La Robe du Jour

This past Sunday evening, I decided to take myself on a field trip to The Strand Bookstore, located a mere 10-minute walk (if that) from my apartment. I did much more browsing that buying, which is seriously a good thing, because I feel like I have been doing nothing but buying books these days. I keep on finding bargain-priced copies of books that have been on my "to-read" list for months, and I can't help myself. However, I did pick up a copy of Slouching Towards Bethlehem, which the Strand cashier assured me that I would love, as she did.

On the walk back to my apartment, I saw a little boutique on East 13th Street called Apt. 141, toward which I felt a distinct pull. When I went inside, I instantly recognized the store. At the end of my stint in NYC as a textbook publishing intern during the summer of 2002, I had taken some of the money I had earned over the summer and had purchased a dress from that very boutique. It was a raspberry-colored madras sundress with a fitted bodice and a crinkled full skirt, and its fabric was shot through with gold metallic threads. The straps tied in bows over my shoulders. The dress was the perfect combination of traditional-pretty and NYC-quirky.

During my final days in New York that summer, I wore the dress on a date and to see a show, although the specifics of both events now escape me. When I went back home to Fort Worth for a few weeks before starting my senior year of college, I wore the dress out to dinner with my family. I'm wearing it in one of my favorite photographs of me with my brother, taken under one of the trees in the front lawn of my family's old house.

I remembered all of these things last Sunday evening, and I thought about the dress that still hangs in my closet, as I confirmed with the Apt. 141 shopgirls that the store had been in business for many years, indeed well before 2002. I told them about the dress I had purchased seven years ago, and they listened politely to my rambling. Then I looked around the boutique cursorily, told myself I really didn't need anything, and headed home to start one of the books I must finish before I'll allow myself to open Slouching Towards Bethlehem. I'm not ruling out a return trip to Apt. 141, but I think I will wait until my final week or so in the city before going back. I would certainly enjoy the symmetry of purchasing a 2009-appropriate sundress at the end of this NYC adventure, wearing it during some final gallivants here and then when I return home to DC, and ultimately hanging it next to my raspberry-colored sundress when summer turns to autumn.

Pomp/ Circumstance

Although I became a bit self-conscious when I realized recently that most of my writing had been falling into the "NYC is wacky!" wheelhouse, no one can deny that New York consistently rewards even the most casual people-watchers with insane visual stimuli.  In Washington, I know simply based on geography whom I will encounter.  Without fail, I will see middle-aged women wearing natural fibers and MOMA jewelry in Cleveland Park, and I will compete for a table at Commissary with one million gay men in Logan Circle.  In Gallery Place, every person will want to see the same movie as me, and I will always meet people carrying NPR tote bags who will grumpily remind me that drinking soda is verboten on the Metro.  But the streets of New York present a thoroughly mixed bag, people-wise, which is beyond entertaining.  Indeed, N and I have taken to playing a fun guessing game called "Professional Dog Walker, or Just Crazy?" whenever we come across someone walking more than four dogs.  Because you never know.

Except sometimes, the assumption that everyone in my path is a big weirdo backfires on me in a slightly embarrassing way.  This happened this morning, when I saw a bunch of people in violet robes and immediately started trying to determine which fringe religion they had embraced.  I was hoping they were Moonies, although I certainly wouldn't be able to pick a Moonie out of a line-up, unless he were getting married en masse in a football stadium somewhere.  But then I snapped out of my reverie and realized that these people were certainly not Moonies.  They weren't even run-of-the-mill Buddhists.  They were your basic college kids, excitedly chattering and snapping pictures of each other on the morning of their NYU graduation ceremony.  

Come Monday

I think that there should be more Guinness chocolate cake in my life. With icing that doesn't quite fluff, which means that it gets served directly out of the mini food processor and spooned right onto the cake. Besides that, though, what I really want is for lots of my friends to live in the same place again. It's an unpopular opinion, but I really loved law school, and much of that love stemmed from getting to hang out with some incredible people every day of the week. I really miss going downstairs to the cafeteria during class breaks to buy a snack and visit with whatever friend was inevitably pseudo-studying and watching The Price Is Right at one of the cafeteria tables. I also miss Keg on the Quad--- even after it was re-named Wacky Wednesday, or Wet Your Whistle Wednesday, or whatever it was called in order to appease the apparently vocal non-drinking contingent. Although some might really debate this, I even miss elaborately setting up shop in one of the libraries with study partners to settle in for a few weeks of finals prep. One time I settled in a little too well--- I decided to shelve my textbooks in with the library books to avoid carrying them back and forth from my locker, which was truly almost a disaster when the librarians staged a mass re-shelving the day before one of my finals.

I thought about posting yesterday, but I couldn't because first I was busy, and then I was melancholy. The busy part was obviously the more fun part of the day. N and I ate delicious sandwiches and then went on a long walk, first in Hudson River Park and then east into the Village. But then Sundays always turn sad when we're visiting each other, because he has to leave, or I have to leave, and then I'm alone in my apartment finishing up the movie we had started together or reading the book that I had been too keyed-up to read on the train during the trip down to Washington. Even when my life is a bit more settled and normal, Sundays are bittersweet. The idea of winding down one week and gearing up for another is always a little tiring and sometimes daunting. However, my internal melodrama really took over yesterday evening as I was missing N, missing my lovely friends whom I don't see as much as I would like, missing my ridiculously idealized memories of law school, and missing my family (particularly my mom on Mother's Day); I couldn't work up the energy to do much of anything except wander around CVS, read some Independence Day, and then fall asleep early.

On Showing Off

On Saturday evening, we met three adorable children in a playground who showed us all kinds of jungle gym-related tricks.  The oldest kid started a group chant--- "back it up, back, back it UP"--- and the two younger ones demonstrated some fairly complicated break-dancing moves.  We joined the chant and went wild with applause.  In case you're wondering where the kids' parents were when these hijinx were occurring, they were sitting at a bench nearby, not paying much attention, indeed, paying no attention because they were making out with each other pretty intensely.  We all tried out the kids' Razor scooter, and Jenny and I turned some cartwheels before we moved on and left the kids to their jungle gym.

I continued the experimental gymnastics later in the night and, sadly, had not much success.  I fell pretty hard and skinned my knee while trying to do a handstand in Tim's kitchen.  I couldn't really get the momentum I needed, so I think perhaps my efforts would have turned out better had the kitchen been just a tad bigger.  I felt a little vindicated when the next person to try a handstand not only fell, but in falling accidentally pulled the toaster cord, causing the toaster to fall onto him from the top of the refrigerator.  There's really nothing like another's (nearly literal) crashing and burning to make my own failures of coordination a bit more palatable!   

