I'm Not Sure What This Says About Me
posted by Had To Move at 1:07 PM
0 comments
Wednesday, August 30, 2006
Tuesday, August 29, 2006
Easiest. Diet. Ever.
I did lots of bad things yesterday, diet-wise. I went out with my friend E. after work and drank enough Hoegaarden to float an aircraft carrier, thus breaking my voluntary beer-ban. After that, I went to another friend's house, had a sugary (and totally unnecessary, given my already shameful level of inebration) glass of red wine. And then I went home and had "dinner" at midnight, not exactly the ideal time for digestion. I'll spare you the details, but dinner involved cheese AND mayonnaise. Finally, this morning, instead of getting up at 6 a.m. to go to the gym and work out for two hours like normal, I slept in until 9:30 and then ate a bunch of fried samosas for lunch.
AND YET. I am DOWN three pounds SINCE YESTERDAY! I don't think it's just coincidence that yesterday was the day I parted ways with "the ring." Even post-samosas, the squishy fat ring that resides right below my belly button feels significantly less squeezable.
This is going to be the fastest 10 pounds I'll ever lose. I can't wait.
And from now on, I'll spare you further thoughts about my diet.
AND YET. I am DOWN three pounds SINCE YESTERDAY! I don't think it's just coincidence that yesterday was the day I parted ways with "the ring." Even post-samosas, the squishy fat ring that resides right below my belly button feels significantly less squeezable.
This is going to be the fastest 10 pounds I'll ever lose. I can't wait.
And from now on, I'll spare you further thoughts about my diet.
posted by Had To Move at 1:48 PM
0 comments
Monday, August 28, 2006
Bye Bye Boobies
To anyone who's known and loved my (moderately) ample bosoms in the last seven months or so, it's time to say goodbye. I have lost the War of the Ring (more on this later) and that means it's time to bid my breasts farewell. Ta-ta, tits.
Seven months ago, after a long hiatus from the pill, I decided for a number of different reasons to go back on. I was pleasantly surprised when but four weeks later I had to upgrade to a bigger cup size and suddenly I had something that looked a lot like cleavage. I was less pleasantly surprised when four weeks after THAT, I stepped on a scale and realized I had gained TEN POUNDS despite no changes to my diet or exercise routine. My mom was always very sensitive to the pill, as I have been, but I figured there had to be new alternatives on the market for rapidly-expanding chicks who don't want to get knocked up.
Panicked, I searched for a different form of birth control that would leave me childless and slimmer, but would not do anything to displace my new "twins." I switched to the Nuvaring. My doctor friend K. PROMISED me I wouldn't get any fatter AND said I could keep the funbags.
She lied, that bitch. I DID get fatter and pretty soon I was bumping up against my heaviest weight ever. My pants no longer fit. Climbing was a terrible struggle. But worst of all, I did things like complain in public (or on my blog!) about how fat I was. I was disgusting myself, both in my physical appearance AND my actions.
Something had to be done. So I went back to doing marathon levels of cardio every week -- four or five hours. Plus, two hours of weights a week, plus about six hours of climbing a week. It took up a lot of time. It was hard. Many times, it was boring. And it wasn't working.
So I went on a diet. I counted calories. I ate shrimp cocktail for dinner after spending 90 minutes on a treadmill, when I was so hungry I had to ward off the intense urge to barbecue the neighbor's dog, slather it in brown mustard, and chow down. I STOPPED DRINKING BEER for fuck's sake.
After four weeks of that, I lost one pound. This is a mathematical impossibility if you calculate the number of calories I burned and the number of calories I consumed.
And so, it is time to bid adieu to the Nuvaring and all its hormonally-fattening side effects. I refuse to be 15 pounds overweight just to avoid the use of condoms (which I loathe) in the rare case that I hook up with an old inappropriate boyfriend or STD-free friend who has mercy on me when I'm drunk and lonely.
I'll climb better, I'll look better, I'll feel better, and I'll stop talking about lame shit like how fat I am. Plus, maybe I can go back to drinking beer again. I'll miss the boobs, God knows I will, but it's time to get out of the sweatpants. They just don't do the cleavage justice.
Oh, and to all the ladies who will no doubt google this very phrase: "Yes, Nuvaring makes you fat."
Seven months ago, after a long hiatus from the pill, I decided for a number of different reasons to go back on. I was pleasantly surprised when but four weeks later I had to upgrade to a bigger cup size and suddenly I had something that looked a lot like cleavage. I was less pleasantly surprised when four weeks after THAT, I stepped on a scale and realized I had gained TEN POUNDS despite no changes to my diet or exercise routine. My mom was always very sensitive to the pill, as I have been, but I figured there had to be new alternatives on the market for rapidly-expanding chicks who don't want to get knocked up.
Panicked, I searched for a different form of birth control that would leave me childless and slimmer, but would not do anything to displace my new "twins." I switched to the Nuvaring. My doctor friend K. PROMISED me I wouldn't get any fatter AND said I could keep the funbags.
She lied, that bitch. I DID get fatter and pretty soon I was bumping up against my heaviest weight ever. My pants no longer fit. Climbing was a terrible struggle. But worst of all, I did things like complain in public (or on my blog!) about how fat I was. I was disgusting myself, both in my physical appearance AND my actions.
Something had to be done. So I went back to doing marathon levels of cardio every week -- four or five hours. Plus, two hours of weights a week, plus about six hours of climbing a week. It took up a lot of time. It was hard. Many times, it was boring. And it wasn't working.
So I went on a diet. I counted calories. I ate shrimp cocktail for dinner after spending 90 minutes on a treadmill, when I was so hungry I had to ward off the intense urge to barbecue the neighbor's dog, slather it in brown mustard, and chow down. I STOPPED DRINKING BEER for fuck's sake.
After four weeks of that, I lost one pound. This is a mathematical impossibility if you calculate the number of calories I burned and the number of calories I consumed.
And so, it is time to bid adieu to the Nuvaring and all its hormonally-fattening side effects. I refuse to be 15 pounds overweight just to avoid the use of condoms (which I loathe) in the rare case that I hook up with an old inappropriate boyfriend or STD-free friend who has mercy on me when I'm drunk and lonely.
I'll climb better, I'll look better, I'll feel better, and I'll stop talking about lame shit like how fat I am. Plus, maybe I can go back to drinking beer again. I'll miss the boobs, God knows I will, but it's time to get out of the sweatpants. They just don't do the cleavage justice.
Oh, and to all the ladies who will no doubt google this very phrase: "Yes, Nuvaring makes you fat."
posted by Had To Move at 3:46 PM
1 comments
Saturday, August 26, 2006
Excuse Me While I Blow My Top
If you happened to be walking down Smith Street Saturday morning around 9:30 a.m., you may have seen me stomping my way to the grocery store, muttering and cursing to myself, kicking any pigeon that dared cross my path.
"What's HER problem?" you probably asked yourself, as you crossed to the other side of the street to avoid my menacing glare and foul temper.
The answer is: I don't know what to do about my parents. More specifically, my father. And last night on the phone, he set me off. More on this later.
Don't get me wrong. I love my folks (who thankfully, I believe, lost the URL to this blog). I think they did a pretty good job raising me. After all, I am a world-renowned brain surgeon rolling in piles of excess cash, much of which I use to help orphans in sub-Saraharan Africa. My handsome husband, a professional triathlete-slash-philosopher, and I have four lovely children, all with heads of curly strawberry-blonde hair, and we have enough free time to maintain homes in New York, Norway and and Napa. Life is good.
OK, none of that is even close to true, but I think I turned out all right. Unlike my father, who seems to measure the success of his life according to how high his pile of money grows, I measure my life in terms of experience and adventures (be they big or small). I know that someday, should I be responsible for someone other than myself, I will have to amass all the material items that go along with rearing a family or hell, having a dog. But still, I'm pretty happy with what I've done so far and I don't think it's NOTHING that I managed to hustle my way out of a friggin' corn field in the middle of South Dakota to become an actual real-life writer and manage to support myself in a city where a can of fucking soup costs seven dollars. (Chicken soup, on the other hand, only costs $2.75.)
ANYWAY.
Despite all of these things, after seven more or less successful years in New York, my parents will still never stop harping on me to move home. Perhaps their intent is only to express their wishes to see me more, but to me, it feels like a negative judgment on my life.
I never felt that at home in South Dakota for the 17 years I did live there. I always felt slightly out of place, like I was thinking about things that other people weren't, and I was often dreaming of far-off places and experiences of which I had no real-life conception. (Though maybe, that's just how it is to be a teenager. I don't really knokw.) I read a LOT, and luckily I kept myself busy enough (or my parents did) with piano and violin lessons and part-time jobs and track and cross country and cheerleading practices and symphony rehearsals and CHURCH twice a week on top of it to not get too bogged down in my increasingly rabid desire to GET THE HELL OUT and go someplace where "stuff happened." I guess maybe Mom and Dad thought it was a phase.
