To preface, I thought this was one of the most perfect movies ever. It was superbly acted, hysterically funny, and made me feel better about my weight obsession, because, as the famous saying goes, weight obsession shared is weight obsession divided. Everyone knows a Bridget, loves her, pities her, exists as her in some small corner of their own life. I bloody well do. It was charming and poignant and exaggeratedly accurate.

And the book was... sort of those things. It's written as a diary (duh) so it's quick to read, full of shortcuts and abbreviations and observations that no one other than Bridget herself would actually say out loud. It's funny, but it doesn't pack the punch that the movie did. After a while, the shtick of the diary concept grows a little weary and what you're left with is a lot of clever turns of phrase and not much by way of an actual story. There's none of the drama of the Jones-Daniel-Darcy love triangle that is really the driving force of the film (although, funnily enough, both Hugh Grant and Colin Firth are mentioned in the book.) Her neuroticism is still sweet and lovable and laughable, but there never seems to be a point to it. Not that I need my grown-up stories to tie neatly together into some clear cut purpose with an Aesop ending, but when I'm several hundred pages in, even if I'm being entertained, I'd like there to be even the most trite of reasons for me to be there, to be reading along. (Ironic, I know, as the author of a blog entitled Note To Self which covers absolutely nothing of any significance, hardly ever. I'm working on it. And I'm not asking you to pay for it, either. Although this was a library book so technically I didn't pay for this book. Shit, and now I'm off point. I mean bollocks, now I'm off point.)

So, read it if you need something to make you laugh and not think at all and plan on zoning out for several paragraphs or pages at a time but want to still understand what's going on. Great beach book. Train book. Starts out strong, fizzles a bit, but if you love Bridget like I do, darlings, you'll be happy just to spend a little more time with her.

Year in (Book) Review:The Fig Eater

2010-05-11T00:22:00.002-04:00

I finished this book a few weeks ago, and have been stalling all this time on writing the review. Even for a master procrastinator like me, that's a long time. And I finally figured out why: I just didn't like it that much, and revisiting it didn't sound fun.

The concept of The Fig Eater and of the author's inspiration behind writing it were really what grabbed my attention. I'm taking a writing class right now and so I'm really attuned to prompts and observations and happenings in the world, big and small, that could spark an idea for a story. Somehow (she doesn't explain) the author learned about an old Sigmund Freud case, widely acknowledged as one of the doctor's most resounding failures, and became intrigued by the teenage subject. His patient was a young woman he dubbed Dora; Freud analyzed and diagnosed her with hysteria in her late teens. Ms. Shields explains that she was fascinated by the little tidbits of information available on the case and the sordid stories surrounding the girl, and let her imagination form the early 20th century Viennese world in which she lived. And, in the case of the novel she loosely ties to the story, died. In fact, the character of Dora never actually appears alive in the story; instead, the author tells the stories of those who knew her and those who are exploring the strange circumstances around her death. (All made up by the author.)

Shields is an artist and editor by trade; this was her first novel. It had a really interesting style to it, but in the end I just couldn't enjoy it. Or in the beginning. Suspense and mystery books are fun when there's an underlying, almost tangible feeling of... well, suspense. As a reader, you're waiting for something ominous to happen, and if a writer is doing their job well you turn each page expecting and anticipating something bad or scary or jaw-dropping to happen. I gave Shields the benefit of the doubt through the first fifty or so pages, but after awhile I started to fear that the suspense was never really going to build, and nothing shocking was ever really going to happen. I was right. She creates a dark, kind of bleakly melancholy feel, but not a good kind. I'm not sure what a good kind of bleak melancholy would feel like, but I trust that it exists. Just not here.

Lots of potential, little delivery. Started off slowly, fizzled slowly, died slowly.

I Miss The Rats.

2010-04-28T14:28:00.002-04:00

All of New York's animal kingdom, really.

They seemed to be, at least for the most part, self-sufficient. There are the apartment mice that don't care for being rained on who will finagle their way indoors -- in one instance, into my closet door -- on less than pleasant days. Of course there are the Madison Square Park squirrels that will literally walk up and tap you on the shoulder, should you happen to be enjoying your Shake Shack burger on an afternoon when they've not yet lunched. And the pigeons. Don't even get me started on the pigeons.

But still, city critters are more or less on their own. I don't go out of my way to step on them or anything, but I don't feel any obligation to look after them. I certainly don't feel obligated to let one of them live in my closet.

Here, however, it's a different story. Things just appear furrier and snugglier and more in need of a sympathetic sucker here.

Late last night, I pulled out of my sister's driveway in the lovely burg of Lebanon, and cranked up the country for the 35 minute drive home. I got about 18 seconds into that drive when I had to screech on the brakes to avoid hitting the wild street gang of (I'm guesstimating) eight week old kittens. Smack in the middle of the road. On a very cold night -- we'd just moments ago listened to the local weather buffoon talk about taking care of your plants because of the frost warning. He mentioned nothing about small wayward cats, but weighing in at around an ounce a piece I was guessing they weren't going to fare any better than someone's petunias could.

So I called my sister, who reminded me that she just recently had to get rid of her beloved cat, because of the new baby. So I called my mom, who refused to answer her phone, but I'm guessing would have reminded me that she is already tending to my darling cat, has been for years now, and that asking her to house three more for a night would be, as we say in this neck of the woods, "pushing my luck." But I wasn't leaving them there. No way. Too cute and tiny and shivery; besides, one of them had already climbed up the back of my sweater and burrowed, claws first, into the warmth of my bra strap. I was hooked. (Sorry.)

Into the back of dad's car they went -- more specifically, into Cokie's dog crate. She would not be thrilled or particularly hospitable about it, I knew, but I was more worried about my allergy-ridden stepmother's reaction. Can you bring a litter of kittens home undetected? Not when you walk in the front door and immediately burst into tears, begging for compassion and forgiveness at your weak, animal-loving heart. They got kitten kibbles, some water, and spent a generally cozy night curled up together inside a dog's crate. I only went out to the garage two times to check on them. Okay, three. One per cat.

This morning dad was even kind enough to drive all the way back down to Lebanon with me to drop them off at the Humane Society, where I am certain (or certainly telling myself) that their distraught owners -- probably a pig-tailed and freckle-faced little girl and her gruff-yet-gentle farmer father -- will come to claim them amidst tears of joy and relief and gratitude. I bet they even give the little girl a lollipop. Heck, maybe even the farmer.

Home again, smiling happily at the mere thought of the child-kitten reunion about to take place. Just in time for the bunnies.

My parents have an eight year old Welsh Springer Spaniel whom I am sure will make countless future posts, for her overall cuteness and total lack of self control. Her name is Cokie, she is beautiful and smart and certifiably nuts. So much so that there's nothing unusual about her barking madly at the back door, even when there's nothing out there. We'll open the screen, watch her go tearing down the steps and out to the fence, and we'll laugh that she doesn't even seem to have the sense to be embarrassed at creating such a ruckus over something invented in her little dog brain.

Except for when it's real. Like, for instance, a real nest of five baby rabbits. As soon as we saw the mommy shoot across the backyard and Cokie NOT chase her, dad was out there in a flash. Cokie flashed just a bit faster and one of the little day-old runts is happily hopping through bunny heaven. I had to stay inside because the entire massacre was too much to take and, while he didn't come out and say it, I think dad was worried about having to pay my out-of-pocket therapy bills. The squeaking -- oh God, the squeaking -- will haunt me. The survivors got shoveled up and redeposited safely outside the fence, while momma watched from the neighbor's yard. Now I can't get anything done because I'm just staring out the window and waiting for her to come back.

You win some, you lose some in this rough life. But there's never a dull moment out here, protecting the Midwestern landscape from dangerous predators like Honda Pilots and maniacal dogs. It's exhausting. I feel like a pioneer.

All The Single Ladies

2010-04-23T20:20:00.002-04:00

This is a quickie. It is also a call for help. Or at least sympathy.
Tonight (that would be Friday night, for anyone paying attention) my dad decided to surprise my stepmom by bumping up the movie she just keeps talking and talking (and talking and fucking talking) about so it's number one on the Netflix queue. We settled in, a pizza for everyone (like, a pizza a piece I mean - my rant on obesity soon to follow), and pressed play.
Which means tonight (still Friday. Friday night people) I am sitting here watching The Squeakquel. With my parents. As my stepmother dances along with the rodent rendition of All the Single Ladies.
There is not enough beer in the world.

(dad's advice upon seeing my glassy-eyed expression and knowing an obnoxiously snarky comment was on its way? "just go blog it out honey." i've said it before and i'll say it again: smart, smart daddy.)

Assimilation Setback

2010-04-13T15:05:00.002-04:00

I’ve been in a bit of a jam for the last few days, and I’ll tell you why.

See, I am generally a bit of an idiot. Seriously. And I happily share my state of idiocy with you, because I figure if you keep coming back to read this stuff you’re probably a little bit like me. And at least if I’m going to be an idiot, I want to be a funny one, because being a boring idiot is a little like being... stupid, I guess.

A few days ago, though, I wrote something not to make anyone laugh, but to make everyone smile. My extended family of sisters lost one of our own, and it seemed really important to put aside the dumb stuff long enough to give a tiny little tribute, best I could, to someone who is important to so many people, has touched so many lives, and will always be missed and remembered.

The problem then, is where to go from there. It always feels awkward, a bit jarring, to switch gears. I’ve been unsure about how to go back to my normally frivolous ramblings. What should I write about? Will I disappoint? What if now that I’ve written something serious I can’t ever write anything funny again?

Lucky for me, for all of us, I went right ahead and did something ridiculous today. It’s like God was gently reminding me, “Not to worry, my child. You’re still an idiot.”

As you know, I’m back in Ohio for awhile. It’s been a fantastic respite from the hustle and bustle of nine years in New York, and I’m loving all the fresh air, the warm spring days, and the generally slower pace. I’ve had more people say “hello/good morning/how are ya” in the past two weeks than in the previous two years. I’ve chatted with my neighbors, waved at the mailman, and told the dude behind the counter where I buy my beer to have a great weekend. (If I’d done that in Hoboken he either wouldn’t have understood what I was saying or would have stared blankly at me until I flicked him off and chucked an f-bomb at him.) But the best part? I can drive. Everywhere. Anywhere. Ask any Midwesterner who’s made the move to Manhattan what they miss most, and they won’t say their families. They won’t say common courtesy. They won’t say being able to take a deep breath outdoors without smelling urine. They will say how much they miss their cars. The freedom that comes from being able to hop in, crank the radio, and hit the open road at a moment’s notice. (Now, in the spirit of full disclosure, I should tell you I don’t really have all that going for me exactly quite yet. Because I don’t actually have a car. I have to drive my dad’s. It’s a lot like being seventeen again, only without as many stickers on the back window.)

So it was in my dad’s car today that I pulled off my little street onto the main road, drove about a half a mile or so, and pulled up behind a monstrous black Cadillac in the left turn lane, waiting for the red light and seemingly driverless. And when the light changed, giving us the green left turn arrow, I gave that tiny old woman about an eighth of a second before I laid on the horn. I mean, laaaaaaid on the horn. Because that’s how you do it in Jersey. We don’t really say fuggedaboudit, we don’t all live by the GTL credo, and we don’t all have fake nails, big hair, and horrible accents. But we all honk. People, I am not exaggerating when I tell you that about twenty cars came to a screeching halt. Loud, skidding, tires burning rubber kind of stoppage. Because, apparently, the only reason you would ever lay on your horn like that around here is if some kind of imminent, life-threatening danger was upon us. Like an ambulance coming through, perhaps. Or the apocalypse. But no, in Jersey, you just do that when the light turns green (the second the light turns green) to alert the driver in front of you that you know they are slow, and stupid, and not paying attention, and that you’re just generally more important and off to someplace infinitely better than wherever they are headed.

I think I might have given that poor old shriveled up little Cadillac driver a bit of a heart attack. It was mortifying. Naturally, I just did what everyone else was doing, and looked around frantically to see who was responsible for the chaos. They probably all knew it was me, and were just too nice to make me feel bad. At least next time they see me coming they’ll just get their slow Ohio asses the hell out of my way, if they know what’s good for them.

And at least I didn’t flick her off?

She Was A DG. Still Is.

2010-04-09T11:32:00.001-04:00

Did I ever tell you the story about how I ended up a sorority girl? Might seem like an obvious fit to those of you who know and love me for the cheerleading, pink wearing, glossy lipped girly girl that I am, but it actually was a bit of a tough sell.

I went away to college my freshman year at BGSU with my high school boyfriend back at Ohio State, and my high school best friend as a roommate. The idea of rushing a sorority never really crossed my mind. Didn’t need it. I knew my parents had both been Greek, and had good experiences, but neither of them are really “glory days” kind of people so I never heard much about it.

By the end of my freshman year, I was clinging desperately to that high school boyfriend and my high school best friend was staying home to have what would become one of the most beautiful little baby girls you could ever hope to see. And my father, my quiet, unassuming, not really all that bossy father, made a decision. He was sending me back to school -- a week early, no less -- to go through Rush. I was flabbergasted, to say the least. I think my dad’s only “made” me do like six things in my life, if you count stuff like homework and bathing as a collective whole. I was piiiiiissed. Going back to school a week early meant another week away from Scott, another week away from Lee, another week longer at a school I wasn’t really all that connected to in the first place. (Smart, smart daddy.) So we had our third fight ever, he promised me he didn’t care at all if I actually pledged as long as I gave the experience and myself a chance, and I went.

My memories of the week are a little vague (it was a long time ago, and a fuzzy time at that). I remember meeting a lot of girls, some I really liked, some not so much, and neither of those seemed determined by which house they were in. Of course the sororities had reputations, stereotypes attached, and most of those were actually pretty right on. Like the insecure eighteen year old I was, I liked the popular houses, full of pretty girls. I was fascinated by the girl who walked in front of me to “Formal Desserts” one afternoon, who was the tiniest little person I’d ever seen with the biggest mess of beautiful blond curls. I couldn’t for the life of me figure out how her frame held all that up. I felt intimidated by the most idealistic sorority girl you could ever conjure up, who led me through my favorite house: petite, very blonde, huge blue eyes, sweet demeanor and just plain perky. That wasn’t really the part that intimidated me though -- it was looking at this sweet little person and realizing she was smart as hell. I mean, seriously smarter than me. And I promise, she’s smarter than you. I listened to stories about how Rush meant looking for your roommate, your best friend, your bridesmaid, and that’s how you’d know you were in the right place. (Side note: both of those girls stood beside me at my own wedding a few years later.) I was feeling a strange pull toward this particular house, but still very unsure about the whole thing.

And then I met Tara.

Should you be picturing an entire sorority house full of skinny towheads -- of which I am neither -- let me introduce you to Tara as I met her. It was one of the final days of Rush, meaning the girls were making decisions on both sides. I really liked this sorority. It was big, and popular on campus (for the right reasons), seemed to have an incredibly diverse group of sickeningly gorgeous women who also happened to be brainy, sporty, artistic, involved and funny. But I still for the life of me couldn’t imagine myself in this scenario. Tara took me through the last party, and I was hooked. She was like a secret weapon -- there was no meeting her, spending time with her, without wanting to be a part of whatever she was doing. She had this crazy, wild dark curly hair, all the way down her back. She was small (of course) but somehow managed to take up the whole room. Huge grin covered in dark red lipstick. And you could just tell she was trouble. I mean, like, the best kind of trouble. She laughed, all the time and always out loud. She sang and danced and moved constantly, even if it was a “formal” event and she was the only one doing it. No one seemed to mind. And just as I left the house, feeling really frightened because all of a sudden I wanted something really badly and had no idea if the feeling was mutual, she grabbed me by the shoulders, gave me a huge bear hug, and whispered, “I better fucking see you here tomorrow!” in my ear.

