Bookgirl Strikes Again

New Blog

2009-12-02T18:42:00.002-05:00

So I'm not ready to declare this blog dead yet, not by a long shot. It's so pretty... and pink... and ME. But for now, at least, I've got, if not a new home, at least a pied a terre over at If You Belonged Here.

There are seven of us writing on a rotating basis, and well, I'm loving being part of it. I'm posting weekly over there for the time being. Check us out!

25 Things

2008-12-10T18:26:00.004-05:00

Those of you who share my Facebook obsession will have seen this, since that's where I got it, but I had so much fun writing it I decided to share anyway. And hey--who am I kidding--easy blog entry to ease me back into writing.

Rules: Once you’ve been tagged, you are supposed to write a note with 25 random things, facts, habits, or goals about you. At the end, choose 25 people to be tagged . You have to tag the person who tagged you. If I tagged you, it’s because I want to know more about you.

1. I can do algebra in my head, and on long car drives by myself I make up equations: If I’ve gone x miles in 45 minutes, how many miles should I have gone by this time? My high school math teacher Mrs. Dubois would be proud.

2. The Lord & Taylor on 5th Ave in Manhattan is my happy place, and can fix almost any problem in my life. Dealing with a breakup? Visit the shoe department. Need a last-minute dress for a wedding? They’ve got me covered. Add in the beautiful architecture, and the gorgeous window displays, and the cathedral ceilings, and well, it’s just about perfect.

3. On my list of things I want to buy but keep convincing myself are unnecessary expenditures are laser hair removal, a GPS for my car, and a new living room carpet. I still have the hand-me-down braided rug my sister gave me when I moved to New York, and it’s hideous.

4. My high school guidance counselor changed my life. She knew my family couldn’t afford college, so she told me about Hofstra, and that they gave academic-based scholarships pretty liberally. I got a full scholarship and a room for all four years, majored in the only undergraduate publishing program in the country, pledged a sorority, and fell in love with New York. The rest, as they say, is history.

5. My first concert was Tiffany, with New Kids on the Block opening for her. I had never heard of them, and when they came on stage I was surprised, because I thought they were Black. I never did get on board with the New Kids obsession.

6. I had all sorts of existential angst about whether there really was more than one path to happiness, and whether I could be happy without kids, and whether I’d regret not having them if I didn’t, and then my goddaughter was born. And none of that crap mattered anymore.

7. I feel like I need to defend my decision to remain Catholic, because I think educated people think it makes me either less smart than they are, or sheep.

8. I hate moving, and therefore have lived in exactly 3 places my whole life: my parents’ house, Hofstra University dorms, and my current apartment. My kitchen has a bug problem in the summer months, but the apartment is huge and rent-stabilized and it will pretty much take dynamite to get me to give it up.

9. My oldest sister and I are nineteen years apart, and I became an aunt at 4 and a great-aunt at 33. When my niece got engaged, people kept making comments about my niece being married before I was like they felt bad for me. I was fine with it. I thought they were weird.

10. I love Christmas. The music, the decorations, the gift-giving, the parties. Just love everything about it. One of my friends calls me Chrissy Christmas around this time of year.

11. I’m a member of MENSA. So when I do something funny or stupid or silly and say “I’m kind of a genius,” I actually am.

12. I have a lifelong soft spot for anyone I’ve ever been close to. I’m always happy to hear from ex-boyfriends, I still wonder what ever happened to my best friend from third grade, and it took me somewhere in the vicinity of a decade to get over my first love. I still occasionally dream about a high school friend I lost touch with.

13. I still consider Boys Don’t Cry by The Cure to be my all-time favorite song, with Candy by Iggy Pop and Kate Peirson a close second.

14. The coolest publishing experience I’ve ever had was for the Steinbeck anniversary, when I got to hang out with his son and hear him talk about his dad, how he used to live in my neighborhood, which of his books was his favorite. Arthur Miller and Studs Terkel were there too. It defies words.

15. I have an almost pathological fear of sharks, and will only swim in the ocean if one person stays out deeper than me at all times as bait. I will explain to them, with no embarrassment, exactly why they must stay out deeper. Despite this, I once snorkeled in a shark tank, because the only thing worse for me than being afraid is letting that fear stop me.

16. My first job was doing take-out and bussing tables at a Chinese restaurant. I hated every second of it.

17. I truly don’t understand why anyone who’s not a millionaire and has any interest in social justice would vote Republican. I try to respect others’ views, but I just can’t.

18. I have more than 500 people in my Blackberry contacts. I kind of collect friends.

19. I didn’t hate high school. Those were far from my glory days, and there’s not enough money in the world to make me go through all that teen angst or live under my dad’s thumb again, but mostly I remember it being a fun time.

20. I love coffee. Way too much. I usually limit myself to one cup a day, but every time I pass a Starbucks, I spend a little bit of energy convincing myself I don’t need to go in. Even at inappropriate times like 10 pm.

21. One of my sisters had a falling out with the rest of them, and my family hasn’t all been in the same place in 8 years. It breaks my heart.

22. My friends are breeders. Between my biological nieces and nephews, and the children of just my very closest friends, I have 21 nieces and nephews, with another on the way. The amount of Christmas wrapping I do is insane.

23. When I moved to New York, I had my first publishing job but no permanent place to live, only $200 in my bank account, and brought only the essentials I could fit into my parents’ borrowed Chevy—clothes, shoes, books, a stereo, and CDs. Eleven years later I still haven’t decided if that was incredibly brave or incredibly stupid.

24. I got my belly button pierced on the dock outside Fat Tuesdays in Cancun after a Tequila booze cruise during spring break senior year. I didn’t have enough money with me, so a Merchant Marine paid for it. I decided that since it was an American doing the piercing and I saw her open the needle, it was okay.

25. I have my dream job. I’m a marketing manager for a major book publisher. Sometimes I get antsy or start thinking about leaving the industry for more money. But then I remember that there’s nothing in the world I want to do more than what I do.

The Girl Is Back

2008-09-18T19:00:00.005-04:00

So I heard the word is on the street that I've been missing. Evidently, a girl disappears for 2 months without calling, emailing, or blogging, and people begin to worry. Sheesh. Some people are so oversensitive...

For those of you who have asked, no, nothing's wrong. As a matter of fact things are fabulous. Fabulouser than they've been in a very long time. But if I make up a story about grave illness and personal tragedy, will that make you less mad at me? Because I'm not above that.

For now, though, I'll bribe you with pictures. I scored not just one but TWO yummy new nieces this summer. Comet, one of my closest friends/sorority sisters gave birth to little Miss Catie, who not only is adorable but is also the first baby in my New York crew. The first baby within drop-by distance?? Can you say spoiled??? The fact that she's gorgeous and the sweetest, happiest baby ever just clinched the deal.

And my niece had her baby a couple of weeks ago, and named her Abigail Muriel, after my mother. (Mrs. Bookgirl's name is Muriel). So she had the first baby in our family in 13 years, the first girl in 29 years, and named her after my mom. As my sister Michelle put it, she has won so many points with my mother that no one will ever catch up. The race for favorite is over...

And just in case all that yummy girl-baby-ness is somehow not enough to melt your cold, cold hearts and you're still mad, I'm throwing in a bonus picture. Ella took this delightful self-portrait. Yes, that's my goddaughter. Sarah had no way of knowing what an apt pairing that would turn out to be...

Ouch

2008-07-12T23:48:00.003-04:00

Maybe Baby wrote a blog about stupid injuries and asked people to write in with their own stories. Now, as you all know, I am the clumsiest person on earth. But while my embarrassing injuries are too numerous to count, one stands out above the others. I was originally going to just email him the story, but I realized I never shared it with all of you. And you know how I love offering up my personal humiliation for your amusement.

About 5 years ago, before Polly Poppins had Secret Lulu, she decided that before she had kids of her own she wanted to be a good godmother and take her six-year-old goddaughter to Disney World. Mr. Poppins, having a highly developed sense of self-preservation, wanted no part of that. She was on her own. So she convinced me that I should take my godson Jeremy, who was eight at the time, and we'd make a trip out of it. Okay, so it actually took no convincing. My sister Michelle didn't have grandkids yet, so she was still putting up stiff competition for the "cool aunt" title, and I had something to prove. Also, I have a deep-seated love for Epcot that completely baffles Polly. But that's another story.

The time came for the trip, we both headed back to Rhode Island to pick up the kids (who, by the way, had only one thing in common: they were both notoriously difficult) and we were on our way. Through the combined efforts of flight delays and really bad directions that got us hopelessly lost, we didn't make it to the hotel until 2 in the morning. So the next morning, we're rarin' to go. All we've seen of Orlando is the rental car, that same tollboth we accidentally went through four times, and our hotel rooms. We've got a full day at the Magic Kingdom ahead of us.

And that's when it happened. I had just gotten out of the shower, and I was putting on sunscreen in the bathroom. Now, until this point, I had always thought that my body was incapable of doing a split. But it turns out that's not entirely true. See, if my legs start to slide in opposite directions on the bathroom floor, and my hands are slippery so I can't grab onto the counter, it turns out that I can go all the way down into a full straddle. It's not a good idea, mind you, and there were noises that can only be described as popping and tearing, but it's possible. I know it sounds terrible, but believe me when I tell you that the pain was far, far worse than it sounds. Even now, I get queasy just thinking about it.

So now I'm sprawled on the bathroom floor, completely naked, in excruciating pain, and I can't get up. I'm stuck there. I can just reach a hand towel, which I use to cover my juicy bits, and I yell for Jeremy to "go get Polly. Tell her it's very important that she come immediately." She, thank God, had the foresight to get us adjoining rooms. So Polly comes to check on me, but she can only open the door a couple of inches, because it's bumping up against the top of my head. And oh, right, I can't move. I explain what happened, and Polly, ever the pragmatist, tells me, "Look, here's the deal. Normally I would call an ambulance. But since you're naked, I'm going to let you make that call..."

I blessedly have blocked out the details on exactly how we got me off the floor, but I do remember Polly putting my underwear on for me the first few days of the trip. I could only lift my feet, when sitting, about an inch and a half off the floor, and only one at a time, so she had to hook the underwear around my feet, and then, since I couldn't bend, pull them up above my knees so I could reach them to pull them the rest of the way up. Jeremy had to put on my socks and shoes for me, because my feet were so out of reach they may as well have been in another zip code. With the help of a heavy-duty prescription painkiller Polly just so happened to have in her bag, and enough Tylenol Arthritis Relief to cause permanent liver damage, I managed to make it to Disney that day. But it wasn't pretty. And well, let's just say Polly and Jeremy were kind enough to take turns pushing the wheelchair...

I had to move so slowly that a full week later, after I was back in New York, I was heading to the subway one morning and an old woman with a cane, I kid you not, cruised right past me. Injury, here's insult. Nice to meet you.

Immortals After Dark

2008-06-02T17:49:00.011-04:00

The kindest thing a person can do for me is this:
Write a book. Write it well. Give it a setting that's so fully formed and well-described that I can picture it. People it with characters who are witty and interesting, who make me feel their pain and laugh at their jokes. Make me want more. Enthrall me so that when I get to the end I'm sad that it's over. Then turn that book into a series, so I can keep coming back and visiting. So I can't wait for the next book.

That's the kindest thing a person can do for me. And it's why the Immortals After Dark series has made Kresley Cole my new best friend, even though we've never met.

It all started out with Playing Easy to Get. I picked the book up because it had a novella by Sherrilyn Kenyon, whose Bureau of American Defense series I had recently discovered. (Bad-ass crimefighters kick terrorist ass as part of a secret governemnt agency. In between they have really hot sex. A concept made in Bookgirl heaven.) And there, at the end of that collection, was "The Warlord Wants Forever," a novella about Myst, a Valkyrie (an immortal born of a female warrior who dies in battle), who falls in love with Nikolai, a vampire. She had me at hello. The stories are set in the Lore, a world where "creatures that are not human [are] united... coexisting with, yet secret from, man." Brilliant, laugh-out-loud funny dialogue; great battle scenes; even better bedroom scenes. Imagine my joy when I found out there was already a full-length novel in the works.

Cue A Hunger Like No Other. Our heroine Emmaline, half-Valkyrie, half vampire, falls in love with Lachlan, a Lykae (a type of werewolf), even though vampires and werewolves are sworn enemies. As one character puts it, "Vampires, Valyrie, and Lykae, oh my--the fucking monster mash." (Two years later, and that line still makes me bitterly jealous I didn't write it.

Next came No Rest for the Wicked. This time our heroine is another Valkyrie, Kaderin, who's part of what can best be described as The Amazing Race for immortals, where everyone from witches to sirens to "killer gnomes" battles it out across the world on a giant scavenger hunt. Along the way, of course, she falls in love with Nikolai's brother Sebastian, also a vampire. (Which means we get to visit our friends Myst and Nikolai from the first book. Hurrah!)

Then Wicked Deeds on a Winter's Night. Bowen (part of the same clan of werewolves as Lachlan) falls in love with Mari, a witch "from the shady New Orleans coven, the slacker Animal House of witches." The story is so good that I don't even mind not having a Valkyrie as a heroine for the first time.

Next came Dark Needs at Night's Edge. Conrad, the third vampire brother, falls in love with Neomi, a ghost. I find myself hoping maybe the remaining fourth brother will fall in love with me. I realize I've officially lost my mind. And maybe I'm getting a little too into these books...

And now, just out, Dark Desires After Dusk. I haven't read it yet, because I decided I wanted to savor instead of gulp, so I'm rereading the series leading up to the new one. The only series I've ever done that with is Harry Potter. Yes, they're that good.

I demand a lot of my books. I like them smart and funny, entertaining and well-written. I want to curl up and lose myself in the story, and forget everything going on around me. When I find one book that hits the mark, it's exciting. When I find a whole series, well that's about as good as it gets.

Name Game

2008-05-09T14:47:00.003-04:00

I know you've been waiting patiently for a new blog. And since it's taken me so long to post, you were expecting something insightful and fabulous. This isn't it...

You know how much I love silly names. And I found this on Big Girl Underoos, a blog I recently discovered courtesy of Polly. She has a great voice, and "put on your big girl pants and deal with it" is an expression I use all the time. So I'm already a fan. Also, she uses the same blog template I do, so she must have fabulous taste.

I had to use Book Girl for my first and last name, since the ones involving combining names had way too many consonants with my real name, rendering them unpronouncable and no fun at all. And you know what they say--If Bookgirl aint't happy, ain't nobody happy.

Okay, no one says that. But they should...

1. WITNESS PROTECTION NAME: (Mother and Father's middle name): Therese Joseph
(no, my family's not Catholic or anything...)

2. NASCAR NAME: (first name of your mother's dad, father's dad): William Wilfred (that sounds more like an actor than a driver)

3. STAR WARS NAME: (the first 3 letters of your last name, first 2 letters of your first name): Girbo

4. DETECTIVE NAME: (favorite color, favorite animal): Red Panda

5. SOAP OPERA NAME: (middle name, city where you were born): Ann Providence

6. SUPERHERO NAME: (2nd fave color, fave drink, add "THE" to the beginning): The Pink Margarita (what would my super powers be??)

7. FLY NAME: (first 2 letters of 1st name, last 3 letters of your last name): Boirl

8. ROCK STAR NAME: (current pet's name, current street name): None 35 (That could totally be a band)

9. STRIPPER NAME: (name of your fave perfume/cologne, fave candy): Allure Truffle

10. PORN NAME: (1st pet's name, street you grew up on): Goldie Bernon (but you've all heard that one before)

Wow Me

2008-04-24T20:16:00.008-04:00

We’re taking a break from our normal programming. This blog is usually the Bookgirl Channel (all me, all the time), but some of my peoples are doing some pretty amazing things right now. And they’re just too cool not to share.

You know how every so often someone in your life wows you? Just pulls something out of their bag of tricks that you had no idea they had in there? Well, my friend Chris did that this week.

Chris and I have been friends since we were teenagers. (Or, at least I was. I can never remember what our age difference is.) I was a freshman in high school, and he was going to Northeastern. He was home on break and came to a CYO meeting at our church. I remember thinking he was an "older man" and very cool. And cute. We've been friends ever since.

Chris is from another one of those huge, multi-generational, 8-million cousins, French-Canadian families from Woonsocket. I grew up next door to one set of his cousins and a few blocks from another set. His sister-in-law is my sister's best friend. Our moms were in the Ladies' Guild together. We have the same first name. We were pretty much destined to be friends.

Since he was living in Boston when we met, and I moved to New York the fall after I graduated high school, we've really never lived in the same state for more than a summer at a time. But we always had a blast when we were together. He's the one who taught me about football and started my obsession with the Patriots. And even though we never dated, I'm not sure my mother ever entirely got over the fact that I didn't end up marrying him.

He got married a couple of years ago (sorry, mom) to a woman I really like, and they're expecting their first baby in a few weeks.
And this is where we get back to him wowing me. Because he sent me pictures of the nursery he painted for their baby.
My first impulse was, "Oh, wow." My second was pure jealousy that he could do something like that.

My third was back to "Oh, wow."

That's one seriously lucky baby.

And his wife didn't do too badly for herself either...