Let Us Now Praise Amanda Palmer

You can tell from the scars on my arms and the cracks in my hips and the dents in my car and the blisters on my lips that I'm not the carefullest of girls.  

So begins the frenetic "Girl Anachronism," one of the stand-out songs on the Dresden Dolls' self-titled album, a song that perfectly encapsulates the Bell Jar-siren, high school drama club queen, broken-doll persona that lead singer and pianist Amanda Palmer wears so excellently.  Palmer largely maintains this role in the songwriting and general aesthetics that comprise her debut solo album, "Who Killed Amanda Palmer?"  The cover art features her lying face-up on a wooden floor, wearing a tatty crimson Victorian frock with a prettily turned-up hem.  Although she lies horizontally, the album cover is oriented vertically so that Palmer appears to be floating upward, a goth Mary Poppins.  WKAP?'s songs range lyrically from the same mental health hysteria of "Girl Anachronism" ("Runs in the Family"), to a lush ballad about retaining one's sense of self while in a relationship ("Ampersand"), to a rollicking rocker ("Leeds United") that asks, "Who needs love when there's Southern Comfort?"  Oh, and the album also includes your standard, light-hearted abortion sing-along ("Oasis"), which, although firmly tongue-in-cheek, might still be Just a Bit Too Much.       

This post makes it pretty obvious that I adore Amanda Palmer's musical talents.  But what I have really come to admire about her is that, despite her compellingly unstable persona, Palmer has proven that she is the "carefullest of girls."  I do not mean to imply that her art and her stage presence are calculated in that they are in any way inauthentic.  However, Palmer is a master of self-promotion, and she has built a fantastic career largely from sheer ambition and hustle.  Her dramatic tiffs with her record label have been well-publicized, prompting Palmer to strike out on her own and email, text-message, and blog her way into her fans' hearts.  She tours and reaches out to her audiences tirelessly.  Following one of her concerts that I saw last fall at DC's 9:30 Club, Palmer left the stage and held an earnest little meet-and-greet with the concert attendees.  The energy and sweat that Palmer pours into her career make her stand out as an artist who both loves what she does and understands the effort she needs to log in order to keep on doing just that.

Palmer's birthday was a few days ago, and she mentioned in her blog that what she really wanted as a birthday gift was for each of her supporters to introduce her music to a friend.  Of course, never lacking in self-confidence, Palmer phrased this request: "please take this moment in time and think about one person . . . who does not have amanda fucking palmer in her life and might like her there."  So although I am a bit sheepish at the fan-girly direction this post has taken, I'll chalk it up as a present to Amanda.  Happy birthday Ms. Palmer, and may this year contain more of the same keyboard pounding, lyric cleverness, and damn-the-man bravado we have come to love from you.            

Vanity and Updike

I'm pretty contented with my life overall. I get to travel between two fantastic cities regularly. I have a good job, and I have lovely family and friends. Also, I have decided to wear a new jacket to work today, thus testing the boundaries of the business-formal dress code. Nevertheless, here are some things that would make me contented-plus this morning.

I really wish my hair had grown about eight inches overnight. I'm totally regretting having cut it all off in the fall. Everything seemed fine at first, when I could blow-dry it straight. But then it grew out an inch or so, and bits of hair started getting curly and cowlicky, no matter how many times I threatened them with the flat-iron. "It's like your hair is saying to you, 'Amanda, you're Jewish, I'm not meant to go totally straight,'" N remarked to me a few weeks ago as I wrestled with various hair products. Indeed.

I also wish that I had stayed up late enough last night to finish Rabbit, Run. There is a Slate "audio book club" podcast about the book that I want very much to be listening to right now, as I get ready for work. But I have about ten or fifteen pages of the book left, and there's no way that I'm going to be spoiler-ed. Not even by Meghan O'Rourke, one of the book club participants and, despite her detractors, one of my favorite internet journalists.

Rabbit, Run, by the by, is literally stunning in many respects. It also contains the best first-date line I have ever read: "O.K. What shall we talk about? What's your weight?" I'm considering having a Laughter Through Tears-sponsored book club to discuss it, particularly the complicated things it has to say about religion and marriage.

Into the Woods

We didn't see any bears on the hike. Matt pointed out what could have been a bear's paw-print, but also the print could have belonged to one of the small-horse-sized mutts we met on the trail. Besides the dogs, here are the various fauna that we encountered: tick, snake(!), squirrel, and pair of ants carrying off a grub. I'd call that a success, no?

Even if a naysayer might be unimpressed by the hike's modest menagerie of critters, no one could help but be charmed by its absolutely beautiful setting. I love DC for many reasons, one of which is that an hour-and-a-half drive can take me far beyond the city and into some lovely mountain town in the Shenandoahs. The area where we hiked was all pale green and soft violet. Most trees had not yet sprouted a full head of leaves, but some intermittently boasted a shower of pinky-purple blossoms.

We hopped our way across streams and traipsed around sparkly waterfalls along what promised to be a moderately easy trail. I checked out the topographic maps and the narrative description of the trail that Erin and Matt had thoughtfully provided. "Yall," I asked, "um, why does it say that the next part of the hike is 'very steep with switchbacks?'"

Indeed, our benign trail soon took a turn towards the promised steepness and switchbacks, and my ensuing light-headedness taught me the important life lesson that one should not indulge in a fair amount of wine-drinking the evening before a substantial trek. But then we had reached the trail's summit and realized that the grueling past half-hour had led us to an outstanding postcard panorama of a view. Hawks dipped above us, and I swear we could see all the way across Virginia.

After the hike, four extremely dirty outdoors-people made their way to Spelunker's Frozen Custard & Cavern Burgers to check out the area's custard scene. Lucky for us, the good folks at Spelunkers weren't put off by our appearance and commenced to serve us some of their delectable "gooey Butterfinger" flavor of the day in homemade waffle cones. Later that afternoon, when N and I had returned to DC, we priced out the cost of starting our own custard store. The store would be located in the U Street area, which is woefully short on dessert-specific enterprises. I'm not sure what its name would be, or when N and I could gather enough start-up cash to finance the operation, but I can promise you that we will be doing lots of market research at Spelunker's so that we can bring the outstandingly good waffle cones of Front Royal, Virginia to the DC metro area.

Oh My

I'm visiting the District this weekend.  Hooray!  Saturday will be spent hiking with friends in Virginia.  This should be an adventure for several reasons.  First, the last time N and I went hiking with these particular friends, neither of us could walk properly for over a week afterwards.  Erin and Matt are experienced outdoors-people, and they do not mess around.  Second, I have not exercised since December.  At all.  Finally, N has expressed some concerns (which I second), that Matt, our trip organizer, "keeps on saying that we'll see lots of bears like that's a good thing."