And just like that, I was a Delta Gamma.

That meant, for the next three years, I always had a party to go to, always had people to smile at and talk to on campus and in classes, had a level of prestige that just came with being part of a very elite little club. It wasn’t perfect, come on. I never lived in the house, because I struggled with some major body issues and worried what would happen to me if I was living with fifty girls who were way too skinny and were struggling, oftentimes in the least healthy of ways, with their own body images. You can’t collect over a hundred girls together and expect them all to be best friends. Some of my sisters I adored, some I barely knew, and some really got on my fucking nerves. Sisters. We sang goofy songs and went on spring breaks and fell in love and out and in and out and plopped anchors on every flat surface and gossiped and graduated. Most of them I didn’t talk to for years, and the beauty of Facebook is that I got to find so many of them again, hear what adventures they’d found, see their children, discover that these amazing girls had become the most fascinating of women.

A few months ago, our little social media world started buzzing with talk that Tara was ill. She’d lived the hard life of an artist -- an unbelievably, take-your-breath away kind of talented artist -- and it had taken its toll on her. Her organs were shutting down and she was fighting for her life. And more so than since the day I put that silly, stupid sailor hat on my head, I learned what it means to be in a sorority. Laugh if you want, don’t get it if you can’t, but this is serious stuff. This band of women has, without blinking, without questioning or hesitating or stalling, joined together in prayer and story-telling and love of one another in a way that has brought me to tears in the past two weeks more times than I can count. We’ve posted old pictures of our best days and our worst fashion choices. We’ve reconnected. I won’t pretend that Tara and I stayed close; that would be a disservice to those women who have been with her all this time, watching her, living with her, coping with the impossible task of having someone they love give in to addiction. But Tara and I stayed sisters. We all did.

I wish this had a happier, more sororityish ending. But it doesn’t. Tomorrow I’ll see a lot of my sisters for the first time since I graduated at Tara’s funeral. It doesn’t seem real and it’s certainly not right. I’ll hug my friends and cry for their loss and be reminded that, even as an insecure eighteen year old, I made exactly the right decision.

I am a Delta Gamma. Love in the Bonds of Sisterhood.

Tara Lynne Scare, 10/23/74 - 04/03/10

So Now I Know.

2010-03-25T15:08:00.003-04:00

Ever start something, knowing full well that it wasn't going to last forever (and that's okay) and thought to yourself, "Well I wonder how this is going to end."?

Nine years ago today, driving my little car behind a big old truck, both full of my shit (literally just as well as figuratively, I might add), coming across the state line into New Jersey, having made an incredibly spontaneous decision to move my small town cookies to the Big Apple, looking forward to an adventure and having absolutely no idea what I was getting myself into, I asked myself that very same question.

So now I Know.

In a few minutes I'm heading out to Newark Airport to pick up my dad, and tomorrow we'll rent another big old truck, load my shit back up (less literal this time -- not much closet space around here and I have a weird nomadic tendency to move every 16 days -- and a lot more figurative, since I'm older and wiser and therefore carrying around even more useless info than I was then), and reverse routes.

I will have seemingly endless time to ruminate on this, and I'm sure you'll have to hear all about it. The decision was incredibly complicated, overwhelmingly over-thought, and in the end quite simple. It's time to go home.

For a little while. (I still don't really have my commitment issues under control. I'm working on it. Not really.) The long and short of it: I've been away from my family for almost 15 years. I have learned exactly how hard I'm willing to fight to live in this place that is, truly, not for the feint of heart, and I've learned exactly how capable I am of fighting for what I want. Not always getting it, but knowing that I've given it my all.

I don't know how long I'll end up sticking around, where I'll end up next, or what I'll get out of my time there, but I'm really looking forward to it.

That being said... I. Will. Always. Love. You. New. York. God, I love this town. I love my friends here. Ferociously. I have loved acting, the thrill of a good audition, learning the craft from the most exceptional of teachers, challenging myself to be utterly and entirely vulnerable, and the feeling of being right where I'm supposed to be whenever I'm on set. I love the people. Seriously. They're brisk and efficient and colorful and have no patience for bullshit, until you really need them and then they are full of love and generosity and a kindness that I am proud to have been here to experience one horrible, horrible fall day. I love that you can't walk down a street here without hearing live music, ten different languages, and people who are simply in awe of the very place that you call home. I love Central Park and the tiny boutique where I shopped on 9th Avenue and walking the length of Bedford Street and Corner Bistro burgers and City Bistro brunches and the meshing of opulence and poverty at every intersection. I love Shake Shack and the view from Hoboken's pier and cutting through Union Square on my way to the bookstore. I love, truly madly deeply, love New York City.

There is hope here, and I love hopeful places.

On to the next. Stories to follow, my friends.

Year in (Book) Review: This Is Where I Leave You

2010-03-19T19:52:00.000-04:00

Looooooved this one... probably not for everyone.
(Also, unrelatedly, I had grand plans to link all these book reviews together, and for the first few I remembered to include hyperlinks to past reviews. That didn't last. Does anyone miss it? If so I'll totally pick it up again; if not, screw it.)

Okay. Jonathan Tropper, This Is Where I Leave You. Young New York guy who's put out several novels, but this is the first of his that I've read. I've heard mixed things about his previous books, which makes me think he's a love-him-or-not-so-much kind of guy. And I love him. (Or, at least, I love this novel.) If I was a super-snide Jewish guy, I would want to have written this book. Actually, being a super-snide waspy white girl, I still wish I'd written this book.

TIWILY (that's cute, huh?) tells the story of an upstate New York 30-something who's having a tough go of it. His marriage is on the verge of crumbling for some horrible, humorous reasons, and the book opens with his sister calling to say that his father has finally succumbed to the cancer he's been fighting. Not being a particularly close family, or a particularly religious one, they begrudgingly join together for a week of sitting shiva, their father's suspect dying request. It pretty much goes downhill from there.

Again, this one's not going to be for everyone. It's a dark topic, with lots of dark offshoots, for starters. And he's a bit crass, by which I am politely saying that he's downright vulgar from time to time. So if that's not your thing, watch out. Me, I can't get enough. Somehow or another, Tropper manages to walk this really beautiful (totally not the right word, but I'm running with it) line between the comical melodrama of a book that was obviously written with screenplay dreams, and this exceptionally raw, true story of a guy dealing with a very beat up heart. And don't we all want to carefully straddle that line between being comically melodramatic and pretty damn real? He is laugh out loud funny in more than a few places. I mean, laugh out loud. He writes dialogue in a way that makes me sick with envy; it's straightforward, stripped down and flows exactly the way it should. A lot happens -- too much, honestly; at some point you have to be okay with not giving every. single. character (of which there are aplenty) some horrific blight -- but he balances it all and keeps it easy for his reader to manage. And it doesn't end completely depressingly, which would have been the obvious way to go. Kudos on that.

I really, really ate this one up (obviously, since I just finished Committed two days ago) and that'll probably tell you something about me. I have no idea what, though.

Year in (Book) Review: Committed

2010-03-15T17:39:00.002-04:00

Hmmm. I've been worried about writing this one from the moment I started reading. A bit close to the bone, but we’ll figure it out, won’t we?

Our latest book review is Elizabeth Gilbert's -- she of Eat, Pray, Love fame -- newest. Committed was handed to me by the same friend who gave me Ms. Gilbert's first memoir, just a few years ago but before it had reached the masses and Julia Roberts.

A quick backstory: I sat down for lunch with one of my closest friends, Ariel, who happens to be an avid reader with impeccable taste in everything from art to friends to shoes to literature. I soak up every single thing she says and does. One key difference in the way she and I approach books and movies and the like is this: once the opening credits have rolled, or the first page has turned, I'm in. I can't stop reading or watching once it's started, which means I've wasted many an afternoon on a less-than-interesting or well-made creation. Ariel has no such patience. If it doesn't grab her, she's on to the next thing that might. So, when she began reading this little book that all sorts of women-type folk were reading and saying things like, "Oh, everyone will see themselves in this book" or "Oh, it's like she was talking just to me" or "Oh, It's as if she was writing about my life," Ariel looked at me and said, "I don't feel like she's writing about my life. I feel like she's writing about yours." So she stopped reading, handed it over, and I lost myself in a fantastic true story about a woman who loses herself a little in a marriage she's rethinking, then loses herself a lot as she turns away from it, and then somehow manages to find herself again. I relived some nights crying on the bathroom floor, spent some new nights crying on a different bathroom floor, and finally felt good to have gotten some stale tears out of my system. Nowadays it's garnered so much attention that it's probably hard at this point for Eat, Pray, Love to live up to the hype, but if you've not read it I really encourage you to give it a try. It's truly touching.

Which leads us to a similar lunch, just a few weeks ago, where Ariel handed me the next of Liz's books. Without giving much away from either story, Eat, Pray, Love ended somewhat happily with our author finding love again, with a man as equally determined never to remarry as she was. Ah, romance and skepticism, such strange and amicable bedfellows. Committed picks up shortly thereafter, when the U.S. Department of Homeland Security puts in their two cents and tells the lovebirds -- one of whom happens to not be an American citizen -- that they will, in fact, need to marry. At least if they ever want to spend time together in this great country of ours again, that is. So, Committed tells the tale of a couple "sentenced to marry" and how the author comes to terms with an institution that she feels has really, really let her down. Or perhaps... vice versa.

Ariel couldn't get into the book because it felt a bit "textbooky" to her, and she's absolutely right. Liz Gilbert is, in the case of these two particular books anyway, a journalist. She's telling a very true, factual story. And in this book, she is literally trying to research a good chunk of Western Civilization for its thoughts, ideas, and input on marriage, as she tries desperately to convince herself that the very thing that nearly destroyed her the first time won't, in fact, finish her off this go-round.

I know how she feels, in a way that Ariel and her close-to-perfect husband Lew (I can say that because he's not my husband) will (I sure hope) never know. When a marriage doesn't work, and when you man up and take a good share of ownership in that failure, it cuts you in places and ways that seem unhealable. To know that you've caused pain, pain like a death, to someone whom you love(d) above all others at one point... it takes out your soul for a little while. Melodramatic, I know, but not overstated. And being told over and over and over again that you're in good, epidemically wide-spread company is hardly comforting. People telling you, after the fact and ad nauseum, that the could have seen it coming because you two were too young, or his mother was too involved, or just that hardly anyone makes it in marriage so why did you really expect to, only makes you want to hit them. Even if it’s your own grandmother. Especially then. There is, I'm afraid, no solvent for those wounds. You just have to wait for the scar, and try not to pick the scab while you wait.

I have found myself, for most of the nine or so years I've been divorced (a shocking revelation to all you readers who estimated my age at approximately twenty, I'm sure) telling myself I'll never get married again. There's a lot of self-preservation there, and a lot of pride on the line, because honestly who wants to get their heart shattered twice, or fuck something up beyond all hope of repair twice? But that's for me and my shrink, should I ever have the money or the insurance to procure a shrink. This case, this book, is about the lovely Ms. Gilbert being told by her government that, no matter how adamantly she argues, she's got to either get married or kiss her honey goodbye. I don't think even a note from her shrink would've been able to help. So (and here's where the "textbooky" part comes in) she decides to take their imposed exile as a time to study up on why most marriages fail, how some marriages eek through, and how, every so often, we get stopped in our tracks by the romance of two old people who can't imagine a day without their soulmate.

She studies a great number of cultures, asks a lot of interesting questions, and between you and me still doesn't seem all that convinced at the end of the last chapter that this is for sure going to work. I'm glad no one told me a few years ago that I had to do it again. Yes, it's clinical, in that it's full of facts and history and study. But it's also really touching in that it's full of one woman's willingness to open her own life --fears, hesitancies, doubts and all -- up to the rest of us, and be vulnerable on our behalf. If you're married, I think this'll make you feel really good about it. If your not, I think this'll make you feel really good about it.

And my favorite part? She dedicates the book -- a book about marriage; about singular, exclusionary partnership to (in this case) one man -- to the twenty seven women in her life who have helped her define what being a woman means, above being a daughter, or a sister, or a friend, or a wife. And it seems that they must be a pretty smart group of women, because it seems that they've helped her do just that. Define herself. I know some women like that.

Year in (Book) Review: The Lost City of Z

2010-03-03T15:13:00.000-05:00

A couple of debatably interesting things about me:

1. I think I can do pretty much anything.
2. I have rarely, if ever, actually done much of anything.

I'm speaking mostly on brave and adventurous type things, rather than general life accomplishments. I am that strange breed of person who sees anything, hears about anything, dreams up anything, and says, "Well shit. I could do that," with no real resume to back up said claim. I am, therefore and by definition, a blustery person. I have a tremendous wanderlust and an unused passport. (That’s not hyperbole, that’s true.)

The first time I questioned this -- myself, you might say -- was a few years ago, about three pages into Jon Krakauer's Into Thin Air. (He is best known, I think, for his book Into the Wild, which became such a successful film. Jon is, by definition, not blustery. Read: he actually walks the walk, and then talks about it. I just keep talking.) I have no idea why these kinds of adventure books are so interesting to me, but I eat them up. Somewhere in what I'm pretty sure was still the introduction of Into Thin Air, an account of a tragic and dangerous 1996 summiting of Mt. Everest, Mr. Krakauer started describing the shit -- literally, I'm not just being a potty mouth -- that was running through the streets of the town on the way to base camp. Meaning, pretty much before anything approaching adventure, really still hundreds of miles away from adventure, there was poop on the ground. I read that far and said, "I'm out." Nothing he wrote in the following pages -- nothing in the retelling of frostbite, of freezing to death where you stood, of falling thousands of feet -- convinced me that a vigorous mountain climb was in my future. Some people are just braver than me. I'm not happy to admit that, but seeing as I've only skydived (skydove?) once and that was just to impress a boy, I don't land in any annuls on the bravest people ever. But they are inexplicably fascinating to me.

So, having exhausted all of Krakauer's adventure tales (I'm starting to suspect he's just a braggart.)(No, not really, I’m just jealous. Please read them, they’re excellent.), I picked up David Grann's The Lost City of Z: A Tale of Deadly Obsession in the Amazon. Grann is a writer for The New Yorker and got himself so fascinated by the subject of this book, a 1920s explorer who went and got himself disappeared, that he trekked off to the Amazon himself in search of answers. And probably bones. That's cool.

I didn’t find myself as drawn in as I did with Krakauer’s books, but it’s still pretty damn exhilarating to think of some guy in 1925 climbing onto a boat in Hoboken (yay Hoboken!) and landing, over and over again, in Brazil, searching for the mythical (maybe) city of Z/El Dorado/heaven on Earth. It’s educational. It’s historical. It’s exceptionally well-researched. Telling the story from several different perspectives -- author Grann’s, subject Percy Fawcett’s, and a couple of other “Fawcett freaks” -- the book draws a very vivid picture of what this territory must’ve been like in the early part of the 20th century: completely daunting terrain, little to no method of communicating with the outside world, hostiles who are probably more confused than angry about why some really tall, really pale dude just showed up in their back yard. Fawcett is almost a caricature of an old-fashioned explorer, complete with safari hat and flouncy pants and a beard, except that he’s real. He’s probably the one who formed that “explorer” image into our heads, actually. Creating a wonderfully complete picture of his life, Grann introduces us to Fawcett’s marriage, his work relationships, his followers, his children, and his ancestors, all of whom have a unique take on the man. He seemed to me equal parts selfish, brave, foolish, driven, stubborn, and called to something higher. I kind of love a guy like that.

In other words, the kind of guy who hears about something and says, “Well, shit. I could do that.” And then actually does.

Cautionary Tales of Poor Decisions

2010-02-18T20:47:00.003-05:00

Or, perhaps more accurately:
A Particular Cautionary Tale of Making Decisions Like a Poor Person.

