Monday, January 29, 2007
You do the math
7:30 a.m. (Mountain time) departure from my hotel in Utah minus a 1.5-hour drive to the airport, minus a 4-hour flight from Salt Lake City to Baltimore, minus 30-minute bus ride to the Metro, minus a one-hour Metro ride, equals a 10:30 p.m. (Eastern time) arrival at my apartment and a looooot of time spent waiting around yesterday.
I do not like waiting. In fact, I pretty much hate it. The only bright spot during my whopping six hours of waiting (when I said "you do the math" above, I clearly meant "I'll do it for you anyway") was when I discovered that I have games on my iPod. Games! On my iPod! Who knew? Solitaire and Brick (which is kind of like a computer game called DX Ball that my sister got me addicted to several years ago) were fun enough, but my favorite was Music Quiz, which selects four songs from your music library and plays you a snippet of one of them, and you have 10 seconds to guess which one it is.
My joy at this discovery was short-lived, however, when I returned home and found that I had an unexpected guest while I was away--George's sister, Georgina. Thankfully, Georgina met her untimely demise on a glue trap before I returned home (because the only thing worse than a dead mouse in your house is a live one, and the only thing worse than a live mouse is a live mouse stuck to a glue trap), but not before she left me several hostess gifts throughout the house. By following the trail of poop, I've been able to deduce that Georgina had quite a time in my absence. I think she came in through a gap in the baseboards in my bedroom, spent some time wandering around on my bedside table (a completely disgusting fact that made it very hard to sleep last night), then took a quick tour of the bathroom before heading toward the kitchen where, although she terrorized both the microwave and the stove, she appeared to be unable to find any food, even though there was a box of graham crackers on the counter and two boxes of cereal on the top of the fridge that were practically screaming, "Hey, little mouse, gnaw on me!" She also seems to have nosed around the snap trap in the kitchen, but she apparently found the glue trap in the living room much more appealing, and it finally did her in.
Although I'd like to believe that Georgina was a solo visitor, I'm concerned because that seems like an awful lot of poop for a mouse who didn't appear to eat anything during her stay. But after running around my house kicking open doors like Jodie Foster at the end of Silence of the Lambs, I've yet to find another intruder. Still, when I called my landlord this morning, they said they've had a lot of complaints recently because it's gotten so cold that the mice have been forced to seek shelter elsewhere. Like, am I supposed to feel sorry for them or something? Outside is their home! If they don't like the weather, I'll be happy to pay for their bus fare to California. But they really need to stay out of my house.
7:30 a.m. (Mountain time) departure from my hotel in Utah minus a 1.5-hour drive to the airport, minus a 4-hour flight from Salt Lake City to Baltimore, minus 30-minute bus ride to the Metro, minus a one-hour Metro ride, equals a 10:30 p.m. (Eastern time) arrival at my apartment and a looooot of time spent waiting around yesterday.
I do not like waiting. In fact, I pretty much hate it. The only bright spot during my whopping six hours of waiting (when I said "you do the math" above, I clearly meant "I'll do it for you anyway") was when I discovered that I have games on my iPod. Games! On my iPod! Who knew? Solitaire and Brick (which is kind of like a computer game called DX Ball that my sister got me addicted to several years ago) were fun enough, but my favorite was Music Quiz, which selects four songs from your music library and plays you a snippet of one of them, and you have 10 seconds to guess which one it is.
My joy at this discovery was short-lived, however, when I returned home and found that I had an unexpected guest while I was away--George's sister, Georgina. Thankfully, Georgina met her untimely demise on a glue trap before I returned home (because the only thing worse than a dead mouse in your house is a live one, and the only thing worse than a live mouse is a live mouse stuck to a glue trap), but not before she left me several hostess gifts throughout the house. By following the trail of poop, I've been able to deduce that Georgina had quite a time in my absence. I think she came in through a gap in the baseboards in my bedroom, spent some time wandering around on my bedside table (a completely disgusting fact that made it very hard to sleep last night), then took a quick tour of the bathroom before heading toward the kitchen where, although she terrorized both the microwave and the stove, she appeared to be unable to find any food, even though there was a box of graham crackers on the counter and two boxes of cereal on the top of the fridge that were practically screaming, "Hey, little mouse, gnaw on me!" She also seems to have nosed around the snap trap in the kitchen, but she apparently found the glue trap in the living room much more appealing, and it finally did her in.
Although I'd like to believe that Georgina was a solo visitor, I'm concerned because that seems like an awful lot of poop for a mouse who didn't appear to eat anything during her stay. But after running around my house kicking open doors like Jodie Foster at the end of Silence of the Lambs, I've yet to find another intruder. Still, when I called my landlord this morning, they said they've had a lot of complaints recently because it's gotten so cold that the mice have been forced to seek shelter elsewhere. Like, am I supposed to feel sorry for them or something? Outside is their home! If they don't like the weather, I'll be happy to pay for their bus fare to California. But they really need to stay out of my house.