So last night I'm on the phone with Mom and Dad and out of the blue, in the middle of a conversation about the privitization of health care in the U.S. during the 1950s, my Dad, like some petulant three-year-old, blurts out, "I WANT YOU TO MOVE HOME TO SOUTH DAKOTA."
Well, gee, Dad, thanks, but no thanks. Let's examine the facts. (APOLOGIES to anyone from South Dakota -- I have a great deal of affection for the place, and certainly, it has its good points, its praises of which I have sung before in actual published material.)
South Dakota demographics: Everyone over 20 is married, or severely obese, IF NOT BOTH! This impinges on a goal I have that someday I will find lasting love, you know? Not to mention, there wouldn't even be anyone worth having miserable, empty sex with in the meantime.
South Dakota social opportunities: I know that Bel Biv Devoe is playing at the Sioux Falls Arena sometime very soon but you know, they are just SO 1990! I stopped eating at chain restaurants about nine years ago so your Applebee's Boneless Buffalo Wings hold little appeal for me. I guess we'll just have to go pheasant hunting. Again.
South Dakota career opportunities: Dad thinks that being a manager at a Kinko's in South Dakota is in my future, since I will be "printing," and therefore in some capacity, "a journalist." I was thinking more of an exciting career in credit-card processing. Think of all the envelopes to be stuffed, the angry customers on whom I can wait! They'll finally have a formidable opponent on the phone to inform them that in fact no, they may not have their APR reduced from 27.25 to zero for a limited time only!
South Dakota political climate: Everyone in South Dakota watches Fox news, and I don't think I need to say any more, then, about how out of place I would be among all these God Bless America, George Bush Can Do No Wrong, Evengelical Christian Conservatives. It's gotten to the point where I actually have hard times having conversations when I go back to visit. Even the Democrats there aren't much better, or at least they lack the snooty tact of East Cost Democrats. Case in point: In an article in the New Yorker about a recent anti-abortion bill in South Dakota, the author writes: “One petition volunteer told me, that a man marched up to her on the post-office steps and said heartily, as he signed [a petition to vote on rescinding a bill to ban all abortions] “Good for you for doing this. I hope Bill Napoli has a daughter who gets raped by a nigger.” [Bill Napoli is a SD state senator who said he'd except a total ban on abortions in the state only for a "religious virgin" who was brutalized and raped, but not for just regular old plain rape, which is TONS of fun.] DEAR GOD WHO ARE THESE PEOPLE? Anyway, for now, I think I'll be sticking with New York, where even the crazies seem more sane to me than people who want to go back to back-alley abortions.
But the thing that REALLY chaps my ass about this whole thing is that when I DO see my parents (and, really, I see them a lot -- I would say extended visits at LEAST six times a year), often my dad has drunk himself into such a stupor I truly believe he doesn't even know I'm there! He passes out at dinner. He slurs and can't follow conversations. Last time I was home, he was so tanked he dropped a piece of fish on my leg straight out of the fryer! Luckily my reflexes were intact so I avoided any third degree burns, but spending more time at home only so I can have boiling fish flung at me and have someone pass out while I'm trying to talk to them, well, no thanks. I'm not trying to libel my father here, and I like to hit the bottle as much as the next guy, but I try to stop before my face ends up in my plate of mashed potatoes. I know it's not his fault (or not all of it, anyway), but it's got to stop, or at least, be curtailed somewhat.
Anyway, I'm just venting, so sorry. It's not funny, and it's not well written, but I feel slightly better. Now back to work.
"What's HER problem?" you probably asked yourself, as you crossed to the other side of the street to avoid my menacing glare and foul temper.
The answer is: I don't know what to do about my parents. More specifically, my father. And last night on the phone, he set me off. More on this later.
Don't get me wrong. I love my folks (who thankfully, I believe, lost the URL to this blog). I think they did a pretty good job raising me. After all, I am a world-renowned brain surgeon rolling in piles of excess cash, much of which I use to help orphans in sub-Saraharan Africa. My handsome husband, a professional triathlete-slash-philosopher, and I have four lovely children, all with heads of curly strawberry-blonde hair, and we have enough free time to maintain homes in New York, Norway and and Napa. Life is good.
OK, none of that is even close to true, but I think I turned out all right. Unlike my father, who seems to measure the success of his life according to how high his pile of money grows, I measure my life in terms of experience and adventures (be they big or small). I know that someday, should I be responsible for someone other than myself, I will have to amass all the material items that go along with rearing a family or hell, having a dog. But still, I'm pretty happy with what I've done so far and I don't think it's NOTHING that I managed to hustle my way out of a friggin' corn field in the middle of South Dakota to become an actual real-life writer and manage to support myself in a city where a can of fucking soup costs seven dollars. (Chicken soup, on the other hand, only costs $2.75.)
ANYWAY.
Despite all of these things, after seven more or less successful years in New York, my parents will still never stop harping on me to move home. Perhaps their intent is only to express their wishes to see me more, but to me, it feels like a negative judgment on my life.
I never felt that at home in South Dakota for the 17 years I did live there. I always felt slightly out of place, like I was thinking about things that other people weren't, and I was often dreaming of far-off places and experiences of which I had no real-life conception. (Though maybe, that's just how it is to be a teenager. I don't really knokw.) I read a LOT, and luckily I kept myself busy enough (or my parents did) with piano and violin lessons and part-time jobs and track and cross country and cheerleading practices and symphony rehearsals and CHURCH twice a week on top of it to not get too bogged down in my increasingly rabid desire to GET THE HELL OUT and go someplace where "stuff happened." I guess maybe Mom and Dad thought it was a phase.
So last night I'm on the phone with Mom and Dad and out of the blue, in the middle of a conversation about the privitization of health care in the U.S. during the 1950s, my Dad, like some petulant three-year-old, blurts out, "I WANT YOU TO MOVE HOME TO SOUTH DAKOTA."
Well, gee, Dad, thanks, but no thanks. Let's examine the facts. (APOLOGIES to anyone from South Dakota -- I have a great deal of affection for the place, and certainly, it has its good points, its praises of which I have sung before in actual published material.)
South Dakota demographics: Everyone over 20 is married, or severely obese, IF NOT BOTH! This impinges on a goal I have that someday I will find lasting love, you know? Not to mention, there wouldn't even be anyone worth having miserable, empty sex with in the meantime.
South Dakota social opportunities: I know that Bel Biv Devoe is playing at the Sioux Falls Arena sometime very soon but you know, they are just SO 1990! I stopped eating at chain restaurants about nine years ago so your Applebee's Boneless Buffalo Wings hold little appeal for me. I guess we'll just have to go pheasant hunting. Again.
South Dakota career opportunities: Dad thinks that being a manager at a Kinko's in South Dakota is in my future, since I will be "printing," and therefore in some capacity, "a journalist." I was thinking more of an exciting career in credit-card processing. Think of all the envelopes to be stuffed, the angry customers on whom I can wait! They'll finally have a formidable opponent on the phone to inform them that in fact no, they may not have their APR reduced from 27.25 to zero for a limited time only!
South Dakota political climate: Everyone in South Dakota watches Fox news, and I don't think I need to say any more, then, about how out of place I would be among all these God Bless America, George Bush Can Do No Wrong, Evengelical Christian Conservatives. It's gotten to the point where I actually have hard times having conversations when I go back to visit. Even the Democrats there aren't much better, or at least they lack the snooty tact of East Cost Democrats. Case in point: In an article in the New Yorker about a recent anti-abortion bill in South Dakota, the author writes: “One petition volunteer told me, that a man marched up to her on the post-office steps and said heartily, as he signed [a petition to vote on rescinding a bill to ban all abortions] “Good for you for doing this. I hope Bill Napoli has a daughter who gets raped by a nigger.” [Bill Napoli is a SD state senator who said he'd except a total ban on abortions in the state only for a "religious virgin" who was brutalized and raped, but not for just regular old plain rape, which is TONS of fun.] DEAR GOD WHO ARE THESE PEOPLE? Anyway, for now, I think I'll be sticking with New York, where even the crazies seem more sane to me than people who want to go back to back-alley abortions.
But the thing that REALLY chaps my ass about this whole thing is that when I DO see my parents (and, really, I see them a lot -- I would say extended visits at LEAST six times a year), often my dad has drunk himself into such a stupor I truly believe he doesn't even know I'm there! He passes out at dinner. He slurs and can't follow conversations. Last time I was home, he was so tanked he dropped a piece of fish on my leg straight out of the fryer! Luckily my reflexes were intact so I avoided any third degree burns, but spending more time at home only so I can have boiling fish flung at me and have someone pass out while I'm trying to talk to them, well, no thanks. I'm not trying to libel my father here, and I like to hit the bottle as much as the next guy, but I try to stop before my face ends up in my plate of mashed potatoes. I know it's not his fault (or not all of it, anyway), but it's got to stop, or at least, be curtailed somewhat.