As you know, dear and loyal and supportive readers, I’ve been working a bit less in the past few months. Actually, lately I’ve been working a lot, I’ve just been getting paid a lot less. Ahh, experience.

And as you know as well, I’m nothing if not practical.

So, since I’m making a lot less money right now, I’m in turn making very wise and prudent and admirable decisions to spend less money. Alas, this means lifestyle changes. It means less socializing. Less shopping. I got rid of my Blackberry. Turn off the lights more often. Those kinds of various and sundry things.

More tough to process, it means cutting back on the little luxuries of life. Like, for example, giving up eating out and cooking for myself. My cooking has expanded from the usual Lean Pockets and Wheat Chex to include such delicacies as thin spaghetti and... other flavors of Lean Pockets. I’m practically a domestic.

And giving up my at-least-semi-regular mani/pedis. I can paint my own nails, right? Surely. I mean, I haven’t, because I don’t care that much about having painted nails and if you’re not going to have someone else massage your hands and trim your cuticles and just generally make you feel wealthy and pampered, what the hell’s the point?

And, to bring us up to point, waxing. You can already see where this is going, can’t you. You smart readers.

Yes, I decided today that I would try to combine two words that should never be found next to each other in a sentence: Self. Wax.
I bought the box. There were lots to choose from -- a surprising number, really -- and I opted for the cheapest (you’re welcome, financial advisor) that also boasted about being the least messy. I’m contacting their marketing department as soon as I’m done with this blog.
I came home, stripped down (yeah, I have my eyebrows under control... that wasn’t the area of primary concern...) and happily, nakedly, meandered over to the microwave mumbling to myself, in my best Miyagi (which, it turns out, is not very good), “ahhh.... wax on, wax off. Wax on, wax off.”

I was half right.

I got exactly one and a half strips into the process before realizing I’d made a horrible, horrible decision. Some things are just meant to be done outside the home. There’s a reason people, even (sorry, sorry) uneducated foreigners with little to no command of the English language, are paid handsomely to take care of certain things.

Let me just walk you through this, so I can drill home the importance of knowing that you are never, NEVER too poor to have someone else tend to your lady bits.

STRIP ONE.
Following the directions (to a T, I might add), I spread the thoroughly heated vat of wax onto the cheap wooden tongue depressor, dripped it (odd, since it clearly and specifically says "no drip formula" right on the box for anyone to see) all the way across my sink, onto the floor and a little bit of my standing foot (foot number two being strategically propped up on the counter for maximum access; yoga is good) and managed to spread an uneven glob of it onto my thigh. Not where I was aiming, exactly, but close enough. Spreading, as instructed, in the direction of the hair growth, I was feeling pretty confident that things were going well and I was an exemplary member of the lower middle class. Then I put the tongue depressor down and grabbed for the sheet of really thick paper used for ripping. Or, that’s what I was intending to do. Unfortunately, the wooden stick was stuck to my fingers. Well shit. But there’s no time to panic now -- just violently shake the damn thing off before the wax cools. Pull skin taut (easy, because my fingers are now stuck to my skin) and rip quickly in opposite direction of hair growth. Hmm. Rip, yes. Quickly, no. It was more of a slow, hesitant tug. Which managed to yield about four hairs. Not good odds, my friends, not good odds.

STRIP TWO.
Hard to imagine that after the Strip One story, there would be a Strip Two. I’m nothing if not persistent. So on went the next round of wax. On, again, to the counter, the towel next to me, and somehow or another, my stomach. Weird. Anyway. Just as I started to apply Strip Two to a delicate piece of property, I noticed a large, swollen, purplish blob where Strip One had just been. Hmm. Well that’s not pretty. You can’t even tell that there’s no hair there, because it looks like a boil. And I’m not going to do it again, even closer to Ground Zero. Buuuutttt.... there’s already wax there. My fingers are more or less useless because, apparently, I’ve washed them in the wax. I don’t remember doing that, but they are so covered that it seems to be the only possible explanation. I end up having to use the other, non-waxy end of the tongue depressor to scrape off the wax. I was as thorough as possible, and yet here I am, hours later, still sticky. Everywhere. Everywhere.

Seriously, you guys.

That’s a long story, I know. Thank you for sticking with me (shit) and I hope that you can take away the very valuable lesson that I’m trying to pass along. I'm nothing if not helpful.

Cook your own food. Paint your own nails. Leave some things to the experts, and tip them well. They’re earning it down there.

On the Inside, Looking Out

2010-02-16T16:49:00.001-05:00

All I can hear is the rain draining down the side of the building, with one spot of what must be particularly enormous drops because it’s making the most obscene glopping sound as it hits the concrete deck. All of this is behind me -- I’m on the couch with my back to the wall, because that’s the way the couch faces. It’s a horribly insulated wall; I can just practically feel a slight breeze on my bare arms because there are so many cracks and poorly seamed crevices. The window air conditioner unit behind me, just over my left shoulder, might as well be a fucking fan it’s letting so much air in. And the gaping spaces around the door, especially under it -- a fucking sewer rat could probably walk right in if it was smart enough to come in out of the rain, which lucky for me most sewer rats are not. It sounds as if I’m describing some slum tenement or something. I’m not. It’s just my apartment, and really it’s rather lovely. I mean, it’s a shithole second story walk up in Hoboken, New Jersey, right above my favorite dive bar in the world, but it’s lovely. I’m feeling a little directionless right now and I’m afraid my poor, drafty apartment is taking the brunt of the negativity. I choose to sit here, though, draft be damned, because I love the view. There is a glass-paneled door in front of me that separates the tiny sitting room from the disproportionately oversized kitchen. Just to my right is the damned ill-fitting door out to our back patio, where as I’ve explained it is currently raining. Snowing, actually, but since it’s probably thirty three degrees outside it’s that huge wet snow, loud and cold. The deck door has window panes in it as well, and so I can sit on my couch, facing into the apartment, but stare outside at the same time, because the glass reflects onto itself and it becomes a way for me to look backward, facing forward. It’s not a great view; it’s other people’s balconies cluttered with illegal gas grills and bad plastic furniture and discarded children’s toys. That’s never made sense to me, why people put their trash on their back patios. If it’s trash, and you make the effort to take it outside, why wouldn’t you walk out the front, instead of the back, where your chances of getting rid of the trash increase exponentially? Certainly no one is coming for it or taking it away if it’s on your back patio. No one will even know it’s there, except for me apparently, and I’m certainly not going to get rid of it for you. I wonder what they’re all doing in there. Raising their children, neglecting them, sleeping, eating, living their lives that are probably very different from mine and also probably very, very similar. Flitting back and forth between The Paris Review and TMZ, a lover of literature and intelligence and an equally voracious consumer of popular trash. Reading other people’s blogs and writing my own, a voyeur and an exhibitionist all at once. It’s an interesting life, isn’t it? It certainly, most certainly is. I think so, anyway.

Love and Other Such Nonsense

2010-02-15T00:05:00.001-05:00

It's 11:40 on Valentine's Day night, and I have nothing interesting to say but still feel like talking. I haven't always been super keen on this day, but to be perfectly honest, while I might talk a big game it doesn't really bother me all that much. Really. Sure it makes me pensive sometimes, but I'm usually pensive. And while it just might make me a little more sarcastic, a little more caustic, a little more... snarky than usual, it would hardly be noticeable to the average eye, which sees that I'm always some varying degree of those things.
So, my observances on today, as it's almost over. In no particular order:

**When you're single on Valentine's Day, you get a lot more love. I got a card from my mom and texts from my friends. And a wink from the guy at the bar downstairs who's always outside smoking when I went down to take out the trash. Last year my gay boyfriend and his actual gay boyfriend took me to dinner and to see Naked Boys Singing, and I can't imagine that Prince Charming himself could top it. I still have the Justin Timberlake card they gave me and the stuffed monkey souvenir, and the pride of being one of very few people in the world who can say that sentence and have it be true.

**I tried to be bitter and single and watch Down with Love, but it turned out to be so horribly, unbearably unwatchable that I watched Mr. & Mrs. Smith instead, which is surprisingly romantic, and wondered 1) if Jen's ever watched the movie, just out of curiosity and that all-too-female tendency to self-destruct, and 2) how skinny Angelina must really be, because I have the same pair of Hunter boots that she wears in the movie, only I can barely fit them over my fat calves and she's got room for her twiggy legs AND a gun.

**At some point, on any day really but probably especially this day, you will question your lot in life. Then, if you're smart and selfish like me, you'll wash down Target brand spanikopita with a whole bottle of surprisingly nice champagne and think, "if someone else was here I would have to share. I am lucky."

**I am lucky. In love, and other places. Night now, loves.

Year in (Book) Review: The Associate

2010-02-08T23:45:00.000-05:00

1. Loving Frank by Nancy Horan
2. The Man of My Dreams by Curtis Sittenfeld
3. The Lovely Bones by Alice Sebold
4. The Shack by William Paul Young

Yeah, I read it. So? So I am a literary snob who lists F. Scott Fitzgerald as her favorite author and plans to name her daughter Harper someday. So I read a John Grisham book. Correction: I read another John Grisham book. It went something like this: I finished The Shack while sitting at the Virginia Beach Airport. I needed something quick and brain-cleansing to read, something I could be nearly entirely confident had nothing to do with small children being violently ripped away from their families. I happen to find comfort from time to time in formulaic, completely plot-driven stories that are at least grammatically correct if not Pulitzer worthy.

In lieu of an actual review, please see every other John Grisham review ever written, about every other John Grisham book ever written, as this one does not stray in the least from any of the twenty plus law/crime dramas that precede it. And that's just the way I wanted it.

Year in (Book) Review: The Shack

2010-02-03T18:48:00.003-05:00

1. Loving Frank by Nancy Horan
2. The Man of My Dreams by Curtis Sittenfeld
3. The Lovely Bones by Alice Sebold

(I promise I'm nearly caught up and will soon have other things to report on, discuss, and generally whine about than books I'm reading this year.) (Okay, I don't promise that, but I promise to try.)

I'm not particularly sure what it says about my current mental state or general ability to choose an upbeat topic to immerse myself in, but, to follow up with my previous reading of Alice Sebold's The Lovely Bones, I chose The Shack. Yep, a second story that aims to tell about a father tormented by the untimely and brutal death of his young daughter.

That's about where the similarities end, however. Author William P. Young's book is unabashedly "Christian" in its approach. I've read quite a few faith-centric books (Max Lucado is a big favorite of mine; I readily admit to taking in more than my fair share of Chicken Soup) and Mr. Young's book ranks up there with those -- both in earnestness and cheesiness. The description on the back cover of the novel describes the author as "raised among a stone-age tribe by his missionary parents... He suffered a great loss as a child and young adult, and now enjoys wastefulness of grace' with his family..." Well. There you go. I'm actually happy I didn't catch any of that until after I'd read the book, or I'm afraid my eyes might have rolled back in my head so far that I wouldn't have been able to read at all. Sorry about that if you've not read it. I volunteer to smack the backs of anyone whose rolling eyes have stuck.

I poke fun at an entire genre (hey, it's my blog...) but I really don't mean to belittle. As I said, I have oftentimes sought out Christian books when I feel like I'm far away from my faith, when I need a little pick-me-up, or when, as is pretty regularly the case, I'm just feeling a little lost. This one, sitting on the best sellers' shelf in my beloved Hoboken Barnes & Noble, grabbed my attention for all those reasons. All teasing aside, it didn't disappoint.

Several years after unspeakable tragedy strikes his family, our narrator finds a note in his mailbox, presumably and inexplicably from God, inviting him to return to the very shack where his young daughter was snatched and presumed murdered by a serial child killer. The following 90% of the book takes place over the course of that weekend, and it's an interesting, if predictable, progression of tale. But after all, don't we choose these books because of that very predictability? You can't get annoyed when follows the exact course it never claims to wander from. That's like going to see Legally Blond and getting annoyed that you didn't come away with a Harvard education.

The Shack, therefore, follows in a long line of religion-based books, and feels much like a prolonged fable for adults. It's chock full of messages, lessons, and morals. What drew me in, however, was Young's ability to tell such a familiar, predictable story in a rather refreshing way. He manages to keep from leaning too far into the preachy, evangelical world of so many like him; he avoids the pitfalls and cliches that so many of his fellow Christian writers haven fallen prey to, thereby alienating any reader who actually cares about the quality of the text.

I was a little confused by the forward, which explains to readers that the actual narrator is a friend of the protagonist father at the center of the story. He gives a detailed explanation of the narrator's point of view, and then never seems to become a pertinent piece of information again. I don't really get what it lent to the story and I certainly could have done without it -- I kept waiting for it to matter and it never did.

But after this rocky start Mr. Young falls readily and easily into his story, and it's enjoyable to follow along. Again, it's a bit jarring to use the word "enjoy" when reading such a truly traumatic account, but much like with Ms. Sebold's version, he handles the delicate topic with such grace and respect that he allows his readers permission to smile.

The Shack ends happily, if predictably, and I wouldn't have been satisfied with any other kind of ending.

Year in (Book) Review: The Lovely Bones

2010-02-03T17:11:00.003-05:00

1. Loving Frank by Nancy Horan
2. The Man of My Dreams by Curtis Sittenfeld

(I told you I was backed up. Two in one day. Can you handle it?)

Book number three: the widely read and highly touted The Lovely Bones, by Alice Sebold. I know, I know -- I'm a bit behind the times on this one. As is often the case, it took the movie coming out for me to get around to reading it. I wish desperately that I had nothing to do but read; if that was the case as soon as a book garnered any attention, and certainly by the time it was optioned, I would have my nose buried in it. But unfortunately (and contrary to popular opinion), I do have other things to do. Today, for example, I had to watch approximately ten hours of ESPNU, in honor of National Signing Day. (Ohio State fared okay. Eh. I'm so sick of Florida, and I loathe Lane Kiffin.) Mainly the reason I hate not reading a book before the film is announced is that then I have the actors in my head, rather than letting my imagination create and define the characters, as written. (If I'd had to read Elizabeth Gilbert's Eat, Pray, Love with Julia Roberts in my head, for example, I would not have been happy.) (Although in this particular case Mark Wahlberg was just too bizarre a casting choice for me to envision as this girl's father, and I love me some Mark Wahlberg.)

I won't beat a dead horse with this one - chances are if you've not read The Lovely Bones at this point you're either not going to or illiterate. Or, you're just even more backlogged than me. It's a beautiful story, which is always a strange thing to say about an ugly story. Young Susie is murdered (I don't think I'm giving anything away at this point), rather brutally, and the tale is told from her perspective, both earthbound and otherworldly, as she watches over her mourning, broken family and her tormented, mentally disturbed killer. The most predominant storyline is that of young Susie's relationship with her loving and distraught father, and his unwillingness to let go and leave his daughter's death unsolved. It is touching; it is difficult; it is oftentimes funny and almost ordinary. Sebold's Susie is such a normal, giddy young woman. Even in heaven she experiences things true to a girl coming of age. Sebold never wavers from her narrator's voice; it is steady and so very readable. My only criticism, if you can even call it that, is the seemingly abrupt ending. The entire novel has a feeling of being spread out -- not dragging, just slowly paced -- even as years worth of activities and emotions are laid out for us. So the actual conclusion, which happens really in just a few pages, is a bit jarring in its lack of detail. It's almost an afterthought.

I don't know a tremendous amount about Alice Sebold, but I'm aware that she was a rape victim and has woven that theme into much of her writing. (Her memoir, Lucky, tells her personal story. I would like to read it; that's perhaps the best review I can give an author -- wanting to read more of what he or she has written. Especially when it's about rape, which is not a topic I generally want much to do with.) I compliment her ability to bring realism and authenticity to her story, without delving into such a dark place that her readers are unable or unwilling to follow her.

