Monday, March 24, 2008
Babes in Thailand
Hey, remember that time Bri and I went to Thailand? Yeah. I've finally managed to finish the maybe-a-little-too-detailed recap of all of our adventures. I post-dated it in November '07, because years from now when I look back at this blog, I can just see myself thinking, "Wait, why is the Thailand recap in March '08? We went to Thailand in October/November '07." (Or actually, years from now when I look back at this blog, I'll want to pretend that I'm not such a procrastinator. Although procrastination is only part of the story--this thing is nearly 20,000 words long, and that kind of meticulous recounting takes some time.)
Anyway. If you don't feel like working on your Monday morning (and who does, really?), you can start your adventure-by-proxy right here.
Hey, remember that time Bri and I went to Thailand? Yeah. I've finally managed to finish the maybe-a-little-too-detailed recap of all of our adventures. I post-dated it in November '07, because years from now when I look back at this blog, I can just see myself thinking, "Wait, why is the Thailand recap in March '08? We went to Thailand in October/November '07." (Or actually, years from now when I look back at this blog, I'll want to pretend that I'm not such a procrastinator. Although procrastination is only part of the story--this thing is nearly 20,000 words long, and that kind of meticulous recounting takes some time.)
Anyway. If you don't feel like working on your Monday morning (and who does, really?), you can start your adventure-by-proxy right here.
Friday, March 21, 2008
Worlds are colliding!
For 18 years, I lived in the same small town and had pretty much the same circle of friends. Sure, there were subtle shifts as the years passed and our ages and interests changed (case in point: Bri, whom I've known pretty much forever, used to be my sister's best friend when we were all still in the single digits, age-wise), and there were some peripheral people from camp and band and other activities whose paths occasionally converged, but for the most part, I'd known all of my friends in some form or fashion for most of my life, and therefore was pretty much immune to those cool little cross-connections that the writers of Lost are so fond of.
Fast-forward 10 years, and the waters of my circle of friends have gotten a lot muddier. I've lived in four different places (Columbia, London, Birmingham, D.C.) since leaving home, and now I have several subsets of friends to keep track of. Not only that, but there are certain people who fit into more than one category (I met Danielle in college, but we weren't really friends until she moved to Birmingham; I grew up with Ryan, and then he ended up at my college...and then in Birmingham), which makes it all the more confusing.
So when I saw the notice on my Facebook feed the other day that Chase and Jessica were now friends, it didn't occur to me as strange at first, since I knew both of them. But then it dawned on me: Chase and I met in college; Jessica is a friend of a friend from Birmingham. There's no way they possibly could have met each other through me, and so they must know each other some other way. Yep--it turns out they went to junior high together. Whoa.
I think it's incidents like this that make it possible for me to wake up from a dream in which Taylor Hicks is proposing marriage to me and not think it's all that strange. (I also had one recently in which I was giving Billy Bob Thornton love advice, but I did think that one pretty strange. And yet also an improvement on my last Billy Bob Thornton dream, in which I was naked in the back of a pickup truck.)
For 18 years, I lived in the same small town and had pretty much the same circle of friends. Sure, there were subtle shifts as the years passed and our ages and interests changed (case in point: Bri, whom I've known pretty much forever, used to be my sister's best friend when we were all still in the single digits, age-wise), and there were some peripheral people from camp and band and other activities whose paths occasionally converged, but for the most part, I'd known all of my friends in some form or fashion for most of my life, and therefore was pretty much immune to those cool little cross-connections that the writers of Lost are so fond of.
Fast-forward 10 years, and the waters of my circle of friends have gotten a lot muddier. I've lived in four different places (Columbia, London, Birmingham, D.C.) since leaving home, and now I have several subsets of friends to keep track of. Not only that, but there are certain people who fit into more than one category (I met Danielle in college, but we weren't really friends until she moved to Birmingham; I grew up with Ryan, and then he ended up at my college...and then in Birmingham), which makes it all the more confusing.