Thursday, January 25, 2007
Blast from the past
This afternoon on the plane to Utah (42 states down, 8 to go, woo hoo!), instead of diligently working on freelance work as I had planned, I decided to amuse myself for a while by browsing through the folder on my computer entitled "Journalism Stuff." Mostly a repository for various resume redesigns and long-forgotten job applications, it is also host to some of my formative journalism. And it is with great pleasure that I can now report that my expensive out-of-state tuition, which I will probably be paying off until I'm well into my 30s, was totally worth it, because, man, I was a bad writer freshman year. (Either that, or I've honed my writing skills entirely by keeping this blog...which is free. But best not to think about that.)
Anyway, although I actually cringed when reading my first journalistic effort (a profile of a working journalist that I wrote for my freshman seminar, which was led by Amber), I did show some promise in other areas. Specifically in a tryout column I wrote for the school newspaper about Nikki dragging me to get my tarot cards read for the first time. I actually laughed out loud at several points when re-reading it, which is embarrassing enough to do on an airplane even if you don't take into account the fact that I was blatantly fawning over my own writing.
Because I wasn't selected as a columnist, this brilliant piece of prose never saw the light of day. Until now. I give you the forgotten column, in its entirety:
All right, I'll admit it. I do it. But you probably do it, too. I mean, who among us has skimmed through a magazine without checking our horoscope at the end? But that's about as far as my ventures into the whole spiritual/psychic/astrological realm go. I've never had my "cards read" or my "chart analyzed." And that commercial where those four middle-aged women sit around a coffee table and tell a man on the phone that he was beaten when he was seven years old? Please. [Ed. note: I have only a vague recollection of this commercial ever existing. And yet I am still skeptical.]
However, all of this changed a few days ago. I was sitting in statistics when one of my friends turned to me and asked if I'd like to get my tarot cards read. I was a bit skeptical at first, but then she uttered what are quite possibly the two most magical words in the universe. "It's free." Well, you don't have to ask me twice. I'll do just about anything if there's no cost involved. [Ed. note: Although I am no longer in college, this is sadly still true.] And it was sponsored by the Wellness Center, for crying out loud. How harmful could it be?
Ah, how little I knew then.
Immediately after class, we ventured to the bottom floor of Brady Commons to find the Wellness Center dressed up to the nines for what they referred to as the "Psychic Fair." After walking through a sparkly blue curtain (which, of course, induced me to wave my hands around while saying, "Woooo"), we were greeted by a friendly Wellness Center worker who informed us that the two-mile chain of people directly in front of us was the line for tarot card readings. I was just about to back out when a girl who had just gotten her cards read walked by us. "Would you like a free T-shirt?" the aforementioned friendly worker asked her. Whoa. Free T-shirts. I was definitely staying.
After approximately an hour of listening to Enya music, inhaling the scents of the stress-relief aromatherapy candles, and reading some nice pamphlets on interpreting dreams and learning to succeed, it was finally my turn in the seat of honor. A woman in a flowy skirt and a purple velvet shirt who reminded me of Paula Cole asked me to mix up the cards as much as I liked--"without bending any of them, please." I was then instructed to draw ten cards from the deck and slide them to her face down, so that she could arrange them in a formation that she assured me was "a basic Celtic cross." "This card represents your life situation right now," she told me, turning over the card in the center of the formation.
It was the Devil.
For those of you not familiar with tarot cards, I will attempt to describe the Devil card. It's a big, ugly goat. It has big, ugly horns and it sits there and stares at you with its big, ugly goat face. Seeing my look of panic, the woman explained to me that this big, ugly goat card actually means that I am a sensuous and independent person. How the tarot people derived such an interpretation from a big, ugly goat called "The Devil" shall remain a mystery to me.
She then proceeded to turn over other such "winner" cards as "Cruelty" and "Ruin"--cards that consisted mostly of a bunch of swords, some of which were dripping with blood. There's really nothing positive that you can say about blood-drenched swords, so she explained that these cards represented my negative thoughts toward myself and my unwillingness to communicate with others.
I did get some good cards, such and "Priestess" and "Magician," but the images on those cards don’t tend to stay with you the way that goats and swords do. My final analysis was basically that I desire sex and independence but am not confident and communicative to actually get them.
At least I got a free T-shirt. [Ed. note: I have no idea what this T-shirt looked like. Probably because I'm fairly certain I never even wore it once.]