Springtime in New York

2008-04-21T20:21:00.008-04:00

Maybe it's arrogant, but I can't help it. It happens every year. Spring makes me feel bad for anyone who doesn't live in New York. Right now, the city is at its absolute best. It's gorgeous out, the weather is perfect, the flowers are in bloom.

And I know some of you (Polly) will brag that you always have nice weather, but I truly believe that this is still better. Because we appreciate it more. After another long, cold, snowy winter (okay, not so snowy this year, but whatever), we have EARNED the spring. We're all so grateful for the warmth and the sun that everyone's a little nicer, a little happier, a little more alive.

I wanted to be outside on Saturday, but didn't want to have to go somewhere (Oh, how I wish I had a backyard), so I got my first pedicure of the season, threw on some flip flops, and just wandered around my neighborhood like a homeless person. I walked aimlessly, stopping into stores where I didn't buy anything, window shopped. It was lovely.

I've already had my first margarita at the restuarant with the best outdoor seating. (When in doubt, if it's between the months of April and October and you can't find me, check there.) And today, I got to wear the favorite of all Bookgirl wardrobe items--open-toed shoes. Sigh. My little toesies were so happy to be free again. It's good to be me this week, my friends. Very, very good to be me.

p.s. Liz, I know how happy the view from my office makes you, so I took the photo from a different angle today so you could see a little of Times Square. Who loves ya, baby?

p.p.s. I know there hasn't been a Weight Watchers update in months, but that's because the numbers were going in the wrong direction. Not exactly brag-worthy. But I weighed in today for the first time in a couple of weeks and lost 4.8 pounds. Did I mention how much I love spring?!?!?

At the Disco

2008-04-12T10:08:00.006-04:00

I don't have memories of playing with my sisters when we were kids the way other people do with their siblings, mainly because we weren't kids at the same time. My oldest sister started college when I was a few months old, and the next two were married and out of the house by the time I was six. Even Countrygirl, who's the next one up, got married when I was in the 8th grade. But don't feel bad for me just yet. Because I had my cousins.

Okay, follow this if you can. My mom's sister Simone is only 2 years younger than she is, and my grandmother's rule was that they weren't allowed to go anywhere the other wasn't invited. So they were pretty much inseperable.

My dad has a cousin a year older than him, and while my dad grew up in a house full of kids, Marcel was an only child, so the two of them were best friends. They were pretty much inseperable.

My parents grew up, met, fell in love, and got married. But Marcel was away with the navy at the time of the wedding and couldn't get leave, and someone else had to stand in as best man, so Marcel and Simone didn't meet. At the wedding, Marcel's mother kept telling Simone how perfect she would be for her son. Simone jokingly began referring to her as her mother-in-law. Hilarity all around. So imagine her surprise much later when a boy she meets at a dance brings her home to meet his parents, and she finds... you guessed it. My great-aunt. Yes, my mother's sister and my dad's cousin met independently of them, fell in love, and got married two years after my parents. The couples were pretty much inseperable.

My parents started having kids right away, and had 3 in five years. Simone and Marcel, much to their unhappiness, weren't able to have kids of their own. So Simone set out to be the most fun aunt EVER. It's from her that I learned so many of my cool aunt tricks. She's also the woman who used to encourage my sisters, when one of them wanted to do something my mom wouldn't allow, to "Cry. Cry and maybe she'll let you." Yeah, I'll bet that won big points with mom.

But wait. There's more. My mom took 6 years off from having kids (I'm sure her uterus thanked her), and then had Countrygirl. You can imagine everyone's surprise when after all those years of trying, Simone got pregnant at the same time. They had daughters 4 months apart. The 2 families were... say it with me now... pretty much inseperable. Fast forward eight years to the blessed event that was the unplanned birth of me. (My mommy says I wasn't an accident, just a pleasant surprise. She thought I was the beginning of menopause. Surprise!!) A year later to the month, 9 years after her first child, my aunt had Missy. So now you've got best friends marrying best friends, 2 sets of matching daughters (distinguished as the "big girls" and "little girls") and 2 families that were pretty much inseperable. We did everything together--holidays, weekends, vacations... we bought campers, parked them near one another at the same campground, and spent all summer together every summer until we were grown. Along the way my aunt and uncle adopted Missy's best friend Christina, who was 5 months younger than Missy, and that was it.

Pretty much every memory I have from childhood involves the two of them. We rode bikes and swam and rollerskated. We played house and school. We spied on the big girls. But my favorite game, the one I remember most vividly, was Disco. They had a long living room the entire width of their house, and on weekend nights it was ours to play in while the grown-ups sat in the dining room, chatting, the men playing cards. We'd shut off the lights, and that room was transformed. We were grown-up sisters, very sophisticated and beautiful, and we owned the coolest disco in town. (Yes, I know I'm dating myself. But this was the early 80s. It wasn't a club. It was a disco.) We would go early to set up, and bring our kids with us. Our Cabbage Patch kids would be lined up on the couch, and our imaginary older kids would play on their own. (I always had like seven of them...) But that was just for set-up. Because when it was time for the disco to open, our husbands would come get the kids to take them home and watch them, and we would work the disco. I'm so proud of our little liberated selves, I could just burst. How many little girls' fantasies involved being working mothers with stay-at-home dads??

Our disco played one album, and one album only. REO Speedwagon's Hi Infidelity on vinyl, borrowed from the girls' older sister.

To this day, that album still makes my all-time list of "If I were stranded on a desert island" CDs. And either Keep on Loving You or Take it On the Run would make my all-time favorite songs list, but which one depends on the day. Missy and Christina even had a whole dance rountine worked out to Follow My Heart. And make no mistake. Our disco was the place to be, and the floor was packed with dancers, but those imaginary party-goers cleared the floor to watch the girls strut their stuff.

Grandma, What Big Needles You Have

2008-04-09T21:06:00.006-04:00

Since the fall, I've been seeing a chiropractor for lower back pain. It got better for a while, and then much, much worse, and nothing he did was making a difference. So my doctor decided to pull out the big guns (or needles, as the case may be.) He sent me for acupuncture.

Last week was my first appointment. Since the pain is in my extreme lower back, the doctor had me take off my pants and cover with a towel, kind of like when you go for a massage. Now, in his defense, before he had me take them off, he asked if I was wearing underwear. And I said yes. But what I was really thinking was "sorta." (Yes, it's another blog about my underwear. Deal with it.) As previously mentioned, my underwear don't have a lot of "there" there.

So he did his thing with the needles, and it was all good. But then he had me move over onto my back for stretches. And this, my friends, is where the situation got awkward. See, in addition to being essentially a triangle of fabric and some string, my underwear are also older than Ella. So the elastic situation, it's not what it used to be. The days when they stayed put without any wiggle room are only a memory. This man who I've just met has my legs up in the air, flexing and stretching them. And all I can think is "you SO better be looking at my face." I believe in some cultures, this might mean we're engaged. But just in case we're not, I dug up some underwear with more coverage for tomorrow's appointment...

p.s. I finally did laundry, and got to try out the new underwear, and they're lovely. Thanks for asking.

p.p.s. My sister Michelle, who was P.J.'s mom, decided she was ready for a new puppy. She's picking him up this weekend. I'm totally in love.

Why I Love My Job

2008-04-04T14:31:00.003-04:00

I know we all get bogged down sometimes in what we don't like about our jobs, but I love the little reminders of what's great about mine.

Overheard this morning
A woman having a conversation with her (very high-ranking) boss:
Boss: Just how drunk were you last night?
Girl: My eyeballs hurt.

Overheard at the copy machine:
Motherfucker!!!!! (Screamed at the top of someone's lungs)
Is this normal behavior at other people's offices?

When bad spellcheck happens to good people:
I was reading a manuscript this week for an erotica collection. (Yes, I work on smut) and throughout one whole story, a certain piece of female anatomy was referred to as the colitis. In that same story, the heroine also had a virginia. That's not going to stop being funny for me any time this decade.

Not work-related, but still funny:
I was talking to my sister this morning, telling her that I'm going to a Mensa event on Sunday. There's a social group for us twenty- and thirty-somethings, and we're going to the movies.
Den: Will there be a discussion after, or just the film?
Me: We're going to dinner after, but it's not like we're seeing Apocalypse Now. It's Leatherheads.
Insert her laughing to the point where she can't speak.
Everyone really does think we sit around at Mensa events and talk about Quantum Physics or Philosophy, don't they? Sigh...

Be a Dancer

2008-04-01T17:18:00.005-04:00

The world is made up of dancers and critics, and I'm more committed than ever to being one of the dancers.

See, I just got back from this weekend workshop. Or training. Or class. Or retreat, depending on who I was talking to and what I felt like calling it. But it was a life-changing, eye-opening, kick-in-the-ass, make-me-look-at-the-whole-world differently experience.

The weekend was designed, among other things,to help me figure out what it is that I really, in my heart, want most out of life. And just a hint? Me, little miss I live in my office, my job is my whole world? It turns out that having my career be my whole life isn't it. Surprise!

Midge did the Momentum training last year, and has been trying to convince me to do it ever since. My response, of course, was something along the lines of "not so much." But in February, when I was in that funk and felt like I was drowning, she tried once more. And I grabbed on like someone had thrown me a life raft. A month later, when it came time to actually go, however, it was a totally different story. She kept emailing me to ask if I was excited. I ignored her emails. Because seriously, how was this something to be excited about?? Finally she called me the day my training was set to start, and I couldn't avoid the question anymore. No, I was not excited. What I really was was nauseated. What if I hated it? What if it was stupid? What if I didn't like the other people? What if they didn't like me? What if? What if? What if?

I was wrong. She was right. There, I'm saying it. In print even. Because I am not the same person I was when I walked in that door on Thursday. I learned about how I feel, how I look at the world. I made new friends, I made peace with with crap I've been carrying for a decade. I opened up and let go and learned about myself. And more important than anything else, I came face to face with the way I treat other people, and how very differently I treat myself. It seems that just about the only person in my life who didn't think I was fabulous was me. Yeah, I'm working on that...

Unmentionables

2008-03-25T17:56:00.000-04:00

I've got a problem. A personal problem. An underwear problem.

See, my approach to underclothes can be best summed up as "If it ain't broke, don't fix it." This is going to sound way more like Polly Poppins than what you would expect from me, but I channel her every once in a while.

With few exceptions, I own one style of bra, one style of underwear, and 2 styles of socks. Period. My bras are all the same style, except in different colors and patterns. Some have lace. Ditto for the underwear.

(For the record, those aren't my boobs. That's an underwear model who happens to be wearing my most recent bra purchase.)

My work socks are all from the same store. They each have a little picture embroidered on the ankle. Do I want leopard-print purses today? High-heeled shoes? No one else can see the embroidery, but they make me happy. My gym socks are from the same store. (Oh, and p.s. The store is in Connecticut. Nowhere near where I live.) They're white, with different embroidered patterns. (Flip flops? Beach chairs?)

When the underwire pops on a bra or the socks get a hole, I throw them out, go back to the same store, and buy more. They're always comfortable, they're always what I want. No muss, no fuss, no thinking about it. I like it that way.

But lately I've had what could only adequately be described as an underwear meltdown. See, the store where I buy them stopped making my style. So I stopped getting new ones. I've had the same undies for years. I don't put them in the dryer, so they've held up. Until now. I noticed a few weeks ago that a pair had a hole. So I threw them out. Then I threw out another pair the week before last. And two more last week. It seems if you buy your underwear all at the same time, they wear out all at the same time. Crap.

Now, I know it sounds easy. Just find a new brand. But see, that's not as simple as it sounds:
First of all, I'm plus-sized. Clothes shopping in general is never easy for me. Think of all the stores where you normally shop. Now imagine that out of all those places, only one carries your size. Maybe two if you're lucky. And those places, well, their selection can be dismal. I'm under 60, so that rules out about 75% of everything that comes in my size.
Second, they must be cotton. I am unwilling to negotiate on this point.
Third, and I know this is a shocker, I'm a little particular about my underwear. They should not come up to my bra. I cannot emphasize that point enough. (See earlier "I'm under 60" comment). I should not feel like I'm wearing my bathing suit under my clothes. Panty lines are not sexy. I cannot feel pretty in underwear I can imagine my mother wearing. If there's anyone from the lingerie world reading this, here is what I want you to take away from this blog: "Chubby girls need thongs too."

So I went shopping yesterday, and I found one store that had what I was looking for--the elusive plus-sized, 100% cotton thong. They had just gotten them in, so I bought everything they had in my size. (I really hate doing laundry.) If they fit well, I'll go back and buy more. But I'm seriously concerned I might be heading for a Rain Man-esque "Definitely not my underwear" freakout until I get used to them. I hate when that happens....

Shoe Slut

2008-03-19T12:39:00.002-04:00

These shoes were part of my "new job" purchases when I started this job. Not because I needed new shoes for work, but because my default reaction to any situation in which I get a new job or a promotion is "buy shoes." Of course that's also my reaction to happy news, sad news, a bonus, and my tax return. But that's another story.

Now, I know what you're wondering. "How many pairs of pink shoes can one girl own?" and "Are those even comfortable?" And the answer is more pairs than I'm comfortable admitting to publicly. And no, not even a little bit. They hurt like a bitch, almost to the point of tears. I can only wear them to work, and even then sometimes not the whole day. But as long as I don't limp, I sure do look cute.

Iraq

2008-03-18T17:59:00.001-04:00

I'm warning you all up front. I'm writing this blog from my soapbox.

I went to mass Sunday morning (sadly, yes, my attendance is sporadic enough that it's worth mention). There's a point in the mass where the congregation present their petitions to God. The lector reads aloud a list of specific causes or requests, and after each one everyone responds with "Lord, hear our prayer." One of the petitions they've been doing every Sunday for, sadly, years now is a special prayer for the servicewomen and men of our parish who are fighting in Iraq.

I've talked about my neighborhood here before. It's in the midst of being gentrified, but Jackson Heights is primarily a working-class to lower-middle-class neighborhood, mostly families, largely immigrants. And my church has eleven soldiers in Iraq right now. ELEVEN. The first time I heard the list, I thought "It's lovely that they do that." And then the list just went on and on.

I'm going to go out on a limb here and guess that there's not one church in any wealthy suburb in America that has eleven kids fighting in Iraq. That when our politicians go back to their posh homes in their tony neighborhoods, their neighbors are not the ones getting shipped off and shot at.

The idea that we're fighting a war that's seemingly without end, that we entered under false pretenses, makes me sick. The fact that men and women are dying every day makes me sick. The fact that there's such a complete disconnect between the people calling the shots and those paying the consequences makes me sick.

One of my cousins spent some time in Iraq, and while he was one of the soldiers who was lucky enough to come home, he'll never be the same again. We're hoping that some day he'll be okay. And even that feels like a stretch right now. We've never been close, but I wrote to him while he was over there. And the letters he wrote back were haunting and horrific. I support our troops completely. But I support bringing them home. This mess is our burden, our resposibility, and our shame. And I'm ashamed.

You Say It's Your Birthday

2008-03-07T18:53:00.000-05:00

Yes, it's true. I turned 33 last weekend. Polly keeps telling me that it officially makes me a grown-up hobbit. But I like to refer to it as my "Jesus year." (For those of you not versed in Christian history, the Bible says Jesus was 33 when he was crucified.) I can never come close when it comes to influence or importance. But I am hoping my year ends better than his did. Execution for a crime I didn't commit is so not on my to-do list.

That said, I had a fabulous birthday. I stopped at the bookstore on my way home from work on Friday and bought myself some purely indulgent, mindless reads. And then I spent most of the weekend reading like it was my job. I made it through two and a half books by the time I went back to work on Monday. One of them was poking out of my bag on Saturday (Bookgirl fashion rule #22: when taking the subway by yourself on your way to a night out, always carry the sequined purse that's big enough to hold a paperback) and my friend Mary asked me, "Is that one of your trashy romance novels?" My response? "Even better. Vampire romance."

I was showered with attention all day: phone calls and singing and emails and texts and one very special "Happy Birfday" message from the girl. A small group of my closest friends took me out to dinner for my birthday, and I was reminded all over again of why they're my best friends. One of the boys nonchalantly text messaged me from the other side of the table during dinner. The message said "You look adorable." I'm pretty positive there were hearts coming out of my eyes like Pepe le Peu in those old cartoons. I swear I'd fight his boyfriend for him if I thought I could win.

And let's not forget the Venti skim toffee nut latte from Starbucks. Oh, the latte. See, every year for Lent I give up the same thing--chocolate. It's the hardest thing I can give up and still stick to. (One year I gave up potatoes AND pasta, and chocolate was still tougher.) But since I've been giving up chocolate since junior high, I started giving something else up along with it. This year it was lattes. I couldn't give up coffee entirely, because that just wasn't fair to the people who have to be around me every day. (To my coworkers, you're welcome.) For me, lattes are the good stuff. Coffee is just utilitarian.