So when I saw the notice on my Facebook feed the other day that Chase and Jessica were now friends, it didn't occur to me as strange at first, since I knew both of them. But then it dawned on me: Chase and I met in college; Jessica is a friend of a friend from Birmingham. There's no way they possibly could have met each other through me, and so they must know each other some other way. Yep--it turns out they went to junior high together. Whoa.
I think it's incidents like this that make it possible for me to wake up from a dream in which Taylor Hicks is proposing marriage to me and not think it's all that strange. (I also had one recently in which I was giving Billy Bob Thornton love advice, but I did think that one pretty strange. And yet also an improvement on my last Billy Bob Thornton dream, in which I was naked in the back of a pickup truck.)
Wednesday, March 12, 2008
"All the immediate unknowns are better than knowing this tired and lonely fate"*
Lately, it seems like my new blog obsessions tend to mirror what's going on in my own life--or, more accurately, what's about to be going on in my own life. (I'm no Boy Scout, but "always be prepared" seems like a good idea, no?) When I was planning a trip around the world, I was addicted to reading the blogs of people who were taking trips around the world. Don't get me wrong, I still love my travel blogs, but now that those plans have been scrapped and I've been thrust back into the world of single-girl-hood, I've become more obsessed with reading the next Carrie Bradshaws (that is, ones with way better fashion sense and way fewer stupid puns. Although can I pause to say how totally excited I am for the Sex & the City movie? I didn't think I would be, given how Carrie and I left things, but I really, really I am. I think it's because the clothes don't look too horrible. Well, except for the infamous wedding dress. I mean, what is with that pointy hat thing?)
But I digress. While the lovely and amazing KT and Rachel have been fitting the single-gal bill for the past few months, I've recently stumbled upon another Carrie incarnate to love: Single + Cats = Sad. The blog's author, Martini, is a 27-year-old magazine editor who recently broke up with a long-term boyfriend because "it just wasn't right." So basically, we're the same person. Oh, except that she's a model in her spare time, hangs out at the Playboy Mansion and dates B-list actors, whereas I write quizzes for teenagers in my spare time, hang out in dive bars and...well, given that I live in D.C., my only option for dating the marginally famous is B-list politicians, and given the way the A list has been behaving lately, that doesn't seem too appealing. But these are tiny, insignificant details. The point here is that her blog is well-written and funny and makes me just a little less nervous about dipping a toe back into the shark-infested waters known as the dating pool.
*Is it just me, or should Jenny Lewis be the poster child for girls who break up with boys who seemed so right but turned out to be not so right? I heart Jenny Lewis, and only partly because starred in Troop Beverly Hills.
Lately, it seems like my new blog obsessions tend to mirror what's going on in my own life--or, more accurately, what's about to be going on in my own life. (I'm no Boy Scout, but "always be prepared" seems like a good idea, no?) When I was planning a trip around the world, I was addicted to reading the blogs of people who were taking trips around the world. Don't get me wrong, I still love my travel blogs, but now that those plans have been scrapped and I've been thrust back into the world of single-girl-hood, I've become more obsessed with reading the next Carrie Bradshaws (that is, ones with way better fashion sense and way fewer stupid puns. Although can I pause to say how totally excited I am for the Sex & the City movie? I didn't think I would be, given how Carrie and I left things, but I really, really I am. I think it's because the clothes don't look too horrible. Well, except for the infamous wedding dress. I mean, what is with that pointy hat thing?)
But I digress. While the lovely and amazing KT and Rachel have been fitting the single-gal bill for the past few months, I've recently stumbled upon another Carrie incarnate to love: Single + Cats = Sad. The blog's author, Martini, is a 27-year-old magazine editor who recently broke up with a long-term boyfriend because "it just wasn't right." So basically, we're the same person. Oh, except that she's a model in her spare time, hangs out at the Playboy Mansion and dates B-list actors, whereas I write quizzes for teenagers in my spare time, hang out in dive bars and...well, given that I live in D.C., my only option for dating the marginally famous is B-list politicians, and given the way the A list has been behaving lately, that doesn't seem too appealing. But these are tiny, insignificant details. The point here is that her blog is well-written and funny and makes me just a little less nervous about dipping a toe back into the shark-infested waters known as the dating pool.