Anyway, I'm just venting, so sorry. It's not funny, and it's not well written, but I feel slightly better. Now back to work.
posted by Had To Move at 4:03 PM
1 comments
Wednesday, August 23, 2006
Ask and You Shall (Actually) Receive (Something Totally Awesome)
So awhile back I asked readers to weigh in on what type of adventure I should undertake in an effort to liven up this blog. People had some good ideas -- hike the Appalachian Trail, date more pesky Jews, etc. One of the options I put out there for people to comment on was a trip to Germany to visit my brother, who moved there all of a week ago and will be living there until 2009.
To my utter astonishment, not only did people weigh in, but I also got a "belated birthday present" by email from a committed reader and a dear friend who -- and no, I'm not shitting you -- bought me a gift certificate good for one airline flight to Germany. (!!)
I'm not really used to surprises like this. Normally if (and that's a big IF) I receive a birthday present from someone it's more along the lines of scented lotion or some slightly droopy daisies from the bodega. I was a bit flabbergasted, but this makes my decision on "how to shake things up" easy.
I'm going to Germany. I'll probably give my brother this winter to settle in and will go in the spring once it's warm enough to do some rock climbing. Of course, there's always the possibility of snowboarding in the Alps, too. We shall see.
I haven't had a European adventure in a few years, so I'm extremely excited about this, as well as totally honored and grateful to my far too generous friend. He probably just wants to get me out of his hair so he can find new people to have dinner with in New York, but even if that's the case, I can't thank him enough.
The only problem of course is that there are several long, fallow months stretching out ahead of a trip to Germany, which probably can't happen until next year for various reasons.
At the risk of pushing my luck, if anyone else is feeling generous and would like to liven up my life through charitable donations (say, of a car -- even a clunker will do) or maybe loaning me your hot cousin for a date, shoot me an email! :)
Whee!
To my utter astonishment, not only did people weigh in, but I also got a "belated birthday present" by email from a committed reader and a dear friend who -- and no, I'm not shitting you -- bought me a gift certificate good for one airline flight to Germany. (!!)
I'm not really used to surprises like this. Normally if (and that's a big IF) I receive a birthday present from someone it's more along the lines of scented lotion or some slightly droopy daisies from the bodega. I was a bit flabbergasted, but this makes my decision on "how to shake things up" easy.
I'm going to Germany. I'll probably give my brother this winter to settle in and will go in the spring once it's warm enough to do some rock climbing. Of course, there's always the possibility of snowboarding in the Alps, too. We shall see.
I haven't had a European adventure in a few years, so I'm extremely excited about this, as well as totally honored and grateful to my far too generous friend. He probably just wants to get me out of his hair so he can find new people to have dinner with in New York, but even if that's the case, I can't thank him enough.
The only problem of course is that there are several long, fallow months stretching out ahead of a trip to Germany, which probably can't happen until next year for various reasons.
At the risk of pushing my luck, if anyone else is feeling generous and would like to liven up my life through charitable donations (say, of a car -- even a clunker will do) or maybe loaning me your hot cousin for a date, shoot me an email! :)
Whee!
posted by Had To Move at 3:13 PM
2 comments
A Solution to My Real-Estate Woes
New York is an expensive place to live, and no matter how plainly I state that I don't think I can truly convey to out-of-towners just how exorbitant living expenses are here. I have what is considered to be a "fantastic" rental deal in Brooklyn. And yet, I pay what in other cities would amount to a king's ransom, for a bedroom with ceilings so low my knuckles scrape when I remove my shirt at night. And that's only the rental market.
To BUY in New York -- where itsy bitsy studios start at upwards of $250,000 -- you normally have to put 20% down and have a year's worth of "maintenance costs" (usually at least $800 a month) in the bank. To even buy a tiny mouse-ridden hovel, I'd have to scrape together $60,000. That's in the neighborhood of my entire pre-tax annual salary some years (Go ahead and laugh -- it's all I can do myself, now that I've cried out all my own tears of poverty and toil). As you can see, it's entirely possible that if I keep living here, I will rent until the day they throw my body into a pile in Potter's Field. This is unfortunate, since I truly feel that paying rent is the equivalent of gently placing my hard-earned dollars into a toilet bowl, urinating on them, and pressing the flusher.
But today on BoingBoing, I think I found my solution.
The treehouse you see here retails for the bargain-basement price of $18,499.99. Later on this year I'm expecting a paycheck somewhere in that ballpark, so soon, this treehouse may be mine!
The treehouse has approximately 78 square feet of living -- or, swashbuckling -- space, which means it's retailing for about $237 a square foot. Not bad for the New York market. Look out, Corchoran. Plus, I get to sleep in the fake hull of a plastic ship. I'm sure this will attract a "certain type of guy," if you know what I mean -- the type of guy with an eyepatch! The peglegs, meanwhile, will be deterred by the ladder that runs through the middle of the hollowed-out tree down below.
Costco's website not only lists the size and other specifications regarding the treehouse; it also lists the more esoteric "Benefits of owning a treehouse." These include:
• They add value and curb appeal to your home. (Sweet! Nothing like asset appreciation!)
• They provide a reason to go outside and engage in activities that promote physical strength, balance, confidence, coordination, social development, imagination and more (Check, check, check -- I approve of all of those things!)
• They are incredible conversation pieces. Your friends and family will line up for a tour (Awesome! I love having parties!)
• Every time you see your tree house, you'll smile a little, feel a little younger, and be a little happier (Who can argue with THAT? Worth the price tag alone.)
Now, about finding that empty lot...
posted by Had To Move at 12:36 PM
0 comments
Tuesday, August 22, 2006
Ask, and You Shall (Sort of) Receive (Something Halfhearted)
In the post below this one, if you look in the comments, you will see that Guy requested a new post ASAP. Don't ask me why a Jew, who is forever whining about how he "hasn't felt the touch of a woman in many months," is asking me to get something new up instead of just reading and re-reading the post about how I loooooove to bang Jews. Because I don't have a clue. I do know that if he keeps up antics like that, it may be many more months before he "feels the touch of a woman."
Nevertheless, I have decided to humor his request. I mean, I have to admit that over the years I've gotten a kick or two out of his blog. That's not to say that you will get a kick out of this post, because you most likely won't. Why? Because there ain't shit going on in my life.
All around me, people are going on climbing trips, moving in with significant others, having babies and achieving new and ever-more-impressive goals in their professional lives. Me? Not so much. Thanks to my recently strict diet, which led me to cut back on ALL weeknight drinking (save for last week's ill-advised Monday martini madness), there's not even a lot of trouble for me to get into. I get up at 6 a.m., work out like a madwoman, spend most of the day at work massaging my poor shoulders and am in bed, wiped out, by 11 p.m. It just doesn't make for good blogging.
Perhaps I should create my very own "Choose Erin's Next Adventure" here on this very blog. In order to come up with something good to post about, which "Grand Adventure" should I have next?
1) Go to Germany to visit my brother. All the German I know consists of what I learned from Heidi Klum on "Project Runway." My interactions in Germany would probably go something like this. "How many sausages would you like?" (me): "Auf Wiedersehen." Them: "Ma'am, where is your passport?" Me: "Auf Wiedersehen." Them: "Miss, it's time to put down the stein, back away from the bench, and go find somewhere to sleep it off." Me: "Auf Wiedersehen." Actually, in all those cases, it works: I wouldn't get fat on sausages, I'd avoid questions about my nationality, and in the end would grant a kind farewell to the local barkeep who served me one too many. Maybe this is not a bad idea.
2) Date another Jew. This idea is probably a winner. After some delirious posts about all the hot sex I was getting, there would be the inevitable heartbreak, post-breakup funk and six-month cycle of rapid weight gain and painfully slow weight loss.
3) Move home to South Dakota. My dad always wants me to move home. He says that I can work as a manager at Kinko's, which will still leave me in the "publishing business." I could regale you all with tales of my days at Kinko's and turn into a problem gambler, wasting my weekends whiling away my manager's paycheck on delapidated paddleboats and in the back of gas stations playing video poker.
4) Embark on a theme web site. For instance, I could take up knitting and change the name of this site to "How I Knit 365 Sweaters in 365 Days." Or, "Canning for Idiots: From Rhubarb to Ruttabegas." At least then I'd have a steady little niche audience.
If anyone has any better ideas, I'm listening. I'm sort of feeling ready for life to throw me a curveball, anyway, so why not. Give me something to blog about, baby.
Nevertheless, I have decided to humor his request. I mean, I have to admit that over the years I've gotten a kick or two out of his blog. That's not to say that you will get a kick out of this post, because you most likely won't. Why? Because there ain't shit going on in my life.
All around me, people are going on climbing trips, moving in with significant others, having babies and achieving new and ever-more-impressive goals in their professional lives. Me? Not so much. Thanks to my recently strict diet, which led me to cut back on ALL weeknight drinking (save for last week's ill-advised Monday martini madness), there's not even a lot of trouble for me to get into. I get up at 6 a.m., work out like a madwoman, spend most of the day at work massaging my poor shoulders and am in bed, wiped out, by 11 p.m. It just doesn't make for good blogging.