This afternoon on the plane to Utah (42 states down, 8 to go, woo hoo!), instead of diligently working on freelance work as I had planned, I decided to amuse myself for a while by browsing through the folder on my computer entitled "Journalism Stuff." Mostly a repository for various resume redesigns and long-forgotten job applications, it is also host to some of my formative journalism. And it is with great pleasure that I can now report that my expensive out-of-state tuition, which I will probably be paying off until I'm well into my 30s, was totally worth it, because, man, I was a bad writer freshman year. (Either that, or I've honed my writing skills entirely by keeping this blog...which is free. But best not to think about that.)
Anyway, although I actually cringed when reading my first journalistic effort (a profile of a working journalist that I wrote for my freshman seminar, which was led by Amber), I did show some promise in other areas. Specifically in a tryout column I wrote for the school newspaper about Nikki dragging me to get my tarot cards read for the first time. I actually laughed out loud at several points when re-reading it, which is embarrassing enough to do on an airplane even if you don't take into account the fact that I was blatantly fawning over my own writing.
Because I wasn't selected as a columnist, this brilliant piece of prose never saw the light of day. Until now. I give you the forgotten column, in its entirety:
All right, I'll admit it. I do it. But you probably do it, too. I mean, who among us has skimmed through a magazine without checking our horoscope at the end? But that's about as far as my ventures into the whole spiritual/psychic/astrological realm go. I've never had my "cards read" or my "chart analyzed." And that commercial where those four middle-aged women sit around a coffee table and tell a man on the phone that he was beaten when he was seven years old? Please. [Ed. note: I have only a vague recollection of this commercial ever existing. And yet I am still skeptical.]
However, all of this changed a few days ago. I was sitting in statistics when one of my friends turned to me and asked if I'd like to get my tarot cards read. I was a bit skeptical at first, but then she uttered what are quite possibly the two most magical words in the universe. "It's free." Well, you don't have to ask me twice. I'll do just about anything if there's no cost involved. [Ed. note: Although I am no longer in college, this is sadly still true.] And it was sponsored by the Wellness Center, for crying out loud. How harmful could it be?
Ah, how little I knew then.
Immediately after class, we ventured to the bottom floor of Brady Commons to find the Wellness Center dressed up to the nines for what they referred to as the "Psychic Fair." After walking through a sparkly blue curtain (which, of course, induced me to wave my hands around while saying, "Woooo"), we were greeted by a friendly Wellness Center worker who informed us that the two-mile chain of people directly in front of us was the line for tarot card readings. I was just about to back out when a girl who had just gotten her cards read walked by us. "Would you like a free T-shirt?" the aforementioned friendly worker asked her. Whoa. Free T-shirts. I was definitely staying.
After approximately an hour of listening to Enya music, inhaling the scents of the stress-relief aromatherapy candles, and reading some nice pamphlets on interpreting dreams and learning to succeed, it was finally my turn in the seat of honor. A woman in a flowy skirt and a purple velvet shirt who reminded me of Paula Cole asked me to mix up the cards as much as I liked--"without bending any of them, please." I was then instructed to draw ten cards from the deck and slide them to her face down, so that she could arrange them in a formation that she assured me was "a basic Celtic cross." "This card represents your life situation right now," she told me, turning over the card in the center of the formation.
It was the Devil.
For those of you not familiar with tarot cards, I will attempt to describe the Devil card. It's a big, ugly goat. It has big, ugly horns and it sits there and stares at you with its big, ugly goat face. Seeing my look of panic, the woman explained to me that this big, ugly goat card actually means that I am a sensuous and independent person. How the tarot people derived such an interpretation from a big, ugly goat called "The Devil" shall remain a mystery to me.
She then proceeded to turn over other such "winner" cards as "Cruelty" and "Ruin"--cards that consisted mostly of a bunch of swords, some of which were dripping with blood. There's really nothing positive that you can say about blood-drenched swords, so she explained that these cards represented my negative thoughts toward myself and my unwillingness to communicate with others.
I did get some good cards, such and "Priestess" and "Magician," but the images on those cards don’t tend to stay with you the way that goats and swords do. My final analysis was basically that I desire sex and independence but am not confident and communicative to actually get them.
At least I got a free T-shirt. [Ed. note: I have no idea what this T-shirt looked like. Probably because I'm fairly certain I never even wore it once.]
Monday, January 22, 2007
More proof that the universe hates me
Later this week, as part of a press tour to Utah, I'm attending a screening at the Sundance Film Festival. (And yes, I realize that right off the bat, I'm not doing such a great job yet of proving this whole universe-hating-me thing, but bear with me, please.) Anyway, while I'm completely over the moon about this, I became even more ecstatic when I perused the film festival's web site last week and learned that the 7:00 showing at the theater we're going to is a movie called Waitress, starring none other than Keri Russell. If you're a regular reader of this blog, you know by now that the only person who loves Keri Russell more than I do is Chase. I immediately began indulging myself in daydreams that I would run into Keri at the screening (even though it's in Ogden, not Park City, where the main festivities are; such practicalities are totally superfluous to daydreams) and we would strike up a conversation and eventually become BFFs. What? It could totally happen!