I'll report back on the trip when we return, provided that I am not bear-mangled.

Sus Scrofa and Other Adventures

Suffice it to say that this weekend I attended two cultural events that featured half-naked men in pig suits running about in front of the audience with insufficient explanation to account for their presence.

As Sasha Frere-Jones predicted, a parade of randoms accompanied Kevin Barnes onstage at the Of Montreal concert I attended on Friday. Besides the pig, I caught glimpses of guys in gas masks, red amoeba-like creatures engaging in some sort of battle, and a keyboardist whom I thought was in drag, but who was actually a woman (sorry, honey), as we grooved around on the mezzanine of the Music Hall of Williamsburg. Jenny and I managed not to get yelled at once at the concert, which is actually a record for us. "That guy at the back of the stage--- is he supposed to be like, a Santa Claus mixed with an exchange student?" I yelled to J over the music. "No idea," she screamed back, handing me the largest rum and diet I've ever seen.

At Saturday's zombie opera (TM "Zopera"), the context provided some clarification about the porcine presence onstage. The pig appeared during Dido and Aeneas' boar hunting expedition, so obviously he was a rough approximation of their intended prey. But this explanation still is unsatisfying, because it does little to elucidate exactly why the pig was wearing a foot-long strap-on phallus.

Along with the lusty faux-boar, other not-so-obvious creatures roamed the stage at the Zopera. By sheer quantity of stage time, the Zopera was really more of a spaceman opera than a zombie opera. Said spacemen were prone to making impressively precise statements about the predicament in which they found themselves (the predicament being, as it were, being sucked by a mysterious gravitational pull onto the zombie-inhabited planet Aura). "We have a three out of ten chance of survival," one might declare. Or, "The ship must have traveled 2.9 parsecs before impact!"

Ridiculousness aside, or rather, because the fantastic ridiculousness was matched only by the talent of the performers and the vision of the stage designer, the Zopera ("La Didone," if we're being formal) was exquisite. I highly recommend it. If for nothing else, go for the electric ukelele recital.

And the Days Are Not Full Enough, Except That's Not Accurate at All

I've been abandoning the blog lately, and this upsets me a bit! This week has definitely been crazy. I flew in from Cleveland, where I spent a lovely Easter weekend, early on Monday morning, went straight to work (do not pass Go, do not drop off your suitcase), and I feel like I have been running ever since. But starting, um, today, that does not mean that I can just neglect writing online. I really feel more centered during the day if I spend a bit of time accomplishing something measurable (alongside my actual job), and writing this blog serves that purpose nicely.

Even if I have nothing really of import to say.

Besides this: check out this lovely gocco print of DC during cherry blossom season! It's available on Etsy, through the seller Artshark Designs, and I think it is absolutely charming. The artist makes similar prints of New York, Paris, San Francisco, etc.

Also this: this weekend will be filled with fantastic alt-cultural adventures in Brooklyn. (Which will take place in between drafting my six-month self-evaluation for work, among other various life maintenance tasks.) Stay tuned for tales about hitting up Of Montreal tonight and then attending the baroque spaceman opera La Didone with two of the most dedicated back-porch denizens of yore.

Tonight We Recline

If Shai and I had ordered Passover dinner and eaten by ourselves at Shai's apartment, it would have been enough (Dayenu), but I'm so very glad that several of our non-Jewish companions decided to join us for Seder! Shai set a lovely table, passed out Haggadahs, and clarified to Faith and Penn that they didn't have to read anything that made them uncomfortable. Although they raised their eyebrows significantly when one of the traditional passages seemed to gloat over-much about the Egyptians' downfall and subsequent loss of riches, my favorite Floridians were soon l'chayim-ing and discussing various of the ten plagues like no one's business. Brian joined us just in time for matzah brownies and sang harmony to a Passover song that depicts a ruckus of animals biting and eating each other until the Angel of Death and the Holy One step in and restore everything to status quo.

The party then retired to the living room and began an impromptu poetry recital. Faith impressed everyone with her fervent interpretive performance of Tool lyrics, which involved shrieking carrots and general cries of terror. A semi-knowledgeable and semi-impassioned discussion of Ezra Pound followed. No one could remember much of "If" except "You'll be a man, my son."

I rebuffed Shai's offer to send me home with leftover brisket, but I realize now what a huge mistake that was. Next year, there is no way that I'll fall prey to that same blunder. Of course next year, I will be hosting the Seder, and thus I will encourage you to please start preparing your post-dinner recitations. It's never too early, and it's a tradition now.

Can We Get Some Silverchair in the House?

Yesterday while mired in several hours of document review at work, I turned my aural attentions to KTCU, Fort Worth's college radio station (now available streaming). While I truly respect those college stations that really push musical boundaries, some of these stations are so committed to the avant garde as to render them unlistenable. No one, however, would accuse KTCU of being oppressively edgy.

Adam and I used to listen to KTCU pretty regularly in the 1997-1999 era, when I would drive him around town in the beloved metallic green Ford Taurus. Yesterday I was pleased to find that the station's line-up has changed minimally in the past decade. First up, Brick, whose lyrics I just learned are not "she's a-breakin' up drowning slowly." I then prepared for some Raconteurs or Feist or whatever, but hearing the unmistakeable saxophone intro of Ants Marching, I quickly realized that the mid-90s hits were going to keep on coming.

The next three hours of KTCU programming basically showcased the soundtrack of my high school experience. The Verve Pipe (the slower, acoustic version of "The Freshmen," a nod to the college radio format), Counting Crows, Better Than Ezra. Has anyone thought about Better Than Ezra in the past ten years? Also, the freaking Wallflowers! Too amazing.

Jakob Dylan has explained that the song "One Headlight" is about "the death of ideas." To me, it has much more literal connotations. I remember driving in the Taurus one afternoon in high school, hearing "One Headlight" for the two hundredth time on the radio, and thinking that the song was still great, but it was just a little too accurate to be listening to it on the same day that I had backed into a random post at a gas station and would have to explain to my parents why one tail light of my car was busted.

Another Borough

Natanyah and I ventured into Queens (well, Queens-lite, Long Island City) on Saturday night to see Catie perform stand-up. The audience was quite small, but I think that's what you get for planning an event at a tiny performance space attached to a burrito shack. Natanyah snagged seats for us, and I ordered drinks and tried to avoid stepping on the huge white cat that wandered about aimlessly and seemingly ownerless-ly. A large and rather scary man named MoFo strolled into the performance halfway through and then proceeded to stare intently at various audience members. After the show, we introduced ourselves to several good-natured, shaggy-haired comedians and the girls who love them.