Perhaps I should create my very own "Choose Erin's Next Adventure" here on this very blog. In order to come up with something good to post about, which "Grand Adventure" should I have next?
1) Go to Germany to visit my brother. All the German I know consists of what I learned from Heidi Klum on "Project Runway." My interactions in Germany would probably go something like this. "How many sausages would you like?" (me): "Auf Wiedersehen." Them: "Ma'am, where is your passport?" Me: "Auf Wiedersehen." Them: "Miss, it's time to put down the stein, back away from the bench, and go find somewhere to sleep it off." Me: "Auf Wiedersehen." Actually, in all those cases, it works: I wouldn't get fat on sausages, I'd avoid questions about my nationality, and in the end would grant a kind farewell to the local barkeep who served me one too many. Maybe this is not a bad idea.
2) Date another Jew. This idea is probably a winner. After some delirious posts about all the hot sex I was getting, there would be the inevitable heartbreak, post-breakup funk and six-month cycle of rapid weight gain and painfully slow weight loss.
3) Move home to South Dakota. My dad always wants me to move home. He says that I can work as a manager at Kinko's, which will still leave me in the "publishing business." I could regale you all with tales of my days at Kinko's and turn into a problem gambler, wasting my weekends whiling away my manager's paycheck on delapidated paddleboats and in the back of gas stations playing video poker.
4) Embark on a theme web site. For instance, I could take up knitting and change the name of this site to "How I Knit 365 Sweaters in 365 Days." Or, "Canning for Idiots: From Rhubarb to Ruttabegas." At least then I'd have a steady little niche audience.
If anyone has any better ideas, I'm listening. I'm sort of feeling ready for life to throw me a curveball, anyway, so why not. Give me something to blog about, baby.
posted by Had To Move at 2:11 PM
3 comments
Thursday, August 17, 2006
What I Need Is a Jew for Jesus
I grew up in South Dakota, a place with very little racial, ethnic or religious diversity. No one said cruel or hateful things about blacks or Mexicans because there weren't any, although woe to you if you happened to be a Native American. Most everyone I knew was Methodist, Lutheran or Baptist, with an occasional crazy Catholic thrown in to keep things interesting. ("What, you think that's actually the body of Christ?? Give me a break!") South Dakota has the nation's lowest per-capita smattering of Jews. And so, I never gave much thought to God's chosen people until it was time for the Sioux Valley News, our local rag, to run their annual story featuring the one local Jewish family. It was normally entitled something like "What the Rosenthals Did for Christmas: It's Called Chanukah!" How embarassing.
As one might imagine, this somewhat limits the dating pool. A girl had two choices: white boy, in stringy or beefy. Your pick. College allowed me to expand my horizons somewhat, namely to foreigners, whose open arms offered an exotic respite from the pink-cheeked farm boys I had been stuck with before. I sampled proper Brits, bawdy Australians, earthy Peruvians, muscular Koreans and by God I think there was even someone from Ghana thrown into the mix. He had a great smile.
It wasn't until after college, however, that I found what appears to be my true calling: the Jews.
After college, I went to work for a newspaper in Arkansas. Admittedly, this is not the first place you think of when you think "hotbed of Jews." Williamsburg it ain't. But my friend K. was attending medical school in near-enough New Orleans and had invited me down one weekend to a Halloween party. Across the room full of her classmates, I spotted a tall, dark-haired, green-eyed alpha male and a primordial lust unlike anything I had experienced in the past gripped me. It was as if my very DNA was calling out, "Mate with this person! Your blend of Scandanavian and Eastern European genes will meld in perfect unison to create disease-free offspring!"
Of course, it didn't hurt that he had washboard abs, was getting an M.D., was hung like a very lucky donkey and was one of the most enthusiastic, passionate lovers I might ever know. That said, so scant was my experience with Jews that it never even occurred to me that he might not be a familiar old Protestant -- until I saw a menorah in his bedroom. "Wait, are you JEWISH?" I screeched as we ripped each other's clothes off. "Um, my last name's KAUFMAN, silly. What did you think?"
By then, naturally, it was too late. I was intoxicated by this man in all his Jewish glory and nearly quit my job six months later to run away with him on a cross-country climbing trip. My depressing, measly financial situation prevented this insanity (at least mostly; I joined on part of the trip). Eventually, of course, we broke up, although we remain friendly.
The unfortunate outcome is that I think he started me off on a road to ruin that I fear very well might prevent me from ever being happy with a Gentile ever again.
Next came ANOTHER Jewish doctor (what can I say, ladies, it helps to have friends in med school). Despite our cultural and religious differences -- I had, at this point, converted from an off-the-nut Baptist religion to a more sensible and liberal Presbyterianism -- this one deigned me worthy of family introduction. Of course, I bungled this in a spectular fashion when, faced my first plate of gefilte fish at Passover seder, naively inquired, "A filter fish? You mean those things that suck the sides of aquariums?" Never in my life have I heard, more distinctly than in that moment, the soundtrack of crickets chirping. Nevertheless, A's Jewish mother seemed to take a real liking to me and even knitted me a scarf for Christmas. I thought I was in.
Eventually geopgraphic circumstances put the "kabosh," as they say, on that relationship, which was too bad because again, this boyfriend was something of a stallion in the bedroom and made me feel like the most desirable woman to ever walk the planet. Now I was REALLY hooked.
During my seven years in New York, I have continued to happily graze in the verdant Jewish garden -- a lawyer here, a writer there, a pair of Fulbright scholars for good measure. Who needs JDate? Different as they were, each one seemed to possess a commanding sexual presence and a generous endowment under his zipper. Each time I met someone who triggered an immediate hormonal flare-up, they were, nearly to a one, Jews.
Apparently my body has decided what it wants, and what it wants is a Jew.
Of course, dating Jews as an active Presbyterian (even one who, admittedly, has broken a few rules regarding sex before marriage) is not without its drawbacks. I can't tell you how many times I've heard someone say, "I love dating non-Jewish girls, but of course, I have to marry someone from the tribe." (Gee, thanks.) OK, they never say "from the tribe," but you get my drift. This means every relationship I have with a Jew comes with a built-in expiration date that rears its ugly head just about as I would normally be meeting the folks or starting to leave hair products at the boyfriend-in-question's apartment.
Meanwhile, the Jews I've dated have all been atheists or agnostics, and have seemed despondently puzzled that I could be so irrational as to believe in God in the first place. It creates a problem.
I've decided that the natural answer to my dilemma is to find a Jew for Jesus. Yup, that's it! Brilliant! This way, I can satisfy my deeply felt attraction to Jews, and there won't be those pesky religious differences to wrestle with. Of course, his good Jewish mother probably won't be knitting me any scarves because she'll likely see me as a Bible beater abetting her son's descent into Christian lunacy.
But nevertheless, at this time, I see no better option. With a Jew for Jesus, I can have my challah and eat it, too.
As one might imagine, this somewhat limits the dating pool. A girl had two choices: white boy, in stringy or beefy. Your pick. College allowed me to expand my horizons somewhat, namely to foreigners, whose open arms offered an exotic respite from the pink-cheeked farm boys I had been stuck with before. I sampled proper Brits, bawdy Australians, earthy Peruvians, muscular Koreans and by God I think there was even someone from Ghana thrown into the mix. He had a great smile.
It wasn't until after college, however, that I found what appears to be my true calling: the Jews.
After college, I went to work for a newspaper in Arkansas. Admittedly, this is not the first place you think of when you think "hotbed of Jews." Williamsburg it ain't. But my friend K. was attending medical school in near-enough New Orleans and had invited me down one weekend to a Halloween party. Across the room full of her classmates, I spotted a tall, dark-haired, green-eyed alpha male and a primordial lust unlike anything I had experienced in the past gripped me. It was as if my very DNA was calling out, "Mate with this person! Your blend of Scandanavian and Eastern European genes will meld in perfect unison to create disease-free offspring!"
Of course, it didn't hurt that he had washboard abs, was getting an M.D., was hung like a very lucky donkey and was one of the most enthusiastic, passionate lovers I might ever know. That said, so scant was my experience with Jews that it never even occurred to me that he might not be a familiar old Protestant -- until I saw a menorah in his bedroom. "Wait, are you JEWISH?" I screeched as we ripped each other's clothes off. "Um, my last name's KAUFMAN, silly. What did you think?"
By then, naturally, it was too late. I was intoxicated by this man in all his Jewish glory and nearly quit my job six months later to run away with him on a cross-country climbing trip. My depressing, measly financial situation prevented this insanity (at least mostly; I joined on part of the trip). Eventually, of course, we broke up, although we remain friendly.
The unfortunate outcome is that I think he started me off on a road to ruin that I fear very well might prevent me from ever being happy with a Gentile ever again.