Only it turns out I had my dates mixed up, and instead we're going to a movie called Interview, starring none other than Sienna Miller. Who, if you're a regular reader of this blog, you know is my sworn arch-nemesis for foisting leggings and God knows what other horrible fashion trends onto the cultural radar. This is a disaster! I can't become daydream BFFs with Sienna Miller! The only way this can work out in my favor is if I have a chance to mock Sienna Miller's leggings to her face, rather than behind her back, as I did again this weekend. (When young Anya showed up to her dad's birthday party wearing pants under her dress--a look borne not out of trendiness but out of Kim not wanting to subject her infant daughter to the horror of tights, nor herself to the horror of trying to get tights on her infant daughter--I told her, "Sienna Miller would approve!") If not, the next best thing I can hope for is that the director--Steve Buscemi--will be at the film instead of the lead actress, because I really kind of love him. But he's still no Keri Russell.
Later this week, as part of a press tour to Utah, I'm attending a screening at the Sundance Film Festival. (And yes, I realize that right off the bat, I'm not doing such a great job yet of proving this whole universe-hating-me thing, but bear with me, please.) Anyway, while I'm completely over the moon about this, I became even more ecstatic when I perused the film festival's web site last week and learned that the 7:00 showing at the theater we're going to is a movie called Waitress, starring none other than Keri Russell. If you're a regular reader of this blog, you know by now that the only person who loves Keri Russell more than I do is Chase. I immediately began indulging myself in daydreams that I would run into Keri at the screening (even though it's in Ogden, not Park City, where the main festivities are; such practicalities are totally superfluous to daydreams) and we would strike up a conversation and eventually become BFFs. What? It could totally happen!
Only it turns out I had my dates mixed up, and instead we're going to a movie called Interview, starring none other than Sienna Miller. Who, if you're a regular reader of this blog, you know is my sworn arch-nemesis for foisting leggings and God knows what other horrible fashion trends onto the cultural radar. This is a disaster! I can't become daydream BFFs with Sienna Miller! The only way this can work out in my favor is if I have a chance to mock Sienna Miller's leggings to her face, rather than behind her back, as I did again this weekend. (When young Anya showed up to her dad's birthday party wearing pants under her dress--a look borne not out of trendiness but out of Kim not wanting to subject her infant daughter to the horror of tights, nor herself to the horror of trying to get tights on her infant daughter--I told her, "Sienna Miller would approve!") If not, the next best thing I can hope for is that the director--Steve Buscemi--will be at the film instead of the lead actress, because I really kind of love him. But he's still no Keri Russell.
Friday, January 19, 2007
Because I can't think of anything else to say...
I thought I'd tell you about the dream I had last night in which I ran into America Ferrera (whose name I initally misspelled in my Golden Globes recap; sorry, America!) at the airport. Between watching the Golden Globes, catching up on old episodes of Ugly Betty online, and reading Jessica from Go Fug Yourself's great post on how she hopes America Ferrera doesn't pull a Janeane Garofolo and feel the need to become emaciated to help her career, I have been thinking about this young lass a disproportionate amount this week. And it manifested itself last night in the aforementioned dream, in which I happened upon America as she was perusing iPods at one of the airport stores, and I gave her some recommendations on which one to buy. Then we might have had lunch together or something. Basically, it was the most boring celebrity dream I've ever had, but I'm just glad we weren't making a trip to the gynecologist.
I thought I'd tell you about the dream I had last night in which I ran into America Ferrera (whose name I initally misspelled in my Golden Globes recap; sorry, America!) at the airport. Between watching the Golden Globes, catching up on old episodes of Ugly Betty online, and reading Jessica from Go Fug Yourself's great post on how she hopes America Ferrera doesn't pull a Janeane Garofolo and feel the need to become emaciated to help her career, I have been thinking about this young lass a disproportionate amount this week. And it manifested itself last night in the aforementioned dream, in which I happened upon America as she was perusing iPods at one of the airport stores, and I gave her some recommendations on which one to buy. Then we might have had lunch together or something. Basically, it was the most boring celebrity dream I've ever had, but I'm just glad we weren't making a trip to the gynecologist.
Tuesday, January 16, 2007
Just when I thought the Golden Globes couldn’t get any better…
They start the show with George Clooney and immediately follow him with Justin Timberlake. If only Jake Gyllenhaal had presented earlier in the evening, I could have had a solid three out of five showing from my freebie list. But two out of five isn't too shabby, I guess.