After Lent began, a Starbucks opened up in my neighborhood. Two blocks from my apartment. I've lived in this neighborhood for 10 years. That's a full decade of serving hard time, waiting for Jackson Heights to finally get a Starbucks. And once we finally did, I couldn't go. Heartbreaking. But I have one caveat to my Lenten sacrifices, and it's this: they don't count on my birthday. No, Jesus did not come out of the desert for my birthday, but without this rule I would have never in my entire life had a birthday cake worth eating. And I just don't believe a just God would want that to happen in his name. So I got the biggest latte they sell at Starbucks, a medium-sized bag of Cadbury mini eggs, and went. to. town.

The night before my birthday I was a little sad (also a little tipsy, thus the sad), thinking that I was starting a new year with all the same issues I always swear I'm going to change about myself. I'm still broke, still overweight, still not entirely sure what's next for me. But when I woke up the next morning, that was all gone. I was just utterly grateful. Maybe I'll never be rich or thin or have it all together, but I'm loved. Utterly, completely loved. And what else do I really need?

p.s. For those of you thinking, "I thought Bookgirl was going to blog more often now that she has the new laptop??" all I can say is, so did I. But every night this week, I would put on the laptop and the television, intending to write while I was cleaning out the DVR. And it turns out that while I'm an ace multitasker, and there are a zillion things I can do while watching television, being creative and witty is NOT one of them. Lesson learned.

I'm Okay. Really.

2008-02-27T19:32:00.011-05:00

For those of you who have called, emailed, texted, or commented to ask, the following all apply.
Yes, I'm okay.
No, I'm not mad at you.
Yes, I'm really okay, not just saying I am.
No, we're not in a secret fight.
No, Polly. We didn't break up. You should still buy me a birthday present.

Sorry I fell off the planet for a couple of weeks, but for you Ya-Ya fans, to quote Vivi, I dropped my basket. I got some news a couple of weeks ago that threw me for a loop and I just shut down. After a week of nearly continuous meltdowns, I shook it off and got back to normal. (Thank you, Prozac, for the recuperative powers you offer. If this happened a couple of years ago, the meltdown might still be going on. There was no "shaking it off" pre-medication.) So I had to spend all of last week doing all the things I didn't do the week before, when I was coming home from work and going directly to sleep. But I'm back in my groove now. Which means you all once again are a captive audience to my babbling.

The weekend before last, I went back to Woonsocket. The spontaneous tears stopped the day I knew I was going to see my mom. A coincidence? I think not. I swear, that women has some kind of old-world healing magic she's not aware of. (Either that, or I've been reading too many Nora Roberts trilogies lately, and I want to believe my life has magic too. Odds are, it's the latter.) I parked myself in my parents' house for 3 days, and left only to go to mass, Target, and to see Ella (my holy trinity of feel-good outings).

We had a joint birthday party for me and my godson, who turned thirteen.

And by joint party, I mean he got to choose what we were eating, he got all the cards and presents, and I couldn't eat the ice cream cake because it was chocolate, so I had to make my own.

In my family's defense, I didn't get presents because my birthday isn't for another couple of days and they didn't want me to have nothing for my actual birthday, the food Jeremy chose was exactly what I would have picked, and I made my own cake because I had something specific in mind and wanted to see if I could figure out how to make it. But still...

When my niece got to my mom's house, I was completely fascinated by her teeny little baby belly. Evidently, I was a lot less subtle than I thought, because after a minute or so, my mom said, "If you're done staring at Jenn's stomach now, I could use some help." Um, oops.

Then on the way back to New York, I stopped in Connecticut to visit one of my sorority sisters and her new daughter, Anna. She snuggled up on me and slept pretty much the whole time. Yeah, I hated every second of it.

So I think we've got the formula down. If you've got a sad Bookgirl on your hands, add downtime, family, and a healthy dose of baby love. The rest will take care of itself.

Great Aunt Bookgirl

2008-02-26T21:49:00.004-05:00

Big news, kids. I'm going to be a great aunt. Now, I know what you're thinking. "We've heard the stories. Bookgirl already IS a great aunt." And yes, yes I am. Thanks for noticing. But we're talking geneology here, not quality. My niece is pregnant.

Since the youngest in my immediate family is my godson Jeremy, who's thirteen, it's been a long wait for a new little pumpkin at Casa Bookgirl. Couple that with the fact that Jenn is the only girl in the next generation (my other sisters all had boys), and has been trying for a long time to get pregnant, and this is, like I said, big news.

If I had a magic wand, and I could make one wish come true, it would have been this one. I wanted this for Jenn more even than anything I wanted for myself. I was out with my girlfriends the night Jenn called to tell me, and one of them showed up just as I hung up with her, to find me standing in the street with tears rolling down my face. "What's wrong? What happened?" I kept opening and closing my mouth, not able to get the words out.

I was only 4 when Jenn was born, and as kids, we fought like sisters. Or I guess technically I fought with her, and she had no choice but to fight back. You've all seen what happens when a family gets its first grandchild, right? It's like the sun rises and sets over that kid. Then add in the fact that she was gorgeous, and well, who would blame me for hating her? But by the time we were teenagers, I would drive her friends around. In my early twenties, I chaperoned Jenn's parties so she wouldn't have to have her parents there. Around the time she graduated college, she skidded right past me and became the more mature one.

And along the way, she became a really amazing person. She's a pediatrics nurse in a children's hospital, she took one of the babies from the hospital under her wing and years later still takes her for weekends and vacations. She spontaneously stops by my mom's house with flowers. Sometimes good things do happen to good people. It's nice when those people are the ones I love.

Blogless

2008-02-11T15:11:00.000-05:00

Yes, kids. I know I've been a bad, bad blogger. I've been yelled at. But I can't go online at home, and I've been either working late every night or leaving here to be somewhere else at a specific time, neither of which puts me at my computer after hours with some free time. But there's a great big yellow light at the end of the tunnel, and this is what it looks like.

I bought myself a laptop. A shiny, new, bright-yellow-to-lend-itself-to-creativy laptop. One that has wireless internet that actually works, unlike my old laptop which got a virus because a friend used it to download gay porn (seriously) and then I kept forgetting to have it fixed until my warranty ran out. I'm not making any promises, but there might even be some shirt fiction coming your way. That's how excited I am about this computer.

But while I haven't been blogging, I've learned some valuable lessons:
1) At a home with toddlers, always lock the door when you're in the bathroom. I slept at my friend Kerri's last weekend, and my 3-year-old niece came barreling in when I was in the shower because she had to go potty. Which is fine. I grew up in a house with five girls and one bathroom. I'm used to sharing. But she then proceeded to watch my entire shower, asking questions. "Whatcha doin' Auntie Bookgirl?" "What's that?" "Why did you do that?" "Is that your soap?" "Did you bring it from home?" "Why are you putting lotion on your legs?" "Are those your undies?" "Why is that towel on your head?" It's shocking that she doesn't ever pass out from lack of oxygen.

2) When your team loses in the Super Bowl against the team that plays where you live, you learn who your friends are. Most people were sympathetic. Tons of people asked me how I was doing. Even the friend who really hates my team and whose trash talk tends to get mean managed to limit her comments to one "Holy crap!" text message. But there was one guy, just one, my friend's husband, who sent taunting emails. And he will forever more have a black mark next to his name as far as I'm concerned. For the record, though, no. Believe it or not, I wasn't that upset. As much as I love football, it's a game. And not even a game I was playing in. Plus, I'm a firm believer in the five-year rule. After your team wins the Big Game, you're not allowed to bitch about anything they do for five years. Get caught cheating? Oh well. Lose in the Super Bowl after an undefeated season? Meh. No complaining allowed.

3) The Secret might actually work. After circling my neighborhood for 40 minutes at 2 in the morning with no parking spots anywhere, I started to get desperate and began repeating "Parking spots come easily and often." Swear to God, I found one within 60 seconds, two blocks from my apartment. I've decided to start keeping a gratitude journal. I'll keep you posted on how that works out for me.

4) Keeping secrets is no fun. Someone very close to me has news. Big, big news. News she's not willing to share with the world at large until she's had it for, say, 12 weeks. And I've kept from blogging about it. But it's KILLING me. Killing me, people. (By the way, if you're reading this and thinking, "But Bookgirl told me this news already" that's because you don't know her, there was no way of it getting back to her, and you couldn't possibly ask her about it if something goes wrong. Therefore you're safe.)

5) I now understand why it's so easy to become addicted to prescription drugs. It's because I wasn't taking the right kind. I had this horrible back pain yesterday that I described as "feeling like all the muscles and nerves in my lower back were in a vise and shooting pain down through my hips and legs." Good times, I tell you. And I remembered that somewhere in my medicine chest (and by chest I mean gallon-size Ziploc bag) I had muscle relaxers left from a previous back pain. I took one, and then either fell asleep or lost conciousness (I'm not really sure which) at 7 pm and except for a brief stumble from the couch to bed slept through the night. The bad news is that was my last pill. The good news is that was my last pill.

Shoe Slut

2008-01-30T17:30:00.001-05:00

It was raining when I left this morning, so I got to wear the pretty new boots I got for Christmas. I've been wanting a pair of rain boots for forever. Walking to work in the morning in the rain, my feet get wet, and then I have damp socks the rest of the day. Ick.

I've been looking at and trying on boots for more than a year. But there were, of course, very strict requirements. I know you're shocked. They had to be fun and colorful and pretty. There was the money issue--I couldn't bring myself to spend a lot of money on a pair of boots I wasn't going to get to wear that often. And after I found pairs I liked and that suited my thriftiness (I get weirdly cheap about some purchases--this was one of them) I had some serious Goldilocks syndrome going on. Every pair I tried on was too big or too small, too soft or too hard (okay, not really, but I had to extend the analogy).

My niece found these and sold them to my mom as part of my Christmas present. And they were just right.

p.s. I know the background looks like a cheesy photographer's backdrop, but it's actually the view from my office at night. Or, you know, any time after 4:00 in winter...

Cats and Dogs

2008-01-24T11:49:00.000-05:00

I had similar conversation recently with both Countrygirl and Polly Poppins, and what it comes down to is this. There are two kinds of kids in this world. There are your puppy kids—the ones who clamor all over you looking for attention and affection and will do just about anything to get it. And there are your cat kids—the ones who might, if you’re lucky, deign to cuddle with you. But it’s on their terms, when they feel like it, and only after you’ve passed their rigorous selection process.

Let’s take my nieces for example. Last time I was at their house, Emilie kept following me around the house, giving me her most winning smile, looking hopefully up at me and saying, “Mama?” with her arms outstretched so I’d pick her up. She’s willing to go through her whole bag of tricks, simultaneously if necessary, to get you to love her. My sister had this dog, and if you took out a treat, she’d go through every trick she knew until you gave it to her. You didn’t have to say a word. She’d roll over, sit, and beg in rapid succession, figuring one of those had to be what you were looking for, and going through them all would get her the treat faster. That’s Emilie. She gives it away for free. We’re hoping she’ll outgrow that tendency before puberty, but that’s another story.

And then you have Ella. I love my Ella. You all know that. But she’s got enough attitude for the entire cast of Mean Girls. None of her uncles are allowed to touch her. Not one. They can talk to her, but she’s not going to respond. Or even acknowledge that they’re speaking. I’m one of her favorite people, and she just flat-out refused to say my name until she was 2. When she met my roommate, I told her, “This is Jodie. Can you say Jodie?” She looked at me and said, “Jodie. Jodie. Jodie.” And then kissed her. The little bitch. She’s a total cat.

What's It Worth to You?

2008-01-23T18:20:00.000-05:00

On New Years Day I was having brunch with the boys, and we were talking about all our hopes and dreams and goals and wishes for the new year. “But,” I added at the end of the conversation, “I’d give everything up to get a Democrat in the White House.”

“Would you give up sex?” Anthony asked me. “Wait. That’s not a good one.”

Asking the celibate girl if she’d give up sex is much like asking the vegan to give up pork. Not exactly a huge sacrifice. But he was off from there. Even though by “everything” I had meant all my other goals, this was a fun game.

“Would you give up chocolate?”
“Yes.”
“Starbucks?”
“Yes.”
“Alcohol????”
“Yes.”

Yes, yes, and yes. And I realized that there’s precious little I wouldn’t give up to see a Democrat elected in November, I’d give up Diet Coke. I’d give up my car. I’d give up shopping. I’d give up pleasure reading. I’d give up television. As long as we’re just talking from here through the election, I’d give up my friends. And my family. I’d even, wait for it, give up Ella. Now you know how serious I am.

If someone waved a magic wand, and told me that my sacrifices could guarantee a Democratic win, could make sure that our party would get a chance to fix what’s broken in this country, the list of what I would give up encompasses basically everything except my job, my apartment, enough food to eat, and enough clothing to cover me. (Yes, I’d even give up the leopard-print shoes.)

I’m not pretending the Democratic candidates are perfect, or even ideal, but they’re ours, dammit. And they certainly can’t make things worse. There’s a great conversation over at Left Side of the Moon on the Democratic candidates, and I already blathered on there, so I won’t do it again, but if you’re interested, check it out. Warning, if you’re NOT voting Democratic, don’t bother. It’s a viciously anti-Republican crowd over there, and we like it that way.

So now all that said, there is no magic wand. And the only sacrifices I can make that will make a bit of difference to the election are time, energy, and money, all of which I fully intend to pitch in to the cause. So thankfully, I won’t have to give up my lattes, my loved ones, or my favorite shoes. But I would if I had to. I swear.

p.s. This bumper sticker is hanging in Grand Central. God, I love New York.

Why I Hate Facebook

2008-01-11T18:32:00.000-05:00

So being in marketing, I’m always looking for a new way to market my books. I need to understand where people are going to talk, to exchange ideas, to swap stories. And of course, a big part of that happens online. I’ve got MySpace down. I have a Friendster profile left over from before that was passé. I’ve been on Gather, because they’re an especially book-friendly site. I’ve logged onto Second Life, but haven’t been able to go so far as creating an avatar. And of course, the site everyone’s talking about these days—Facebook.

But I’ve got a confession to make. And it’s not pretty. Facebook makes me feel old. I just… don’t… get… it. At first I made excuses. It’s just because I’m new to it. It’ll all make sense. But it’s been a while. And it still doesn’t. Stuff shows up on my profile, and I can’t figure out why. People email me things that I have to sign up for. And at first I just said no to everything. No, no, no. But then I realized I wasn’t learning anything that way. So I started accepting these requests. And they’re confusing. Worse, they’re not grammatically correct. I got this message today:
”Added you to one of circles. Which circle do you want to put in?”
Seriously, that’s not English!! It looks like something my barely literate super would post on a sign in our laundry room.

I’m not happy, my friends. I feel the way my mom must have felt back when I was trying to teach her how to program the VCR. It gives me sensory overload, that same slightly panicked, out-of-control, I’m-out-of-my-element feeling I get in Best Buy and Home Depot. I briefly considered begging one of my friends for a tutorial, but then I realized that would officially make me pathetic. And that’s not an admission I’m willing to make yet.

I’ve heard that you have two choices in life: to master that which intimidates you, or to have it master you. But I disagree. I think there’s also a third option. To abandon the attempt entirely and pretend that it never mattered to you in the first place. And right now, that option is looking VERY attractive.
p.s. If you didn't click on the link to my MySpace profile, go do it. Now. My profile song would make my top songs of all times list. But that's another blog...

You Ain't Mickey

2008-01-09T13:59:00.000-05:00

Dear Mr. Mouse,

Listen up, you little bastard. Me and you, we’re going to have a throwdown. And I’m going to win. You know why? Because I’m bigger, and I have technology on my side. I have traps. Where are your traps? Oh, right. You don’t have any. Suckah.

New York City is a big place, and there’s room enough for the both of us. My loathing for your kind has never been a secret, but up until now we’ve been okay. I stuck to my turf. You all stuck to yours. When I saw you on the street or in the park, I didn’t cause trouble. Because hey, I wasn’t defending my territory. But coming right out into my living room in front of my roommate? With the lights and the television on? Not smart, Mickey. Not. Smart.

I asked around to get people’s opinions on the glue trap vs. traditional trap questions, and they started talking about which kind was more humane. (You might not want to read this part, Dol, bless your Buddhist heart.) But let me make this clear. I’m not looking for the method that will be the most kind. I’m looking for the one that will get you the most dead.

It didn’t have to be this way. If you had stayed outside, or even in the walls where I couldn’t see you, we would have been okay. You could have played happily with your vermin friends until you reached a ripe old age. But this is war. And remember, you started it. It’s on.

PJ

2008-01-07T19:51:00.000-05:00

In Memorial
PJ
February 14, 1996-December 29, 2007

Nearly twelve years ago, my sister Michelle brought home a perfect little black lab puppy. But this was no ordinary puppy. My family is split pretty evenly between those who are animal people and those who are not. And PJ even won over the “nots.” When my niece called to talk to Mich after she heard the news she said, “For what it’s worth, even I liked him.” I myself even voluntarily took him for a walk once. Those of you who know how weak my stomach is know what a huge deal that is….

Now that perfect little puppy, like all dogs do, he started to grow. And grow. And grow. Which explains why he was often referred to as “The Moose.”