Next came ANOTHER Jewish doctor (what can I say, ladies, it helps to have friends in med school). Despite our cultural and religious differences -- I had, at this point, converted from an off-the-nut Baptist religion to a more sensible and liberal Presbyterianism -- this one deigned me worthy of family introduction. Of course, I bungled this in a spectular fashion when, faced my first plate of gefilte fish at Passover seder, naively inquired, "A filter fish? You mean those things that suck the sides of aquariums?" Never in my life have I heard, more distinctly than in that moment, the soundtrack of crickets chirping. Nevertheless, A's Jewish mother seemed to take a real liking to me and even knitted me a scarf for Christmas. I thought I was in.
Eventually geopgraphic circumstances put the "kabosh," as they say, on that relationship, which was too bad because again, this boyfriend was something of a stallion in the bedroom and made me feel like the most desirable woman to ever walk the planet. Now I was REALLY hooked.
During my seven years in New York, I have continued to happily graze in the verdant Jewish garden -- a lawyer here, a writer there, a pair of Fulbright scholars for good measure. Who needs JDate? Different as they were, each one seemed to possess a commanding sexual presence and a generous endowment under his zipper. Each time I met someone who triggered an immediate hormonal flare-up, they were, nearly to a one, Jews.
Apparently my body has decided what it wants, and what it wants is a Jew.
Of course, dating Jews as an active Presbyterian (even one who, admittedly, has broken a few rules regarding sex before marriage) is not without its drawbacks. I can't tell you how many times I've heard someone say, "I love dating non-Jewish girls, but of course, I have to marry someone from the tribe." (Gee, thanks.) OK, they never say "from the tribe," but you get my drift. This means every relationship I have with a Jew comes with a built-in expiration date that rears its ugly head just about as I would normally be meeting the folks or starting to leave hair products at the boyfriend-in-question's apartment.
Meanwhile, the Jews I've dated have all been atheists or agnostics, and have seemed despondently puzzled that I could be so irrational as to believe in God in the first place. It creates a problem.
I've decided that the natural answer to my dilemma is to find a Jew for Jesus. Yup, that's it! Brilliant! This way, I can satisfy my deeply felt attraction to Jews, and there won't be those pesky religious differences to wrestle with. Of course, his good Jewish mother probably won't be knitting me any scarves because she'll likely see me as a Bible beater abetting her son's descent into Christian lunacy.
But nevertheless, at this time, I see no better option. With a Jew for Jesus, I can have my challah and eat it, too.
posted by Had To Move at 6:19 AM
3 comments
Tuesday, August 15, 2006
Someday, I'm Going to Marry That Woman!
Sorry my old acerbic self has deprived you of your regular shot of piss and vinegar for the last few days. Recent events have left me preoccupied, and I've been trying to preoccupy myself from THOSE events by slurping my way to the bottom of several very, very large martini glasses. Needless to say, between the preoccupations and the hangovers, there's hardly any time to blog.
But I found a little inspiration for my vitriol this weekend in the Times Magazine's profile on Meredith Vieira. I read it sitting in Washington Square Park on this most recent, perfect Sunday morning as I waited for my old friend D. to go get brunch. I liked the profile fine overall, but at one point I nearly spit my coffee across the park. Speaking of Vieira's voice, and her husband, and how they met, the article says:
"It’s the voice you notice first. A smooth contralto of a voice, with notes of amusement and empathy. A naughty, wholesome contradiction of a voice. It was the voice that a young news producer named Richard Cohen heard long before he met its owner. Vieira was a newbie reporter in the Chicago bureau of CBS News back then, and when her words, coming off an audio feed, filled a New York studio, Cohen turned to a colleague and announced, “I am going to marry that woman.” They just celebrated their 20th anniversary."
OH WOULD YOU PLEASE GIVE ME A MOTHERFUGGIN' BREAK?!
The last time I looked at someone and thought, "I'm going to marry that man," fifteen minutes after meeting him, the only thing to become of it was him walking away down Park Avenue, never to be seen -- nor heard from -- again. What a bunch of horse shit. The one hopeful romantic ember in me that hasn't been snuffed or squashed yet (although give it a few months, it's on its last, wobbly, polio-stricken legs) would like to think that someday someone -- and this time, someone without an eyepatch -- will look at me and think, "Someday, I'm going to marry that woman!" But what's more likely to happen is that I'll meet someone, we'll fitfully date for a few years, decide we more or less love each other, and get hitched. I mean, let's be realistic. Or, as has been the case in the past, I'll dump them because I laughably aspire to having someone look at me and think, "Someday, I'm going to marry that woman!" instead of something as pedestrian as what we have.
How many times am I going to have to read and re-read this stupid cliche quote anyway? I think it should be banned from the Sunday Styles wedding announcements, the New York Observer's "Love Beat," and all other similar columns. Please don't anyone ever again tell me that you just looked at someone and knew that someday you'd marry them. I just can't take it anymore.
Huffing in utter disbelief in "love at first sight" as I stomped out of the park Sunday, I tried to distract myself by catching up with D., whom I hadn't seen since my return from Colorado. He had a new girlfriend, S., and I sensed things were progressing quickly.
"How are things going with S.?" I asked.
D. -- perpetually girlfriend-less in the five years I've known him -- proceeded to gush and moon and fawn all the way down Thompson Street. People in love are so annoying. But, being the good friend I am, I gamely I nodded along, genuinely happy he was finally happy. But then he dropped the bomb: They were moving in together. After three months.
"Erin, it's just crazy," D. said. "But it's true -- WHEN YOU KNOW, YOU KNOW."
Curbing the urge to run to the very next mesh trash bin and vomit at the SECOND well-worn love cliche of the morning, I smiled, patted him on the arm, and offered my congratulations.
And then, I soldiered on toward brunch, committed to finding -- if not love at first sight -- at least a decent plate of eggs and for God's sake, a few ameliorative Bloody Marys.
But I found a little inspiration for my vitriol this weekend in the Times Magazine's profile on Meredith Vieira. I read it sitting in Washington Square Park on this most recent, perfect Sunday morning as I waited for my old friend D. to go get brunch. I liked the profile fine overall, but at one point I nearly spit my coffee across the park. Speaking of Vieira's voice, and her husband, and how they met, the article says:
"It’s the voice you notice first. A smooth contralto of a voice, with notes of amusement and empathy. A naughty, wholesome contradiction of a voice. It was the voice that a young news producer named Richard Cohen heard long before he met its owner. Vieira was a newbie reporter in the Chicago bureau of CBS News back then, and when her words, coming off an audio feed, filled a New York studio, Cohen turned to a colleague and announced, “I am going to marry that woman.” They just celebrated their 20th anniversary."
OH WOULD YOU PLEASE GIVE ME A MOTHERFUGGIN' BREAK?!
The last time I looked at someone and thought, "I'm going to marry that man," fifteen minutes after meeting him, the only thing to become of it was him walking away down Park Avenue, never to be seen -- nor heard from -- again. What a bunch of horse shit. The one hopeful romantic ember in me that hasn't been snuffed or squashed yet (although give it a few months, it's on its last, wobbly, polio-stricken legs) would like to think that someday someone -- and this time, someone without an eyepatch -- will look at me and think, "Someday, I'm going to marry that woman!" But what's more likely to happen is that I'll meet someone, we'll fitfully date for a few years, decide we more or less love each other, and get hitched. I mean, let's be realistic. Or, as has been the case in the past, I'll dump them because I laughably aspire to having someone look at me and think, "Someday, I'm going to marry that woman!" instead of something as pedestrian as what we have.
How many times am I going to have to read and re-read this stupid cliche quote anyway? I think it should be banned from the Sunday Styles wedding announcements, the New York Observer's "Love Beat," and all other similar columns. Please don't anyone ever again tell me that you just looked at someone and knew that someday you'd marry them. I just can't take it anymore.
Huffing in utter disbelief in "love at first sight" as I stomped out of the park Sunday, I tried to distract myself by catching up with D., whom I hadn't seen since my return from Colorado. He had a new girlfriend, S., and I sensed things were progressing quickly.
"How are things going with S.?" I asked.
D. -- perpetually girlfriend-less in the five years I've known him -- proceeded to gush and moon and fawn all the way down Thompson Street. People in love are so annoying. But, being the good friend I am, I gamely I nodded along, genuinely happy he was finally happy. But then he dropped the bomb: They were moving in together. After three months.
"Erin, it's just crazy," D. said. "But it's true -- WHEN YOU KNOW, YOU KNOW."
Curbing the urge to run to the very next mesh trash bin and vomit at the SECOND well-worn love cliche of the morning, I smiled, patted him on the arm, and offered my congratulations.
And then, I soldiered on toward brunch, committed to finding -- if not love at first sight -- at least a decent plate of eggs and for God's sake, a few ameliorative Bloody Marys.
posted by Had To Move at 10:45 PM
0 comments
Thursday, August 10, 2006
Five Things That Are Ringing My Bell, Currently (A List)
1) The Flaming Lips' album "Yoshimi Battles the Pink Robots" -- ethereal, catchy outer-space music (I'm aware, I'm a few years behind on this one). I think this is one of those albums I might listen to every day for a month straight.