Year in (Book) Review: The Man of My Dreams

2010-02-03T16:37:00.003-05:00

1. Loving Frank by Nancy Horan

Okay, it's February third and I'm already all off track. This is why I don't ever write series of things, because I'm too damn disjointed and lazy to maintain any kind of thread. But I've been doing the reading, and I committed to logging every book I read, and I'm determined not to slack off only thirty two days into the year. Dammit.

Book review number two is The Man of My Dreams (no comments from the peanut gallery, please - whatever snide comment you're thinking of, I've already thought it too) by Curtis Sittenfeld, a young author I have a total girl-on-girl-writer crush on. This was actually her second of three books, but I've read both of her others already. Her first was Prep, and immediately garnered her a lot of attention from the literati. Most recently she published American Wife, a sort-of made up biography of Laura Bush. Hard to imagine that could be riveting reading, but it so is.

In the spirit of full disclosure, I think a great deal of my obsession over Ms. Sittenfeld (yes, her name is Curtis, and yes, she's a she) comes from completely coveting her career. She's a graduate of the Iowa Writers' Workshop, sort of the holy land for creative writers. Businessfolk have Harvard, lawyers have Yale, musicians have Juilliard, and writers have Iowa. I personally don't think that's really fair, no offense to Iowa, but whatever. She is spoken of in almost deferential tones from the likes of The New York Times Book Review and fellow authors like Alice Munro. She's from southern Ohio, she's about my age, and she writes exceptionally, exquisitely well. That would be Stone 2, Sittenfeld 3, for anyone keeping score up to this point.

But more specifically, I'm a little obsessed with the fact that CS always seems to be writing to/about me. Yes, that can be said about a lot of authors. In fact, you could argue that if it can't be said about you, you're probably not a very good author in the first place. After all, what audience cares about people they can't relate to? We see bits and pieces of ourselves in even the most out there, outrageous characters. The interesting thing about Sittenfeld's characters -- Hannah, for example, our subject in MoMD -- is that they are so very different from me, and yet so very in tune with me. Hannah, much like Prep's Lee, is a bit... out of sorts, let's say. Her story begins at age 14. Her parents are divorcing. She's got big boobs. By the time she's a twenty year old college junior, she's a near loner, with crushes but no real connections. We get no real perspective from any other characters on how she is perceived by her peers. We watch her relationship with her sister twist and turn, her relationships with men, her parents, and her coworkers do the same. And that's about as dramatic as it gets. So how on earth does Sittenfeld manage to completely enthrall me?

All of the author's protagonists are blissfully, boringly normal. Just like the rest of us, really. And that is the magic of this book, like the others -- there is something so very comforting and reassuring in reading that the small, sometimes really wonderful, often really painful moments that make up our lives are important enough to work their way into print. She writes so subtly that her characters' neuroses drift along on the pages almost invisibly, even as you read page after descriptive page. And that is her gift: universal appeal. She sneaks up on you. Her books are character- rather than plot-driven, and her readers are afforded the chance to catch a glimpse of their own lives -- their own ordinaryness -- because there is tremendous ease in not being alone in either your craziness or your plainness. I'm not the kind of girl people write about. You're probably not either. I'm not eccentric. Or beautiful. I'm not (all the way) crazy, or gifted, or evil or bilingual. I live my pretty boring life; and I am simply, happily, a Curtis Sittenfeld novel waiting to happen.

Read her for her beautiful, almost melancholy use of language. Read her for her ability to describe something in poignant (a word chronically overused in her reviews) detail without ever indulging in flowery excessiveness. Read her and tell me what you think, because someday I really hope to be her, so I really hope you like her too.

Love/Haiti

2010-01-22T21:41:00.002-05:00

It doesn't take very long to forget. To move on. To get wrapped up in what Tiger is doing, or Leno, or our kids or our friends or our exes, and blessedly fall back into the habits that make up our day-to-day lives.
I remember, just a few short weeks after watching the 9/11 attacks from a block away and then seeing those two symbolic, people-filled buildings succumb to the evil that had ripped into them, realizing that life goes on. It was important, that realization. A relief I suppose, but somehow sort of unbelievable. People were going back to work, back to school, back to the malls, even as those of us in lower Manhattan were still cocooned, still inundated by the smell, the taste, the very aura of fear and death. And then, before too long, even we were back to work. Back to the business of living. That's good. That's healthy. That's life.
From an emotional standpoint, September 11th, 2001 will always be the worst thing I will ever experience. But to know that just a couple hundred miles away from where my beautiful best friend lives is devastation on a scale that makes Ground Zero look paltry is almost too big for me to take in. It's not the same for me. But it's the same for them. They're not watching Madonna sing, or hearing Halle Berry ask for help on their behalf. And tonight, because I'm lucky enough to have this outlet where a tiny little group of people actually tune in from time to time to hear what I have to say, I'm making my own plea for their help.
Give what you can.
I'm guessing your cell phone is probably somewhere within ten feet or so of you, no? Have you taken the mere seconds to text a message that will help?
We live in a country where one of our biggest problems is obesity.
We have an entire network devoted to food.
I have no shortage of complaints, y'all know that. I don't work very much, so I'm always broke. But I'm lucky enough to have a loving, supportive family who think it's mostly fantastic that I write instead of having a real job. I get my heart broken on a weirdly regular basis. I just decided to not eat anything for eight days, because I was tired of not having cheekbones and because I could squeeze a happy face into my stomach if I was sitting at the right angle. These are real problems. But sometimes a little perspective comes into our lives. It's a humbling perspective. A demanding one.
I have ten dollars. I gave.
If you have ten dollars, give.
If you have a job, give.
If you have somewhere to go should you lose your job, give.
If you have a child, give.
If you are someone's child, give.
If you took a shower today, give.
If you ran to the grocery store this week, give.
If you'll take a vacation this year, give.
If you'll rest your head on a pillow tonight, give.
If you are healthy, give.
If you are home, give.
I don't want to sound bossy. I don't mean to be preachy. But please, please my sweet readers, my generous friends, give what you can.

Visit HopeForHaitiNow.org.
Text YELE to 501501 to donate $5, and visit Wyclef's Yele Haiti site for updates and more ways to help.
Text HAITI to 90999 to donate $10 to the Red Cross, directly on your cell phone bill.
Help Habitat for Humanity rebuild Haiti's shelters and homes.
Support the children of Haiti by donating any amount to UNICEF.
Download songs from the Hope for Haiti Now event at iTunes.com/Haiti.
Or simply go to Google, search for a cause that means something special to you, and contribute in the way that is most meaningful to you.

Spread the word. Spread the love.

Yanick, wherever you are, I'm praying for you and your family.

Year in (Book) Review: Loving Frank

2010-01-14T18:19:00.002-05:00

My first book of 2010 is a "creative non-fiction" piece written by first-time author Nancy Horan. In essence, she learns all the facts she can about the lives, times, and surroundings of her main characters -- in this case, famed architect Frank Lloyd Wright and his lover Mamah Borthwick Cheney -- and then fills in the holes with color and imagination and good guessing.
Given to me as a Christmas gift, Loving Frank is probably not something that I would have pulled off the shelf myself. I'm familiar with Mr. Wright of course, but not overly enraptured with the principles of architecture or the idea of trying to decide, as I read, what is real and what is make-believe.
It was a lovely, unexpectedly enjoyable surprise. (Thank you, Cindy, and by extension Barb Vogel, for the recommendation and the gift.)
Loving Frank tells the story of a young (by today's standards, although decidedly middle-aged in her time) and married mother, Mrs. Cheney, and how her decision, if you want to call it that, to share her life with also-married father Frank Wright impacted a multitude of lives.
It took a few pages, a few chapters perhaps, before I fell into the slow rhythm of author Horan's narrative. But it was impossible not to get drawn into the exceptional woman she brings to her readers. Mamah, by all accounts, defied every expectation of her. And not in a good way, many would probably say. She married rather late (after 30), was highly educated (a Master's degree and mastery of several languages) and a suffragist, and ultimately left her home, her husband, and her children to follow her heart to Europe after beginning an affair with the not-yet legendary neighbor and designer of her family's home. I found myself, more and more, wanting to have a drink with her.
We meet Mr. Wright as Mrs. Cheney does, in early 1903, already itching to be a bigger presence in the world than life in Oak Park, Illinois will allow. Both unhappy with their marriages and enthralled by what they see in one another, the affair flourishes quickly and deeply.
The decisions they make from that point forward have a rippling effect on everyone in their lives, not only their heartbroken spouses and nine (yep, nine) children but their extended families, the scandalized neighbors, and the co-workers eager to be a part of the emerging fame but hesitant to get drawn in to the surrounding hailstorm. Yet their conviction to one another, to their principles and beliefs, and perhaps most importantly to themselves, drives them forward and binds them all the more tightly together.
He can't have been an easy person to love. She can't have been as pious and pleasing as she is romanticized by her biographer. But they are charming and passionate, accessible and relatable, and unmistakably in love. And that makes it easy for readers to feel empathy for them, to feel ourselves in their place perhaps.
And it makes the conclusion of the story all that much more jarring when it hits, in the final pages of Horan's novel. I knew nothing of the history. If you're unaware and planning to read the book, I recommend not doing any research first, if only to get the full impact of the reading experience. It's wrenching and totally unexpected, the kind of unexpected that makes you re-read paragraphs because the facts are upon you before you can really process them. (I had to get up out of bed and Google the situation tomake sure Ms. Horan wasn't faking me out for shock factor. She, horribly, was not.)
I genuinely recommend exploring this relatively undocumented piece of American history.
(If you're like me and like to be able to picture what the author is describing (when it's real, of course), visit here for a photographic tour of Taliesin, the Wisconsin home Frank built for Mamah.) (And if you're not like me and you just have to know the full story before, well, before you read the story, here's some info on Mamah. Don't do it, I'm telling you. Wait for it.)

New Year, New You

2010-01-11T11:53:00.001-05:00

That really bothers me.
Which is ironic, because what really bothers me is people who talk too much about stuff that bothers them in general public-type situations.
(I'm not saying don't talk to your friends about stuff that's bothering you. I'm not saying don't tell your significant other every little thing about him/her that bothers you. (I'm also more often than not single, so...) I'm mostly talking, for example, to my fellow Facebookers who use their status updates - which goes out to a few hundred basic acquaintances - to say things like Sally Shmoe has bunions and no heat and smelly neighbors. Or worse, Julio Jones has to go to the grocery store after work tonight, which is a real bummer because it's always pretty crowded after work. Seriously? That's all you can think to tell the world? It's uncreative and it brings people down, which is the antithesis of what a Facebook status should do if you ask me. Which you didn't, but it's my blog.)
Back to my point.
New Year, New You.
That really bothers me.
For one thing, it's completely unoriginal. Every year, and I mean every year, starting around the first of December through mid-January, you see it. It headlines magazines. Self-help books. News programs. Entertainment programs. Everywhere you look, it seems, the world is reminding you that perhaps you've once again failed to make anything of yourself, but don't worry - January first the slate is clean.
In theory, I can get behind this. We all probably come up to the end of a year thinking about things we meant to get done, places we'd wanted to go, problems we'd promised ourselves we would fix. So go ahead and make those resolutions. Find some comfort and some hope in a fresh start.
But a whole new you? Really? Was last year so bad that you need to completely redefine yourself? Reinvent yourself? Be someone else?
Take me, for example. 2009 was a year that should make me a prime NYNY candidate. (Not New York, you fools. Try to keep up.) I was single for most of the year. About halfway through I very unexpectedly got caught up in this crappy economy and lost my job. So believe you me, I've got big plans for 2010 going a little differently.
But I also spend a lot of time beating myself up for a lot of things, and getting bombarded by media telling me that it's okay; they're here to help me ditch the loser version of last year's Jessica and upgrade me to a totally new and better model.
Well screw you. I kind of like messed up, old school Jessica. And some other people do, too. Maybe just because she provides limitless amounts of comedy with her foibles and fuck ups, but still. That's got to count for something. And maybe she's been unemployed for a really long time, but you know what? She's okay with that. You heard me. Because she's an artist, and sometimes artists need a break from getting paid for crap so that they can fill their days with non-crap. I'm sure there are people that think she's lazy. But she's not. She's really not at all. She's just different than people who have different priorities.
And she may make jokes about being temperamentally unfit for love. But she's not. And no "womens' " magazine or "self-help" book is going to convince her that she is, and that only they have the key to turning it all around. She'll find him. He'll understand her. That'll be that.
Sure, there are some things I'd like to do differently this year. Like not suddenly slip into fits of third person self-description. But do I need to be someone new to do that? Does Jessica?
No. So New Year, yes. New You, no thanks. I'll just keep polishing up the old one.

Year in Review

2010-01-10T20:07:00.000-05:00

What, too soon?
Actually it's not so much a review of last year as this year. And it's not so much the year itself that I'll be reviewing as the books I plan to read. Ain't resolutions grand?
Quick backstory: for the past several years I've wanted to keep track of the books I read. I've meant to. I've planned on it. Unfortunately, I read rather a lot, so the whole "mentally tracking" system I'd devised is pretty much a disaster. I've got a few friends "in the biz" who are fantastic about reviewing movies - a few who even get paid for it, if you can believe the luck - and know a handful of unmentionables who do a great, hysterical review of their yearly collection of bad dates and really bad sex. I'll stick to books, thank you very much. My mom reads this thing. Sometimes.
So, after finishing my first book of this year, I've decided to use you lovely people to keep me accountable and in line. (Fat lot of good that's done me in the past, but I forever have faith in you.)
Please stay tuned for the upcoming review of 2010 Book #1: Loving Frank by Nancy Horan.

Perfect '10

2010-01-01T11:43:00.002-05:00

Hello, all.
Happy New Year.
I hope you each had a few or more sips of champagne, had someone fun or comfortable or just... there... to kiss at midnight.
I hope you woke up this morning filled with the feeling of a fresh start, a promising horizon, and no hangover.
And, looking ahead, I hope this is a really good year for all of you.
I hope patience prevails and the things you've been waiting for and wanting find their way to you.
I hope the frightening uncertainty that has haunted our country for the past couple of years has instilled in you a determination and a confidence in your own survival skills.
I hope you prosper.
I hope you fall in love.
I hope you get all the hugs you need.
I hope when you cry, because you will, there is someone there to listen, to comfort, and to make you laugh.
I hope someone tells you you're sexy, and makes you feel desirable, and reminds you that you still got it.
I hope your work fulfills you.
I hope you feed your creative energy.
I hope you do at least one really brave thing, a couple really stupid things, and a lot of really compassionate things.
I hope someone calls you on your shit, and you're open enough to hear it.
I hope you allow yourself to be challenged physically, mentally, and emotionally.
I hope you're all still reading this next year, and that I can think of a catchy title about "eleven."

Number Nine

2009-11-20T15:45:00.003-05:00

There's something so fantastical about flying on a cloudy afternoon. You sit, dreary wet runway, impatient, to suddenly be lifted up and popped out on the other side, blue skies waiting. A bright sun on top and the most perfectly plump blanket of clouds below. It just makes the world feel... a little softer, I guess, for awhile. Like magic. Magic, fluffy, pillowy mountains. Makes me want to pick the perfect one and spend some of the afternoon making cloud angels.

Girl, You One Fiiiiine Filly.

2009-11-08T14:07:00.001-05:00

I'm one of those girls who like sports. Like, actually, genuinely enjoys watching sports.