One year he knocked over the Christmas tree with his tail. Just his tail. As he got bigger, Mich waited for the puppy energy to burn off, for him to settle down into the temperament of a normal dog. She waited. And waited. And waited. And it never happened. She would take him for 4-mile walks to tire him out. It didn’t work. She would play chase the ball for, literally, hours. Barely even made a difference.

PJ was a good dog. But he was just a teeny bit rambunctious. He had a tendency to eat things. Other dogs eat shoes. PJ ate Mich’s hope chest. And her bedroom moldings. Oh, and the kitchen linoleum. She tried to train him, she really did. But he was too smart for that. One book suggested that she buy a water bottle and squirt him in the face when he barked. But the day she started using it, she left it out while she went to take a shower. He ate it. Another book said to tape balloons to the edge of the dining room table so if he tried to jump up they would burst and scare him. She found him playing with one of the balloons, batting it gently back and forth between his paws. He wasn’t having any of that training stuff.

PJ was the Worst. Guard Dog. Ever. If you came to Mich’s house when she wasn’t home, he’d come trotting up to the door, tail wagging, tennis ball in his mouth. She swears that if a) she had been home and b) he hadn’t known me, he would have barked. And maybe she’s right. But if she wasn’t home, anyone who wanted to could have robbed her blind. As long as they kept flinging that tennis ball, he would have happily let them clean out the house.

I read a book proposal once that said that instead of pets, they should be referred to as “animal companions.” And I’m not going to lie. I rolled my eyes. But that’s really what PJ was for my sister. He was her buddy, her partner, her friend, her child. As she called him, “her boy.” There were rough times when he was what made her get out of bed in the morning. And a lot of times when he was her biggest source of joy.

Michelle’s in a place in her life now where she’s happier than I’ve ever known her to be. She’s got a house right on the ocean, a man who makes her happy, and with that man came a ready-made family. Someone told her that’s why PJ was able to let go. Because he knew that she was happy and taken care of, and he had done everything he was brought into her life to do.

PJ leaves behind a mom, a stepfather, and a sister, a beautiful retriever who’s helping to heal the hole in Mich’s heart. And he also leaves behind a lot of people who were better for having known him. We’ll miss you, Peej.

p.s. If you have a PJ memory of your own you'd like to share, please leave a comment. I'd love to hear it.

The Sweater

2008-01-03T17:24:00.000-05:00

My sister Jean had this favorite sweater. It was hot pink, white, and black stripes. It was a hoody that zipped up. I LOVED this sweater. I called it the Good -n- Plenty sweater, because it was those exact same colors. It sounds ugly, I know, but it wasn't. Did I mention I really loved this sweater? I convinced her to go back to the store and buy one for me, but they were all out. Every time time I saw her wearing it, I lusted for it in my heart. I'm not proud of it, but it's true. I coveted my sister's sweater.

When Christmas came a year later, we were both broke. I was paying off my credit card debt, and she was buying a new house, so we decided to do "gifts from the heart," which basically means something handmade or with sentimental value that costs little to no money. And my sister made the ultimate sacrifice. She wrapped up her favorite sweater and gave it to me. Talk about a tangible symbol of how much I'm loved--it's absolutely impossible to wear the sweater and not feel comforted.

For two years I've loved that sweater, but it came up in conversation recently, and she confessed that she still misses it. And there was only one thing to do. I wrapped it up and gave it to back her as one of her Christmas presents.
It turns out you really can wrap up love and put it under the tree.

Week in New England, Part One

2008-01-02T17:09:00.001-05:00

Like the Barry Manilow song. Except longer, and without the romance...

So I'm back from my week in Woonsocket with the family. There were no blogs written while I was there, since their house is the land that technology forgot. I finally convinced them to upgrade to a high-speed connection from their crappy dial-up, but only on my last day there, so it didn't do me a whole lot of good. It does, however, mean that they will now be able to open up their Yahoo! email in fewer than 5 minutes, and will actually be able to get onto websites with graphics, so I feel like my work there was well worth it.

I did girls' nights and a spa day, had more family time than I know what to do with, and spent one-on-one time with most of my sisters (except Michelle, who had the world's. Worst. Vacation. Ever. Poor thing.) I didn't get much time with my girls, since there was a vicious stomach flu running through Sarah's house, and my mom would have kicked my ass if I went over and brought it home with me. But that just gives me an excuse to go back for the boys' birthdays in a couple of weeks and spend some time with them then. (Um, Sarah. You were planning on inviting me, right??)

Since every one of my local friends is either pregnant, nursing, or was sick last week, it made for a very relaxed trip. Most nights I stayed in and watched old movies with my mom. I stocked up on Netflix, and came home bearing White Christmas, Holiday, Going My Way, and Holiday Inn. (And when I say watched, I mean saw the first half hour and then fell asleep on my parents' incredibly comfortable recliner and had to watch the rest the next day.) I spent Friday night playing dominoes with my parents and had a blast, except for the occasional twinge of "Oh my God. What happened to me?? I used to be cool." And since they don't even have cable (see earlier "land that technology forgot" comment) I got a ridiculous amount of sleep. I had forgotten what being that well-rested felt like....

On my way back to Rhode Island I stopped in Connecticut to see my friend Nando, who's nine months pregnant and ADORABLE (slight waddle and all) and then stopped by my sister Jean's on the way home, partially to see her new kitchen and partially to get to use her fireplace. So they made me a nice fire, and I lay down on the couch to watch it and instantly fell asleep. After I woke up, I told my sister, "I invited myself over to your house, ate your food, and fell asleep on your couch. If I weren't your little sister, it would mean you either gave birth to me or we were dating. Because no one else could get away with that."

While I was there, I was reminded anew of exactly how different our lives really are. Jean lives in the woods. I mean, their neighbors have farm animals, all the houses had chimneys blazing, her kid packs himself a thermos of cocoa and some snacks when he strays too far from the house into the yard, and I drive by at least twice every time I try to find the house because it's so far back you can't see it from the road. Woods. I gave her older son a driving lesson because my car is standard, and he took to it instantly, starting and stopping on hills without even stalling. I was impressed, until he reminded me that it was because his tractor is a 5-speed too. I'm guessing city kids don't have that experience. My godson, Jeremy, had made himself a Charlie Brown Christmas tree in his room and decorated it. Adorable, right?

But look closer. What are those he's using as ornaments? Are those tiny little John Deere tractors? Why, yes they are. And that? That would be a shotgun shell casing.

And a cork.

I dubbed it the redneck Christmas tree, and spent the rest of the time I was there singing "White Trash Wedding" by the Dixie Chicks. While my nephews are rednecks, not white trash, I don't know any redneck songs, and I figured that was close enough. Jean and I look almost identical, she's my best friend, and my mom swears we're really related. But sometimes it's hard to believe.

It's My Party

2007-12-18T13:30:00.000-05:00

My college friends and I generally complain that we don't see each other enough. Then the holidays come, and you have weeks like last one, where we saw each other four times. My friend's husband asked us, "By the end of the week, are you going to have anything left to talk about?" Never underestimate the power of women's ability to chat. He's probably one of those men who also doesn't understand why we talk to each other on our cell phones while we're on our way to meet. Sheesh.

Monday night was our 8th annual "Christmas on Crack" theme party. Now to understand this, you need to know that my friends love to create traditions. Even better if it's a crazy tradition. And eight years ago, our friend Anthony planned a drinks night at Rolf's, this restaurant that had totally over-the-top Christmas decorations.

We all crammed into this teeny bar area, pissing off everyone waiting for tables, and drank ourselves silly on German beer. At one point, someone made a comment along the lines of, "Dude! This place looks like Christmas on Crack!" (Except the words were probably slurred.) And just like that, the tradition was born. A year or two later, Schnapps sent around an email with this funny PowerPoint presentation and a comment that it would be great if we made t-shirts. Since one of our friends does marketing promotions for a career, we all showed up in shirts to surprise her. And thus was born tradition #2--the annual matching shirts.

On Friday night was my friends Doug and Joe's annual party, the highlight of which was the most honest invitation I've ever seen:

It's that time of year again to cram a shit load of people into a 600 square foot apartment. Free food and drinks will be served to those individuals willing to go nip-to-nip with their fellow man and woman! We'll start the festivities off at 7:00 so feel free to swing by for 10 minutes on your way home from work, or stay the whole night!
We look forward to seeing you all soon!

In contrast to my "early garage style" decorating mode, their apartment is what I like to refer to as "Gay Pottery Barn." My favorite picture of the night was taken several drinks in. This is Schnapps and me talking to Comet, our pregnant friend,'s belly (which she refers to as Poppyseed, since that was the approximate size of the baby when they found out). Schnapps was telling Poppy that (s)he had to come a few days late, on June 12th, since Schnapps would be on a business trip until the 10th. I was telling Poppy how much fun we were going to have and promising to tell her/him embarrassing stories about Comet.

Saturday night was Christmas dinner with the friends in my supper club. We do a Secret Santa at this party, and I don't want to imply that we're getting older or anything, but Ronnie got a food processor and was absolutely thrilled. Anthony pulled De's name this year, and her card said "ho ho ho to my little ho. Love, Sexy Santa." She opened it in front of her husband, and no one even batted an eye. I really love my friends.

Then Sunday, the grand finale of our Christmas weekend, was my annual Christmas party. (Well, sort of annual. I had to skip the last 2 years due to the black "paying off my credit card debt" period we don't like to talk about.) I cooked for two days in an effort to make everything perfect, and Louise declared me the "hostess with the mostest" so I guess I pulled it off. Phew. There was a big storm, and a bunch of people cancelled at the last minute (including Sarah, who told me "I really want to be there, but I don't want me and the girls to get dead," an arguement I couldn't disagree with), but we still had about 25 people in my apartment, which was enough to be fun, but not so many that other people's sweat was wiping off on you. Which is always nice. After the initial period of making sure everyone had drinks and walking appetizers in and out of the kitchen, I realized everyone was having fun, everyone was taken care of, and I got to actually enjoy the party. And even though it was an afternoon event, there may have been just a little bit of drinking going on.

I'm sure in a few weeks I'll be complaining again that I don't see them often enough. But for right now, I've had all the togetherness my liver can handle.

p.s. My nativity set has absolutely nothing to do with this story, but Comet took a picture of it, and I really love it, and it was a gift from my sisters. So I'm going to show it off a little.

p.p.s. She also took a picture of the infamous tree.

Monkey Wrap

2007-12-13T14:26:00.000-05:00

Rhea Bouchard Powers is a columnist for one of the local Woonsocket papers, and when I lived there I always loved reading her columns. They're very real, very "a day in the life," and often very funny. My mom reads it, and a few years ago there was my all-time favorite column. It was about that great bane of my existence--Christmas wrapping. Ugh.

Ms. Powers's theory is that people all fall into different categories of wrappers. There are the Martha Stewart wrappers, where every package is a work of art. The precision wrappers, whose edges are folded with military precision. The average Joe wrappers, whose packages are unexceptional. And then way down at the bottom, the monkey wrappers, so named because their packages look like they were wrapped by a monkey.

Now when this column ran, I had long since moved to New York, but my mom cut it out of the paper, saved it, and stuck it on the fridge with a cow magnet. Every time one of my sisters came over, she'd make her read the article. And the day I got home for Christmas break, she handed it to me and said, "This is for you. You're a monkey wrapper." Now, another girl might have been insulted by that. But I know the truth. And the truth is that she's absolutely right. My wrapping is atrocious. I have actually given packages where I ran out of wrapping and the piece I had didn't quite wrap all the way around the present, so I cut off a strip from the end and just taped it in between. Somehow, even when I actually try to make my wrapping decent, it still always ends up baggy. And I have gotten out of wrapping countless birthday presents by telling my nephews "You can have it now, in the bag it came in, or I can wrap it. But then you're going to have to wait for it." (For the record, that one works every time. Foolproof.)

So monkey wrap became a standard expression in the Bookgirl family lexicon. And over the years, we've expanded it to fit other activites that require patience and/or manual dexterity. My sister Denise, for example, in addition to being a monkey wrapper, monkey folds laundry and is a monkey texter. (I know the buttons on the phone are little, and it's easy to make mistakes, but I have to regularly respond to her messages with, "I don't know what that means" or simply "monkey text," in which case she knows to try again.

With Christmas coming, I was really wishing I had the original article to share with everyone, so I sent a letter (typed even) to the the author, asking her if she might consider rerunning the article, or at least emailing it to me so I could pass it around. Not only did she rerun it AND email it to me, I even got a shout out in her column. Made me happy, I tell you.

Note: Today’s column, previously seen in 2001, is appearing again by popular demand. Well, actually, one woman named Bookgirl, formerly of Woonsocket but currently living in Jackson Heights, N.Y., wrote and asked if I could rerun it, and since I’m up to my eyeball in Adopt-a-Family stuff and have no time to write from scratch, it seemed like a good idea.

Monkey Wrapping
By
Rhea Bouchard Powers

I have long maintained that the gift-giving world is made up of those who hard-wrap and those who soft-wrap. Those who feel that every item of clothing should be placed in a tissue paper-lined box prior to being wrapped, and those who feel that boxing is superfluous and that paper alone should suffice.
I had never really given it any thought until several years ago when I volunteered to help wrap gifts at Adopt-a-Family.
There was a winter coat waiting to be wrapped, so I unrolled a length of paper and placed the neatly folded coat on it.
“Aren’t you going to put it in a box? Bobbie asked.
“No,” I replied. “I think boxes are a waste of money.”
“But they look so much neater,” she persisted.
“Soft-wrapping takes less time and less paper. Besides, soft-wrapped packages pack a lot more easily,” I countered. The good-natured debate has gone on throughout the ensuing years with neither of us changing our mind.
I also believe that the world can be further subdivided into various styles of wrappers.
For instance, there are those to whom wrapping is an art form. The Martha Stewarts of the world who see each box as a blank canvas just waiting to be turned into a masterpiece and whose gift wrapping almost qualifies as a gift on its own. You know the ones I mean. They’re the ones that have people “oohing” and “aahing” before they even see what’s inside the package.
Then you have the precision wrappers. They’re the ones whose packages never have a raw edge showing. Their seams are double folded. Their ends are neatly trimmed. All their folds are sharply creased and their corners as neatly mitered as well-made hospital beds. These are the people who, if they were in the army, would have quarters bounced on their beds.
Next in the hierarchy are your average Joes, gift-wrappers whose packages are unexceptional. They’re neat but not militarily so. Their work attracts little or no attention. It’s just gift-wrap.
Last but not least, at the bottom of the feeding chain, so to speak, you have the category my family refers to as monkey wrappers (the group into which my sister Bev and I fall), so called because the finished product invariably looks like it was wrapped by a monkey. The more gifts there are to be wrapped, the more monkeyesque it gets. Get Bev and me wrapping together and the quality slips even further.
When we wrap in tandem, Bev usually does the cutting because she’s the only one who can get the scissorless paper cutter to work. She cuts, I tape. The only time we’re particular about trimming the paper to fit the gift is when paper is running short or we need the trimmings to wrap smaller gifts. Otherwise we just fold it all up and tape it in place. Paper a tad too short? Not a problem. We’ll bridge the gap with tape. Running a little low on tape? That’s okay. We’ll put the peel-and-stick gift tags to double use holding the main seam together. Crude, perhaps, but it works.
When it comes to bulky or oddly shaped items we employ the “bunch and tape” method whereby you wrap the paper around the widest part and anchor it with a piece of tape. Then you bunch the paper up and tape it all together as best you can. Again, it may not be pretty but it gets the job done.
We have been doing this for years I have to tell you truthfully, we’ve never had a single complaint. Kids, especially, don’t care how their gifts are wrapped. All they want to know is what’s inside the paper.
It works for me.

So in what can only be described as true irony, a project came up last week. We (and in this case we, said by anyone, means me) should send our key bookstore buyers copies of our big new release as holiday presents. Oh, and they should be wrapped. And again, since marketing translates loosely into "anything that doesn't fall clearly into someone's else job description" that left me with a giant roll of gift wrap, a handy paper dispenser, and 100 books. Now, I've never minded being bad at wrapping. It's not an aspirational talent for me. Anyone lucky enough to be getting a gift from me loves me for many reasons that have nothing to do with my ability to fold and tape. So I've always happily monkey wrapped, cringing just a little at the final product.

But these were going to VIPs. With my publisher's name on them. Shaming myself is one thing. Shaming her was something else entirely. So I wrapped a few, and then went for a second opinion. I called one of my colleagues to come take a look. Were they really that bad??

The look on his face was priceless. I'm not sure if he was more appalled as a gay man or as my Advertising and Promotions Director, someone whose whole job it is to make things look good, but all he could say to me was, "What are you? Six? Those look like they were wrapped by a child." At which point he made me sit down with him, gave me a step by step tutorial, and then made me do a couple while he watched, critiquing my every move. Now again, another girl might have been insulted. But I was just too grateful that my packages were less pathetic to take too much umbrage. Just in case he started thinking that insulting me was okay though, I waited until he left for the night and covered his office with rolled up gift wrap scraps. Yeah, that showed him.

On Grapefruit

2007-12-12T13:29:00.000-05:00

I got my annual delivery of Christmas grapefruit from The Dol today. How excited am I?!?!?