*Is it just me, or should Jenny Lewis be the poster child for girls who break up with boys who seemed so right but turned out to be not so right? I heart Jenny Lewis, and only partly because starred in Troop Beverly Hills.
Tuesday, March 11, 2008
I heart Rob Sheffield
It's no secret that I've had a pretty huge crush on Rolling Stone writer Rob Sheffield for a while now. His column was the only thing that kept me subscribing to Rolling Stone for years after the rest of the magazine failed to hold my interest. I even proposed marriage to him once, although he, along with George Clooney, Colin Firth, et al never responded. (Although looking back now, some of these non-responses were blessings in disguise. Ralph Fiennes? Ryan Adams? Both kind of skeezy now. And Hugh Grant was technically kind of skeezy at the time of the proposal, but he's even skeezier now. And let's not even address the whole Clay Aiken thing, except to say that I have always had a soft spot for the gays.)
Anyway. Given my long-abiding love for Rob Sheffield, and the fact that I tend to fall in love with memoir writers anyway (see also: Obama, Barack), I realized that it was going to be somewhat difficult not to fall even more hopelessly in love with him while reading his memoir Love Is a Mix Tape. Sure, the fact that the book is all about his love for his late wife did give me pause--at least, until I discovered two very important pieces of information about Rob Sheffield last night:
1. He hates it when people interrupt stuff (dinner, a conversation) to answer the phone.
2. He hates the word "utilize."
I also do not believe in rushing to answer the phone if you're doing something else (isn't that what voicemail is for?) and think the word "utilize" should be banned from the English language. Clearly, this is meant to be. The only problem is, I'm afraid that if Rob Sheffield were to look at the cumulative collection of mix tapes and CDs I have created over the past 15 years or so, he would deem me very uncool indeed. Alas.
I don't think it's going to work out with me and Barack Obama, either. But at least I still have Clooney. If he ever writes a memoir, I'm a goner.
It's no secret that I've had a pretty huge crush on Rolling Stone writer Rob Sheffield for a while now. His column was the only thing that kept me subscribing to Rolling Stone for years after the rest of the magazine failed to hold my interest. I even proposed marriage to him once, although he, along with George Clooney, Colin Firth, et al never responded. (Although looking back now, some of these non-responses were blessings in disguise. Ralph Fiennes? Ryan Adams? Both kind of skeezy now. And Hugh Grant was technically kind of skeezy at the time of the proposal, but he's even skeezier now. And let's not even address the whole Clay Aiken thing, except to say that I have always had a soft spot for the gays.)
Anyway. Given my long-abiding love for Rob Sheffield, and the fact that I tend to fall in love with memoir writers anyway (see also: Obama, Barack), I realized that it was going to be somewhat difficult not to fall even more hopelessly in love with him while reading his memoir Love Is a Mix Tape. Sure, the fact that the book is all about his love for his late wife did give me pause--at least, until I discovered two very important pieces of information about Rob Sheffield last night:
1. He hates it when people interrupt stuff (dinner, a conversation) to answer the phone.
2. He hates the word "utilize."
I also do not believe in rushing to answer the phone if you're doing something else (isn't that what voicemail is for?) and think the word "utilize" should be banned from the English language. Clearly, this is meant to be. The only problem is, I'm afraid that if Rob Sheffield were to look at the cumulative collection of mix tapes and CDs I have created over the past 15 years or so, he would deem me very uncool indeed. Alas.
I don't think it's going to work out with me and Barack Obama, either. But at least I still have Clooney. If he ever writes a memoir, I'm a goner.
Sunday, March 09, 2008
Rolling with the punches
This weekend I:
-Placed a carry-out order from a Thai restaurant that I thought was on my way home from the gym, and only realized when I was walking to pick up my order that the restaurant I was thinking of was not the restaurant I had ordered food from. And, in fact, the restaurant I had ordered food from was several miles away. Which meant I had to walk back to my apartment, get in my car and drive to the other restaurant (Al Gore hates me), where they were pretty much just sitting around, wondering if I was ever going to show up and get my food. Oh, and all of this was taking place in the pouring rain. Good times. At least my food was still warm when I finally got it home. Thank God for Styrofoam (Al Gore really hates me).