The comedy itself was universally quite high quality. There were some very good bits, and Catie later told me that several of the guys who performed are poised to make it very big, very soon. So maybe this was the closest to real celebrity-spotting I'll come in New York.

That said, one otherwise very good performer said something onstage that he needs to change immediately if he really hopes to take his show on the road. His act was all spot-on, except, he mentioned during his performance that Iowa is the Buckeye State. Terrible faux pas! This ostensibly nice guy is going to be attacked my an angry mob of Ohioans if he keeps this up! I meant to tell him this after the show in order to stem his eventual assault by Ohio natives (and also Iowans, proud members of the Hawkeye State), but I temporarily lost interest and focus and then he was gone.

On the bright side, I guess it's good that he didn't call Iowa the Lone Star State, or then he would really be headed for some future carnage.

Don Draper Owns Me

Do you know how hard it is to overcome the life inertia that results after realizing that all of the episodes of Mad Men are available, streaming, on surfthechannel.com?  Do you?  Because streaming-tv-related inertia is heavy, and only the very strong and the very bold can best it.

I have intentionally quit Netflix two times to date because I simply cannot handle having television shows available on DVD.  There was an unfortunate episode my first year of law school when I re-subscribed for the second time to Netflix and then lost two weeks of my life to Six Feet Under.  When I actually did manage to tear myself away and make it to torts class, I burst into tears in class while recalling a particularly wrenching episode.  

Even though I eventually weaned myself off Netflix, a similar situation occurred during winter 2007 when I decided to purchase all seven(!) seasons of Gilmore Girls** on DVD.  When Tess stayed in my apartment for a week or so recently, she also fell prey to the siren song of the Gilmore Girls DVDs.  She mentioned foregoing real food and just eating from the convenience store downstairs because she didn't want to take time out of her busy day of Gilmore Girls to go grocery shopping.  Her tale of woe (albeit pretty pleasant woe) was all too familiar.  

Anyway, today I have tons to do!  TurboTax is clamoring for my attention!  Plus there is laundry to sort, hostess gifts to contemplate making, belated "yay your baby was born!" gifts to wrap, general correspondence to write and phone calls to make, basic hygiene and nutrition to attend, and the prettiest day yet of 2009 to enjoy.

For the most part, I have managed to reclaim my life today from the tentacles of the free Mad Men episodes.  I have gone to Sephora and eaten brunch and sent a few emails and showered.  Not that Martha Stewart or Michelle Obama would be all that impressed by the day's labors, but I'm pretty proud of myself.  Someone give this girl a gold star.  

**As an aside, I recently re-subscribed to Netflix, and last week I learned that just because Rory Gilmore recommends a movie does not necessarily mean that it's super-entertaining.  Staying awake through more than one episode of Joseph Campbell's The Power of Myth is wicked hard.  I know, it's embarrassing and anti-intellectual to admit that I didn't find two older gentlemen engaging in a free-form discussion about hero figures and the symbolism of dragons around the world riveting.  But is it even more embarrassing and anti-intellectual to confess that I rented a movie solely based on Rory Gilmore's recommendation?

Popular Culture Update

Well it is certainly unfortunate that the week that I finally succeeded, after many fruitless attempts, in talking my way onto Tim** and Tara’s dad’s American Idol listserv, I had nothing to contribute in the way of opinions! Let me assure you that this is not the norm. I firmly believe that AI is a societal pleasure that is best shared with others. Watching a particularly overwrought version of Martina McBride's Independence Day loses much of its appeal if there is no one with whom to exchange thoughts about whether the insufferable McBride catalogue should be nixed from AI for good, or whether Paula understands that this song is actually not a happy song, or whether there will ever again in the history of AI be a performer as enjoyable as Constantine. Maybe I alone hold that last opinion.

In the past several years, I have been lucky to find people who will watch with me, or, more commonly, who will subject themselves to 45-minute phone conversations following AI episodes. My parents have proven especially willing in this regard, which is nice for bonding purposes, even if they don’t spazz out when someone sings a Heart song and don’t especially understand why someone would. Before I had real live AI friends, I dabbled in posting on AI chatboards, but I quit that post-haste because people are just too mean on the internet.

However, this week I could not watch because my colleagues had scheduled a team dinner for Tuesday night. The event itself was quite enjoyable. I ordered a blood orange margarita. We all listened, rapt, to a co-worker’s description of his cousin’s exotic snake business, which operates through the cunningly-named website getsnaked.com. N thoughtfully texted me AI updates throughout the meal. But the next day, I was unquestionably disappointed not to have any first-hand knowledge to protest against ad hominems such as “Anoop is nothing but a WANNABE with no unique talent” that appeared on the listserv. Nevertheless, my buddy Anoop survived another week, and any of his haters should watch it, because next Wednesday morning I shall be prepared with all kinds of verbal ammunition for his defense.

**Dropping the whole “Rafael” thing, I have decided that pseudonyms are exhausting. Sorry, Rafe.

You Can Be Gena Rowlands

The concert was, in a word, delightful. Crowded and singing and dancing and a gorgeous pressed-tin ceiling and chandeliers and Craig Finn gesticulating like a madman and twinkling behind his glasses just like one would hope. I bossed Penn into emailing me his thoughts about various THS songs throughout the day yesterday, and I emailed him a list of the top five songs I wanted to hear, and I think most of them got played, but it actually didn’t matter at all because I would have been happy to hear really anything.

But yall, there was this moment in which things seemed weirdly manic and panicky and dark. “We gotta stay positive,” Craig Finn kept singing over and over again, the title track off of the latest album. “We gotta stay positive.” And obviously everyone was bopping around and singing along, because it’s a ridiculously fun song. But it just made me think that like it or not, “stay positive” has become the 2009 mantra, by default it seems, for lots of people I know. Difficult things keep on happening to so many folks, and there’s nothing really to do but chin up and keep a sense of perspective. Which is the right attitude to take, and really the only useful attitude to take, but what’s hard is that there is no practical response to hard times except to adopt a cheery outlook.