The Dol is Polly Poppins's West Coast best friend. And despite Mr Poppins's not-so-secret dream that we might some day have a rap-style East Coast vs. West Coast rumble, we really like one another. It's a good thing, too, because if Polly had made me slide over and make room on my pedastal for someone I didn't like, I'd be PISSED.

The Dol's husband is from Texas originally, and that's how they knew about Red Cooper Orange-Sweet grapefruit. They're ruby red grapefruit, that are somehow absolutely perfect and completely addictive. Since The Dol is smart and well-connected and loves to read and talk about books, she's found her way onto my big-mouth mailing list over the years. So when they ordered their holiday grapefruit a few years ago, she added me on to the distribution. It was love at first bite.

Once Polly found out about my new addiction, she got in on the action too, and sent me a couple of boxes. Mostly because she eats vegetables only because she has to, and thinks the fact that I can get truly excited about produce is adorable. For years, she would try to trick me into admitting that I didn't really like salad and was just eating it to be healthy. Also, she likes spoiling me. I love that about her.

So my girls spoil me horribly, I love every second of it, and grapefruit came to join apple loaf on the list of foods about which I've written bad poetry.

On Grapefruit
I love grapefruit, this I know
Because my tastebuds tell me so

Too much work for breakfast, but perfect for lunch
It's my #1 choice when I want to munch

I keep them in my office
And the refrigerator door
And just when I ran out,
My best friend sent me more!

They're oh so sweet
and nice and juicy
Since they're only 2 points,
Now my pants are loosey

Red Cooper rocks
Polly and Dol too
I love them more
than Winnie the Pooh

p.s. Don't worry. I'm not quitting my day job any time soon.

New Mantra in Town

2007-12-11T17:37:00.000-05:00

Peter Walsh, author of It's All Too Much, is an expert on organizing. On getting rid of clutter, ditching unwanted baggage, and simplifying your life. He's also the man who (indirectly) introduced me to my new mantra.

I'm a word person. I read. I write. I have whole files of quotes I just had to save. I love words. So it makes sense that the idea of a mantra would appeal to me. Words you can say to change your mood, make you think of something in a differnt way, to help you make a decision.

There are a lot that I like. Sarah's favorite yoga mantra is "I am." The mantra Denise learned from her pastor and passed on to me is "All will be well. All will be well. All manner of things will be well." The one I adopted from The Secret is "I'm so happy and grateful." Does it even matter what you're grateful for when you feel so much better just by the act of expressing gratitude?

A few weeks ago, Oprah called Peter Walsh in to help a woman who was a hoarder. Her house had been reduced to about 200 square feet of livable space, because the rest was taken up by stuff. Just all sorts of stuff. And in coaching her on how to get out from under that monkey, he told her that she needed to ask herself two questions about each piece of clutter: Does this help me get the life I want? Or does it keep me from having the life I want? Now, I didn't actually watch Oprah, since, well, I have a job. But someone who takes another Weight Watchers class with my leader saw it, and she repeated it to Courtney, who repeated it to my group. And just like that, Peter Walsh (twice removed, three times if you count Oprah) changed my life.

Because doesn't that just simplify every difficult decision you have to make? Don't most things do one or the other? Bring you closer to the life you want or farther away? It's perfect for Weight Watchers. Going to a fancy dinner with my friends, and then having dessert? It might be a lot of calories, but it's worth it. I want to be the girl who can go out, let go of the reigns a little bit, and just enjoy myself. That's totally helping me have the life I want. But the chips and onion dip I have a tendency to buy at the supermarket and then gorge on sitting on my couch, feeling bad about myself the whole time? Not so much. The week I adopted this new mantra, I lost 4 pounds. I love this man. Seriously. I LOVE this man.

I sat with him by chance at a dinner party six months ago, and it's a good thing I didn't know about this whole mantra thing back then. I might have embarrassed myself. It's bad enought that I gave him an honest estimate about how many pairs of shoes I own. He seems to think I don't actually need that many shoes. Silly man. I won't hold it against him, though. Nobody's perfect, right?

It's Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas

2007-12-03T18:28:00.000-05:00

Those of you who are new to my world may not know this, but I love Christmas. I really love it. At this time of year, my friend Nancy calls me “Chrissy Christmas.” (Aside #1: I know I usually switch things to Bookgirl in this blog for consistency, but Bookgirl Christmas doesn’t have the same ring to it. Aside #2: Just because Nancy calls me Chrissy doesn’t mean you can too. The list of people allowed to call me Chrissy is short. If you’re not sure if you’re on it, you’re probably not.)

But back to the topic at hand. I love Christmas. And everyone who knows me knows that. So every Christmas people buy me more ornaments and decorations and Christmas-themed housewares. Friday night, I purposely didn’t make plans. I went home after work to unpack my Christmas boxes and take stock of what I had. Out came the boxes. And boxes. And boxes. And I realized something. I am not okay. I am the poster child for conspicuous consumption. I counted, and if you count anything large enough to stay in its original box as its own box, I have 11 boxes of Christmas decorations. Eleven. I have three decorative Christmas pillows. Twenty-five Christmas CDs. Three boxes of onrnaments. Christmas dishes. Christmas glasses. Christmas wine charms. Pot holders and dish towels, place mats and cloth napkins. Napkin holders, spoon rests, salt and pepper shakers, and sugar bowls. It’s shocking, and a little bit embarrassing. But it sure is pretty. I like to think that I try to keep my decorations tasteful, and that all those tiny white twinkle lights all over my living room give everything a soft touch. Deep down I suspect that it might just look like Christmas threw up in my apartment, but I’m okay with that too.

On Saturday, my sister Denise and I had our annual Christmas shopping and feel-good movie day. Every year we meet at the Connecticut outlets in the morning (about an hour and a half drive for each of us), shop all morning, have soup and sandwiches at the same little café for lunch, shop a little more, see a movie, shop the rest of the day, and then go to Friendly’s for dinner. We somehow even get the same waitress every year. We’re creatures of habit, Denise and I. I got a ton of shopping done, totally loved the movie Enchanted, and even found these two great sweaters that fit perfectly and will show up under the tree on Christmas Eve to me from Den. (She has such great taste. I don’t know how she knew I wanted them. It might have something to do with my picking them out, trying them on, and then handing them to her and saying “Merry Christmas to me, from you.” Oh, and it turns out that on open highway with no traffic, my beautiful new car can go 90 without even shimmying. Um, not that I tried it or anything….

So yesterday was the big day—decorating day. I left my apartment, all bundled up, pushing my little rolling cart through the gently falling snow, off to get a Christmas tree. An hour later I came back to my apartment, cold, wet, and treeless, and said to my roommate, “You know those things I do, that will be really funny when I’m writing about them later?”

I’m not sure how people get Christmas trees in other cities, but every neighborhood in New York has at least one Christmas tree stand set up on the sidewalk. These nice people come down from Quebec with their trees and live out of their vans for the month of December. So I walked (4 streets and 2 very long avenues, this will be important later) to get my tree. Sure, I have a car, but why take it out in the snow when I have my trusty cart that’s served me so well in past years? I got there and explained specifically what I wanted—6 or 7 feet high, it had to be very fat and very round, and it had to have the stiff needles. No wussy soft needles for me. (It turns out that the technical term for what I want is balsam. I’ll forget it by next year, but good to know.) They go digging into their stash and come up with The Tree And I come up with the perfect solution to the whole “struggling to put the tree in the stand” torture I go through every year. I’m just going to throw some money at it. So I tell the nice Canuck. “I already have a tree stand at home. But I’ll buy one of yours if you put the tree in it for me.” He gets more money, my roommate and I don’t have to fight over whether or not it’s straight. Everybody wins. So far so good.

But now it’s time to pay for it. And this is where the problems start. I have $3 in cash, and I lost my ATM card. Again. I know this would be a big deal for someone more organized than I am, but I lose it pretty regularly, and it usually shows up, so I’m not all that worried. I had taken my American Express card so I could take a cash advance against it. Yes, I knew I’d have to pay a fee, but today was the day I was putting up my Christmas tree, dammit. I refused to let a little thing like service fees get in my way. So I leave the pretty tree and go into the drugstore to get money from the ATM. Transaction Denied. Shit.

But wait. The ATM had a weird message when I got there, and it made me wait while it loaded. It’s obviously the machine. I go across the street to the bakery and try again. Transaction Denied at this Terminal. Ah, that’s it! American Express won’t let me take a cash advance at a store ATM for my safety. That’s so nice of them. I need to go to a bank! Great. So I walk 3 long avenues and 3 streets to the nearest bank. I’m good. I’m getting my money. Transaction denied. Okay, now I’m in trouble. They already cut the tree for me, put it in the stand. I can’t just not go back, because I left my cart with them. Besides, this is decorating day, dammit

So I head back to my apartment (one long avenue, 1 street) and show up (cold, wet, and treeless) to explain to my roommate that this will all be very funny later, but right now I need her to give me her ATM card so I can go get cash to pay for the tree. I walk to her bank (2 long avenues, 1 street) and back to fetch the tree (4 long avenues, 3 streets). I’m in business. I’ve got my tree. It’s in the stand. I’m ready to go. But oh, one little detail. See the stand is too big to fit in my cart so they’ve had to tie the tree across the cart. Which means I now have to make it home (4 streets, 2 long avenues) with a 7-foot wingspan. In the snow. In New York City. I wish someone had been there to see me. Tilting the cart to get around trees, just giving up at some points and pushing my cart down the middle of the street like a homeless person. And of course, giggling out loud, because even I can see how ridiculous I look. Anyone who saw me had to think I was insane.

So finally. Finally!!!! I get home. I push my cart up to the ramp that leads to my side door and all I have to do is get the tree off the cart and I’m home free. But did I mention that it’s tied on? Really tightly? I try sawing through the rope with my house key. This is going to take forever. I try just standing the tree up and holding it, with the cart still tied on, sticking off the front like a three-foot tumor. There’s no way I can get it inside without killing myself. Now I’m screwed. My super is out there shoveling, but he’s conspicuously ignoring me and avoiding eye contact. I’m going to have to leave my tree outside, unattended, and go inside for scissors. My beautiful, beautiful tree that I have now worked REALLY hard for.

Just then, one of my neighbors comes to my rescue. He has nothing to cut with either, but that’s okay, because his window is right above where we’re standing. And he calls his wife and has her (I couldn’t make this shit up) drop a steak knife out of their kitchen window down to us so he can cut the rope for me.

So my beautiful tree made it inside my apartment, I got a workout, I made friends with my neighbor (and his wife, who I met when I returned the knife) and my apartment is totally decorated. I still love Christmas, but right now I’m glad it only comes once a year.

p.s. For those of you who remember the Fourth of July Lost Key Debacle, I still haven’t found my ATM card, but while I was looking for it, I found the key to my dad’s car. It had somehow fallen between the head of the bed and the wall, and gotten stuck under there. Because I evidently took my car keys to bed with me the night before?? For those of you who were with me, just how much tequila did I drink that night??

Where Do You Live?

2007-11-30T17:55:00.000-05:00

You all know how to figure out your porn star names, right? Combine the name of your first pet with the street you grew up on. That would make me Goldie Bernon, which you have to admit is a GREAT porn star name. (I wasn’t allowed to have real pets, so after a while I stopped even naming the goldfish. They were just all Goldie.)

And there are a million games out there where you can use your real name to figure out different nicknames. You can get your Gangsta name. Mine is Purple-Headed Monkey Smuggla, but you can call me Purp for short. If you want a silly name, Captain Underpants can give you one. There, I’m Buttercup Bubble Fanny. I’ve always loved that one. And when the Ya-Ya movie came out and Polly, Diosa, and I went to see it together, smuggling in alcohol, we even got to figure out our own Ya-Ya names. I’m Princess Road Rage. (No comments, please, from anyone who’s ever driven with me…)

Plus there are the million nicknames my friends have for me, or any of my sisters’ names, all of which I’ll respond to. (Someone saw me at the mall last weekend with my mom and thought I was Celeste. She’s aged remarkably well, but seriously?? Did you think she just magically stopped aging sixteen years ago???)

So with all these made-up ways to identify myself, you’d think I’d be happy. And I was, for a while. But then those AT&T ads popped up, the ones that show people calling all the places they do business or their loved ones are, and making up a name for where they live, based on those places. And suddenly the made-up names weren’t enough. I wanted a made-up place too, dammit. So I got to thinking (way more than is normal, given the task at hand) and came up with the perfect one for me.

I love in New York, my family is in Rhode Island, and my best friends are in Massachusetts and San Diego. So I need a phone that works where I live, a place I call New Rhosachusiego. Thanks, AT&T. While I have no intention of switching to your network, I sure am enjoying your ad campaign.

Hold the Frankincense

2007-11-28T14:13:00.001-05:00

It's official. My mother is not going to be the Messiah's grandmother. Phew.

Okay, maybe I should explain. See, this may be an overshare, but a few months ago, I just stopped getting my period. Entirely. No period. My friends told me I should go to the doctor, but I said, "Nah. It's probably just a fluke. It'll come next month." Then October came, and not so much. No period.

Now, there was a time in my life that 2 missed periods in a row would have sent me crying, big, gulping sobs, into the nearest drugstore to buy a stick I could pee on. But this is not one of those times. And as Polly says, "Miracle no happen."

So I made an appointment to see my doctor to find out what was going on. And when I told my mother about it, I said, "I may be pregnant. But if I am, they're going to be talking about it in church for centuries. Just think! You could be the Messiah's Memere! Wouldn't that be cool??"

Mom: "No." She's a great lady, my mother, but she doesn't always appreciate my sense of humor.

So it turns out everything is fine, and occasionally a woman who's been on the pill for a while will just stop getting her period. And it's totally normal. No baby. No period. Kind of the best of both worlds, no?

My mom's next question, because yes, Virginia, she really is that naive, was "What were you put on the pill for in the first place?" There is a time and a place for honesty. This was not that time. And generally speaking, anywhere my mother is is not that place. She knows about the blog. I've shown it to her. I've read entries to her. But she doesn't read it, because she prefers her impressions of my life to come filtered and modified into a version rated M for Mom. So I did the only kind thing I could under the circumstances. I lied. I think she would have wanted it that way.

p.s. There was a moment when I was seriously tempted to answer that question with "Hope springs eternal." But I had a feeling that was another one of those jokes she just wouldn't appreciate...

Thankful

2007-11-20T13:31:00.000-05:00

I'm leaving tomorrow for Thanksgiving in Rhode Island, and I am so... freaking... excited. I haven't seen my parents since Labor Day, and for this mommy's girl, that is WAY too long. Yes, I've got my annual fall case of the "miss my moms." And this weekend will be chock full of Mrs. Bookgirl. In addition to the holiday on Thursday, we're spending the day together on Friday for our annual Christmas shopping day. When I was in college and didn't have a car, my mom started taking me shopping the day after Thanksgiving so I could do all my shopping, and she could see what I liked. And even though she's not a big fan of the tradition, I just flat-out refuse to let it go. As one of a pack of kids, one on one mom time is rare. I'm not giving up a guaranteed mommy day without a fight. I did offer her an out this year. "I know you don't love shopping the day after Thanksgiving. I want to go, but if you really don't want to, I guess I can find someone else to come with me." Shocking that she agreed to come, isn't it? He he he. I learned guilt at the knee of the master. I'll bet she never realized I'd turn it back on her some day. Saturday the girls (and dad) are going into Providence to walk around and go out to eat for mom's birthday. (She's turning 73, but don't tell her I told you.) So I'll get a nice, full dose of mommy time. That should be more than enough to tide me over until Christmas.

My family celebrates Thanksgiving at my cousin Lisa's house. One year her son decided we all needed to announce what we were thankful for, and yet another family tradition was born. We're a mushy bunch, so the girls have always been thankful for all the basics--family, each other. The men, well, they're a different story. That first year Mike, Lisa's husband, was thankful that Woonsocket had gotten a home repair superstore. His brother-in-law was thankful that Detroit was covering the spread. As time went on, though, even they got into the spirit. The year that Mike beat his terminal cancer diagnosis and was there with us at Thanksgiving, well, there wasn't a dry eye in the house. And he had a lot more than Lowes to be thankful for.

Since you're my online family, I thought I'd share my Thankful list with you all this year.
1. You, naturally. I've been looking for a creative outlet for years. Knitting, jewelry design, drawing, you name it. But nothing has made me as happy as writing this blog has. And the fact that you guys actually come back to hear what I have to say, that you give me your time and attention, that you respond and weigh in. Well, it's humbling. From the bottom of my heart, thanks.

2. My family. Even my rotten nephew David, who last Thanksgiving said he was thankful for his mother, his grandmother, and his girlfriend. Do you hear my name in there? No? Me neither.

3. That my problems aren't real problems. Before Polly was a mom, she was a full-time writer with no day job AND a cleaning lady (you can take a minute to be jealous, she would want it that way). When she would call me to complain about something, she would always preface it with "I know my problems aren't real problems." And I try to remember that sentiment. Sure, we all have things we bitch and whine about. But I'm healthy, I'm happy, I have a job to go to, a place to live, food to eat, people to love. No one I love is deathly ill or in grave danger. My problems are not real problems.