2) Rice Krispie bars
3) OKGO's "Here it Goes Again" video (below). I sometimes watch VH1 or MTV at the gym when the magazine/book/TV alternatives are poor, I feel like seeing "what the kids are listening to" and I'm sick of my iPod. I saw this the other day and, even though I was more than 60 minutes into a 70 minute cardio workout and decidedly unhappy, it made me smile from ear to ear.
4) "Empire Falls," the Pulitzer-prize-winning 2002 novel by Richard Russo. This book paints a bleak, hilarious and rich picture of small-town life in rural Maine and many of the characters remind me of folks roaming the streets of my own hometown in South Dakota. It's one of those books you really wish didn't have to end. It's sympathetic writing, the restless characters very memorable, and it throws in more than a handful of juicy plot twists.
5) Laughing at people who talk about a "liberal media conspiracy."
2) Rice Krispie bars
3) OKGO's "Here it Goes Again" video (below). I sometimes watch VH1 or MTV at the gym when the magazine/book/TV alternatives are poor, I feel like seeing "what the kids are listening to" and I'm sick of my iPod. I saw this the other day and, even though I was more than 60 minutes into a 70 minute cardio workout and decidedly unhappy, it made me smile from ear to ear.
4) "Empire Falls," the Pulitzer-prize-winning 2002 novel by Richard Russo. This book paints a bleak, hilarious and rich picture of small-town life in rural Maine and many of the characters remind me of folks roaming the streets of my own hometown in South Dakota. It's one of those books you really wish didn't have to end. It's sympathetic writing, the restless characters very memorable, and it throws in more than a handful of juicy plot twists.
5) Laughing at people who talk about a "liberal media conspiracy."
posted by Had To Move at 3:04 PM
1 comments
Nudity in Flight
I came to work today in a tizzy, all ready to write up a vitriolic post about how the latest scuttled terror plot in London (21 arrested for plans to bring liquid explosives aboard U.S.-bound commercial airlines). I was going to write about how my hair will never, ever look good on vacation ever again, thanks to the terrorists, and how I just *know* I'll spend hours and hours parched on airplanes, begging some uptight stewardess to let me have an extra miniature bottle of water. It was going to touch on how sick I am of all these REACTIONARY rules (which become enforced after it's already too late, and when we should be concentrating on NEW hijinks, AND are sporadically enforced to boot, in my experience). My solution was that we all just get on airplanes naked from now on, so I was going to "treat" you to a long rant about that, but it appears that BoingBoing has already beat me to the punch, and (naturally), did a better job than I could. So just go read his version while I pout in a corner. Naked. And parched.
posted by Had To Move at 9:58 AM
0 comments
Tuesday, August 08, 2006
Tabloid Wars
I worked in newspapers for nearly a good decade before I quit the WSJ to go freelance. While I was there, I covered the U.S. equities market, which is about as unexciting as it gets for a newsroom, so most of my good journalism stories come from my time at the newspapers I worked at in Little Rock, Des Moines, Washington and Nebraska. Some days as a journalist are super boring (i.e., five years of covering the U.S. equity market for the WSJ, which admittedly is probably a job a lot of people would kill for -- just not me). When I was in Des Moines, one of my jobs was to comb through all the tiny, itty bitty local papers to make sure we weren't missing anything "out there"; this job included reading the "Social columns," which often read something like this: "Henrietta Johnson, 67, of Altoona, visited her mother, Mabel Dowetta van Bockern, at the Holy Christ Jesus Rest Home of the Sleepy Lamb, in West Des Moines. The two enjoyed a Jell-O Ring and discussed the upcoming admission of Henrietta's grandson into the Iowa National Guard." (Seriously.)
Other times, you got to do stuff that was either really wacky, or at least made the adrenaline pump. I attended something called "Toad Suck Days," for instance. I chased tornadoes. I covered fires and big elections. One time, it was my job to make sure strippers at the local joints were following a new law requiring them to wear pasties. I must have been the only person in the U.S. (excluding Wall Street honchos) who were REQUIRED to attend a strip joint for work. Then of course, there was guy and his demented wife who kept a houseful (literally) of cats -- both dead and alive -- in the beliefef that it would extent their lives. One day the husband kicked off and laid on the floor for three days before anyone figured out what was going on. Cops finally showed up to a mewing herd of hungry beasts, two of whom were sitting on the dude's chest EATING HIS FACE OFF. The wife asked if they'd be able to wake him up. Good God. (Did I mention the floors were covered in six inches of cat shit?)
The point is, newsrooms can be very interesting places. If you'd like to get a taste of what it's actually like to be a journalist at a metro newspaper, I HIGHLY recommend the series Tabloid Wars on Bravo. It's a fairly accurate picture of the day to day life of a reporter, and it makes me miss it acutely. As an additional bonus, Hud Morgan resembles strongly John Krasinski, and has mannerisms and speech patterns the are EXACTLY those of my old friend Z, with whom I went to college (and who also worked in Arkansas and at the WSJ at one time or another). It's like watching one of my old friends on the old boob tube. Anyway, an entertaining hour of reality TV -- something you don't see much of anymore. Enjoy.
Other times, you got to do stuff that was either really wacky, or at least made the adrenaline pump. I attended something called "Toad Suck Days," for instance. I chased tornadoes. I covered fires and big elections. One time, it was my job to make sure strippers at the local joints were following a new law requiring them to wear pasties. I must have been the only person in the U.S. (excluding Wall Street honchos) who were REQUIRED to attend a strip joint for work. Then of course, there was guy and his demented wife who kept a houseful (literally) of cats -- both dead and alive -- in the beliefef that it would extent their lives. One day the husband kicked off and laid on the floor for three days before anyone figured out what was going on. Cops finally showed up to a mewing herd of hungry beasts, two of whom were sitting on the dude's chest EATING HIS FACE OFF. The wife asked if they'd be able to wake him up. Good God. (Did I mention the floors were covered in six inches of cat shit?)
The point is, newsrooms can be very interesting places. If you'd like to get a taste of what it's actually like to be a journalist at a metro newspaper, I HIGHLY recommend the series Tabloid Wars on Bravo. It's a fairly accurate picture of the day to day life of a reporter, and it makes me miss it acutely. As an additional bonus, Hud Morgan resembles strongly John Krasinski, and has mannerisms and speech patterns the are EXACTLY those of my old friend Z, with whom I went to college (and who also worked in Arkansas and at the WSJ at one time or another). It's like watching one of my old friends on the old boob tube. Anyway, an entertaining hour of reality TV -- something you don't see much of anymore. Enjoy.
posted by Had To Move at 3:50 PM
1 comments
A Plea to Gawker
I know there have been management and editorial shakeups over at the Gawk, and had I not been drowning in a sea of gin Thursday night when I sat blathering away at the editorial director and one of the editors, I would have thought to mention something then. As it is, I'm going to have to tug an IM sleeve, probably to much less effect (than nothing, which would have been the original effect).
ANYWAY, PLEASE have mercy with the click-throughs! I mean, every single post is a click-through these days. And as much as I like wasting time at work, I don't like developing carpal-tunnel to accomplish said task. I know there are advertising and tracking reasons for "jumps," but have mercy on your dear readers. I never thought I'd suggest taking a cue from Gannett, evil overlords of that much-reviled birdshit-catcher USAToday, but STOP with the jumps already.
That is all.
ANYWAY, PLEASE have mercy with the click-throughs! I mean, every single post is a click-through these days. And as much as I like wasting time at work, I don't like developing carpal-tunnel to accomplish said task. I know there are advertising and tracking reasons for "jumps," but have mercy on your dear readers. I never thought I'd suggest taking a cue from Gannett, evil overlords of that much-reviled birdshit-catcher USAToday, but STOP with the jumps already.
That is all.
posted by Had To Move at 2:48 PM
0 comments
Leaving New York Makes You Fat
In case you needed another excuse never to leave Everyone's Favorite Island, let me provide reason number 372: Leaving New York Makes You Fat.
Leaving New York doesn't make you fat because of what you eat outside New York, though believe me, I inhaled plenty of mayonnaise, Cheesecake Factory platters-o-shite and various combinations of beef and bacon during my six-week stint in the Midwest. In one day, I even managed to hit up TWO of Nebraska's finest fast-food establishments, Runza and Amigo's, so I could indulge in BOTH a Runza ( Birkenstock-shaped dough wrapped around hamburger and cabbage) and a crisp meat burrito (a double fried monstrosity that should only be eaten by those under the age of 20, or while blind drunk after throwing up in their drive-through).
And yet, I managed to drop a few pounds while gone, thanks to strenuous 20-mile hikes most weekends and lots of running around in the sunshine.
Anyway, leaving New York makes you fat because when you get back, you feel a pressing need to gorge yourself with all the delicacies and excess you missed desperately while you were away, and feared that you might never eat again in the event that a flying bumper or errant white-tail deer did you in on an otherwise uneventful trip across I-80.