“Sometimes actresses get slapped,” Finn sings, as “Stay Positive” trails into my favorite track on the new album, incidentally also the last song of the set. “Sometimes fake fights turn out bad.” Which to me encapsulates the reason that “stay positive” is an absolutely inadequate response in many situations. There often seems to be so little power over one's circumstances, and during these times, what people want isn't to feel blind optimism, but some sense of control. “This isn’t me,” one might think, as one finds oneself in a new job, or a new city, or the old job or the old city or the same apartment for five years longer than planned. “This is surely happening to someone, like, in a book. Not to me,” as the weirdly unexpected occurs and out of nowhere he’s in love, or she’s lost her job, or you and your friends are suddenly dog owners or pregnant or dealing with sick relatives. Or on the other hand, now you’ve technically been an adult for a decade, but psychic wounds still smart like hell after years and years, and you still beat yourself up over awkward turns of phrase, and you have freaking pimples at age twenty-eight. “But I didn’t choose this,” you protest. Well that’s tough, Finn seems to argue. “Actresses get slapped.”

But then the song takes a turn and suddenly there’s a suggestion, not a perfect one, but at least a sense of how to handle waves of unfamiliarity and scariness and the feeling that seriously the world as we know it is disintegrating. “We’re the directors/ our hands will hold steady,” Finn reminds the audience. “Man, we make our own movies.” Do we really? Not entirely. But these lyrics are enough true that I unclench. I close my eyes and applaud wildly and start to dance to the first notes of the encore.

Quick Poll

What do we think of the new look for LTT? Are the Victorian sidebar people swanky and fun, or are they distracting? Should I go back to the plain-jane version of the blog?

Thoughts would be appreciated and will be rewarded with hugs and Sweet Mint Orbit.

When They Kiss They Spit White Noise

Yall, I am seeing The Hold Steady in concert tonight!  I am so, so excited.  THS is one of my favorite bands ever--- basically an extremely poetic, yet extremely raucous bar band.  The band's lyrics are consistently haunting, funny, and compelling.  Craig Finn, the lead vocalist, describes over and over again the experience of living in the Midwest as a teenager and the passion and awkwardness and hurt and struggles with religion and outstandingly fun times that accompany growing up.  

One time I told N that I felt a little shafted for not getting to grow up somewhere like St. Paul or a suburb of Chicago, since THS makes it seem like those living in the upper Midwest get to live through the seminal American teenage experience.  He laughed and told me that he was pretty sure that people who grew up in Fort Worth went through similar things as kids in Minneapolis.  And of course he is correct.  

Everyone has experienced sparkling, caught-in-the-moment, fleeting evenings with friends when you can't imagine that things could get any better than they are right now.   "We had some massive nights/ Every song was right/ And all I wanted was time/ And your friends were pretty cool and my friends were acting cool."  I love how the last line cuts the absolute transcendence of the first few with a sense of anxiety that maybe the singer's friends are going to do something really out-of-control and ruin the whole evening.

Anyway, here's to massive nights.

In Which Amanda Learns About Grammar and Life

Last night I yelled at a friend about grammar in a bar.  

In case any of yall doubts the obnoxiousness of what went down, let me repeat.  I yelled at a friend about grammar in a bar.

This totally horrifies me.  But at the time, I absolutely could not stop myself.  We were all sitting on a banquette engaging in languid conversation at the end of a lovely night out, and someone off-handedly mentioned being confused about the affect/ effect rule.  My ears perked up.  There are so, so many things that I do not know.  I can only reliably cook two things: scrambled eggs and cinnamon bundt cake.  I have no idea how to dress for work.  I have spent the majority of my twenty-eight years trying to figure out how to prevent my hair from blooming into uncontrollable frizz when the atmospheric humidity level hits above, I don't know, five percent.  But I know affect/ effect.

Or at least I really thought I did last night.  In my best Tracy Flick tone, I stated the rule.  My friend listened, nodded, and then corrected my rule, "Yes, but."  I disagreed with her clarification.  Strongly.  Suddenly possessed by a monstrous sense of confidence, I persisted in pushing my version of the rule on my friend, my shrillness escalating alarmingly.  "You're just wrong," I kept insisting.  "I know I'm right."

Not only did I know I was right.  I somehow, in that moment, also believed that my insane behavior was acceptable.  Became totally blind to everything except how right I was, how wrong she was, and how everything would be fine once people saw that I was not crazy, I was knowledgeable at least about this one thing, and that I was definitely right.  Meanwhile, my companions were becoming more and more uncomfortable and I'm sure wanted nothing more than to direct the conversation back to match.com tactics or anecdotes about co-workers or getting dessert or whatever.

Was I actually right about the affect/ effect rule?  Of course not.  Dead wrong.  Not that it actually matters though, because even if I had been technically correct, I still had yelled at a friend about grammar in a bar. 

But, yall, the amazing thing about my friend is that, while she could have and should have chided me for The Crazy, she did not.  We sat for a few moments more.  Then we got up from the banquette, hopped into a cab, and left the bar to eat chocolate shortbread companionably and call it a night.

Who Needs Love When the Sandwiches Are Wicked and They Know You at the Mac Store

The always lovely Beirne mentioned pointedly to me yesterday that I have been neglecting Laughter Through Tears.  

This is true.  Allow me to explain.  Until this morning, I didn't have internet in my sublet, and thus I was forced to live as an itinerant blogger.  Actually, internet technically existed in my sublet, but I could not access it.  For whatever reason, my usually trusty Mac would not recognize the internet as transmitted through Catie's ethernet cord, and Catie doesn't have wireless.

For a while, I enjoyed traveling around the city in the search for wireless access and tasty snacks.  I frequented my favorite tea shop Amai and feasted on free internet and Earl Grey scones.  Sometimes I visited the as-delicious but heartier Bite to use its gratis wireless while enjoying roasted eggplant and hard-boiled egg sandwiches.  But a slight issue arose.  Both Amai and Bite open at 8:00 and close early in the evening, and these time constraints weren't super-compatible with my ability to show up to my AIG gig at a decent time and do my part to help pay back the government a rather hefty loan.  Err, rather, to do my part to log emails from folks calmly and politely inquiring about AIG's progress in paying back the government said hefty loan.

Also, I heard the other day from the guy who works at my UPS store that Amai will be closing.  It can't compete with Starbucks in this economy.  This threw me into a mild depression that lasted several days.

But then when I finally emerged from the doldrums, and after I had stockpiled a healthy coffer of Amai scones, I decided to take the internet issue into my own hands.  I would call the Mac helpline and, if necessary, bang down the doors of the Mac store until someone helped me fix my computer's internet-recognition mechanism.  I had been internet-homeless for three months, and enough was enough.

This morning I gathered up all available emotional reserves, got my phone poised to call the helpline, and plugged in my ethernet cord.  Except, um, the internet worked this time.  I checked the input where I plugged in the cord, and, yall.  I had been plugging the ethernet cord into the wrong input this whole time.  