4. Ella. 'Nuff said.

5. My new suede purse (I can't include a picture because my cell phone battery is low, but I'll try to add one later), and my leopard-print shoes. Yes, it's shallow. But I'm thankful for them. I really am.

Hope you all have a fabulous holiday. And if you want to chime in with your own thankful lists, I'd love to hear them.

Happy Thanksgiving!

Shoe Slut

2007-11-13T14:48:00.001-05:00

I've been looking all over for the perfect pair of close-toed black shoes. I was wearing my sandals up until 2 weeks ago, and it was time to transition.

There was a long list of requirements to qualify a pair of shoes as The Shoes. They had to be cute, and versatile enough to go with pants or casual skirts. I wanted a chunky heel, so I can walk down the street without having to do the subway grate avoidance dance to not get my heel caught. They need to be comfortable enough that I can stand on my feet all night. I love a Mary Jane-style shoe, so I was looking for something with a strap or buckle on top. Everything I tried on was too expensive or uncomfortable, or too high a heel. So imagine my excitement when I found these. They were EXACTLY what I wanted. You know where I found them? In my office, underneath my desk. I bought them last winter and left them there over the summer.

I think I might officially have a problem.

The Prettiest Girl in the World

2007-11-12T12:01:00.000-05:00

Hanging out with girlfriends recently, the talk turned, as it always does, to body image. I complain about my weight. A friend who weighs 80 pounds less than I do refers to herself as a “fat bastard.” Another friend cringes every time she sees herself in a picture. It’s a rare woman who’s completely happy with how she looks, who looks at herself in a mirror without noticing the faults first.

I remember being at an aerobics class with my sister when I was in junior high and telling her that I would give anything to look like the instructor—thin and conventionally pretty. Michelle reminded me that I was most likely both far smarter and a much better person than her, but at that age none of that mattered. I would have gladly traded in my genius IQ for a size 6 body and a face that wasn’t perfectly round. It’s a damn good thing God doesn’t answer all our adolescent prayers, because you all would be reading someone else’s blog right now, and I’d be admiring myself in a mirror somewhere.

While I’ve long since lost the willingness to give up what I am to look different, I’m not going to lie. I never outgrew the longing to experience, just for a little while, what it’s like to be pretty. To see my looks open doors, to feel what’s it like when you turn heads. Remember the movie The Mirror Has Two Faces with Barbra Streisand? She plays a plain-looking woman whose mother and sister are both gorgeous, while she has to come to terms with never being the pretty one. I saw it in the theater with my niece, who is the pretty one, and I cried for five hours afterward. It hit a little too close to home.

All of this female dissatisfaction is heartbreaking, and it terrifies me for my nieces. All those perfect little girls, with their round cheeks and smooth skin and chubby bellies, are some day going to see themselves with unkind eyes. They’re going to compare themselves with models and actresses and with their friends who are more thin or more pretty or more something, and feel they don’t measure up. They’re going to devalue themselves and demand less than they deserve from others, and it’s easy to meet a woman’s requirements when she sets the bar that low.

And that, my friends, is where we come in. Because can’t we make a difference? If we start now, can’t we teach them what they’re worth? Those little girls are clay, waiting to be molded. So why can’t we mold them not in our own images, but in the images we want them to have? My friend Kerri knows this woman, G. I first met her years ago, and although G was on the heavy side, she seemed to suffer from none of those crippling insecurities the rest of us were writhing under. I asked Kerri about it once, and she explained that it was simple. G’s family, the whole time she was growing up, had reminded her constantly that she was beautiful, she was fabulous, she could do anything she wanted to. And hearing it over and over, she believed it.

What if it’s that simple? I mean sure, it’s not a proven solution, but it could be part of it. Maybe if we’re positive about ourselves instead of talking about our faults, if we focus on what we like about ourselves instead of what we don’t, and if we remind them every chance we get how fabulous they are, we can raise our daughters and nieces to be different than we were. To love themselves, to love their bodies, to not get caught up in those same destructive cycles we did.

As soon as my goddaughter was old enough to listen to me and pay attention to what I was saying, I made up The Ella Song. “There once was a girl named Ella, and she was the prettiest girl in the world. There once was a girl named Ella, and she had the prettiest nose in the world.” One by one I go through her body parts—eyes, ears, mouth, arms, belly, legs, touching each of them, telling her how pretty they are, how pretty she is. I’ll hold her close when I sing to her, and she’ll stare into my eyes the whole time, moving her head back and forth to my singing. Just recently, she started directing me. “You forgot dis one,” she’ll say, and hand me her arm. Or I’ll tell her how pretty her left hand is, and she’ll hand me the right one and say “Dis one too.” Sarah told me after Ella and I are together, she’ll hear her playing, singing the song to herself.

I’m not naïve enough to think a silly made-up song will somehow save her from heartbreak, or keep her from teenage angst. But when’s the last time you saw a girl suffering from too much self-esteem? Yeah, me neither.

Let the Good Times Begin

2007-11-09T13:09:00.000-05:00

Today's the day!! Liz and Diosa are coming to New York to stay with me for the weekend. (There so better be a blog from each of them on this next week, or they're dead meat.) Polly was invited too, in a sort of backhanded "You can come if you really want to, but I'd rather you didn't" way. It's not that I don't want to see her. I ALWAYS want to see her. But if she's finally going to come visit me after 10 years, I want it to be when I haven't already run out of vacation time. And I want to be able to tailor it completely around what I know she'll love. This is the "Liz's first trip to New York" trip, so this one's planned around her. (And yes, Polly, I know you've technically seen me in New York, but slotting in a few hours with me in between other activities does not count as visiting me. I want quality time, dammit.)

I love playing tour guide. And I've been told I'm good at it, which of course makes me like it even more. I've worked up a whole itinerary--activities, restaurants, the whole deal. I hope those girls weren't expecting a laid-back, relaxing weekend...

Although Diosa and I have been friends since the first grade, this is the first time we meet Liz. So of course the obvious choice was to invite her to stay on my couch. Duh. My "personal safety" friends (the ones who worry about things like this) are of course completely freaked out. But I'm just excited. Even Polly, normally one of my PS worriers, thinks it's a great idea. Evidently Liz and I are the same type. And that type doesn't tend to be a threat.

Liz and I kept joking when we were first planning the trip that it would be great, as long as neither of us was secretly an axe murderer. I had a brief fantasy of borrowing my dad's chainsaw and leaving it conspicously out in my living room for her arrival, but that felt like way too much work to go through for a prank. Once I rejected the idea I told Liz about it, and she said she'd laugh her ass off. And then check into a hotel.

Of course, if I never blog again, then you'll know that Liz's whole "happy-go-lucky mother of two" online persona was just an act. I hope you'll miss me.

p.s. The Rockefeller Plaza Christmas tree went up today, the red cups arrived at Starbucks yesterday, and this morning I had my first Eggnog Latte. So I couldn't resist. Christmas music season began this morning in my office. How much do my coworkers hate me?

Quick Hits

2007-11-05T16:24:00.000-05:00

A few schizophrenic and totally unrelated thoughts...

On Halloween night I was on the E train, and I saw two friends dressed up as an Arab and a Jew. And the costumes were PERFECT. The one had on the red-checked head covering, the white robe, thick black mustache, the shiny, reflective sunglasses. The other was dressed all in black, had the sidelock curls, the black hat with the brim. Just perfect. And I was overtired, and punchy, and couldn't stop laughing. I'd get myself under control, and look at them out of the corner of my eye, and start giggling all over again. I heard someone compliment their costumes, and the Arab responded, totally deadpan, with, "Oh, this is real." Cue additional giggling. I came very close to asking if I could take a picture of them for my blog. But then I remembered this is New York, and we don't do that. They absolutely made my night. Well, them and the teeny Donald Duck in the stroller who was so tired he was head-bobbing.

I called my mom when I got home from Florida to tell her I was back in New York, and she told me she didn't know I was away and had to hear about it from her sister, who heard from my sister.
Me: "I called before I left and told dad all about it. We had a long conversation. Didn't he tell you?
Mom: Long Pause. "No."
Me: "When I call the house to tell you guys something and I get Daddy, do I have to actually specify to him that he needs to tell you?
Mom: "Evidently, yes."
Good job, Dad. The thing about my dad is that his phone behavior is completly dependent on what he was doing, and therefore what you pulled him away from, when you called. Some days I'm dying to talk to my mother and he's feeling chatty. Other days I get a perfunctory half-attention, and then when my mother gets close enough to pass off the phone he cuts me off no matter where I am in my story to say, "Here's your mother," regardless of which one of them I actually called to talk to.

While fall may have officially arrived in September, the weather around these parts only got on board recently. But it's here. Which means that today was the first day totally conducive to all my favorite things about fall: I'm wearing my red boots that zip up the sides, I had a pumpkin space latte this morning at breakfast, I have on a brand-new sweater I bought this weekend, I'm still feeling the afterglow of yesterday's big Pats win, and I got to wear my pink coat, which is my very favorite piece of clothing. It's like a perfect storm of things that make me happy.

Oh, and I got these pictures from Sarah. They sure do have pretty fall decorations at her house. All I've got at mine is a felt pumpkin...

It's Our Anniversary

2007-11-01T18:21:00.000-04:00

My Beloved New York City,

You know what today is, don't you? Of course you do. It's our anniversary. Ten years ago today, I gave up my old life to move here and be with you. It wasn't easy at first. There were a lot of tears (all mine) and some cruel tricks (those would be yours).

While I knew Woonsocket and I weren't meant to be together forever, giving up my old love for you was still tough. W might have been all wrong for me, but he was comfortable. And you, well, you challenged me. W never left me stranded on a platform because I wasn't aggresive enough to push my way onto a crowded train. He never dumped me off in Harlem because I was reading a book and didn't notice I was on the wrong subway. That trick you played, New York, the one where I was all dressed up and lost one shoe on your subway, and ended up at work in a velvet dress, blazer, and sneakers, with no shoes to change into? Not cool. And that same day, when that cheap black velvet dress dyed my entire body purple? You laughed, I know you did. And that was all just the first month we were together. You're lucky you shaped up, New York, because I'm not sure how long I could have kept going like that.

But let's not rehash the way you hurt me. Let's focus instead on the good times. And in our ten years together, we sure have had some. There was the cocktail party you made it possible for me to attend, with Arthur Miller and Studs Terkel. The one where I had a whole conversation about John Steinbeck, my all-time favorite author, with his son. It took me weeks to be able to talk about that without giggling like a little girl.

There were nights walking your streets, and mornings when it was already light out as I left the club from the night before. That one time, when you threw in the early-morning snow for dramatic effect--I really appreciated that. There were drunken cab rides, going over the 59th Street bridge, looking at the lights below me, while I dangled my feet out of the cab window and giggled on my cell phone. There have been Broadway shows, perfect days walking along your rivers or sitting in your parks, and more opportunity than I ever could have dreamed of finding with another city.

I don't know what I'd do withhout the people you introduced me to. The friends who taught me that the expression "urban family" is more than just an expression. The roommates who were far better spirited about me coming home late at night and getting into bed with them than I had any right to expect. The road trip friends, and the dancing friends, and the party friends, and the playing Scrabble in a coffee shop friends, and the comfort me when I'm sad friends, and the watch football and eat wings together friends.

New York, for a relationship that I first thought was only temporary, we've sure been through a lot together. You taught me and stretched me, and made me grow up in a way I never would have in that cozy cocoon I was in before you. And I'd like to think that even just a little bit, I've made you better too. Or at least a little bit brighter and filled with a little more laughter.

Happy Anniversary, New York. Love you. Mean it.

Gulp

2007-10-26T13:57:00.000-04:00

Gulp. Gulp. Gulp. That's the sound of me drowning.

I've got worked piled up so high I've started having avalanches in my office, I still haven't mailed my godkids' Halloween presents, and I'm leaving tonight for vacation. I'll be in Florida until Wednesday with 3 of my college friends, celebrating my friend Vicki's birthday. She's one of my favorite vacation buddies, and her parents have a house on Marco Island. I love that about her.

But have no fear. I'm bringing my trusty laptop. With any luck, I'll come back on Thursday tan, rested, re-energized, and with lots of great blog fodder.

Miss me!

p.s. I LOVE kids in costumes. I usually come home early on Halloween, wander around the neighborhood baby-watching (there are literally THOUSANDS of kids in my neighborhood), and then when the little ones start to fall aslleep, go home and post a note in the hallway saying that trick-or-treaters are welcome in my apartment. But since I'm flying in on Halloween night, I'm missing my tradition. So help a girl out. If you've got kids, send me their Halloween pictures please.

p.p.s. In the pre-Ella days, I used to have fierce baby envy at Halloween, but now I just buy her costume. This year, when all the other little girls are going as fairies and princesses, she's going as a linebacker, in her Tedy Bruschi jersey. That's my girl...

Guest Blogger: On Matters of Baseball and Religion

2007-10-24T17:02:00.000-04:00

The Red Sox are in the World Series, and I was debating what to say, when my roommate Jodie sent this to me. I hate admitting that someone may be smarter than me, but well, she is. Also, funnier. Hell on my ego, I tell you. And really, there is nothing I can write that can even compare with this. So she's today's guest blogger.

Ok, so I've always been somewhat ambivalent about the Red Sox. Having grown up in Kansas City, an (admittedly pathetic) American League city, I gravitate to American League teams, which, having lived in NYC for the last five years, means the Yankees.

And, if you like the Yankees, you basically have to hate the Red Sox as a matter of course. So the Yankees are (sort of) my adopted team (especially because, no matter what anyone says about him being boring and/or possibly having herpes, I think Derek Jeter is pretty), but the Red Sox do have those cute little red socks on their hats (as a girl who actually likes sports, I'm a little embarrassed that these are actual criteria, but they are). On the other hand, since breaking the infamous "curse," the Red Sox do seem to whine more than any other deep-pocketed winning team, but I get most of my Sox news from the NY press so perhaps it's clouded.

My point: ambivalence. I was unsure who to root for in the world series until last night.

I had heard rumblings that the Rockies had a lot of Christians on their team and they were guided by God or whatever, and, it does seem to a casual observer that God does really like the Rockies, allowing them to win 21 of their last 23 games or something and sweep the NLDS and the NLCS and then take a nice relaxing 8-day vacation (I actually wish God loved me enough to give me an 8-day vacation, but there are a couple of frat parties from college that pretty much guarantee that's just not going to happen).

But, the scuttlebutt at this dinner party last night had it that the Rockies-God connection might be a little more than casual, and, by a little more, I mean A LOT more. So, this morning I googled it and found this:

And, I'm disturbed. I am not against people believing in God or anything like that but when USA Today, which is probably the most middlebrow, innocuous paper in the country, can basically imply that you are recruiting a God squad of what you call players with "character" ( i.e. Christians only, and only two, quite possibly accidental, blacks) then you know the situation is probably even scarier than it comes across on paper. Now, I know that the Rockies aren't the only fundamentalists in baseball. And I also know that not all fundamentalists are batshit crazy (or not all the time? Actually, I don't know that much about fundamentalists). I guess what I'm trying to say is that I'm all for religious tolerance except that this article makes the Rockies sound like they are promoting a form of religious intolerance that I just find ridiculous and completely offensive. I don't know why but I'm just floored by this institutionalizing of religion in sports and the fact that no one is calling them on this (or suing their asses off for religious discrimination, frankly). Am I overreacting?

My main conclusion, though, is this: if God really has the time/inclination to concern himself with the World Series, then I hope he favors Boston. And whereas before I would probably only be a casual observer of the proceedings, I am now wholly invested in their victory. G-O S-O-X!

Dear God,
I know, it's been awhile. I've been busy. Also, I don't quite believe in you. But, let's focus. You love all your creatures, right? And I've never really asked you for much and the things I have asked were more of the trivial, please-get-me-out-of-this-type requests that I know you don't pay any attention to normally (although, that one time, after the broken condom, if that was you . . . sincerely, THANKS). Ok, so back to me and my (small) request. I won't get into the fact that there are fires raging in Southern California, soldiers (and Iraqi civilians!) dying in Iraq, genocide in Sudan, yada, yada, yada, and how you probably have more important things on your mind. I know that's just something non-believers say to deny your infinite power. You totally have time for all that plus touchdown passes, and making sure people sing well enough to win Grammys and getting people to the pit stops first on The Amazing Race. So, we're on the same page, is what I'm saying. And I know you've been helping the Rockies out. This isn't inside knowledge, they tell everyone (is that allowed?). Well, anyway, I know. And I'm here to ask you if you could, maybe, switch teams? Not permanently. Seven games at the MOST. Now, I know the Red Sox might not all seem like they are totally "on board," but Curt Schilling definitely is, and I'm sure when Manny said that if the Sox didn't win the ALCS it wouldn't really matter, he added, "because it's God's will." That was just cut out by the sports reporters who are basically Godless heathens anyway. Or he may have mumbled. He does that sometimes. So, what I'm saying is that even though some of the Red Sox might keep copies of Playboy in their lockers, and a few of them, occasionally as baseball players sometimes do, might accidentally find their penises in an unidentified groupie or two, that I know that they love you and even though they may not be asking for it quite as loudly, they really, really want you on their side. And you're supposed to help people who can't help themselves, right? Sorry, I'm a little rusty on this stuff. Is that right? I'm going to assume it is. From everything I've heard, you're one helpful lady. Ok, so we're clear. I'm asking you to help the Sox win the World Series. I know if you do this, you probably won't hear the end of it for several months. From what I hear, the Rockies are incredibly diligent in their communication with you. But, I think you should know, I don't think the Rockies are doing the right things with your love. And, sure, right now it's just a little garden-variety (practically harmless) religious discrimination. But you never know. People do some crazy things when they think you are on their side 100% of the time 24/7. So, not to overstate the case or anything, but a Red Sox win might just mean a victory for civilization. Or mankind. Or both. No pressure.