I was raised an Ohio State Buckeye fan, and have become more and more loyal to and dependent upon them the longer I've been away. It's a wonderful connection to my family, my home, and it's an excuse to drink beer and eat pizza in the middle of most fall Saturday afternoons.
As arranged by my dad and my Chicago-based uncle, I am a Cubs fan. (My cousins were taught from a very early age to line up in a tiny little o-h-i-o tableau, and I reciprocated by embracing the knowledge that Wrigley Field is sacred ground.)
As decided by my current hometown and my ex-boyfriend, I am a Yankees fan and a Giants fan. I get genuinely insulted when ignorantly jealous people make ridiculous statements about buying championships, and although I think San Diego is one of the loveliest places on Earth I will always have a chip on my shoulder for the way they booed Eli during his draft.
So, on all fronts, it's been a great week for me sports-wise.
I got to spend a lovely, sunny Friday afternoon at a parade, celebrating the Yankees winning the World Series. (At some later point I will have to discuss with you my issues of calling this contest the "World" Series, and dubbing its winner "World" Champions, as it is an entirely intra-national competition. But that's not for now.)
I got to spend an even lovelier, somehow sunnier Saturday afternoon watching the Buckeyes pound on Penn State, looking for the first time in a long time like a really excellent team with a leader for a quarterback.
And now it's Sunday - still lovely, still sunny - and I get to watch the Giants host the Chargers.

But none of this is why I'm writing.

If you could care less about sports, if you choose teams by their colors or how cute the QB is, if you have to think twice about what QB means, if you're annoyed at perfectly good weekends being spent in divey sports bars or your significant other's friend's basement -- in other words, if you're a girl -- this one is for you.

Because sometimes, sports are for girls. And this weekend, a girl dominated. No one should be talking about anything other than this beautiful, triumphant, exemplary display of (please pardon the completely apropos cliche) girl power.

Zenyatta, you gorgeous sexy piece of man-stomping, eat-my-dust excellence... this one, my dear, is for you.

The Couch Chronicles: Chapter Two

2009-10-29T20:10:00.001-04:00

First, if you'll remember, it was a crabapple. Allegedly.
Yesterday, things got a bit more aggressive. And furrier... things got furrier.
Back on the couch (what? it was raining. i wasn't watching oprah OR nancy drew. i'd already been on set at 7 in the morning, shooting a commercial. that's my work. get off my back.) and typing away furiously at my never-quite-done resume, I heard a thump that made the last thump sound more like a gentle tap. I whipped my head around to the window behind me, but this time there was no goo, no glob, still no beakless pigeon. I climbed up on the couch to peer out and make sure no hapless bird or harmless fruit was laying on the air conditioning unit. And I squealed like a little baby and almost broke my neck flying backward as a squirrel launched himself (or herself, it's tough to tell when they're moving) straight up at the window.
Apparently, the little guy (or girl) wasn't content to be on the back deck of my second floor apartment.
(Wait, speaking of a little guy on the floor, allow me to go back for a second. Just to give you an idea of what kind of PETA nightmare I'm living in these days. Friday morning, I wake up and stumble into the kitchen to find a mouse stuck to about 6 of those glue strip thingies. I think those things should be illegal. They are beyond cruel, completely ineffective, and totally gross. And yet, here they were, mission sort of accomplished, in the middle of my kitchen floor. I don't know how they - or he - got there. I suspect that my roommate saw or heard him in the morning, freaked out, tossed them on the floor, and left. She says he must've gotten stuck to them under the sink. It's a fishy story. Anyway. Long story short, I sobbed all morning watching this poor animal struggle and squirm and literally rip himself apart, completely alive and alert and I'm sure scared out of his little mind and in more pain than I can even conceive of, before finally having to swath him in an entire roll of paper towels like the shroud of fucking Disneyland, scuttle him into the biggest bag I could find, and taking him outside to complete his losing battle in the rain. I have never prayed so hard for my soul. It's been a tough week for the animal kingdom here on First Street.)
Back to the squirrel.
Once I realized he wasn't actually trying to bust through the window but to somehow scale it, it was less scary, still a little upsetting, and actually pretty funny. He was leaping in that spread eagle flying squirrel way that they do from the window sill to... nothing. I don't even know what he had his little buggy eye on. The apartment above us doesn't have a deck or anything, so all I can surmise is that after a short stint eavesdropping on me, he got bored and decided he wanted to check out the action one windowsill up. For all the points I'll give him for pluck, he gets a big fat zero for execution.
Finally I had to open the back door and yell at him till he got annoyed enough to leave. He shimmied his way back down the drainpipe and disappeared from sight.
So sadly, I'm not expecting to be the next "I'd Rather Go Naked" billboard. Which, truthfully, just leaves me even more unmotivated to work out.

I Am Simply Not a Sidewalk-Hogger

2009-10-26T17:04:00.000-04:00

It's kind of like when a pregnant lady starts nesting. Or when an old or sick person suddenly feels great and full of energy. Or when you can't stop having sex with the person you've finally figured out you're never going to marry.
When you know things are about to change, there's a heightened sense of awareness. Of connection.
And so goes my ever-changing love/hate relationship with New York City.
I'm trying to decide whether or not to stay. Whether or not I can stay. Whether or not I want to. If I should.
And damn if this city isn't pulling out all the stops to seduce me lately.

It's been gorgeous here for the last few days; that late autumn cool but not cold, amazing blue skies, special something in the colorful air that makes you feel like fall isn't so bad after all. I've been to fall in a lot of places, and New York somehow does it better than anywhere else.

(Yes, I know that soon it'll be fucking freezing and the leisurely walk to the PATH train will become a sprint, made more challenging by the extra 87 pounds I'm carrying in coat and boot and the like. Then I'll have to frantically strip it all off in the station because it'll be so hot down there and all that shit on me will be making me sweat like a whore in church. I know.)
But everyone's smiling at me lately. There's something in the air, the aura, that affects people in the most mysterious, wonderful way. Even the construction workers and homeless guys are friendly and polite; appreciative, let's say.
(Usually they're lewd and vulgar in the way that only evil people can be. And I'm always confused by these guys who have only bothered to learn, like, 6 words in English, and none of them are anything you want hissed out to you while you're stuck waiting for the light to change.)
The Yankees are going to the World Series this week.
(There's no bad side to that.)
My friends are suddenly friendlier, my prospects are suddenly more profitable, my apartment is suddenly cozier.
How could I leave here? For eight and a half years I've said that New York has been wonderful, but that it's never really felt like home. But it is. New York is home. The idea of leaving it behind makes me cry like a baby. It's terrifying. Does that mean it's wrong? Am I supposed to be here? I love this place. I love the life I have here. I feed off of the vibrancy and the activity and the perpetual hopefulness of the people on the streets. Especially the ones who aren't just here for a visit. The people who have chosen this little community as their home, and who graciously invite millions upon millions of slow, sort of stupid, sidewalk-hogging visitors to stand in their way - those are the people I relate to. Not the sidewalk-hoggers.
There are actors and singers and dancers and writers and artists everywhere here. There are a dozen languages being spoken at every restaurant, all the time. There is kindness and mercy and a desire to make the city - and the world - better. There is action beyond talk. Worlds blend here, sometimes violently, but oftentimes seamlessly. The rich and the strikingly poor expect to bump elbows. Different colors and cultures expect to cross the same streets.
I know I'll feel differently when the weather turns, and the unemployment runs out. I've had men in my life I thought I couldn't live without, and I do. I've lost jobs I hated and feared I'd be poor, but I'm not. Things have changed that I didn't want to change, and I think it's almost always been for the better. If I leave New York, I know it'll be the right thing to do. I'll make it so. But the thought of breaking up with her is really, really devastating.

Someone Come Get Me

2009-09-29T16:51:00.001-04:00

Whoa, boy. It's not working.
You guys, I'm watching Oprah again. (Addiction. I see the irony.)
Only this time, there's Phish food. Straight from the carton.
Someone come get me.

Blog of Shame

2009-09-28T18:25:00.001-04:00

I am staging my own intervention.
It’s 4:30 on Monday afternoon. In and of itself, that’s not a particularly scandalous declaration. Except that I haven’t done anything today. Anything.
Nothing.
I got up after 11. I sat on the couch and ate. I’m watching Oprah. More specifically, I’m watching some Bollywood people on Oprah. And a polo player named Nacho. And dammit, I had stuff I wanted to do today. More stuff than watching House Bunny and trying to decide how difficult it would be to make a Vito-shaped voodoo doll, which are the only two tasks I've completed today.
I am my own worst enemy.
Remember when I climbed right up on my furlough high horse and said stuff about making to-do lists and getting exercise and NOT watching Oprah? That same horse has bucked me off, presumably because I haven’t showered all day and am still in the clothes I slept in and don’t smell good, and trotted off without me.
The most exciting thing that happened today was when I was watching Nancy Drew - I shit you not, Nancy Drew - and something forcefully hit the window right behind my head. I shrieked like a little girl, then sat frozen on the couch for the rest of the movie before peeking outside to see if there was a maimed, beakless pigeon on my deck. There wasn’t. But now there is something foreign and globby laying on the air conditioning unit and I can’t tell if it used to be alive before it flew into the window, or if it was never alive and someone launched it into the window. I would make a horrible pre-teen sleuther. Now I have to wait for Megan to get home from a long day at work and solve my crime for me.
So… yeah.
I need some major accountability. You’ve heard of people keeping food diaries to help them lose weight? I am now turning this very blog into an activity diary of sorts, because if I spend another day like this I will be very ashamed. I’m hoping that if I have to fess up to my comings and goings, I will be less inclined to host my own one-person Minesweeper smackdowns.
I promise to be better.

UPDATE: Megan’s opinion -- it was a crabapple. Looks like I have a mystery to work on for tomorrow after all, as I can’t imagine why someone would chuck a crabapple at my window on a rainy Monday morning. It’s also Megan’s opinion that it was probably God telling me to get the fuck off the couch.

Anticipation

2009-09-21T14:08:00.001-04:00

Hi all. Can you believe it's the last day of summer? Mixed emotions, certainly. It's a stunning end to my favorite season, to be sure - I'm broadcasting live right now from my back deck, squinting at the screen and wishing desperately it could stay like this till spring.
It's been an interesting summer. Usually right about this time I start to get a little depressed, or anxious maybe is a better way to describe it. I love fall, I love football and sweaters and all that, but the thought of impending winter gives me heart palpitations. But this year things feel a little different. Scary, but different. Sort of exciting. The air doesn't feel stagnant like it usually does - it feels like stuff is happening. And not just in my own little life but in general. It's making me some kind of restless, impatient little girl.
I haven't written much lately, the weird result of some kind of reverse writer's block. I've got so much on my mind that it's been tough to sift through and put into words. I can't tell you all how many times I've sat down to write to you and quickly given up in frustration, because I don't know where to begin.
I keep saying it's good that the weather will turn soon, because it'll make me crack down and get to work. I am full of shit. It is not good. And it just means that I will have to find evermore creative ways to procrastinate, and I'll have to do it while fighting off bouts of cabin fever.
But at the end of this winter, my ninth - ninth! - in New York, everything is going to look different. I'm at the end of a very, very long wait.

A Blog About a Movie About a Book About a Blog

2009-09-03T21:46:00.001-04:00

So I don't generally comment on many books I read or movies I see. I don't know why. I love books and I love movies. Even the bad ones. And being my generally narcissistic self, nearly every movie I watch I wish I was in, and nearly every book I read I wish I had written.
But I went to see Julie & Julia recently, and I feel compelled.
It was a cute film. Fine really. Not the most spectacular thing I've seen in eons, but I don't think it was aiming to be and it was perfectly charming and lovely, which I do think it was aiming to be. I am usually loath to see a movie before I have read its accompanying book. Books are, by default and to a naturally-inclined reader, always better. There's simply more detail, more information, more insight into what is happening internally to and with the characters. But I'd only just been given the book by my friend Abby (thank you Abby) on my birthday, and was in the middle of another book (American Wife, also thank you Abby) when her birthday (Abby's, that is) came up, and I offered to reciprocate the gift by taking her to see the movie. (I think just typing the title of this post committed me to as many long-winded and confusing sentences as possible.)
So, having not yet read the book, off we went to see the adaptation. I think this is one of the rare exceptions to my book-first rule; Abby didn't love the film because it veered quite a bit from the book (she loved the somewhat snarky, clever writing of Julie Powell, and felt the film turned her a bit whiny. We decided that this was probably a decision made on behalf of Julia Child's, and in turn Meryl Streep's, powerful personality. One can only take so much, really, right?) But I could enjoy the movie for what it was, and still enjoy the completely different experience being described to me in the book, which I've meanwhile finished. I've only just now started to read through the actual blog posts from several years ago that started this whole snowball in motion.
None of this is my actual point.
My actual point is this, as is my actual conundrum: in this instance, which do I wish for? The book, or the movie? Or, whoa there curveball, the blog itself?
Admittedly, It's the blog I'm most envious of at this very moment. Sure, if someone wants to offer me a part opposite Meryl, I'd take it - even if it's a part where we never actually meet in the making of the movie because we share no scenes, because we're basically filming two different movies that editors will brilliantly weave together to make one.
And if someone catches on to the catchiness of my blog and wants to offer me a book deal, I would take that as well.
But, as it stands, that's not going to happen.
Not because I can't write. I love Julie's tone, her loving irreverence, her chosen voice for expressing herself, unapologetically, to whomever wants to tune in. I think it's similar to what I've got going here. She's a little verbose, just like me. She's a little... shrill, just like me. She's surrounded by lovingly supportive and equally crazy friends and family members, who go a step beyond support into encouragement with her wacky endeavor.
Here's where Julie has a decided leg up on me.
Julie has a point.
Julie has a purpose.
I have neither of these. Just a keyboard and a lot of time on my hands.
So I'm thinking I need a theme. But not just any theme - one that's as brilliantly unique and original as Julie's decision to cook her way through MtAoFC.
I don't cook, so I'm lucky that's out.
I don't have a job, so that's less luckily out.
The whole New York single girl writer with awesome friends and hilarious stories of debauchery and heartbreak has been pretty well covered.
So? What do you guys suggest? What should my theme be?

Dressed for Stress

2009-09-02T00:51:00.001-04:00

It's September first today. (Okay, technically, it's 12:33, so it's September 2nd. But I haven't gone to bed yet, which means really it's the same day as before. Right? Anyway, as I was saying...)

And you know what that means. It's just about time for The Panic to set in. Fall is in the air and soon, everything changes. You can't stop it; you can't control it.

Wait, before I go any further I should probably just clarify that we’re all on the same page. I’m sure it’s obvious, but let’s confirm we’re talking about the same anxiety.

I’m talking about that late-in-the-season predicament where you suddenly remember every single cute summer outfit you haven’t worn once yet, and subsequently scramble to figure out how many times a day you’ll have to change wardrobes between now and the imminent post-labor-day (no white), rainy (no flip flops or open-toed sandals), chill-in-the-air (no tank tops, sundresses, or breezy linens) onset of autumn, if you want to cover all the adorably lightweight, brightly colored pieces you've neglected for your one over-worn beach coverup and a ratty pair of old cut off Levi's.

Not that I don't love fall. Clothingwise. I love soft cardigans over long sleeve tissue tees and I LOVE my jeans, and who doesn't look like the epitome of cozy chic in a great pair of boots?

But all that merino and cashmere aside, I am not a winter person. I am not a cold weather person of any kind. And so, while the charm of September is undeniable, aided by kickoffs and halftimes and Script Ohios, it really just means winter is right around the corner.

I'm not ready for winter. At all. I have a Boy Meets Girl tee and a fantastically green cotton dress and a pair of J. Crew peeptoes that have hardly cracked the surface of my closet.

I am simply not ready.

What? Well what did you think I was panicked about?