It's a good thing the evening started out this way, too; otherwise I might have been sorely disappointed by this year's Globes. I'm referring, of course, to the fashion, which was alarmingly tame this time around. I found myself longing for the Drew Barrymore boob mishaps and crazy Lara Flynn Boyle tutus of yore. Even Sienna Miller's dress was only slightly hideous--and it was still leagues above the crap with which she typically covers her body.
Therefore, in a slight departure from years past, my commentary will not be as fashion-centered this year. Of course, that doesn't mean it won't be any less shallow. Just wanted to give you fair warning before we get started.
-For someone who plays a character with the word "ugly" in front of her name, America Ferrera sure is beautiful.
-From certain angles, Renee Zellweger appeared to have made up her face using dirt...and then shared some of it with Ellen Pompeo. Those two could've been the poster children for a PSA about why people with fair skin shouldn't use bronzer. But at least Renee's dress was stunning. (Ellen's was...well, better than last year, but that's not saying much.)
-Helen Mirren should give a class on how to age gracefully.
-Speaking of lessons to be learned from this year's Globes, if you want to know how not to do the post-break-up makeover, see Cameron Diaz. For how to do it really, really freaking well, consult Reese Witherspoon. Not only might her gorgeous little yellow dress just as well have had "Eat your heart out, Ryan Phillippe" scrawled across it, but at different points during the night, I saw her chatting up both Jack Nicholson and Warren Beatty. Yes, I know Warren Beatty is married, and I've never really gotten the appeal of Jack Nicholson, but still. Go, Reese!
-I saw The Devil Wears Prada, and yet it still took me most of the night to figure out who the heck Emily Blunt is. Everyone else in the room seemed to know her, though.
-I can't figure out whether the fact that Jeremy Piven consistently brings his mom as his date to awards shows is sweet or pathetic. I think maybe it was sweet the first few times, but now he's done it so much that it's veering toward pathetic. Get a real date once in a while, dude.
-Since when does Ben Stiller have gray hair? I feel old.
-Is it just me, or do Brad and Angelina resemble the wax figures of themselves more and more each day? (UPDATE: Apparently it's not just me.)
They start the show with George Clooney and immediately follow him with Justin Timberlake. If only Jake Gyllenhaal had presented earlier in the evening, I could have had a solid three out of five showing from my freebie list. But two out of five isn't too shabby, I guess.
It's a good thing the evening started out this way, too; otherwise I might have been sorely disappointed by this year's Globes. I'm referring, of course, to the fashion, which was alarmingly tame this time around. I found myself longing for the Drew Barrymore boob mishaps and crazy Lara Flynn Boyle tutus of yore. Even Sienna Miller's dress was only slightly hideous--and it was still leagues above the crap with which she typically covers her body.
Therefore, in a slight departure from years past, my commentary will not be as fashion-centered this year. Of course, that doesn't mean it won't be any less shallow. Just wanted to give you fair warning before we get started.
-For someone who plays a character with the word "ugly" in front of her name, America Ferrera sure is beautiful.
-From certain angles, Renee Zellweger appeared to have made up her face using dirt...and then shared some of it with Ellen Pompeo. Those two could've been the poster children for a PSA about why people with fair skin shouldn't use bronzer. But at least Renee's dress was stunning. (Ellen's was...well, better than last year, but that's not saying much.)
-Helen Mirren should give a class on how to age gracefully.
-Speaking of lessons to be learned from this year's Globes, if you want to know how not to do the post-break-up makeover, see Cameron Diaz. For how to do it really, really freaking well, consult Reese Witherspoon. Not only might her gorgeous little yellow dress just as well have had "Eat your heart out, Ryan Phillippe" scrawled across it, but at different points during the night, I saw her chatting up both Jack Nicholson and Warren Beatty. Yes, I know Warren Beatty is married, and I've never really gotten the appeal of Jack Nicholson, but still. Go, Reese!
-I saw The Devil Wears Prada, and yet it still took me most of the night to figure out who the heck Emily Blunt is. Everyone else in the room seemed to know her, though.
-I can't figure out whether the fact that Jeremy Piven consistently brings his mom as his date to awards shows is sweet or pathetic. I think maybe it was sweet the first few times, but now he's done it so much that it's veering toward pathetic. Get a real date once in a while, dude.
-Since when does Ben Stiller have gray hair? I feel old.
-Is it just me, or do Brad and Angelina resemble the wax figures of themselves more and more each day? (UPDATE: Apparently it's not just me.)