I don't know if there is a clear moral to this story, but I do look forward to posting more regular entries on LTT.  Also, streaming episodes of Gossip Girl from the comfort of my own apartment.  It's a whole new world.

Unsolved Mysteries

Well I have at least started to get to the bottom of one of New York City's most perplexing mysteries. When I was dropping off my laundry at the inimitable M&N Cleaners this morning, I paused in my idle chit-chat to ask the proprietress a question that had been weighing on me for some time.

"How do you fold the clothes so tiny?" I inquired. "There has to be some special machine, right?"

"No. Three girls downstairs do it," the owner replied.

"By hand?" I was incredulous.

"Yes."

Now, this conversation didn't come close to answering my question as thoroughly as I would have liked. Are there special folding forms that the forementioned three girls use to guide their folding? Could I attend a seminar or take a course that would give me the same mad folding skills? How come these folding tricks haven't wended their way a mere two hundred miles down the East Coast to DC? However, it's a start.

Since my time in New York is almost at the half-way point, my hope for my remaining months here is to answer other NYC-specific conundrums (conundra?) that I have encountered during the first three months. Some of the most weighty issues are as follows:

1.) Cooking gyros and chicken in tiny, movable street carts cannot be sanitary. That said, gyro over rice with a side salad, white sauce, and hot sauce is basically the most delicious lunch imaginable. This lunch costs only $5 (which includes a drink and a free falafel ball!), and it yields enough leftovers for a generous dinner. So the concern is: how often can I eat this lunch and not render permanent damage to my digestive tract?

2.) Why, in the past three months, have I not yet been to the Heathers-themed bar in the East Village, the restaurant that specializes solely in macaroni and cheese, or Little Branch, my favorite pseudo-speakeasy?

3.) Faith and I burst into a liquor store last Saturday night giggling like sixteen-year-olds and very carefully picked out four mini-bottles of Stoli Vanila while discussing our plans to sneak said bottles into a screening of He's Just Not That Into You. So why weren't we carded? As Faith pointed out afterwards, these were prime carding conditions. Is my excellent face cream not working?

I will treat anyone with acceptable theories regarding any or all of of the above inquiries to a drink at the Heathers bar. And then best that person in croquet and hog the red hair bow.

Smite Me Once, Shame on You

Pseudonym update: One of my paralegal partners-in-crime from back in the day, himself a quite accomplished blogger and world-traveler, has on his own accord proffered several pseudonym suggestions for himself. He writes, “If I ever do anything noteworthy enough to make an appearance in your blog, I would appreciate a superlative religious moniker.” He then goes on to suggest “Light Of The World,” “Everlasting King,” “A Chief Cornerstone,” “Possessor Of Heaven And Earth,” or simply, “The Almighty.”

Yall. I mean. You know I do not want to discourage pseudonym submissions. But nor do I want to be smitten, struck by lightning, or trampled by some errant wild beast for breaking what I’m pretty sure is the number one “Thou shalt not” in Judeo-Christian theology.

Especially when, safety-wise, I really have enough to worry about simply by virtue of being an AIG secondee. Yesterday, my boss warned me against flashing around my AIG badge on the streets. Because passers-by have taken to spitting on AIG employees.

Poetry Whores

"Eve was the only woman on Earth who did not have to wait for love," an attractive young woman in a black flapper dress declared from the front of the stage, in the front of the room, in front of the velvet chaise lounge, on which Rafael and I sat listening attentively at 10:30 on Friday night.  The people surrounding us, attired in their best alt-cabaret frocks and shabby tuxedo jackets, nodded knowingly.  How true.

The woman onstage was the opening performer at the Poetry Brothel, a monthly happening in a West Village bar that touted itself as "a new and dreamlike twist on a poetry reading."  Rafael and I sipped our Negronis and vodka cocktails, respectively, and took in the scene from our perch.  A woman named Oola slyly slipped Rafael her calling card.

I found myself in conversation with a shy, slight man named Ben.  Ben introduced his companion, a small woman wearing a pompadour and a heavy vintage coatdress.  "This is Taryn," Ben said.  She glared.  "Lora Lee," she corrected him.  She pulled from her pocket a handful of small pamphlets, each no larger than a passport.  "These are my poems.  I'll be selling them later," she explained.  "How much?" Ben asked.  "Ten dollars each," she replied.  Ben laughed.  "Bullshit."

Rafael and I each took our turn cutting a deck of tarot cards.  "Think carefully," the woman who would read our cards directed us, "when you're cutting the cards, and keep in mind the moment where you are, in your life, right now."  We concentrated and followed her instructions.  "This card is the three of cups," she explained to me.  "This is a cheerful card, a very social card.  But do you see this?  This is the eight of cups, reversed.  You might find yourself stuck in life, repeating the same mistakes over and over."  "That reading sounds pretty ominous and negative," I ventured.  "I wish I had only happy news for you," she replied.

Various poets took their turns on the stage.  Lora Lee.  A woman wearing a feathered headdress and Courtney Love-smeared red lipstick.  A man whom the emcee called "The Butler."  Each poet had well-practiced diction, and each had intriguing things to say about love and life.  Mostly love.  A small band played haunting music between readings, accompanied by the sultry voice of a female lounge singer, which in fact emanated from a short, bearded man.

Two men sporting thick-framed eyeglasses complimented my new Annie Hall glasses, which I had worn particularly for the occasion, as well as Rafael's oversized, tortoiseshell frames.  We thanked them and returned their compliments.  One of the men surveyed the room and observed, "There's probably about ten thousand dollars' worth of eyewear in here."

The Poetry Brothel had cost fifteen dollars to enter, but this cover charge included a gold Mardi Gras dubloon, good for one free private poetry reading.  These readings (which were actually, thankfully, only semi-private) occurred in a back room, shielded by heavy curtains and barricaded with a velvet rope.  I decided to cash in my coin.  "Taryn, help her out," the man in charge directed the poetess in the vintage coatdress.  She led me to the back room to meet The Butler, a twenty-nine-year-old man actually named Matthew Yeager.  Matthew read me a lovely piece called "Black Socks, White Socks," about, presumably, the deep sense of ambivalence that accompanies maturity.  Fascinated as I am by any person with a creative, non-legal job, I grilled him about his work for as long as I thought polite.  He revealed that one of his pieces had been chosen for publication in The Best American Poetry 2005.

Rafael had been equally impressed with his own private reading.  "I bought this for ten dollars," he said slightly sheepishly, revealing a booklet of poems.  We agreed that that the personal readings were probably the peak experience of the Poetry Brothel, and accordingly we decided to leave shortly afterwards.  Walking away from the bar, Rafael showed me a tiny scroll of paper, onto which a short poem had been printed in delicate type.  The poem was signed by Oola, and she had dropped it, until now undetected, into Rafael's jacket pocket.     