I Am a Cause

2009-08-18T15:37:00.003-04:00

Is it strange that the concept -- or not really the concept, but the actual word -- "loyalty" almost has a negative connotation? I mean, obviously loyalty, in and of itself, is a completely positive thing. But to say, "she's so loyal" sounds almost... submissive? Or like one must've done something bad in order for people to decide to be loyal in spite of it?
I have the most loyal friends. (And I can promise you from plenty of firsthand cajoling, not a one of 'em is submissive.)
And that doesn't even mean "best" friends or "oldest" friends or "closest" friends. It's just this collection of people in my life who are loyal. Consistent. My best friends, my oldest friends, and my closest friends - a wide assortment, actually - are all a variety of wonderful characteristics combined to make them worth holding on to. Not the least of which is their ability and willingness to embrace my borderline idiocy; they stick to me like glue. But it's their loyalty that makes me love them the most -- their "faithfulness to a cause" -- because I know exactly what to expect from each of them, and that gives me such a sense of safeness, of complete cared-for-ness.
The funny thing is, this whole line of thinking stems from spending the weekend with a few friends that I haven't known my whole life, whom I don't live anywhere near, and yet - there's an easiness that comes when they're around, even if it's only once or twice every couple of years.
I'm appreciating that more and more as I get older. I cling to it. It makes me question the relationships in my life - some going on a decade, some more - that don't have that comfortable contentedness to them. Not everything has to be work. And the people you most want in your life, on any level, really, are the ones who make you feel safe, and cared for. It especially helps if they are hysterically fun and funny, which oddly enough all of my friends are, but that's really a bonus if you ask me. (Which no one ever does.)

Life Isn't Like the Movies, Except When It Is

2009-08-12T18:09:00.001-04:00

A humble attempt at describing a quietly grand feeling.
I’m home now, in the late afternoon half darkness, with a wine glass full of cheap Cava because it’s the only thing I have to drink except Diet Coke, and I only allow myself one Diet Coke a day and I’ve already had it. Luckily there's no limit on Cava in place yet. And there’s a Lean Cuisine pizza beeping that it’s heated in the microwave behind me. This sounds like product placement but it’s not, it’s just what is surrounding me now and I want you to have a picture.
I went to the movies this afternoon, with one of my dearest, most special girlfriends. A lovely, melancholy, pleasant one. The movie, not the girlfriend. Although… she is truly lovely, and understands my melancholy, and makes everything pleasant. But the movie is what I mean; the movie, one of those big studio indies, quite popular in the theaters right now.
Movies affect me. Largely because I get filled with a kind of envy for wanting to be part of the movie making process. Any movie, really, makes me feel like that. I sit and watch the previews -- I wouldn’t mind a whole movie of previews, honestly -- and I wish like a child wishes that I could’ve been there participating in its creation. I’ve had just enough taste of it to know what a delicious thing it is to be part of something purposeful and imaginative and artistic and I am always, always hungry for more, more, more.
I know I’m not unique in that; lots of people wish they made movies. Music, too, I think, has that affect on certain types of people. Fantasy type people. “Creatives,” as we’re coming to be known.
I know life isn’t like the movies. Except for some moments of some days, when it is. There’s a line in Sleepless in Seattle where Rosie O’Donnell tells an adorably pre-Restylane'ed Meg Ryan, “You don’t want to be in love. You want to be in love in the movies.” That, that is brilliance. I want to be in love in the movies. I want to be anything in the movies. I want my life to be a movie, with a soundtrack of haunting, touching powerful music.
When I left the movie theater, it was raining. It’s summer, so it wasn’t cold, and it wasn’t raining very hard, so I walked the three avenues back to the train. Not really because I’m trying to save every penny (if I was, as I should be, I don’t suppose I would’ve gone to the movie in the first place) but more because sometimes walking in the rain in New York can make you feel like you’re in a movie.
That might be true in other cities as well; I don’t know. In every other city I’ve been in while it’s raining, I’ve always just run to get out of it.
But in New York, you can stop in the middle of a Union Square intersection, with people hustling all around you with umbrellas and without, and you can put on your iPod, which is the closest thing to a life soundtrack most of us will get.
When I’m feeling movie-ish and want something movie-like to happen, I always say a little prayer before I put the first song on. The first song will either kill the moment or cement it.
Today, in the rain, in an intersection in Union Square, it was a live version of “Break Your Heart” by Barenaked Ladies. Cement.
I walked down 14th Street exactly the way I would’ve walked down it had a famous director just said to me, “Okay, for this shot, we need emotion. But under the surface. We need to feel what she’s feeling, more than we need to see it. She’s hurt, but not broken. She’s vulnerable, but our audience knows she’s very, very strong. Stronger perhaps than she realizes herself at this point in the script. Now… walk.” Obviously I would be a terrible, terrible director. But I’m a good actor, and I think every extra on that sidewalk with me, as they parted just in time to let me pass without breaking my stride, could feel what I was trying so hard, and yet not trying at all, to convey.
I pushed pause at the end of the song because I was getting close to the train and I didn’t want the kill to come, and because if it was another cement song I wanted to wait till I was back off the train and could walk some more in the rain.
Eight minute train ride and I never broke character.
Climb the stairs, still raining, push play.
“A Beautiful Mess” by Jason Mraz. Beautiful. Another walk.
The problem is, now I’m just in my dark apartment, wet, with a bottle of bad bubbly that I’ll have to finish myself because you can’t recork Cava, and a microwaved lunch, trying to figure out how to both make that “I’m in a movie” feeling last for myself and transfer some of its magic to you at the same time.
This is the part they never put in the movie. I wish I was indie and fear I’m mostly just… Midwestern. I wish I was deep and complex and worry I’m more or less neurotic. I wish I was content and know that whenever I actually am I ruin it quickly in the name of drama. I wish I couldn’t cry on demand and that I didn’t run to a mirror every time I cried, because I am anxious that it makes my tears less earnest.
But even movie tears come from someplace earnest. Even in the rain. Even in the fake movies.

One Girl's (somewhat im)Practical Guide to Surviving a Dry Spell*^

2009-08-11T16:49:00.001-04:00

*I'm talking about work here. Not that I couldn't write an incredibly detailed blog by the same title on a slightly more... intimate topic, but I'll spare myself the humiliation.

It's been just about a month since The Furlough began, and I think I have learned quite a lot of important stuff, if I do say so myself. Being an eager contributor to the betterment of the community and a general sharer, I will now help any of you who may be experiencing a similar drought by ffering up some of my pearls of wisdom.

Honey Do
Make yourself a To-Do list for every day. I recommend writing it out (yes, write it out, with old fashioned pen and paper) the night before, so it's already there for you when you get up. Don't worry about making it a list of life-changing events. Mundane and survival-essential are just as important. Bottom line, it can be easy to feel a little useless when you're idle. And there's a psychological sense of accomplishment that comes from crossing something off a list as completed, even if it's just laundry.

Avoid the Siren Call
"Like sands through the hourglass... these are the days of our lives." It's like verbal crack. And if you're not careful, the days of your life will disappear in a haze of self-help and catty chat, if you don't step away from the TV. I have a horrible habit of trying to do something with the TV on (you know, just in the background) and then waking up from a trance half an hour later only to realize I'm naked, and wet, and haven't moved. And I don't even like TV that much. And I certainly don't need to hear a Today Show segment on Back-to-School or anything Martha Stewart has to say. But damned if it doesn't pull me in every time. But if this place was just silent and creepy I'd go crazy (or more likely I'd sleep) so I have found that the best thing for me is music. I prefer today's best country provided on my local cable company's digital music channel, but it's completely up to you. As long as it keeps you moving. And if the worst thing that happens is you stop every so often to shake your booty to a catchy tune, all the better - you'll burn calories. Which leads me to my next tip.

Work It Baby
Exercise. I know this is a novel concept, but it's my opposite-of-expert opinion that exercise is good for you. Plus, since you really shouldn't be spending any extra money on stuff like food, this is a prime opportunity to get some extra weight off. Just put those work out clothes on as soon as you get up, and hopefully you'll guilt yourself into getting them sweaty by the end of the day.

Is There a Bracelet on Your Ankle? No? Then You're Not on House Arrest.
Get outside, for the love of God. There's a whole big world out there, and it probably smells better than your apartment. Fresh air is good for you. Clear the cobwebs. Take a walk. Run some errands. Feel like you're still part of society.

Do What You Do
For me, it's writing. And if you want to be a writer, you have to write. Even if it's a ridiculous blog post. But it's my much-needed creative outlet, and it lets the six of you who read it know I'm still here. And it keeps me on track to pursuing a goal. So whatever you were doing before, or whatever you wanted to be doing then when you were doing something else before, do it. Paint. Act. Add numbers. (Not everyone who reads this can possibly be an artist, right? Surely there's an accountant out there somewhere who gets a kick out of me.)

Black and Blue are So Last Year
So don't beat yourself up. If you don't do any of these things on a given day, it's okay. If you sleep in, then watch movies for a whole afternoon and never shower because it's too hot outside to move, it's okay. It doesn't mean you're hopeless. Don't be too easy on yourself, of course, but don't make yourself feel worse about a shitty situation. Find some zen. For me, for example, it's yoga. It's worth spending precious, hard to come by money on a yoga class or two a week because it sets me up mentally for a good week. And it makes me feel stretchy, which I like.

^You are warned that doing as this particular girl says, rather than as she does, is probably the safest bet. I'm off now. Oprah's about to start.

If Home Is Where the Heart Is, Wouldn't We All Live in San Francisco?

2009-08-10T19:02:00.001-04:00

I'm home.
From home.
Any of you like me -- stuck in this limbo of living someplace (home) that doesn't really feel like it?
Home, the very fundamental idea of it, is so important to me. I just have no idea what it means right now.
I just got to spend two glorious, interesting, busy, relaxing weeks in Ohio, with my family. I'd originally intended to go for a long weekend, celebrating the wedding of my step-sister. (I don't think I've added the "step" for the 25 or so years she's been in my life, but she was kind of a little shit last week and I'm still a little peeved at her, and am choosing not to claim her directly for the time being.) But given recent events, and with a little unforeseen extra time on my hands, I rented a car (I loooooove to drive and I never get to do it anymore, stupid New York City) and made a stay out of it.
It was wonderful. And I'm confused. It's always hard to readjust to being back in Jersey (shut it...) but this time it seems to be particularly unsettling. My main reason for being here is on furlough. So do I stay? Or do I go? And, should I choose the latter, where do I go?
I love home. I love that my entire immediate family is somewhere within 20 miles of each other at any given moment. (This will pop up later in the "con" list as well.) I love my friends that are still there, raising children that I don't know as well as I wish I did, and living lives I don't know enough about. But... it's Dayton. Ohio. Rough in the best of landlocked times, but things are palpably bleak around there these days. Add to that the fact that should I pursue this fledgling writer's life that I'm after, my biggest competition in town would be my dad. Awkward.
Next up would probably be Raleigh. I was there for several years before New York, and it still holds a place in my heart that New York hasn't quite been able to claim. Odd, because my time there was, overall, really painful. But it was a great little town and I feel like I grew up a lot there. To the detriment of both myself and a few key people around me, but hopefully no permanent damage done. But... can you ever really go back again? If I were to pack up and move down there, with no real support system in place there anymore, would it be tarnished? Would I spend the whole time thinking it wasn't quite the same as last time? Hmm.
Then there's the thought of packing up and moving my paltry remaining belongings to Annapolis. But that's just because I'm spitefully stubborn and willfully unwilling to let go. Probably better as a plot than it would actually be in execution.
Key West... Austin... San Diego... So many amazing places to go, to spend time, to grow into the next chapter of this little life story. So many great cities, so much appeal. So much potential.
But which one is mine?

Lifetime, Real-Sized.

2009-07-22T21:54:00.001-04:00

Now, before you go getting all smug and holier than thou and assuming that I've returned to my slacking, blog-lazy ways, again, let me just tell you I have been a very, very, VERY busy girl.
I have been working. Oh yes, you read that right. Working. The charming genius that is Allison Hemming has already got me busting tail on copywrighting gigs. I took a meeting with the three amazing minds behind Charitybuzz, who are looking for someone to come in and roll out a strategy plan for their marketing. (I explained to them that I'm not the strategy person they need to put the plan on paper, but I sure would love to be the content person that puts the plan into action. Check them out - they are doing some truly inspired, exciting stuff.) I've been meeting with Ally, putting our two cute heads together on ways to make my creative brilliance and exceptional talent both profitable and available to the world. I've exercised lots. I've lunched. I've movied. I spent three days in the Hamptons with Scott, toasting our misfortunes and plotting all sorts of wonderful schemes for our bright, bright futures. And I've been packing for a long, much needed trip home. Okay, so a lot of that doesn't actually sound like work, but you'll have to take my word for it.
And I've been challenged to get my ass writing. Writing, writing, writing. I explained to Ally that it took me three or four years into my acting career before I actually had the nerve - and pride - to call myself an actor. I don't want it to take me that many years to call myself a writer. I've also been warned to knock off the sickening level of self-deprication... but that'll take awhile, and a therapist I'm afraid. (Hence the references to my creative brillance and exceptional talent. Just trying to see how the other half lives. The self-appreciating half.)
So I'll need you all to keep kicking my ass - you're excellent at it, by the way, you bullies - and I promise to keep off it. My ass, that is. Something good is going to come of all this, and it's right here on the horizon. That's some scary stuff, but so exciting! It's like a life-sized, real-time choose your own adventure!

But I'm ALWAYS Somewhat Off-Balance

2009-07-09T17:34:00.001-04:00

CHECK ME OUT. This is THREE days in a row. I tend to steer clear of the all caps a good percentage of the time, but sometimes it's just UNAVOIDABLE.
I am like a shining example of commitment to craft. A beacon of self-discipline. I have no idea what that means, but the phrase just popped into my head and seemed too profoundly deep (and funny) to ignore.
For all of you who are counting, you know today is DAY TWO (okay, enough) of The Furlough. (This would all be a lot worse if that wasn't such a fun word to say.)
And I have to say - it's been a weirdly optimistic day. Not that that's a complaint, obviously - I was just prepped for the freak out and I'm still breathing regularly and keeping my food down. Must be all the yoga?
For example, here is the horoscope that was waiting for me when I woke up:
Dear Leo, here is your horoscope for Thursday, July 9:
You may feel somewhat off-balance right now, but as long as you can adapt to your new circumstances, you should be able to keep moving forward. Flexibility is the key to success for you right now.
I mean, right? It's impossible to panic when clearly the universe has your back.
And throughout the day I've been getting hit with love and support. Like, smacked right upside the head with it. Acquaintances are hooking me up with potential freelance gigs. High school friends are hugging me, Facebook-style, left and right. And some of my who-knew well-connected friends are already out wheeling and dealing for me. And whether or not any of that leads to a paycheck in the next couple of days matters very little. My psyche is being well-tended to and that feels even more important. (Author's note: that is subject to change, violently and with much hyper-ventalating, with no warning.)
Plus it's been gorgeous out, and you know it's tough to wish you were sitting in an office instead of out running in the mid-afternoon sunshine.
So I'm keeping on with the business of keeping on. I'm writing. This may just be a silly little blog to you, and that's because it is. It is a silly little blog. But it's me, writing, and keeping the creative juices from congealing. Mmmm.

The Furlough: Day One

2009-07-08T11:00:00.001-04:00

Day One of Indefinite Furlough is well underway.
Didn't sleep in, not laying in the sun, no shopping on the agenda, and afraid to eat breakfast because what if I can't afford to eat anymore - basically it's just like a forced vacation, only without any of the fun parts and with ill-placed panic attacks.
So here's what I'm doing with day one: I'm making a good old fashioned Honey Do list. (Sometimes I call myself honey, because it makes me feel better. And sometimes because I'm sort of condescending to myself.)
And here's where you come in: I need some major accountability or I never get anything done. So you keep reading, and you keep calling me out on my shit, and together we're going to make this the most productive, most exciting furlough ever of all time.
Stuff for Jessica To Do:
Write something every day. (Give yourself a break if it's not brilliant, or funny, or awe-inspiring. If you want to be a writer, you have to write.)
Do something active every day.
Pray. A lot.
Network. Ask people how they got their jobs, particularly those of whom are doing something you might like to do.
Don't spend money you don't have to, but don't beat yourself up for buying stuff you need.
Don't beat yourself up, in general.
Enjoy yourself, every second that you can.
Well that's lofty and vague enough for now, right?