Friday, January 12, 2007
Why I love NPR
You know how, at the end of a long story, as a bumper into the next break, NPR will play a snippet of music? Most of the time it's just some random classical thing that I don't recognize (although on one occasion, the "random classical thing" actually turned out to be a cover of Nirvana's "Smells Like Teen Spirit," which was pretty awesome), but sometimes they'll choose something a little bit cheeky and fun if the story warrants it. This morning was probably the cheekiest, most fun music snippet I've encountered thus far. Following a story about how David Beckham is leaving Real Madrid to play for the Los Angeles Galaxy (a move that I assume has less to do with, as the story seemed to suggest, Becks' desire to bring soccer fervor to the States and more to do with the fact that residence in Los Angeles will provide he and Posh with considerably more famewhoring opportunities, not to mention a closer location to their new BFFs, Tom Cruise and Katie Holmes, who I'm hoping will take this development as an excuse to keep their particular brand of crazy the heck away from DC), and...wait, where was I, again? Oh, right, after the story on Becks, NPR segued to the break with a few bars of "Spice Up Your Life." I'm sure there must be a few ways to start your day that are better than hearing The Spice Girls on NPR, but I can't think of many.
You know how, at the end of a long story, as a bumper into the next break, NPR will play a snippet of music? Most of the time it's just some random classical thing that I don't recognize (although on one occasion, the "random classical thing" actually turned out to be a cover of Nirvana's "Smells Like Teen Spirit," which was pretty awesome), but sometimes they'll choose something a little bit cheeky and fun if the story warrants it. This morning was probably the cheekiest, most fun music snippet I've encountered thus far. Following a story about how David Beckham is leaving Real Madrid to play for the Los Angeles Galaxy (a move that I assume has less to do with, as the story seemed to suggest, Becks' desire to bring soccer fervor to the States and more to do with the fact that residence in Los Angeles will provide he and Posh with considerably more famewhoring opportunities, not to mention a closer location to their new BFFs, Tom Cruise and Katie Holmes, who I'm hoping will take this development as an excuse to keep their particular brand of crazy the heck away from DC), and...wait, where was I, again? Oh, right, after the story on Becks, NPR segued to the break with a few bars of "Spice Up Your Life." I'm sure there must be a few ways to start your day that are better than hearing The Spice Girls on NPR, but I can't think of many.
Wednesday, January 10, 2007
Saving the planet makes me cold, wet and miserable
Ever since I watched An Inconvenient Truth on DVD last month, it's like I've got a little Al Gore sitting on my shoulder all the time, offering his judgment on the choices I make. "Couldn't you walk or bike there instead?" Little Al says. "You don't really need a bag!" "Are you sure you want to take four cookies?" (OK, maybe that last one's not Little Al.)
Anyway, last night, Little Al was very proud of me. I could've easily driven to the store on my way home from work, but instead I chose to park at my house and walk around the block. And after I purchased my half-gallon of milk, I proudly announced to the check-out lady that I didn't require a bag. Yep, I was feeling pretty good about myself. And then I stepped outside.
What had been a barely perceptible mist of precipitation when I left to walk to the store (hence, not worth running back upstairs to get an umbrella) was now a heavy drizzle. And though I'd figured that, it being so cold outside, I wouldn't really notice the extra coldness that came from holding the milk, I was clearly wrong, since my hand was nearly numb by the time I got home. (Also, some random guy yelled "Milk! Milk!" at me for reasons I still don't comprehend.) And I chose to wear some really unfortunate socks yesterday, which practically slid down to my toes on the brief walk from the store and couldn't be adjusted due to things like the rain and the milk. So I guess the last one really isn't Little Al's fault, but still. Saving the planet is hard work, people. I hope you're happy, Little Al.
Ever since I watched An Inconvenient Truth on DVD last month, it's like I've got a little Al Gore sitting on my shoulder all the time, offering his judgment on the choices I make. "Couldn't you walk or bike there instead?" Little Al says. "You don't really need a bag!" "Are you sure you want to take four cookies?" (OK, maybe that last one's not Little Al.)
Anyway, last night, Little Al was very proud of me. I could've easily driven to the store on my way home from work, but instead I chose to park at my house and walk around the block. And after I purchased my half-gallon of milk, I proudly announced to the check-out lady that I didn't require a bag. Yep, I was feeling pretty good about myself. And then I stepped outside.
What had been a barely perceptible mist of precipitation when I left to walk to the store (hence, not worth running back upstairs to get an umbrella) was now a heavy drizzle. And though I'd figured that, it being so cold outside, I wouldn't really notice the extra coldness that came from holding the milk, I was clearly wrong, since my hand was nearly numb by the time I got home. (Also, some random guy yelled "Milk! Milk!" at me for reasons I still don't comprehend.) And I chose to wear some really unfortunate socks yesterday, which practically slid down to my toes on the brief walk from the store and couldn't be adjusted due to things like the rain and the milk. So I guess the last one really isn't Little Al's fault, but still. Saving the planet is hard work, people. I hope you're happy, Little Al.