Ok. That's all, God. I'm actually really glad we had this little chat. I promise not to bother you again for a really long time. The Amazing Race starts again on November 4th, so I know you'll be busy.

Your friend,
Jodie

Operation Match

2007-10-23T13:27:00.000-04:00

Ok, guys. It's dire. Everything I always feared about online dating. Except worse.

The profile went live Thursday, and I've taken Polly's advice. Rather than reading guys' profiles in depth, therefore getting my heart set on them, I'm emailing anyone who looks like potential with the subject line: Maybe a match?
And this email:
It looks like we might be a match. If you're interested, I'd love to hear from you.

Simple, direct, and totally ineffective. I've heard back from only two guys, one to tell me he was seeing someone, but just staying on Match until his membership expires (Translated loosely: in case I find someone better). And one guy who is both locationally undesirable and has a kid (which would be fine in someone I was crazy about, but not someone who's on the fence already.)

One of the things you can do is "wink" at people, and I've gotten a few, and responded to them with a wink of my own, expecting them to take the lead on actual conversation. One did. And that turned out to be unfortunate.

Him: Good Afternoon! Hope you are having a great day! I am in the Bergen Beach area of Brooklyn! I look forward to hearing from you! Ciao! (his name, which I'll leave out)

Me: (4 days later, but there was a weekend in there, and I have a life):
Hi! It was great to get your message. I'm in Queens--Jackson Heights.
What do you like to do for fun?

Him: It couldn't of been too great, it took you long enough to respond, you didn't even leave a name??

Um, check please... so yes, my great dating adventure is off to a slow start.

I did, however, go to my first Mensa Singles event last night. Two of my friends (they're comediennes, those girls) were emailing today with their guess of how the night went. I'll share their conversation:

V: Did you have fun? Did you meet anyone? And I’m so curious, where does Mensa meet?

K: prob at a library or museum or something :oD

V: Well, I picture it in two ways. The first is in a large auditorium, maybe chess boards set up in one corner. The second is in a study with old Elizabethan furniture; couches, chests, etc.

K: the second. and it's hazy with pipe smoke.

V: And I picture Bookgirl sitting on the arm of the couch, martini in hand, chatting it up with a guy who is seated next to her.

K: and the guy is wearing a cardigan with elbow patches.

Me: How did you know? Were you guys spying???

Actually, we met for dinner at Tao, a trendy, upscale restaurant in midtown. There were eight of us, and three were men, which is almost a slam dunk when it comes to the New York City female to straight male ratio. Short of a sporting event, those are the best odds you're going to get.

The guys were good-looking and very nice, and conversation was vibrant all around. No numbers were exchanged, but we all promised to do another event soon, so who knows?

After having been deliberately out of the dating scene for so long, I thought that putting myself back on the market was going to open a floodgate of possibilities from the universe. But right now, I'm just hoping for a trickle.

p.s. I've gotten a few sympathetic emails, so I'd just like to state for the record that I'm not feeling at all sorry for myself. If that post sounded at all dejected or whiny to you, please go back and reread it with my "I find this all really amusing" voice. There, that's better.

L.O.V.E.

2007-10-19T17:05:00.000-04:00

My friends Kris and Chris (yes, really) got married on Saturday, and it was one of those magical days that I wish I could save in a snow globe so I could shake it up and revisit it whenever I wanted to.

About 15 of my sorority sisters were there, plus significant others, some additional friends, and all our best gays. Throw in an open bar into the mix, and seriously, what more can a girl ask for? From the time we got there until the last song ended, unless the DJ specifically told us to sit down, we were on the dance floor in a big pack. And we're all so free and easy with one another that the lines behind us seem to blur at those moments. It's totally natural to just grab whoerever's closest and start dancing up against them--guy, girl, whatever. At one point, I looked around. I was dancing with one of the boys, M was kissing A's husband on the cheek, another girl was dancing with T's husband. And it occured to me: this is what love looks like. This is proof positive that yes, sometimes you can pick your own family.

The bride is a couple of years yearger than me, so while my whole crew was there, she also had a bunch of younger girls from the sorority, who pledged after I graduated. They're just as close as we are, and it made me feel like we had to have done something right in choosing who we passed the sorority on to, because they found the same things we found, share the same bond we share. And isn't that what it's all about?

I'm not an Ashlee Simpson fan. I find her vapid and largely untalented, and I think her career wouldn't exist if it weren't for an agressive father and famous sister. But there's this one song of hers that they play in my gym, and I can't help liking it despite myself. I was going to post to the lyrics, but in print they sound even more mindless, so here are the important ones:

"L.O.V.E."

I'm talkin' bout love
All my girls stand in a circle and clap your hands. This is for you.
Ups and downs, highs and lows.
No matter what, you see me through
All my girls, we're in a circle and nobody's gonna break through.

And isn't that what friendship really is? Whether you're on the dance floor, or sitting around a table eating dinner, or emailing from hundreds or thousands of miles away, your friends are the ones who form that tight little circle with you, who help you block out anything you don't want in. And the beauty of circles is that it's always easy to to let one more link in and make it just a little bit bigger, a little stronger.

p.s. I'd post pictures, but none of my friends sent theirs around yet, and when I was bringing things into my apartment from the car the other day, I threw the camera and the half a cup of coffee into the same bag. Because I'm a moron.

Gauntlet Thrown

2007-10-18T15:38:00.000-04:00

Polly Poppins likes to think of herself as a matchmaker. She prides herself on the fact that she even fixed her West Coast best friend up with her husband. But seriously? How hard could that have been? The Dol is petite and adorable, smart and funny, and unencumbered by my irrational terror of commitment. So I decided it was time to present Polly with a real challange.

The last time Polly fixed me up was the summer between high school and college. And it worked out well, except for the fact that I had to explain all the big words to him. You might think that would be a deal breaker, but not so much. We liked them big and dumb back them. We had a great summer fling and he was added to the list of men who almost took my virginity, before I lost my nerve at the last moment. (That's a story for another blog, but I'd like to take this opportunity anyway to apologize. I was that Catholic girl who liked to pretend she was edgy and wild. But just wasn't. And I'm sure that really sucked.)

Since that was the last time Polly and I lived within 200 miles of one another, future fix-ups were difficult. Sure, there was the Marine in Georgia on spring break, and the cute banker in New Orleans at Mardi Gras, and the trust fund guy on that one beach vacation, but they hardly even count. She's been dying to get her hands on my love life for years.

So this is it. The gauntlet has been thrown down. I plunked my credit card down for a three-month membership on Match. com, let her set up a profile, and let her say anything she wanted about me. I've agreed to take her advice, go out with anyone she tells me to. My romantic destiny is putty in her hands.

I figure she has to do a better job with my love life than I've been doing, since I tend to alternate between impulsive bad choices and a vibe that can only be described as "back away slowly."

p.s. By popular demand, her's the text from the profile, and the picture I have posted. Anything where my response is something that totally doesn't sound like me, like "No way" or "Keep it healthy" was a multiple choice. Feel free to critique.

Maybe_Yes_Or_No
Click here for keys to the universe...

32-year-old woman
Flushing, New York, United States
seeking men 30-45
within 25 miles of Flushing, New York, United States
Relationships: Never Married

Have kids: None
Want kids: Not sure
Ethnicity: White / Caucasian
Body type: Full-figured
Height: 5'5" (165cms)

Religion: Christian / Catholic
Smoke: No Way
Drink: Regularly

In my own words
for fun:
I go. All week long: career, gym, play, dinner with friends, drinks, and coffee. I stop only for football on Sunday, and then I crash on the couch, in my pajamas, with the phone set to go straight to voicemail. Nothing comes between me and my boys.

my job:
I work in marketing for a major publishing house, where there's always a new book (or twelve) to keep things interesting. I love what I do and I'm proud to be good at it, but pretend I didn't say that because I'm painfully modest.

my ethnicity:
I'm of French Canadian descent, although I occasionally pass for Betty Boop. I come from a large extended family with a ton of Quebecois idiosychrasies and an almost accidental sense of humor.

my religion:
While I don't attend mass regularly, I like having a faith and ties to a greater community. There's something reassuring about being in a churchfull of people I love for a baptism, first communion, or wedding. I like the sense of history.

my education:
I went to Hofstra, which is what brought me to New York. I have an English degree (like pretty much everyone else I work with).

favorite hot spots:
One of the reasons I'm so busy is I can't walk past a chance to try something new. I've gone to London for breakfast because I could. I took up kayaking this summer just because I've never done it before. I don't want to miss anything.

favorite things:
My favorite things are Starbucks Pumpkin Spice lattes; having my friends miss me when I'm gone; shoes; white wine; and the Pats' 6-0 record. If that's not enough, I love beach combing, a good book, and having too many choices.

last read:
Never Give Up by Tedy Bruschi

About my life and what I'm looking for:
You know, if you had asked me this time last year, I would have said my perfect match was Tom Brady but now, I think I'd like someone closer to home. I've got a strong sense of self and a lot of friends, so my life is full and happy, but I'd like someone to snuggle up with on the couch on Sundays.

My best friend says my ideal match is a retired pro-football player turned airline pilot, and while I think that's going a bit far, I would like to be with someone who is independent enough to keep the relationship interesting but available enough to indulge in the romance of late Saturday night dinners and leisurely Sunday mornings.

I'd like to be with someone who's funnier than he thinks he is, who laughs more than he complains, and who thinks my head-in-the-clouds tendency to walk into walls is endearing.

I love to spoil and I love to entertain but at the end of the day, I want someone else to do the dishes.

About me Hair: Dark brown
Eyes: Brown
Best Feature: Chest
Body art: Strategically placed tattoo, Pierced ear(s)
Sports and exercise: No answer
Exercise habits: Exercise 3-4 times per week
Daily diet: Keep it healthy
Interests Book club/Discussion,
Coffee and conversation,
Dining out,
Movies/Videos,
Nightclubs/Dancing,
Political,
Travel/Sightseeing,
Watching sports

Education: Bachelors degree
Occupation: Sales / Marketing
Income: $50,001 to $75,000
Languages: English
Politics: Liberal
Sign: Pisces
My Place: Live with roommate(s)

Pets I have: No answer
Pets I like: No answer

About my date
Hair: Any
Eyes: Any
Height: 5'7" (170cms) to
8'0" (243cms)

Body type: A few extra pounds,
About average,
Athletic and toned,
Heavyset,
Stocky

Languages: Any
Ethnicity: Any
Faith: Any
Education: Any
Job: Any
Income: Any
Smoke: No Way,
Occasionally,
Cigar aficionado

Drink: Social drinker, maybe one or two,
Regularly

Relationships: Any
Have kids: Any
Want kids: Any
Turn-ons: Boldness / Assertiveness,
Brainiacs,
Candlelight,
Dancing,
Erotica,
Flirting,
Money,
Power,
Sarcasm,
Thunderstorms

Turn-offs: Body piercings

Ode to Apple Loaf, A Poem

2007-10-17T08:27:00.000-04:00

Sunday was our annual girls-only trip upstate to go apple picking. My friend Adriana, who we call Schnapps, makes this thing called Apple Loaf. It's like heaven and apples baked together into loafy goodness. I can't describe it, except to say that it's like crack, and no one but her makes it.

Every year with our picked apples, she makes these amazing loaves, and I get some. Except for the year that her thieving husband, John, ate mine because I didn't make it over to get it quickly enough, and he found it in the fridge. That bastatrd. I'm still bitter.

But anyway, I wrote this special poem for her last year, as a thank you for both the apple loaf and for hiding my piece from John. I think the poem has held up well over time....

Ode to Apple Loaf
How do I love thee, apple loaf?
Let me count the ways

I love that you're moist and squishy,
while maintaining a breadlike consistency
I love that I got a piece of you
before you ended up all in John's belly

I love that you're perfect for dinner
when I'm too tired to cook
I love that you're there at breakfast
In a house, you'd go in that nook

I love that you're a reminder
Of how much my Schnappses loves me
I'll bet you that if I fell down,
You'd be better even than a kiss on the knee

So thank you, apple loaf
And thanks to my friend
I'll be singing your praises,loafie
Right till the end

p.s. Yes, I was stone sober when I wrote this.

Say Nice Things to Me

2007-10-16T16:46:00.001-04:00

I'm baack! Sorry I've been missing. But don't worry. I got yelleded at. There were emails. I got a stern talking to from my friend Tracie. One person even delurked just to yell at me. But I'm back now. Thanks, everyone, for the kick in the ass.

I had a crappy week last week, and it wasn't crap I could blog about (hugs and kisses to all my coworkers who I told about the blog, forgetting that I may some day want to bitch about people they work for). So I couldn't rant, and I didn't have the energy to do anything else.

The highlight of my week was the day that a complete stranger walking behind me on the subway platform called me a whale on my way to work. Actually, he said to his friend, "Why do I have to be stuck in front of this whale, son?" The fact that he was a grown man who a) doesn't seem to know the difference between in front and behind and b) still uses the word "son" in 2007 softened the blow considerably, I must admit. But wait, there's more. I had a morning incident I can't blog about (but I'd like to take this opportunity to tell that person "I really hate you.") and then an afternoon incident I can't blog about, with someone I hate considerably less. Which all culminated in my closing my door and and crying. Me, little Miss "I Cry Twice a Year" crying at work. I know. It's an outrage! You hate the people too, don't you? Don't you? You should.

So I left work that day, went directly to the gym, and then headed home, picking up comfort foods on the way: steamed dumplings at the Chinese restaurant; A bottle of Reisling from the liquor store; cauliflower from the vegetable stand; and oatmeal and bananas for the next morning's breakfast. (Yes, cauliflower is my comfort food. Yes, I know it's weird.) And then I shook it off. That's one of the things I have going for me. I bounce back fast.

We have an expression in my family: "say nice things to me."
My oldest sister was sick or sad (I don't remember which), and she said to her son, "Say nice things to me." So without missing a beat, he responded with "Backhoe, bulldozer, front end loader." Because if you're a 4-year-old boy, those are nice things...

So ever since then, whenever things get tough, one of my sisters will send me a list of nice thngs. They usually involve at least one of the following: the beach, shoes, Ella, ice cream. So for me, since I've been bummed, and you, since you had to listen to me whine, I'm signing off with a list of nice things:

Starbucks Nonfat Pumpkin Spice lattes
Having you guys miss me when I go MIA
Shoes
Cold white wine
The Pats' 6-0 record

What are your "nice things"?

Shoe Slut

2007-10-04T17:27:00.001-04:00

Behold today's shoes. They're another vacation purchase. I picked them up in Florida when we did a girls' trip to my friend's house on Marco Island for her birthday one year. (I'd tell you which birthday, but it dates me.)

I love them. But they rub in the exact same spot as yesterday's shoes, leaving me in so much pain that I was reduced, when no one was looking, to hobbling along like I was crippled. On my floor, I just kicked them off and walked around barefoot. But when I had to travel for meetings, I was screwed. While yes, I do have seventeen other pairs under my desk, none of them matched. And well, you know how I feel about matching. In the interest of full disclosure, there actually was one pair that matched perfectly, but they were the square-toed loafer variety that is only acceptable under pants. With a dress they make me look Amish. Also, they make my calves look fat. My lower legs are the only thin body part I possess. I try not to mess with that.

I have a launch party tonight for the new Gawker book. Which left me with a difficult decision. Either skip the party, go with the thick-calved Amish look, or run out and buy a new pair to wear. The choice was clear. An excuse to go shoe-shopping!! Yes!!The new pair are fabulous. I'd show them to you, but then I'd lose a quickie blog topic for another day. And why make more work for myself?

But wait! There's more! While I was in the store, I got to do a good deed. I was trying on this lovely pair of patterned pumps when the woman next to me started squealing over them. We were the same size, so I let her try them on while her salesperson was busy. Then came the news. They were the last pair in our size. She gave them back, albeit reluctantly, because by all rules of shopping etiquette they were mine. And I let her buy them. Yes, I did a shoe mitzvah. My mom would be so proud, if she knew what a mitzvah was.

p.s. They were on sale, too. That has to earn me extra good person points, right??

Mischief Managed

2007-10-02T16:29:00.000-04:00

Third time's the charm. I finally have an NFL Burger King Pats jersey for my car. Who's excited?? I am!!!

I got home from the gym at almost 9 last Wednesday, and still had to go to the supermarket for my book club the next day. (Because why would I actually plan ahead, just because I was making dinner for 6?) I was exhausted and starving, and limited to things I could eat while driving. So I decided to give it one more try.