My first night back in the city found me at Floyd with a happy band of inebriated gays for my roommate's Last Monday party, quaffing cold pints of beer until my stomach was ready to burst. The next night, I fulfilled my land-locked longing for sea critters at Mermaid Inn with a half dozen oysters and a buttery lobster roll, along with a nice crisp bottle of Pinot. Wednesday I ordered no fewer than seven items at my favorite Szechuan place to share with my friend B., followed up by some big glasses of red while we caught up on all the events of the last weeks at a nice French place. Thursday I believe I was down for the count, which was good because Friday was my friend Eric's birthday, which meant hooking up a gin IV and then hitting up San Loco for too many tacos at 2 in the morning. Saturday I was begging for mercy but nope, my friend Jace was having a BBQ and proceeded to shove a glass of rose into one of my weary hands, and a steak knife into the other. Luckily we had his kiddie pool to cool off afterward, because I think I was getting feverish with all the fat-production my body was doing. It's time to stop the madness.
Good God, this is a great city for eating, and if you leave, New York will never let you forget it. This week I am going on a water, cottage cheese and soup fast and dragging my fat arse to the gym every day lest I develop a pannus. A pannus, for those of you not in the medical industry, is a huge spare tire of fat, a veritable second stomach of flesh if you will, that develops on the morbidly obese, causing things like weeping open sores from all the flesh-on-flesh rubbing and lack of ability to stick a washcloth in there. It's great having doctor pals so they can clue you in on nastiness such as this, but it's not such a good thing when they take one look at you, fork of foie gras poised and about to slide into your glistening mouth, and inquire after eating habits that may, at any moment, cause your arteries to sieze up.
Currently fat and happy to be back.
Leaving New York doesn't make you fat because of what you eat outside New York, though believe me, I inhaled plenty of mayonnaise, Cheesecake Factory platters-o-shite and various combinations of beef and bacon during my six-week stint in the Midwest. In one day, I even managed to hit up TWO of Nebraska's finest fast-food establishments, Runza and Amigo's, so I could indulge in BOTH a Runza ( Birkenstock-shaped dough wrapped around hamburger and cabbage) and a crisp meat burrito (a double fried monstrosity that should only be eaten by those under the age of 20, or while blind drunk after throwing up in their drive-through).
And yet, I managed to drop a few pounds while gone, thanks to strenuous 20-mile hikes most weekends and lots of running around in the sunshine.
Anyway, leaving New York makes you fat because when you get back, you feel a pressing need to gorge yourself with all the delicacies and excess you missed desperately while you were away, and feared that you might never eat again in the event that a flying bumper or errant white-tail deer did you in on an otherwise uneventful trip across I-80.
My first night back in the city found me at Floyd with a happy band of inebriated gays for my roommate's Last Monday party, quaffing cold pints of beer until my stomach was ready to burst. The next night, I fulfilled my land-locked longing for sea critters at Mermaid Inn with a half dozen oysters and a buttery lobster roll, along with a nice crisp bottle of Pinot. Wednesday I ordered no fewer than seven items at my favorite Szechuan place to share with my friend B., followed up by some big glasses of red while we caught up on all the events of the last weeks at a nice French place. Thursday I believe I was down for the count, which was good because Friday was my friend Eric's birthday, which meant hooking up a gin IV and then hitting up San Loco for too many tacos at 2 in the morning. Saturday I was begging for mercy but nope, my friend Jace was having a BBQ and proceeded to shove a glass of rose into one of my weary hands, and a steak knife into the other. Luckily we had his kiddie pool to cool off afterward, because I think I was getting feverish with all the fat-production my body was doing. It's time to stop the madness.
Good God, this is a great city for eating, and if you leave, New York will never let you forget it. This week I am going on a water, cottage cheese and soup fast and dragging my fat arse to the gym every day lest I develop a pannus. A pannus, for those of you not in the medical industry, is a huge spare tire of fat, a veritable second stomach of flesh if you will, that develops on the morbidly obese, causing things like weeping open sores from all the flesh-on-flesh rubbing and lack of ability to stick a washcloth in there. It's great having doctor pals so they can clue you in on nastiness such as this, but it's not such a good thing when they take one look at you, fork of foie gras poised and about to slide into your glistening mouth, and inquire after eating habits that may, at any moment, cause your arteries to sieze up.
Currently fat and happy to be back.
posted by Had To Move at 12:03 AM
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Monday, August 07, 2006
An Aunt or an Uncle?
My sister called me today with that age-old trick question, "Are you going to be an aunt or an uncle?" The dumb trick of course, is trying to get me to say, "AN UNCLE" if I happened to want a nephew. Of course, already BEING an aunt to my one-year-old niece Stella, I was wise to this trick and sighed, "Geez, I'll be an aunt either way -- now what is it?"
Mikki went in today for the "big reveal" ultrasound today and the test, failing to find any evidence of a tiny little baby wee-wee, tells us that I'll be having niece number two. This is good news for my mother, since she's spent the last year flexing her significant consumer muscles in a strenous effort to purchase every pink, ruffled, bunny-appliqued item west of the Mississippi, and it might confuse her if she was suddenly expected to shop in a land full of baby blue, toy trains, and non-gender-specific animals such as ducks.
However, I'm starting to worry that the duty is going to fall to me to dredge up responsible, virile male who can contribute a Y chromosome to our family tree, as my brother and brother in law have so far proven that they can only shoot Xs. Surely any hopes that I could round out the grandchild gender ratio stand only to be dashed, since I can barely even find someone suitable for a Saturday, let alone matrimony.
But hey, this isn't about me (oh, who am I kidding, it's always about me).
Mikki went in today for the "big reveal" ultrasound today and the test, failing to find any evidence of a tiny little baby wee-wee, tells us that I'll be having niece number two. This is good news for my mother, since she's spent the last year flexing her significant consumer muscles in a strenous effort to purchase every pink, ruffled, bunny-appliqued item west of the Mississippi, and it might confuse her if she was suddenly expected to shop in a land full of baby blue, toy trains, and non-gender-specific animals such as ducks.
However, I'm starting to worry that the duty is going to fall to me to dredge up responsible, virile male who can contribute a Y chromosome to our family tree, as my brother and brother in law have so far proven that they can only shoot Xs. Surely any hopes that I could round out the grandchild gender ratio stand only to be dashed, since I can barely even find someone suitable for a Saturday, let alone matrimony.
But hey, this isn't about me (oh, who am I kidding, it's always about me).
posted by Had To Move at 2:41 PM
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Friday, August 04, 2006
My Family Tree is Full of the "Mentally Challenged"
Last weekend I attended my extended family reunion at a Baptist Bible camp in rural Minnesota. My mother's father helped build the camp and our family has had one week a year of access ever since. It's where my parents met, and I have fond memories of going there as a kid, mainly because I could drink unlimited bottles of soda (a.k.a. "pop") and run around with wild abandon, algae from the lake dripping out of my swimsuit and running merrily down my white, knobby legs.
The extended family reunion (which includes descendents not only of my grandparents and their 12 children -- numbering over 100 alone -- but of my grandmother's 9 brothers and sisters and all THEIR descendants) is decidedly less fun as an adult, and is REALLY miserable when the heat index hits 115 and the mosquitos start picking up small dogs and sucking the blood from their yappy little necks. Only one building is air conditioned, and packing hundreds of people inside of it, who line up for jello- and marshmallow-based salads, items heavy on mayonnaise, and hundreds of pounds of smoked turkeys done outside on the roaster, doesn't do much for the cooling capabilities. Suffice it to say that it was a miserably hot weekend, but luckily, we had events such as the annual "talent show" to take our mind off the great-grands perishing from the heat in the back pews of the chapel. (That's right. A chapel.)
Now, I don't want to completely discount my family. There's some talent there. My brother gamely played the musical saw (and no, I'm not kidding). Some far-flung cousin studying for her degree in music churned out a truly impressive synchopatic modern piece on the old piano, and my aunts told some HEE-LARIOUS "Ole and Lena" jokes, which are kind of like Polack jokes except they poke fun at Norwegians. (Example: "Ole picks up the phone. The operator says, 'Long distance from Oslo!' Ole says, 'You're not kidding about THAT!'")
The true highlight of the night came when my second cousin Dawn, who has four kids, amassed a group of about 10 of my distant cousins. Each held a brightly colored plastic tube a different size and shape. Dawn held two director's batons and took turns pointing to each kid. Each time she pointed, the kid in question would bonk him or herself in the head with the tube and it would make a distinct (or, supposedly distinct) "note," and by taking turns, they would produce a "song" (not that I could ever detect what it was supposed to be).
I've seen some weird shit in New York. I saw a Chinese lady throwing up in a Tupperware container in the subway. I saw a legless, earless man in a wheelchair having Dunkin' Donuts thrown at his chest. I've seen three-legged dogs trying to hump pigeons.
But as I sat there, mouth agape, I thought, "It is so much weirder being a New Yorker in the Midwest than it is being a Midwesterner in New York."