I think someone put my security blanket in the dryer.

2009-07-07T17:58:00.000-04:00

As my beloved ex, actor-producer-writer-smart-ass extraordinaire James Huffman, once so eloquently put it, I have a tendency to settle into my comfort zones a bit too easily, for a bit too long.
Case in point: The Hired Guns.
I started working on the most part-time of schedules for this group nearly five years ago now. I have steadily increased my time there until about a year and a half ago, when I signed on full time as their events manager and content guru, doing copywriting, editing, and all sort of various things. I got comfortable. I went from affectionately being nicknamed "Girl Friday" to "Overhead." (I'm very good at spending other people's money, particularly on a party. Ask my dad. Or my ex-husband.)
Unfortunately, this isn't the most ideal climate in which to answer to "Overhead."
And I am, indefinitely, out of work.
A scary thing indeed for a girl whose only apparent skill is making her friends laugh in a blog she can only manage to write on a once a month or so basis.
I love this company. I love these people. They are passionate about what they're doing over there - and I believe firmly that in ten years, when The Hired Guns has reached unimaginable status in their field, this time in the company's history will be a huge learning lesson in bearing down and weathering the storm. That's the price that gets paid for being visionary. And I take them at their word that as soon as things turn around, I'm the first person they'll call.
But this afternoon this fish is feeling a little out of water, as evidenced by my inconsistent mixing of metaphors. I mean, sure, it was nice being home to watch the Michael Jackson memorial service uninterrupted by pesky work. And I already have huge plans for cleaning the whole apartment, rearranging my room, losing a lot of weight, and hanging with Scott in the Hamptons while we compete over the hot, wealthy, gainfully employed and emotionally available men that are pining for us, so clearly there's a lot to do. If I knew this "furlough" was just going to last for a couple of months, honestly I'd be ecstatic. Who doesn't want the summer off? Yeah, I'd have to pinch some pennies, maybe bust out a credit card once or twice, but think of the tan! Think of the naps!
But the only way to really enjoy sunbathing and catnaps is with the security of a bi-monthly paycheck.
If you care to help me out, that would be great.
It's been years since I've had to put together a resume, but I reckon it goes something like this:
I like to write. It's really the only talent I have. I'm okay at it on my bad days, and pretty damn good at it on my best.
I would be happiest writing on my laptop, near a beach. I don't care all that much what I write, but if it was about current events, pop culture, stupid shit that no one cares about but everyone reads, all the better.
I can effortlessly plan a mean wine and cheese fete, a lovely sunset boat cruise, or a picnic-themed French bistro cocktail party, with nothing but an unlimited budget and complete control.
I am willing to travel (as long as it's warm), willing to work long hours (as long as they start around noonish), and don't promise not to be lippy.
Hmm... it's a good thing I have an agent as of this morning. I think that's gonna need some work. But you get the gist, yes?
This is always when the interesting stuff happens, isn't it? When life kicks you in the butt and tells you to get a move on?

Don't Hate the Player

2009-06-19T17:13:00.001-04:00

Ah, the charade that is "work" the day after a night out.
You should see my office right now -- usually bustling and so loud you want to kill yourself, today it's so quiet in here I can hear Daniella snoring next to me. And, oh by the way, she's wearing a Snuggie. Again.
My dear dear Daniella is getting ready to head to Montreal for law school, and last night was our going away party for her. A good percentage of the Hired Guns crew headed down to the East Village for the first leg of our night out. She's a huge beer lover/snob, so we thought Burp Castle on 7th Street would be perfect. It was not perfect. There were about 15 other people in the tiny spot, and in the ten minutes we were there, we were shushed by the bartender no fewer than 3 times. Shushed. By the bartender. Are you fucking kidding me? So, after flicking off the biatch behind the bar, off we went to DBA, which was perrrrfect. Big table outside in the back. Lots of good beer. Pierogies that mysteriously landed on the table from Veselka. (Scott was hungry, apparently, and it would prove to be a key move later in the evening.) Next stop was Winnie's in Chinatown. For you non-NYCers, Winnie's is one of the city’s most classic karaoke bars. For you non-Jessicaers, I cannot sing for shit. I'll spare you the gory details, but suffice it to say, the night had some highlights: everyone (in the bar, not just in our party) wore the snuggie at some point. (Don't worry about why we had a snuggie. Not important.) Hey Mickey, Sweet Child o' Mine, and To All the Girls I've Loved Before were all covered - the last of which was surprisingly accurate considering it was sung by a (mostly) gay man. And everyone I work with drank out of the stiletto I was wearing. (Notice I don't say everyone drank out of MY shoe, because it was not, in fact, my shoe. Again, not important.) A 3AM cab ride home, and back to work as usual today. (Just an hour or two or four later than usual. And that's saying something, because "usual" is already pretty late.)
So here I am, at nearly 5 o'clock, looking at all my bleary-eyed coworkers doing the exact same thing I am doing, which is to pretend to work. Or, more accurately, to focus all possible effort on not letting either 82 pound eyelid close. Nothing productive has been accomplished today, outside of a painfully slow walk up to 23rd Street for dumplings. (Fried. The big order.)
Why are we playing this game? Who are we fooling? Silly, silly professionals.
Okay, time to see if I can't tie my unwashed ponytail to my bra strap, to keep my head from bobbing forward anymore.

Hungry Hungry Hippy

2009-06-07T20:35:00.000-04:00

Okay, there are officially only two reasons to run.
1. Your ass is on fire.
2. Someone is chasing you, with a knife or something else very sharp and scary.
Because otherwise, it just sucks, pointlessly.
Case in point: today, I decided to go running.
This decision stemmed from the crappy afternoon I spent with my iPod, which was stubbornly refusing to acknowledge my existence.
See the problem already?
The only good thing about going running, ever, is that it gives you an excuse to listen to ridiculous music. If I was simply on my way to work in the morning, or wandering the aisles of the grocery store, and someone caught me humming along to "Womanizer" or "Dance -- Too Much Booty in the Pants" I would be embarrassed. But when you're running, they may look at you funny but who cares? Because then you're just gone! (Shout out, Phoebe.)
But here's the thing. When your iPod is ignoring you, and so you decide to go running, you run in silence.
Or rather, you run listening to the sounds of your own wheezing and gasping for precious breath.
And you increase the chances that you'll inhale a bug as you suck wind, which means you then have to listen to yourself hack and make that awful old smoker gutteral noise.
All I really want to do is sit here on the couch, breathing normally, watching Best and Worst Beach Bodies on E!, drinking a glass of wine and complaining about nothing.
All the running in the world is not going to diminish the curviness of hips like these. And I read somewhere that once you get cellulite, you never lose it. (I also read that once you lose your eyelashes they never grow back. Does anyone know if that's true?) So, really, if I'm going to have these big ole hips anyway, doesn't running around just seem... childish?
Anyone?

Abstinence in the Burbs

2009-05-08T22:02:00.001-04:00

I'm a bit confused.
I was sure I'd seen every episode of Sex and the City.
You know -- the story of a fabulous young woman with a fabulous job in a fabulous city, a fabulous wardrobe, fabulous friends, and a storybook love life.
I mean, she's not perfect -- obviously -- but not because she can't be; just because it's boring. Every fabulous story needs a few ups and downs, to highlight the actual fabulousness.
Clearly, this is my life.
The only thing is, I can't seem to find tonight's episode.
The one where the fabulous young lady is in her bed, alone, on Friday night, before 10 o'clock, with a glass of wine and the Ghost Whisperer.
Weird, right?
(At least I have the fabulous friends part. Personally, that seems like the most important part.)

Bubbly (Personalities and the Like)

2009-05-06T17:34:00.001-04:00

Now do you people see why I haven't had the time to write you lately? This is what the kitchen counter at my office looks like this afternoon. And most of you probably know, I am a complete sucker for a good glass of... anything really.
(Quick background: The lovely and usually tipsy folks from Food & Wine Magazine have taken over about half of our office as they edit and write the 2010 Wine Guide. So for the past several months they've had boxes after boxes after boxes of wine delivered - I'm staring at about 300 bottles right now, conservatively - which they proceed to pop, sip, and then set aside. So of course, it's been up to us to take home a million bottles or so a night of barely touched great wine.)
Tonight will be tough - they're tasting the champagnes which obviously can't be recorked and therefore must be polished off immediately. I hope they pay me overtime.

And in between drinking and more drinking, I've been too busy to be any fun at all. We've had tons of work events lately, and I'm shooting a web series (whoa, acting stuff, I know) that's pretty much filling out the rest of my calendar. In essence, I suck and am -- still -- excruciatingly boring. Just trying to keep my chin up and not be lonely. People are supposed to be in love in the spring in New York, you know? I'm just sneezing and still looking. I'm trying to stay my normal chipper, upbeat, optimistic and not-at-all cynical or sarcastic self, but it's tough. It's tough. (People who love to laugh at my woefully melodramatic dry spell of a love life - and there are a LOT of you assholes - are demanding insight into my latest forays. I'm sure I don't have anything to say that hasn't been said a million times already, but if it'll keep you guys entertained I'll see what I can put together. Assholes.)

Hopefully the web series will turn out looking nice - it's been so long since I've really put anything on camera (other than the commercial that just won't die, of course...) that if feels nice to be working. The producer, Jonathan Betzler, runs Myriad Arts, and they've consistently put out some really interesting, brave, and fun projects over the past few years. (JB and I met a little over six years ago, when we worked on a film together called The Journal. He was an AD, and I was a girl who got felt up. He's definitely moved further up the ranks than me since then.) (I'm using a lot of parentheses today, for no apparent reason, other than editorial laziness.) The project is called Intersection and we're not quite halfway done with shooting, so I'll keep you posted.

Okay, I can't even bullshit around anymore. I have to go have champagne.

Brain Bounces

2009-04-06T16:11:00.001-04:00

Don't you guys think it's fascinating that I've had nothing interesting to report since March 19th? It's April 6th today. Huh.
(Insert snide comments about me not having anything all that interesting to report prior to March 19th here.)(Jerks.)
I still don't have anything interesting to report.
So, in no particular order, here are the (very) few things bouncing around in my brain at the moment.

After years and years of getting my parents, boyfriends, and a few strangers on April Fool's Day, I've not only lost my touch -- I got taken for the second time. First was my junior year of college when Taco Bell took out full page ads in every major newspaper advertising that they'd recently purchased the Liberty Bell in Philly, in order to repair the crack. They also mentioned that they'd be renaming it "The Taco Liberty Bell" and still, no alarm bells (pun intended) went off.
Cut ahead to last week, and my normally beloved Daily Candy had me shrieking in disgust with their newest suggestion on exfoliation. Never realized it was a joke until several days later when my co-worker eyed me oddly as I was retelling the story of what I'd read, and she said (a little condescendingly, if you ask me), "Um, you do realize that was an April Fool's Day prank, riiiiiight?"

My bosses are back after a week of vacation.

Taxes suck ASS. And particularly when you live in one state but work in another. Uncle.

I keep trying to Twitter and it just annoys the hell out of me. Even more a sign of my age than the multiple grey hairs that have comfortably settled in to strange little neighborhoods on my scalp.

My six-word memoir of the day: rainy mondays make me kinda melancholy.

It's been too long since I've been home, and I still have almost four months to go. Unacceptable.

I don't have another commitment-free weekend until Memorial Day. Also unacceptable.

I'm just gonna put it out there. This is the week I win the lottery.

I've decided I want to improve my Spanish, and learn French and Italian. Rosetta Stone is insanely expensive. Want to split it with me? Then we could talk to each other in other languages.

And... yep. That's it.

Another Shining Example of When Mean Is Funny

2009-03-19T14:52:00.001-04:00

Okay, sometimes, something comes along that's just too remarkably inappropriate NOT to share.
Like this IM, for example.
Backstory: Somehow or another, my favorite co-workers launched into a debate some time ago about which would be better/worse -- a guy with a limp, or a guy with a lisp. It's important work we do here, people.
So, lo and behold, into our trap of an office today walks an unsuspecting lisper.
The following ensued. Names have been omitted, because... well, obviously, because.

[2:16PM] Red: are you sure this poor guy doesn't make you want to rethink the whole lisp vs. limp thing?

[2:17PM] Blue: ok, a little- if i had to choose between a HOT guy with a limp vs. a HOT guy with a lisp- i would still go lisp- i didn't even consider the utter geek factor

[2:17PM] Blue: is it to be assumed that but limpy and lispy are ugly geeks?

[2:17PM] Red: but a HOT guy with a liMp you could just make up a really cool story -- like he used to be a gansta or something

[2:17PM] Red: hot guy with a liSp there's no good story for

[2:18PM] Red: just lazy mouth

[2:18PM] Blue: but a hot guy with a lisp would be sentive and not full of himself

[2:18PM] Blue: i like to be slightly better than the person i'm dating

[2:18PM] Blue: just enough

[2:18PM] Red: you'd have to keep your tongue in his mouth all the time

[2:18PM] Blue: fine with me

[2:18PM] Red: how does --- feel about that?!

[2:18PM] Red: the better than part, not the tongue in mouth part

[2:18PM] Blue: great question

[2:19PM] Blue: he thinks he is really unattractive

[2:19PM] Blue: which he clearly is not

[2:19PM] Red: best if he stays in the dark

[2:19PM] Blue: exactly!

[2:19PM] Red: you have more control that way

[2:19PM] Red: in fact you might want to start making subtle comments

[2:19PM] Blue: now, if he developed a lisp, i would have to leave him

[2:20PM] Red: WHAT? you're swapping sides

[2:20PM] Blue: limp - questionable

[2:20PM] Blue: fair weather fan

[2:20PM] Blue: indeed

[2:20PM] Red: if --- all of a sudden developed a limp, you'd still think he was cute. if he all of a sudden developed a lisp, i'm sorry, i don't care what you say, you'd think he was gay

[2:21PM] Blue: ha

[2:21PM] Blue: would the limp affect his performance in bed?

[2:21PM] Red: in bed, no. in other places, it's a definite possibility.

[2:22PM] Blue: hmm- what about the lisp in bed? that might be more of a problem

[2:22PM] Blue: no talking

[2:22PM] Blue: allowed

[2:22PM] Red: exactly. if you laugh too hard when you're having sex it falls out

[2:22PM] Red: i'm serious

[2:22PM] Red: it pushes

[2:22PM] Blue: and scene

Bottoms Up

2009-03-10T14:46:00.001-04:00

The guy across from me on the train this morning was drinking a beer.
Now, in the spirit of full disclosure, I should point out that I'm not usually coming in to work before the sun is up, or even with that over-eager/-dressed crowd of Financial District folk. But, generally speaking, I do aim for getting to the office before lunch, and, by default, well before any acceptable happy hour.
He wasn't homeless (appearing, anyway), and he wasn't drunk (acting, anyway). There really wasn't anything particularly interesting about him at all, except for the beer.
He clearly wasn't ashamed, as said beer was right on his lap for any straggling commuter to see - not even a paper bag for discretion's sake.
Obviously, for him, a pre-ten-a.m. beer was just how he needed to start the day. Like a good stretch. Or a gulp of orange juice, with a kick and a bit of an aftertaste.
It made me sad.
You're probably waiting for the joke, since I am a sarcastic, kind of mean-spirited person.
But, sincerely, it made me feel sad.
This wasn't a celebratory beer. Last Saturday was the St. Patricks Day festival in Hoboken, and there was a LOT of
mid-morning beer being consumed. That was a little immature, but it wasn't sad. By the end of the night it was grossly immature, but still -- not sad. Annoying, for us of a certain age. Not sad.
Is life so hard right now that the only way to even get moving is to get numb?
It's Tuesday. It's March. That means the toughest day of the week is done for a few more days, and the toughest part of the year is as well.
I thought maybe it was because of the economy... a recession beer. (Because isn't the economy a perfectly convenient scapegoat for every bad attitude and behavior these days.) But then I thought, well that's just silly. Beer is really expensive around here. And this wasn't a Pabst or anything. It wasn't even a can. This was good, bottled stuff. So it's tough to justify by means of financial depression.
I don't know why I'm trying to justify it anyway. He didn't make me drink it. He didn't spill any of it on me. I just tend to be overly concerned with things that aren't any of my business.
Come to think of it, there's not even a point -- or a conclusion, really -- to this story.
I just wish I knew his story. Or, I wish I knew his story was a happy one.