Gold Star Find!

So it turns out that even in Lower Manhattan, which would truly be a retail wasteland were it not for Century 21, there are some pretty exciting bargains to be found on one’s lunch break. I took a slightly different route to the deli today, in order to avoid a mostly sweet but somewhat lecherous coffee cart clerk, and I stumbled upon the most wonderful book sale! The proprietress of a local pack-n-ship store had for whatever reason decided to buy out the inventory of some defunct second-hand bookstore and to supplement her own business by reselling these books. Um, jackpot, as far as I’m concerned. I ended up purchasing four books for seven dollars: The Stranger, Oranges Are Not the Only Fruit, The Bridge of San Luis Rey, and the seller threw in Dolly, a 1979 biography of Dolly Parton (with 16 pages of photos!) for free! I managed, but just barely, to get out without The Feminine Mystique and The Evil Twin (a Sweet Valley High super-thriller, obvi).

A Small Thought

I recently read that a key to contentment is seeking beauty in one's daily routine.  

In the midst of circumstances in which every day seems more like the last than not, what an extremely useful and comforting notion this is!

Why Amanda Is No Coco Chanel

So, I really, really dislike business formal. I have gone on countless rants to friends and loved ones about how I certainly understand the need to look nice and professional at work, but business formal is an arbitrary, unflattering, and uncomfortable way to accomplish this goal. Mainly though I think the issue is that I am totally insecure about wearing suits. I just do not understand them. I really like clothes, and I love putting together outfits, but I do not get how not to feel costume-y and frumpy-looking in a suit.

To wit: I own several suits, all of which I liked when I purchased, but very few of which do not now make me feel extremely self-conscious. Two of these are fine (Sleek Black and Kicky Gray), but Kicky Gray is really only a summer suit. Which leaves me during the winter months with one non-obtrusive, fairly tasteful suit plus:

*The Paula Poundstone: tan pin-striped, double breasted, enormous shoulder pads;
*The Annie Oakley: tan skirt suit with aggressive brown stitching as trim;
*The Junior League: black dress with matching, bell-sleeved bolero jacket;
*The "I'm Right on Top of That, Rose": black tweed skirt suit with big black buttons and yet another set of enormous shoulder pads;
*The Junior State Senator (TM Matty): pin-striped skirt suit with slightly-too-long skirt.

I know that the solution is either to suck it up, or to make a quick trip to Banana Republic to pick up a classy, stylish, fly-under-the-radar suit. But suits are quite expensive, and also I show no signs of ceasing to be very jealous of any suitless persons I encounter on weekday mornings (Meredith Viera, random NYU students). So I guess I'll probably just sulk about this for the foreseeable future. While trying not to wrinkle the Flight Attendant Circa 1984.

Sunday Night Movie

I just finished watching American Psycho, and for a movie about murdering and cutting up women, it's actually pretty good. Parts were extremely biting and funny. I loved the way the movie poked fun at New American restaurant culture--- the opening scene in which falling drops of blood were revealed to be artistic drips of berry sauce adorning a dessert place was a witty visual trick. The ensemble characters' oblivion to Patrick Bateman's increasingly insane behavior was also a frustratingly fantastic indictment of the inanity of yuppie Manhattan.

American Psycho was directed by a woman, and a decent argument exists that the movie's direction and its screenplay (also written by women) effectively culled a feminist film from its source material, Bret Easton Ellis' feminist-derided book by the same title. Critics have contended that the movie version of American Psycho demonstrates the devastating effects of masculinity at its most brutal. An unwarranted sense of entitlement taken to its extreme will result in extraordinary violence, even if such violence doesn't culminate in actual murder (the result of Patrick Bateman's insecurity in his position as a super-man) but in the psychic harm that ensues from treating others as sub-human.

I don't know that I quite buy this argument. Insecurity and competitiveness certainly are not only the domain of men. The claim that women do not experience these traits is untrue, and it relegates women to a position in which they aren't recognized to feel quite natural (albeit unattractive) emotions. Also, that the movie portrays all varieties of female objectification, from pornography, to semi-unwilling sex acts, to graphic murder and dimemberment scenes, complicates the contention that American Psycho is feminist. The movie definitely does not glorify such scenes; they are both uncomfortable and decidedly un-sexy. But can a movie that so insistently showcases violence towards women, even if directed and written by women, and even if such scenes arguably caution against stereotypical masculinity run amok, ever be a "feminist" film?

Duck and Cover

My group at AIG had an emergency drill during work the other day. The drill very specifically was not a fire drill: all of the attendees were given a handout titled "Emergency Action Plan (EAP): Non-Fire-Related Emergencies." We received strict instructions regarding the protocol for handling certain terrorist acts, and we were told to bring an "emergency kit" to work that would hold the supplies and provisions we would need if we were trapped for up to three days (three days!!) in the office.

The expected jokes and grumbling ensued about what provisions would make three days on the 28th floor of a downtown Manhattan office building, surrounded by co-workers, bearable. Everyone agreed that a substantial amount of vodka would be mandatory.

Undoubtedly, the best and most informative part of the drill was the forementioned handout. Not only did it contain helpful bullet points, printed in two fashion colors, but it boasted five extremely alarming graphics depicting the various non-fire emergencies that might affect my office building: Chemical Release, Blackout, Natural Disaster, Biological [Warfare?], and Nuclear [Waste? Explosion? Winter?].

I showed the AIG emergency drill handout to N, who remarked that the graphics had conspicuously omitted "corporate financial implosion."

The Hood

Catie recently confirmed that I can stay in her apartment through the month of June, which is a huge and utter relief. The idea of moving all of my possessions to a new place sometime during my six-month stint in New York was obviously quite stressful. But mainly I just really like where I am staying. The apartment is charming, and I am actually developing a nice routine around the neighborhood. I've figured out where the best laundry is, at what times I won't have to wait in line for an hour at Trader Joe's, and that the pork-and-chive "recession-priced" dumplings advertised at Vanessa's Dumplings on 14th Street are indeed priced to move ($1.49 for five) and delectable.

Amai, the tea joint up the street, is my favorite place in the neighborhood. I try to go there every day before work to Breathe Deeply and check email for half an hour before the craziness of the day sets in. Amai sells something like fifty kinds of tea, and I plan to try them all. I might actually go broke in the process, because tea and scones there are priced as if made of Pure Gold. Catie told me that she has seen Ethan Hawke at Amai, which impressed me deeply. Also, she reported that some main actor from Law and Order comes there daily.