-Wore my beloved Frye boots to a bar on the Hill, where they were complimented by the bouncer (yay!) but then accidentally doused with beer (boo!). At least I had weatherproofed them prior to the beer spillage (rain, snow, beer--it's all liquid, right?), and therefore they survived pretty much intact. You can still see the faint outline of the beer stain, but I've decided that this battle scar (and others surely to come) will give them character.
-Did not give myself enough time between my Pilates class and hair appointment today to get to the salon via Metro. Being late for the appointment was not an option, as the salon cancels your appointment and charges you the full fee if you're more than 15 minutes late. So I decided to drive (Al Gore hates me even more). Unfortunately, I made this decision after I'd already walked to the Metro and spent 5 minutes standing on the platform, debating the feasibility of various transportation scenarios, and so my stupidity cost me $1.35. But that's much better than the $38 I would've been out had I missed my hair appointment. (The driving allowed me to arrive right on time--after I spent 10-15 minutes circling the neighborhood, cursing and trying to find a parking spot, that is.)
-Spent most of my Sunday afternoon throwing a Top Model-esque fit about my new haircut, which is not what I asked for at all. Until I realized that the haircut I got this time is actually the haircut I asked for last time and didn't get -- the Thai prison haircut I've been coveting for about a year. I can now say, though, that I'm glad I didn't get thrown in a Thai prison, because this haircut doesn't look nearly as good on me as it did on Claire Danes. Also, I really need to find a salon where they'll actually give me the haircut I ask for, although I'm beginning to realize that getting a good cut for a reasonable price in this town is damn near impossible.
This weekend I:
-Placed a carry-out order from a Thai restaurant that I thought was on my way home from the gym, and only realized when I was walking to pick up my order that the restaurant I was thinking of was not the restaurant I had ordered food from. And, in fact, the restaurant I had ordered food from was several miles away. Which meant I had to walk back to my apartment, get in my car and drive to the other restaurant (Al Gore hates me), where they were pretty much just sitting around, wondering if I was ever going to show up and get my food. Oh, and all of this was taking place in the pouring rain. Good times. At least my food was still warm when I finally got it home. Thank God for Styrofoam (Al Gore really hates me).
-Wore my beloved Frye boots to a bar on the Hill, where they were complimented by the bouncer (yay!) but then accidentally doused with beer (boo!). At least I had weatherproofed them prior to the beer spillage (rain, snow, beer--it's all liquid, right?), and therefore they survived pretty much intact. You can still see the faint outline of the beer stain, but I've decided that this battle scar (and others surely to come) will give them character.
-Did not give myself enough time between my Pilates class and hair appointment today to get to the salon via Metro. Being late for the appointment was not an option, as the salon cancels your appointment and charges you the full fee if you're more than 15 minutes late. So I decided to drive (Al Gore hates me even more). Unfortunately, I made this decision after I'd already walked to the Metro and spent 5 minutes standing on the platform, debating the feasibility of various transportation scenarios, and so my stupidity cost me $1.35. But that's much better than the $38 I would've been out had I missed my hair appointment. (The driving allowed me to arrive right on time--after I spent 10-15 minutes circling the neighborhood, cursing and trying to find a parking spot, that is.)
-Spent most of my Sunday afternoon throwing a Top Model-esque fit about my new haircut, which is not what I asked for at all. Until I realized that the haircut I got this time is actually the haircut I asked for last time and didn't get -- the Thai prison haircut I've been coveting for about a year. I can now say, though, that I'm glad I didn't get thrown in a Thai prison, because this haircut doesn't look nearly as good on me as it did on Claire Danes. Also, I really need to find a salon where they'll actually give me the haircut I ask for, although I'm beginning to realize that getting a good cut for a reasonable price in this town is damn near impossible.
Subscribe to Posts [Atom]