The extended family reunion (which includes descendents not only of my grandparents and their 12 children -- numbering over 100 alone -- but of my grandmother's 9 brothers and sisters and all THEIR descendants) is decidedly less fun as an adult, and is REALLY miserable when the heat index hits 115 and the mosquitos start picking up small dogs and sucking the blood from their yappy little necks. Only one building is air conditioned, and packing hundreds of people inside of it, who line up for jello- and marshmallow-based salads, items heavy on mayonnaise, and hundreds of pounds of smoked turkeys done outside on the roaster, doesn't do much for the cooling capabilities. Suffice it to say that it was a miserably hot weekend, but luckily, we had events such as the annual "talent show" to take our mind off the great-grands perishing from the heat in the back pews of the chapel. (That's right. A chapel.)
Now, I don't want to completely discount my family. There's some talent there. My brother gamely played the musical saw (and no, I'm not kidding). Some far-flung cousin studying for her degree in music churned out a truly impressive synchopatic modern piece on the old piano, and my aunts told some HEE-LARIOUS "Ole and Lena" jokes, which are kind of like Polack jokes except they poke fun at Norwegians. (Example: "Ole picks up the phone. The operator says, 'Long distance from Oslo!' Ole says, 'You're not kidding about THAT!'")
The true highlight of the night came when my second cousin Dawn, who has four kids, amassed a group of about 10 of my distant cousins. Each held a brightly colored plastic tube a different size and shape. Dawn held two director's batons and took turns pointing to each kid. Each time she pointed, the kid in question would bonk him or herself in the head with the tube and it would make a distinct (or, supposedly distinct) "note," and by taking turns, they would produce a "song" (not that I could ever detect what it was supposed to be).
I've seen some weird shit in New York. I saw a Chinese lady throwing up in a Tupperware container in the subway. I saw a legless, earless man in a wheelchair having Dunkin' Donuts thrown at his chest. I've seen three-legged dogs trying to hump pigeons.
But as I sat there, mouth agape, I thought, "It is so much weirder being a New Yorker in the Midwest than it is being a Midwesterner in New York."
posted by Had To Move at 12:34 AM
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Thursday, August 03, 2006
Peeling, Climbing, and Living in Salt Lake
My friend Pete has a new blog about his adventures and misadventures in climbing, dermatology and life in general. It's really funny. Go read it.
posted by Had To Move at 12:30 PM
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Unicorns, and the Land That Irony Forgot
Last week I drove across the Midwest with my sister. We were going from suburban Denver, where she lives, to rural Minnesota, where my mother's family holds its annual family reunion at a Baptist Bible camp. It's a real hoot -- but more on that later.
We didn't get started until late Thursday night so we planned to stay with her in-laws in North Platte, Nebraska. North Platte, which during the summer bakes like a cow patty in the field on the flat, flat plains of western Nebraska, is home to the Buffalo Bill Cody museum (where I stopped to buy a number of buffalo ktoschkes and behold the taxidermied genius of a two-headed calf), the nation's largest railyard, and the state's highest per-capita number of registered sex offenders. It is a place where residents proudly display Cornhusker-themed mailboxes in front of their homes on Cornhusker Drive and Cornhusker Circle, and where well-off people enthusiastically line up at 6 a.m. for garage sales. The saddest thing I saw while I was there was a group of shoeless kids standing outside a minivan near the entrance to Wal-Mart in 100-degree heat, holding up a beat-up cardboard sign that said, "Chihuahua for sale." Mind you -- not a litter. They were selling the family dog. What the....?
It is also a place where irony -- and sarcasm, snark, and cynicism -- doth not thrive. I realized that as we drove through town and I hooted and hollered and took pictures of the Bill Cody wares and signs reading "RV Dump This Way"
We arrived late at my in-law's house in North Platte so I didn't get a chance to look around their home much. The next morning when I awoke, the first thing I noticed when I stumbled out of the guest bedroom -- located near the front door -- was this statuette of a princess and her unicorn. It appears the princess is saying "Don't GO THERE!" to her unicorn, and I wondered why this stuatuette of a princess telling off her mythological pet was given such prime placement on the entrance table in their foyer.
Further inspection of the house soon revealed the answer: my sister's mother in law -- a woman well into her 50s -- COLLECTS UNICORN STATUETTES. They were everywhere.
Now, my sister's mother in law is a perfectly nice lady. We don't have a ton in common, since her interests apparently lean toward amassing glass and porcelain objects shaped like mythical woodland creatures, but she's nice. I have no quibble with her.
But the statues made me wonder: Why don't *I* collect unicorns? After all, I grew up just a few hundred miles from this woman, and I suspect that collection of porcelain statues is somewhat standard among folks from that area and generation -- be it unicorns or Precious Moments or what have you.
Do I not collect unicorns because I fled the Midwest at the first opportunity, embraced New York and my Gawker-loving peers with both arms and drank deep from the rivers of irony and sarcasm that infuse our local water supply? Do people like me -- the non-unicorn collectors -- need to leave places like the Midwest so we can NOT collect unicorns and still feel normal? Do non-unicorn-collectors gravitate toward big cities?
Or, if I had stayed in the Midwest like a good little girl, married my college sweetheard and ended up in a farmhouse near Giltner, Nebraska, would I too collect unicorns? Would I join the Unicorn Collectors' Club and watch QVC?
For this, I have no answer.
posted by Had To Move at 11:41 AM
0 comments
Tuesday, August 01, 2006
Not Just an Idiot. A CERTIFIED Idiot.
So last month when my car blew up in New Jersey, I figured the one small upside to this development was that I would no longer have to pay a king's ransom in liability insurance every year. I was shelling out around $1500 a year for a car that wasn't even worth a grand, for a car that I used maybe once a month for anything substantial. Financial idiocy, I'm aware, but freedom is precious, man.
Today I called Geico to cancel my policy and they informed me I couldn't stop paying my insurance until I surrendered my plates to the New York DMV. This poses something of a problem since my plates are currently still attached to the car, which sits somewhere in a junkyard in rural New Jersey with Bubba, although I can't for the life of me remember where, since I think my memory chose to blot out most of the details of this painful day. Bubba probably knew that I needed to take the plates off, and failed to inform me, which probably has something to do with the fact that he knew he was ripping me off by taking the car "off my hands." I feel secure in the knowledge that he raped and pillaged it for my brand-new $1100 a/c compressor shortly after I rolled away in a rental car. But that's a whole 'nother story about my own stupidity.
ANYWAY, apparently it's common knowledge that you're supposed to take your plates with you, although I guess I missed that class in Remedial Life Lessons 101 -- I was probably out on a stolen hall pass, or something. Since I have no plates, I have to bring a notary-signed letter to the DMV explaining just how I could be so stupid as to not have retained my license plates. The letter goes something like this:
"Dear DMV. Please don't be mean to me. My insurance is expensive and I don't want to pay it anymore. I am stupid, so stupid. I know I should have known that you take your plates with you, and I think I even left all the paperwork in the car! Oh merciful DMV, please let your cheerful employees smile upon me today with a substitute receipt for my nonexistent plates. I promise pretty please promise the car isn't on the road anymore, although Bubba is probably currently enjoying my brand-new a/c compressor in one of his other vehicles. If you make me track down the plates I don't know what I'll do, because I'm the world's biggest idiot."
Then I have the notary stamp it -- making me not just an idiot, but a certified one.
(Post on Unicorns and irony still forthcoming.)
Today I called Geico to cancel my policy and they informed me I couldn't stop paying my insurance until I surrendered my plates to the New York DMV. This poses something of a problem since my plates are currently still attached to the car, which sits somewhere in a junkyard in rural New Jersey with Bubba, although I can't for the life of me remember where, since I think my memory chose to blot out most of the details of this painful day. Bubba probably knew that I needed to take the plates off, and failed to inform me, which probably has something to do with the fact that he knew he was ripping me off by taking the car "off my hands." I feel secure in the knowledge that he raped and pillaged it for my brand-new $1100 a/c compressor shortly after I rolled away in a rental car. But that's a whole 'nother story about my own stupidity.
ANYWAY, apparently it's common knowledge that you're supposed to take your plates with you, although I guess I missed that class in Remedial Life Lessons 101 -- I was probably out on a stolen hall pass, or something. Since I have no plates, I have to bring a notary-signed letter to the DMV explaining just how I could be so stupid as to not have retained my license plates. The letter goes something like this:
"Dear DMV. Please don't be mean to me. My insurance is expensive and I don't want to pay it anymore. I am stupid, so stupid. I know I should have known that you take your plates with you, and I think I even left all the paperwork in the car! Oh merciful DMV, please let your cheerful employees smile upon me today with a substitute receipt for my nonexistent plates. I promise pretty please promise the car isn't on the road anymore, although Bubba is probably currently enjoying my brand-new a/c compressor in one of his other vehicles. If you make me track down the plates I don't know what I'll do, because I'm the world's biggest idiot."
Then I have the notary stamp it -- making me not just an idiot, but a certified one.
(Post on Unicorns and irony still forthcoming.)
posted by Had To Move at 5:20 PM
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