So I'm at Amai currently, thinking about all of the stars that Catie has seen here, and seriously I am so bad with faces that I would never know if someone famous were ordering a cup of Malty Assam in front of me. I generally only see duos of artsy-looking, middle-aged women here discussing their children, their love lives, book recommendations. But wait! One of the women sitting at the table next to me (edgy haircut and glasses, check; Zabar's bag, check) just told her companion that she is currently "running a shoot" for Law and Order! I do not know what this means. I very un-stealthily eavesdrop to glean more information. Something about shooting schedules. Her job seems also to involve Ugly Betty, which is kind of interesting. Sigh. Where the hell is Ethan Hawke?

Tables for Two

Olive Garden Italian Restaurant ($$)

2 Times Square. Upon entering the Olive Garden Italian Restaurant in Times Square, one immediately is assaulted by layer upon layer of olfactory and aural stimulation. The scent of melting parmesan is not confined to the restaurant itself, but indeed hovers several blocks away from the neon-lit, can't-miss-it establishment. A dour hostess greets visitors with a strident bark, "Hour and fifteen wait. Hour and twenty wait." Such discouraging news daunts few, probably because elaborate specialty cocktails prove a most pleasant distraction while waiting to be seated. The Limoncello Lemonade comes especially recommended: this granita-like beverage tastes tart but not too acidic, and the sugared rim is thoughtful touch.

Cheese lovers will rejoice at the Olive Garden's menu. Salad, appetizer, and entrée alike all allow the chef to showcase his extensive talent for incorporating dairy elements into each offering. While the cheese is as tasty as it is plentiful, the bill of fare might disappoint connoisseurs, as the cheese options seem confined to the un-specified "four cheeses" that appear in nearly every menu item.

If parmesan and mozzarella do nothing for you, never fear. One also might feast on a tasty-looking chicken marsala, which is available stuffed (albeit presumably with more cheese) or unstuffed. An asparagus and shrimp risotto dish presents a lighter option for the health-conscious, if one manages to avoid the pats of butter that coagulate cunningly around its rice grains.

The wait-staff is enthusiastic, accommodating, and anticipates customers' needs intuitively. Novelty-sized bottles of red and white house wine come with the helpful recommendation, "It's not that expensive." The Manhattan suburbs have decided collectively (and accurately) that the Olive Garden is the perfect birthday party locale, and waiters summon mostly-believable gusto in fêting celebratees with songs and hand-claps. Bloated birthday party attendees are presented with a slice of cake to top off a thoroughly enjoyable meal. What kind of cake, you inquire? Well cheesecake, naturally.

Paging Winona Horowitz

I may be a brand-new blogger, but I know a few things. Don't overdo the blinkies, a la certain 1998 Geocities tributes to Pacey Whittaker. Don't publish anything I wouldn't read out loud to my boss. Do be succinct. And definitely do refer to recurring characters in my blog with snappy pseudonyms.

I do not know why pseudonyms are all that important in a personal blog. I guess the ostensible purpose is to maintain a modicum of privacy on behalf of people who never even asked to be discussed in the blogosphere. However, more importantly, using pseudonyms just seems to be What Is Done.

Unfortunately, I am having an extremely difficult time getting my compatriots behind the whole pseudonym idea.

The first pseudonym to-do on my list was finding one for N, my boyfriend. I had been thinking a bit about his pseudonym, and I had come up with a few ideas, none of which I really liked. At the top of the list was "Mein Herr," because his last name is German, and the Sally Bowles overtones pleased me. However, perhaps "Sally Bowles overtones" are actually just plain "Nazi-ish"? The only other pseudonym that came to mind was one that would draw on a famous namesake, such as Nelson Mandela, but, eh.

I called N to ask his opinion.

*I don't know. Do I really need a pseudonym?

*You do.

*But, um, won't all of your blog's readers be able to guess who the pseudonym references?

*What are you saying, that my blog is only going to have, like, three readers?

*Baby, no! I mean . . . no. Um, I dunno, how about something like with Nelson Mandela.

*Eh.

*Yeah.

. . .

*Any other ideas? I really think you should have a pseudonym.

*I guess you could refer to me by my dad's or grandfather's name.

*N, if you ran your own blog, would you ever consider referring to me by my mother's name?

*No, that would be creepy.

Next up, Faith.

*Faith, I've taken up blogging. Don't you want a pseudonym?

*I don't need one. Not unless you write, like, something really ridiculous and embarrassing about me. And even then I probably wouldn't care.

Tim, rather predictably, was more enthusiastic about choosing a pseudonym. "Are we talking something hokey and possibly alliterative, or, like, 'Rafael'?"

So I guess what it comes down to is that I have a new friend named Rafael.

Screws Fall Out All the Time

I emailed Tim that for my 28th birthday I would be purchasing an excellent face cream and also quitting smoking. His response was neither flattering ("but why would someone with your flawless skin make such an unnecessary cosmetic investment?") nor supportive ("what an inspiring start to a healthy and fulfilling year!").

Rather: "OH NO!! My birthday gift for you is RUINED!!!!!!!!"

Which made me feel, for the first time in my life, more akin to John Bender than Brian Johnson or Claire Standish.

First Sign of Springtime in New York

I ate my first PEEP of the season tonight! One of my co-workers went on a candy run and, mirabile dictu, returned with PEEPS. Very few people on a mission for candy to bring back to the office would choose candy of the PEEP variety, so I was pleasantly thrilled.

Tess once told me that when she was growing up, her mom would let PEEPS go stale and then would put them in Tess's hot chocolate. So Tess could be entertained by the rapidly dissolving bunny or chick while enjoying her breakfast. I mean it's a little terrifying, but kids have to learn the ways of the world sometime, right?

Mascara Maven

A few days ago I saw a woman sitting on the subway, putting on coat after coat of mascara, for literally five minutes. This struck me as notable for two reasons. One: won't her eyelashes fall off--- and shortly--- if she keeps up that pace? It is unsustainable. Another: how positively weird that people treat only very public places--- mass trans and airports come to mind--- as they would their homes. But, by contrast, if one were to apply cosmetics in a peculiar way or display strange eating habits in a law school classroom, people would point and judge. As I have done many, many times. Judged, that is. Pointed, also.

I read once that hand lotion is the only cosmetic that is polite to use in front of other people. And then only sparingly--- not slathered onto one's arms or anything gauche like that. But perhaps now, with the advent of you won't get a job if you're a woman who doesn't use Botox, the rules regarding public prettifying have changed. Or perhaps that rule never existed outside of the August 1996 issue of Cosmo. Must go consult my sources.