Monday, January 08, 2007
And I am telling you...the story of how I almost became the next great singing sensation to grace gate A7 at the Baltimore Washington International Airport
On Friday night, I was waiting in line for the last Southwest flight of the evening to Columbus, Ohio. Perhaps because the airport was so deserted (walking into the terminal and seeing only one person in the line that almost ruined my Christmas a few weeks ago inspired me to quote The Great Gatsby: "My God, they used to come here by the hundreds"), or perhaps it was because our gate agent was one of those typical quirky, perky Southwest types (whom I usually either find really refreshing or really annoying, depending on my mood), he decided to make us an offer shortly before we boarded. He would allow one person from the back of the line to move to the front...if we got up and sang a song for everyone over the intercom.
Standing at the back of the A line, I seriously considered it. And then I let the opportunity pass me by. I told myself that it was because I was tired. Because I was already in the A line on a fairly empty flight, and therefore I didn't really need to jump through any hoops to ensure myself a coveted window seat. That it wouldn't matter if I sat in the front of the plane, because I'd still have to wait for my luggage to make it to baggage claim, thanks to all the new liquid restrictions that compel me to check it.
But deep down, I knew this wasn't true. The truth is, I chickened out. And it's all Francesca's fault.
You see, thanks to copious mentions of Dreamgirls on her blog, the only song I could think of to sing was "And I Am Telling You." Without the proper shower rehearsals, I was concerned that the airport, no matter how deserted, was probably not the best place to debut such a challenging song. I worried that I'd forget the words to the small snippet of the song I actually know. I worried that my voice would crack and shake, as it often does when I have to sing on the spot without the luxury of accompaniment or even background noise, or worse, that I'd miss some notes and completely derail. But most of all, I worried that it would be a repeat of my fourth-grade choir audition, for which I practiced singing "Somewhere Over the Rainbow" every night for weeks as I was running my bath, only to freeze when asked my song choice at the audition, ending up singing a pathetic "Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star" instead.
So I missed my chance to do something awesome. And then I spent the rest of the weekend polishing my rendition of "And I Am Telling You." The next time I get an opportunity to sing at the airport, you'd better believe I'm going to take it.
On Friday night, I was waiting in line for the last Southwest flight of the evening to Columbus, Ohio. Perhaps because the airport was so deserted (walking into the terminal and seeing only one person in the line that almost ruined my Christmas a few weeks ago inspired me to quote The Great Gatsby: "My God, they used to come here by the hundreds"), or perhaps it was because our gate agent was one of those typical quirky, perky Southwest types (whom I usually either find really refreshing or really annoying, depending on my mood), he decided to make us an offer shortly before we boarded. He would allow one person from the back of the line to move to the front...if we got up and sang a song for everyone over the intercom.
Standing at the back of the A line, I seriously considered it. And then I let the opportunity pass me by. I told myself that it was because I was tired. Because I was already in the A line on a fairly empty flight, and therefore I didn't really need to jump through any hoops to ensure myself a coveted window seat. That it wouldn't matter if I sat in the front of the plane, because I'd still have to wait for my luggage to make it to baggage claim, thanks to all the new liquid restrictions that compel me to check it.
But deep down, I knew this wasn't true. The truth is, I chickened out. And it's all Francesca's fault.
You see, thanks to copious mentions of Dreamgirls on her blog, the only song I could think of to sing was "And I Am Telling You." Without the proper shower rehearsals, I was concerned that the airport, no matter how deserted, was probably not the best place to debut such a challenging song. I worried that I'd forget the words to the small snippet of the song I actually know. I worried that my voice would crack and shake, as it often does when I have to sing on the spot without the luxury of accompaniment or even background noise, or worse, that I'd miss some notes and completely derail. But most of all, I worried that it would be a repeat of my fourth-grade choir audition, for which I practiced singing "Somewhere Over the Rainbow" every night for weeks as I was running my bath, only to freeze when asked my song choice at the audition, ending up singing a pathetic "Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star" instead.
So I missed my chance to do something awesome. And then I spent the rest of the weekend polishing my rendition of "And I Am Telling You." The next time I get an opportunity to sing at the airport, you'd better believe I'm going to take it.
Friday, January 05, 2007
Another memo from the future
Dear Me, Five Minutes Ago:
You should really read this more often. Only substitute "chocolate" with "cake" and "apple" with "the yogurt you went into the kitchen to get in the first place when you were confronted by the aforementioned cake."
Also, please keep in mind that giant balloons made of icing are better in theory than they are in practice. Sugar highs are fleeting, and leave a bad taste in your mouth.
Regards,
You, Five Minutes Later
P.S. Walking a few blocks to the mall doesn't count as working out, slacker!
Dear Me, Five Minutes Ago:
You should really read this more often. Only substitute "chocolate" with "cake" and "apple" with "the yogurt you went into the kitchen to get in the first place when you were confronted by the aforementioned cake."