He's Just Not That Into Any of Me

2009-02-18T00:55:00.000-05:00

Okay. It's very late. For a school night, anyway. The past few nights I've fallen asleep blissfully doped up on Nyquil, but I have a tiny little addiction problem, so I'm not letting myself take any tonight, and it's not going well so far. Plus I drank it all last night, so... there you go.
Went to see He's Just Not That Into You tonight. I actually loved it. (Actually. Who am I kidding here, actually. Is there actually anyone out there who didn't think this shit was written for a girl like me?) I am completely - and I'm not kidding here, people, completely - PMSing. So it wasn't pretty. The only thing that might get me to sleep tonight is the promise of seeing Bradley Cooper again very soon, and very naked. But that's not really the point here.
I don't know what the point is here. I keep typing and deleting, typing and deleting. So maybe I'm not quite ready to delve into all this.
I keep wanting to share my funny, sad stories from this whole new world of online dating with you, but then I feel bad about it when it really comes time to share. Or maybe I feel vulnerable, because really these guys are just trying to do the same thing I am, so it makes me wonder what that says about me. Or I'm worried about killing any shred of dating karma I might have left if I sacrifice them up as entertainment. (Don't get me wrong. It would probably be worth it. This is some crazy stuff... remind me some other time to tell you about Chester. I'd even post his picture - just to make sure you got the full effect - only I'm pretty sure that's illegal. And, you know, immoral. And kind of mean. Anyway.)
And I don't know what my story is yet. Which makes it hard to tell.
I think I'm all those girls, in some way or another. The one who holds on too long. The one who tries too hard. The one who looks the other way. The one who doesn't want what she's got.
That's a lot of girls all wrapped up in this one. And he's not into any of me, hot mess that I am. So what do I do? Someday I'll let go. And stop trying. And see him for what he is. And want what's right in front of me.
Won't I?
Or, more likely, I'll reread this, realize I sound like a crazed Carrie Bradshaw without the staff of great writers or the killer shoes, switch to Robitussin because it's all that's left in the medicine cabinet, and not keep Bradley waiting any longer.

26-50.

2009-02-06T16:33:00.001-05:00

Because who's only got 25 random things to say about themselves, really?
Plus this is three blog entries in a row for me, and that, my friends, is record-setting.

26. I still wish for him on every eyelash.
27. I procrastinate.
28. My name is Jessica Elizabeth. I have a sister named Jessica, and a sister named Elizabeth. (And a brother named Josh, but that's not really thematic. Except that his girlfriend's name is Liz.)
29. I have never used my passport.
30. I have an unhealthy body image.
31. I've been to Wyoming twice, for unrelated weddings.
32. Most of my possessions are split between two basements - my dad's in Ohio and my ex-boyfriend's best friend's in New York.
33. I'm wondering if it'll seem egotistical that I'm writing list number two.
34. I like going to movies by myself.
35. My boss calls me snarky.
36. When I was little I told everyone my favorite movie was "The Best Little Whorehouse in Texas."
37. I drink a lot of wine, but never red, even though I know it would be better for me.
38. I've seen two babies be born.
39. I hope I don't live in New Jersey forever, but I have no idea where to go next.
40. I've internet dated. Unsuccessfully, so far, anyway.
41. Sometimes I recite the words to movies along with the actors, even though I know it's annoying.
42. I wish I was more sophisticated.
43. I take a lot of notes.
44. I don't miss acting as much as I thought I would.
45. I miss my family more.
46. I worry that my life looks like this right now because of karma. I laugh at a lot of people.
47. I hate being naked.
48. My grandmothers are the two most amazing, frustrating, awe-inspiring women I know.
49. I'm terrified of getting old.
50. I'm realizing a second list was probably pretty much overkill.

I Am the Most Popular Girl On This Blog

2009-02-05T14:30:00.000-05:00

So yesterday's post invoked a flurry of activity and outrage from those fan(s) of mine who either aren't cool enough to be on Facebook, or just aren't cool enough to be my friend on Facebook.
After much* demand, here is MY previously posted list of 25 Random Things.

*much is a relative term.

25. I have a cat named Bunker, who currently lives with his grandparents and kitty cousin.

24. I say 'literally' way more often than is actually appropriate. Or true.

23. I don't take criticism very well, because I'm too sensitive and I take everything really personally.

22. I love to read. Anything. Almost.

21. After eight years in New York City, I love it. But I'm worn out. It will always be a part of me, but I don't think it will ever be home.

20. I have no willpower.

19. I rode a motorcycle once at well over 100 miles an hour, without a helmet. It still makes me sick to my stomach to think about it.

18. If I have daughters I already know what I will name them.

17. I sometimes worry that I haven't made very good use of my life so far.

16. I'm hardly ever attracted to people -- very picky, thanks to some amazing, wonderful exes -- but when I fall in love it's hard and fast.

15. My favorite place in the world (aside from home) is a tiny island off the coast of the Outer Banks.

14. I'm technically an only child, but I have 3 younger siblings. They are all very different. I adore them. I miss them more and more as they become these amazing young adults with families of their own.

13. I wonder if I'll ever make (another) movie, write a book, or marry well (again).

12. I wonder what I'll have for dinner.

11. I've been skydiving.

10. I am a Buckeye, a Yankee, and a wannabe southern belle.

9. I am an unapologetic Parrot Head.

8. I once spent New Years Eve in Times Square… handing out Listerine Pocket Packs.

7. I never cook.

6. I think I'm getting smarter, finally. Or at least more… aware.

5. I try really hard to make people laugh. Sometimes I try too hard and suck, but sometimes I can do it.

4. I am blessed with the most amazing, influential, capable, drop-dead gorgeous, motivating, supportive, hysterically funny, no-bullshit, inspiring group of best girlfriends you could even imagine. Literally.

3. I should be working right now.

2. This has taken me a really ridiculously long time.

1. I will always be daddy's girl.

25 Random Things About Other People

2009-02-04T18:02:00.001-05:00

So, as you Facebook friendly folks know, there is a craze just sweeping the site: a tagged note of "25 Random Things" that has proven, for me at least, to be a completely wonderful, entertaining insight into the friends I know really well, and the ones I don't. (Even the Times is getting in on the story.)

I talk a lot about my amazing friends, and how they've sustained me over the years. See for yourself -- 25 poignant little hysterically heartbreaking insights into the people in my life...

12. I love interesting people. Hence, my BFF Libby. She is insane about cleaning. She once came to visit and reorganized my entire closet. I was so thankful to have such a friend! She also informed me that I had 16 pairs of jeans.

10. My husband is laughing at me right now... shouting out ideas for this stupid list.

21. When I was in high school, my family planted a tree in a park in remembrance of my grandfather. In 2002, my now husband took me to a park named after his grandmother. It was the same park.

3. I am STILL hopelessly terrified of the band KISS, the Incredible Hulk and making my parents mad.

3. Being pregnant has made me appreciate my mother more.

17. i don't like taking out the garbage or filling the ice cube tray so i don't do either.

21. I'm really good at getting the job. I'm really bad at keeping it.

20. I stay in touch with all my ex girlfriends... except for one. I adore all of them... except for one.

23. My secret dream in life is to be a writer. My secret fear is that no one would be interested in what I would write.

10. I'm a card-carrying Feminist, but I've always wanted a fairy-tale wedding.

3. I rarely write a FB status because I would rather just read Jessica Stone's.

24. My husband is my best friend and favorite person in the world, but I still couldn't tell you his favorite snack or what he would order at a restaurant.

2. I believe in love at first sight.

19. I like living in Los Angeles, but I'm madly in love with New York City.

6. Twenty FIVE random things? I'm getting a little tired of working on this.

17. i killed my hamster snowball when i was 7. it was an accident. i wanted a dog. my parents wouldn't get me one. so i took snowball for a walk. i tied the rope around his neck a little too tight, and well-- that was it for snowball. terrible. i am still scarred.

10. not an hour goes by that i don't think of my mom.

21. I once attended a “Felicity” series finale viewing party. That’s still the gayest thing I’ve ever done.

24) I spend $2 a week on Lotto.

6) I wish my family lived closer to me, but not that I lived closer to my family. If that makes sense.

11. My husband says that I have a secret boyfriend. He lives in my freezer and he calls him GG. (grey goose) but he's no good to me without olives.

10. I am COMPLETELY different than I was in high school. Thank God.

11) I ran my parents around the world three times over in my childhood, but I think it was good for them.

17. I wonder nearly every day if living where I do is worth all the things I'm sacrificing to be here.

10. I'm strong enough to be alone, I'm just not very good at it.

Big Day, Tiny Heart

2009-01-20T18:03:00.000-05:00

Hey y'all. I have no idea why I decided to go the Southern route there - it's just in my blood and bones and sometimes when I'm tired it comes out. So there ya go.
It's been a hell of a day.
I was about to head off to bed, but figured I would be disappointed with myself if I didn't in some way document this day.
We have a new president. But we have so much more than that - we have a whole new outlook. As a lot of you know, I was a fish headed upstream in that I didn't hate George Bush. Pitied, perhaps, in days of late, but I still see a good man there. In the last few months and years I've lost sight, the way I think a lot of America did, in how he got to the top position in the world in the first place, but he got there, nonetheless, same as the 42 men before him. But that's not really what today was about.
You don't hear me say it often, but... every once in awhile I slip, and every once in awhile I fall in love, head over heels, with New York City.
Today, I love New York. I got to experience this day in a way that no one, outside of our capital, got to. I got to stand in a crowded bar in Manhattan, surrounded by strangers, and watch the world change. For the better, no less. I got to feel the common thread that is the tying bind of a city like this. It's a loving city. Oh, I know, you're skeptical. But it is. It's an embracing, inviting, encouraging city. It welcomes change, and uncertainty, and enthusiasm.
So many moments in history have been captured by the iconic image of Americans crowded around a television screen. In bars and restaurants, in homes, around electronics stores on the streets. And so often, we're watching images, crying collectively, because something has happened. It's rarely something good. JFK. Elvis. Reagan. The Challenger. And, it's hard to even type, September 11th, 2001. None of those were good tears. Those are images that people froze to, clung to one another through, and survived to tell the next generation where they were at that moment.
I will tell my kids about watching the Challenger explode in my fourth grade classroom.
And I will tell my kids about the day I truly became a New Yorker. I didn't watch that day on television.
But today... today was different.
It almost looked the same. Crowds huddled in the freezing cold around sets and computers and even PDAs. (That might be a little different than years past...) There were tears. People clung to each other.
And they cheered.
Oh, wow, how they cheered and cried and let their faces fill with hope.
We chattered about an amazing performance, an amazing speech, an amazing moment in fashion. (Way to go, Wu.)
We watched a man do something unprecedented, who didn't forget to say, before the world, before he said anything else, "How gorgeous is my wife?" Done. Won. Love always wins.
It was nothing short of amazing. It was another monumental moment in New York City. And I fell in love, all over again.
It's been a tough week for love. It's been a tough few days of reminding myself that love can win. I had my own plans for dancing to Etta, my own version of "At Last," and I had to let it go. Reluctantly. Unwillingly. Ungracefully and humiliatingly and pridelessly. So, clearly, I don't feel much like a winner in love this week. I feel like a broken hearted, very lonely, very sad girl. I lost this week. Losing is awful, when the stakes are this high. A lot of tears in the past couple of days, and not happy "yes we can" tears. But what can you do.
So today was a good reminder that the world is bigger than I am. There are more important things than my little heart. My little tiny broken heart.
Like a president who just told the band to kick it.
More important stuff, indeed.

Does This Make Me Sound Self-Involved?

2008-12-18T13:15:00.000-05:00

Hi all. For any of you last-minute shoppers who are still wondering what this very, very nice girl would like for Christmas, I've decided to compile a list. I call it "My Christmas List" which I think is very catchy. I realize that, as a nice girl, you are thinking I should wish for things like world peace, but you are confused. Those are beauty pageant contestants, not nice girls. (I do not mean to imply that beauty pageant girls cannot also be nice. Love you, Kristen.) "My Christmas List" is just for me. If you want world peace, go make your own list. That did not sound very Christmas-y, so you might be doubting that I am, in fact, a nice girl, but it was not meant to sound snarky or rude, but rather as a simple suggestion that anyone can create their very own "My Christmas List," as it's not exclusive to me or patented at this point.
*A cozy, loving, laugh-filled meal with every single person I love and lots of champagne.
*A new Rebecca Minkoff.
*The willpower to stop eating salt and vinegar potato chips. After I finish this bag, of course.
*Or a gift certificate for plastic surgery so I don't have to stop eating them. Ever.
*Edward. If you have to ask, you don't understand. If you don't understand, you're not as pathetically lame as me.
*If not Edward, because he's not actually real and I don't want Robert Pattinson, then I would please like the one real man who would passionately and earnestly love me through infinity. Who cannot live without me. Who will on occasion do something romantic and otherworldly like be sitting on my front steps when I get home because he had to tell me, face-to-face, that he's sorry for leaving/hurting/doubting me and would I please, please give him a second (hundredth) chance to treat me like I deserve. I thought I was happy with a drama-free life, but I'm learning that seems to mean a passion-free life and I'm a passionate person. I'd rather deal with the drama than live without the passion. This is getting a bit off point for a Christmas list.
*North Carolina.
*Facebook I can use telepathically so I'm not glued to my computer for so many hours a day.
*A super fast car that will get me home to my family more quickly than the economy-size Hyundai or other such atrocity that is available through Budget Rental Cars. With a killer stereo because that's a long way to drive no matter how fast I'm going, and I need to entertain myself.
I think this is a very good list. If you would like to giftpool (you know, like carpooling, where you team up to share the burden) on some of the bigger items that is fine. Please do not giftpool on small items like a purse or a car, because that is cheap. I have not registered anywhere because that it considered gauche in some circles and I do not wish to offend. If you would like to veer off the list and can think of something creative and unique and well-suited to me, I am fine with that as well.
One week till Christmas!!!

By the Numbers

2008-11-30T18:08:00.000-05:00

A quick status update. Because why not.
*I am more addicted to facebook than a woman my age should be. That number shall not be disclosed at the present time.
*This Wednesday, Jim turns... just kidding Jim. Do you even remember the actual number at this point?
*I am sick. Very sick. I may not pull through. I have been sick all week, and I finally got bored yesterday, so I went out at 2:30 to watch college football. I ended up staying out about 12 hours. I am now sicker.
*I have eaten almost an entire chocolate pie in 3 days.
*I miss my friend. 7 weeks is a long, sad time to not have your friend.
*Plaxico Burress shot himself yesterday. I think that is karma. He's kind of a jackass. More jackasses should shoot themselves in non-life-threatening ways. There is no number attached to this, it's just on the television.
*I drive home for Christmas in 3 weeks from tomorrow. Aside from my two Rebecca Minkoff bags and some expensive dental work, zero presents have been purchased by me.
*See, you bugged me for like 5 years to write more often. This is what happens.