Also, please keep in mind that giant balloons made of icing are better in theory than they are in practice. Sugar highs are fleeting, and leave a bad taste in your mouth.
Regards,
You, Five Minutes Later
P.S. Walking a few blocks to the mall doesn't count as working out, slacker!
Wednesday, January 03, 2007
As if I didn't already have enough outlets for my sarcasm
So let's say that, several years ago, back in the days when you were footloose and fancy-free and not bogged down by things like "work" and "life," and also inexplicably got free cable in your apartment, you and one of your best friends from high school started a blog devoted to one of your favorite TV shows of all time, Saved by the Bell. And let's say that you put quite a bit of effort into this blog for a while, but soon, as things like "life" and "work" intervened, it became less like a fun diversion and more like a chore, to the point where you grudgingly updated it maybe once or twice a year. What would you do?
If you guessed "Start a similar, even more time-consuming blog," then you have begun to approximate the misguided thought process that led me to create The 90210 Blog.
This is a bad idea for several reasons. One, I don't have time to do this. Already the nascent blog has started to suck my time away from other projects, ones that I actually get paid for. Two, I know once the obsession starts to fade (which, if history is any indication, will be just around the time that the blog is starting to get popular), I will get bored with the blog and resent this new obligation I've created for myself.
And yet, this is a force that I am powerless to stop. I've spent the past week or so watching the Season 1 DVDs that my sister got me for Christmas, all the while trying to resist the urge to start this blog. And it's just not working anymore. This series, which I love for its no-holds-barred camp almost as much as I love Saved by the Bell, is crying out to be mocked. Crying, people! I mean, in at least five of the first eight episodes, Dylan has worn overalls with one strap undone. To not give that the mockery it deserves would just be downright irresponsible.
So there you go. My advice to you? Get in while the getting's good, 'cause there's no telling how long I'll be able to sustain this obsession. Read The 90210 Blog! Link to it! Tell your friends! And pray that I don't suddenly develop a fascination with Melrose Place.
So let's say that, several years ago, back in the days when you were footloose and fancy-free and not bogged down by things like "work" and "life," and also inexplicably got free cable in your apartment, you and one of your best friends from high school started a blog devoted to one of your favorite TV shows of all time, Saved by the Bell. And let's say that you put quite a bit of effort into this blog for a while, but soon, as things like "life" and "work" intervened, it became less like a fun diversion and more like a chore, to the point where you grudgingly updated it maybe once or twice a year. What would you do?
If you guessed "Start a similar, even more time-consuming blog," then you have begun to approximate the misguided thought process that led me to create The 90210 Blog.
This is a bad idea for several reasons. One, I don't have time to do this. Already the nascent blog has started to suck my time away from other projects, ones that I actually get paid for. Two, I know once the obsession starts to fade (which, if history is any indication, will be just around the time that the blog is starting to get popular), I will get bored with the blog and resent this new obligation I've created for myself.
And yet, this is a force that I am powerless to stop. I've spent the past week or so watching the Season 1 DVDs that my sister got me for Christmas, all the while trying to resist the urge to start this blog. And it's just not working anymore. This series, which I love for its no-holds-barred camp almost as much as I love Saved by the Bell, is crying out to be mocked. Crying, people! I mean, in at least five of the first eight episodes, Dylan has worn overalls with one strap undone. To not give that the mockery it deserves would just be downright irresponsible.
So there you go. My advice to you? Get in while the getting's good, 'cause there's no telling how long I'll be able to sustain this obsession. Read The 90210 Blog! Link to it! Tell your friends! And pray that I don't suddenly develop a fascination with Melrose Place.
Tuesday, January 02, 2007
Thanks a lot, global warming
Just when I finally, finally manage to find a pair of full-length wool pants (on sale, no less!), I find that I have absolutely no cause to wear them, thanks to 60-degree temperatures on this, the first week of January. Now, it's not like I'm longing for a return to the bitterly cold, SAD-inducing winters of yore or anything. I just hope I didn't lug my cross-country skis all the way back here over Thanksgiving for nothing, you know? Just one quick bout of snow would be nice. I can break in the wool pants, give the skis a workout, and then we can go back to this spring-like stuff. It's a good thing I also bought some summer skirts on sale over the holiday.
Just when I finally, finally manage to find a pair of full-length wool pants (on sale, no less!), I find that I have absolutely no cause to wear them, thanks to 60-degree temperatures on this, the first week of January. Now, it's not like I'm longing for a return to the bitterly cold, SAD-inducing winters of yore or anything. I just hope I didn't lug my cross-country skis all the way back here over Thanksgiving for nothing, you know? Just one quick bout of snow would be nice. I can break in the wool pants, give the skis a workout, and then we can go back to this spring-like stuff. It's a good thing I also bought some summer skirts on sale over the holiday.
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