The guy behind the counter went to the back and dug through the spare boxes. He returned with handfuls of jerseys, and dumped them on the counter.
"We have everything else. But not that the Patriots."
I was sad, dejected, almost ready to give up the fight. Then I spotted the Pats jersey in the pile.
"That's it," I told him.
"Are you sure? Isn't that a Pirates jersey?"
"Yes, for that nonexistent NFL team called the Pirates. Jackass."
(Okay, I just thought that last part.)
What I really said was, "No, that's the Richard Seymour jersey." And was instantly morified at how geeky I sounded, since he clearly knew nothing about football and cared even less.

So I got my jersey. And I was in such a good mood I even threw out the french fries that came with the kids' meal. A giant thank you to everyone who ate fast food (or forced their kids to) in a valiant effort to earn me a cheap toy. I thank you. My neuroses thank you. My love of a good challenge thanks you. And your future cardiologist thanks you, since his kids will some day have to go to college.

p.s. Despite the fact that I only came up with a menu at 10:00 the night before, the book club dinner was actually a hit. I did a fall theme--spinach salad with cranberries, cheese, and pecans; tortellini with roasted butternut squash; and an apple pumpkin pie. I may do everything last minute, but that doesn't mean I don't do it well.

p.p.s. My mother has told me I couldn't pay her to come to one of my parties. It stems from the time I had a Christmas party for 30 and only came up with the menu the day before, based on what I could find at the market. Evidently, that makes her nervous. She's funny that way.

Party Like a Rock Star... Sorta

2007-10-01T16:57:00.000-04:00

Sarah decided she missed me, and she had the weekend off from the hospital, so she threw the two babies in the van, made her oldest son come along to babysit, and headed down to new York on Saturday for some Bookgirl lovin'.

Her brother-in-law's cousins own Manor, a club downtown, so we decided to do it up big. Phone calls were made, the owners knew we were coming, and VIP status was promised. We slutted Sarah up with my make-up and my roommate's clothes, and we were off.

No velvet ropes for us. We made a phone call when we got out of the cab, and Anthony came out to meet us. After air kisses all around, he brought us to the hostess and made sure she knew that we were special. The hostess got us a waitress. Our importance was reiterated. The waitress brought us to a table right off the dance floor. The tables, of course, were bottle service only, so she set us up with our bottle of Kettle One, our mixers, and left us to have our fun.

The big group next to us thought we were infringing on their space and were none too happy. The drunken suburban asshole who appeared to be their ringleader started with us, letting us know that he "had paid $5,000 to reserve these tables and we should shoo." Proving that he was not only an asshole, he also needed to find something better to do with his money, a charity perhaps. The bouncer got involved and tried to kick us out, until someone told him who we were, at which point he came over to shake our hands and apologize to each of us personally.

Now if the story just ended there, we sound like such rock stars, right? But alas, this was me, Sarah, and Jodie. So the story, well, it doesn't end there. Three intelligent women might have recognized that even though they had a full bottle of vodka, it was not necessarily a good idea to drink it all. But not us. No, we finished it off. And that's where the night took a turn for the sloppy.

I, of course, fell down. Because that's what I do. Jodie made out with a strange Israeli man. And Sarah, well, let's just say I had to undress her when we got home, since she decided to take a shower. Fully clothed. And then couldn't get her clothes off.

But wait. There's more. Sarah's sister has been trying to fix me up with one of the aforementioned cousins. Except he didn't know it. And we were going to do it all subtle-like. But when drunk, our Bookgirl is a talker. I'll tell anyone anything that's on my mind. And while I blessedly don't remember the details, I have a faint recollection of filling him in on the plan. In what I'm sure was a really sexy slur. Classy... Sarah's bit of the memory was him looking at us and saying, repeatedly. "Go home. Just go home." (Sarah, If you remember anything else, or hear anything at a later date from your sister, you're not allowed to tell me. The pool of shame I'm swimming is deep enough, thank you very much.)

So yes, while our big glamorous night may not have ended entirely the way we planned, and my fantasies of spending a happy life together with Cousin James and his Hamptons House are now out of the question, we got to be VIPs for the night. We drank, we laughed, we danced. We partied like rock stars. Sorta.

Pulling a Bookgirl

2007-09-28T16:28:00.000-04:00

Sarah called me today to tell me she "pulled a me." Any time one of my friends starts a conversation with "I pulled a you" it means one thing and one thing only. That they fell, publicly, while people were there to see it, in some spectacularly embarrassing way.

It might have something to do with the fact that I fall down. A lot. And that if I can break it, lose it, spill it, or hurt myself with it, I will do just that. Those of you who don't know me well might think I'm exaggerating. I'm not.

My falls take one of two forms: there are the slow falls, the ones where I start going down, and know it's coming but can't stop myself. I usually start giggling before I even hit the ground, and I'm told that I look almost graceful, since I've perfected the art of kind of gliding down to minimize the impact. I once was in a coffee shop in SoHo on a snowy day and slid on the wet floor. I hit the floor, got back up, and didn't even spill a drop of my latte. That was one of my prouder moments. If I had to choose, I like those falls the best. They make people laugh, because I'm laughing so hard. And as long as folks are laughing with me, not at me, we're all good.

The second kind of fall, though, well they just suck. Those are the ones I don't see coming. My friends describe it as "one second you're there, and then you're just gone." I'll be cruising along, not paying attention to where I'm going, and I just go down like a brick. The next thing I know I'm face down on the ground surrounded by onlookers with expressions of horror. Inevitably, someone will try to be helpful and assist me up before I'm ready, and will not let go of my arm. So now I'm floundering on the ground with a complete stranger gripping me, adding insult to the injury. Next time you try to help someone up and they say "I'm fine" what they really mean is "Please, for the love of God, go away so I can start pretending this didn't happen." Those falls are embarrassing. Also, they really hurt. And usually leave me dirty. I hate being dirty.

I was at Polly's once and I spilled coffee, and she said, without irony, "That's okay. We purposely waited until after your visit to have the carpets cleaned." I have one earring and one glove from almost every pair I've ever owned. I once spent all of Mardi Gras with a giant bruise on my head from where I fell out of a bathtub our first night there, and I've seen Disney World from the vantage point of a wheelchair.

Yes, I'm clumsy. And I've resigned myself to the fact that embarrassing and potentially painful experiences are the ones people most closely identify with me. But just once, wouldn't it be nice if someone did something kind, or thoughtful, and referred to it as "pulling a Bookgirl?"

My sister Jean, in a moment of kindness, told me I had to outgrow the clumsiness eventually. But we both knew she was lying. I'm just like our sister Denise. And Denise is in her 50s, still falling on a pretty regular basis. She's had more broken bones then some NFL career starters. It's okay, though. We both have excellent insurance. And a well-developed ability to laugh at ourselves.

People to See. Social Butterflying To Do.

2007-09-26T09:00:00.000-04:00

I know, I know. I've been lousy at posting lately. I got a disgruntled phone call yesterday telling me the caller was "starting to twitch a little" from lack of blog. I'm so proud. I gave someone the DTs.

Lots of exciting things going on around here lately. I got this email Monday afternoon from one of my coworkers:
SATC is shooting downstairs right now. RUN! ;-)

Yes, they were shooting scenes from the Sex and the City movie in my building. Just about every twenty- and thirty-something woman in the company suddenly found an urgent need to wander outside and get some air. As I was leaving the building with 3 of the marketing girls, we saw 4 of the publicists coming back into the building. As we came back in, we saw another group coming out. I have this mental image of the men walking around, seeing all those empty offices, asking, "Where did all the woman go?"
I know the picture is tiny. Sarah Jessica has on the red dress. The yellow jacket is Kim Catrall.You can just see Cynthia Nixon's hair, and Kristen Davis is on the right with the black flowered sundress and the white purse.

Then Monday night, I got to make sushi. I can't even describe how cool that was. In addition to my two book clubs, I also have a supper club of sorts. (Yes, I'm a joiner.) Six of my college friends and I take turns hosting dinner parties. It started organically shortly after college when we had pasta at my friend Ron's house one night, with jarred sauce, sitting on the floor because he didn't have a dining room table. The events (and the furniture) have gotten a little more elaborate since then, and fortunately our collective culinary skills have improved vastly, but by keeping it to just the seven of us, then the dinners never get too big, and no one ever has to be insulted about not being invited, since it's a set group.

Ron and his fiance just got back from a trip to Japan, and before they left they took a sushi-making class to get into the spirit. So they bought us all the supplies, and taught us how to make our own rolls. It was so much fun, and a lot easier than I thought it would be. I even got to make wasabi paste.

Yesterday, my friend Mandy, another of my very best friends from home, came into the city to meet me for dinner. Her husband's consulting on a project in Connecticut (they live in Mass.) and she drove down to visit him for a couple of days with their daughter Delaney and the new baby we'll get to meet in a couple of months. They came into the city to meet me for dinner, and it was so great to see them. We did the Times Square tourist thing, Delaney and Steve got to ride the giant ferris wheel in Toys R Us (Liz, I'll let you ride it if you're really good), and then we went to Hard Rock for dinner since Steve had never been. It turns out Melissa Etheridge was doing a Breast Cancer event there at the same time, so they were playing it on the screens in the restaurant, and Al Gore was there. I know that after all the celebrities I've met, being just in the same building as Al Gore, not even meeting him, shouldn't excite me, but it did.

Also, I found another reason to love Melissa Etheridge. I think it takes a lot of self-confidence to be a celebrity, and to be that real at the same time. She's a middle-aged woman who looks like a middle-aged woman. She has lines on her face, and is a little overweight, and was wearing what could only accurately be described as mom jeans. She looked great, but she looked like anyone else you could see on the street or at the supermarket. We live in a culture where you're supposed to be impossibly thin and unlined and perfect, no matter what age. And for celebrities, that pressure is multiplied exponentially. I love that she just is who she is. You can like it. You can not like it. I get the impression she doesn't much care.

So yes, a little less blogging this week, but a whole lot of fun. I figured you'd all understand. You know what they say. When Bookgirl ain't happy, ain't nobody happy.

p.s. I got all my hair chopped off yesterday, and I totally love it. I keep doing the hair flip, just so I can feel it.

2007-09-20T14:03:00.000-04:00

My friend Midge has been working really hard at changing her life. (If she were here as I wrote this, she’d want me to add that no, that’s not her real name; no, she’s not an 80-year-old woman; she’s not really a midget; and even though it was bestowed affectionately, she likes this nickname a lot less than I do.) But that’s not the point. The point is that she has been working her ass off at making her life the one she dreams of. She’s doing seminars, taking leadership training, working on changing decades of set patterns in her life.

Even though I tease her about having drunk the Kool-Aid (it was the first seminar that set her on this path), the truth is that I’m really inspired by her. We all have those things about our lives we want to change. The things we complain about while lying on our asses on the couch watching television, doing absolutely nothing about them. But she’s actually going out there and trying to do something about hers. And on top of it all, she’s been doing all sorts of volunteer work, to take the focus off just making herself better and pointing some of that energy outward.

I have a quote from Mahatma Gandhi tucked into my bedroom mirror: “Be the change you want to see in the world.” And while I really do agree with the sentiment, sometimes I lose touch with it. I forget that I want to be the person who does things to make other people’s lives a little brighter, not just the person who’s devoted all her non-working hours to getting thinner. I can remember being a teenager and having one of my New Years resolutions be to do something nice for someone every day. Teenage optimism, however, doesn’t always translate well to adulthood.

So with Midge as an inspiration, I researched some volunteer opportunities and spent Tuesday night reading with kids in a homeless shelter. My group was five- and six-year-olds, and absolutely adorable. Of course I fell madly in love with one of them, and briefly considered tucking him into my purse. But that won’t surprise anyone who knows me. It’s funny, really, how selfish it can feel to be unselfish. How I always seem to get more out of the nice gestures than I put in. I’ve been focusing so much on creating less of me that I forgot, for a little while, how good it feels to be more. Thanks, Midge, for the reminder.

Theme Song

2007-09-19T13:51:00.000-04:00

A few months ago, I had emailed around to ask people this question: If you had a theme song, what would it be? Mine has, for years, been Make Your Own Kind of Music by Mama Cass. How could I resist the lyrics “Make your own kind of music. Sing your own special song. Make your own kind of music, even when nobody else sings along”??

But wait. There’s more. I can even picture the opening montage if I had my own tv show. It would all be very That Girl—-me frolicking around New York City in a cute little sleeveless swing dress (black, of course, maybe with a flower) carrying a big red umbrella. I’d dance, I’d flirt, maybe jump into a giant puddle. Can’t you just picture it? God, I want opening credits…

Okay, I got a little too wrapped up in that fantasy. Where was I? Right. Theme songs. So what would your theme song be? What puts a little bounce in your step? If you’re facing something that intimidates you, what’s the song that reminds you that you can do anything, accomplish anything? What’s the song that reminds you that you’re you, and being you is just great? Do tell.

Your Mission, Should You Choose to Accept It

2007-09-18T09:00:00.000-04:00

You all know about my quests for the unattainable object. But this one's dangerous. I can't do it on my own. I'm asking for help.

The Burger King kids' meals right now come with the coolest toy ever--teeny little NFL jerseys on suction cups. I hadn't been to Burger King in ages, since it's not exactly compatible with Weight Watchers, but we stopped for lunch on the way to New Hampshire. The kids' meals each came with a teeny jersey, and I was hooked. We got a couple of totally random teams, and one Miami jersey that I personally think should be burned. Ella and Jacques, of course, couldn't care less what colors the jerseys were. They were thrilled. But I found myself thinking "Wouldn't a little Pats jersey look adorable stuck to the back window of my new car? My car's red. It'll even match!" And well, I'm a little obsessed when it comes to things matching. Now I had the idea in my head. And we all know that for Bookgirl, that way lies madness.

So last Tuesday I went to the BK in Rockefeller Center at lunch, and convinced the girl behind the counter to rummage through the box looking for a Pats jersey. They didn't have one. At that point I obviously couldn't leave without ordering something, so I bought my favorite chicken sandwich. How bad can that be, right? 16 points. That's how bad it can be.

Then Saturday I decided to try again at the Burger King in my neighborhood. This time the cashier smirked at me and said "Cheaters" before he looked. Still no jersey. And a cheeseburger and small fries is 13 points, as it turns out.

Now the calories aren't the only reason why this is a bad idea. I've always believed that putting things on your car to make it a target is just stupid, particularly when you park on the street like I do. Every time I see a bumper sticker identifying the driver as gay, I applaud the pride and then wonder, "Aren't you just inviting some drunken asshole to slash your tires on his way home, just because he can?" And given the current situation it's not a great time to be a Pats fan anywhere, but particularly in New York. But that's tomorrow's post.

The point is that I want, no, NEED this jersey. And that's where you come in, my friends. Some of you have kids. Wouldn't your kids really LOVE Burger King for lunch? Or dinner? Or whatever? And wouldn't they love to request the Patriots jersey with their meal, so they can send it to Auntie Bookgirl? Who will, of course, reimburse mommy and daddy for the cost of the meal, shipping, gas to get to BK, whatever. I'm desperate here. My ass is big enough already, and stalking Burger King isn't helping. Besides, they're kids. They're little. They can burn calories faster than I can. Come on. Help a sister out.

Bookgirl vs. the Towel

2007-09-17T13:13:00.000-04:00

I know there hasn't been a Weight Watchers update in a while. I haven't been holding out on you, people. There just hasn't been any good news to share. For the past two weeks I've been slowly working off the weight I gained during my "I'm young and single. Who cares about Weight Watchers??" week. But that's all behind me now. As of today I lost back that weight plus an additional pound, so I'm 16.6 down in 12 weeks. I'm not going to win any races at this speed, but it's a marathon not a sprint. Or at least that's what they tell us to make us feel better.

My beloved Weight Watchers leader is out on maternity leave and today was the first meeting with the new one. I've been known to walk out of a meeting and never come back because I didn't like the leader, so I was a bit wary to say the least. A bad Weight Watchers meeting is like having a therapist you don't like. Going is pointless, because you're not going to get any real work done in that room. I like the people in my meeting. I like the day and time. I didn't want to have to find a new one. But it was all good. Phew. She's funny and smart and energetic, and likes to give out little star stickers as much as I like getting them. We're going to get along just fine.

Today's meeting topic was having big dreams, and setting goals. My redheaded friend has been talking about this on her blog, and I've been thinking about it, so this was the perfect topic for me. My goal is simple. To conquer the gym towel.

I hate that freaking towel. It's little. I'm big. Not a great combination. Me and the towel, we're going to have to take it outside one day. All I want is to be able to wrap it all the way around me. Not mostly around me. Not 3/4 of the way around me so I have to pick which bit of me hangs out. All the way around. Those skinny girls at the gym just tie it around their breasts and get ready, all their personal bits covered while they do their hair. I hate those bitches. And no, just taking a bigger towel from home doesn't count. That's cheating.

So it's on. Me and you Towel, we're going to have a showdown. Be prepared. May the best woman/terry cloth rectangle win.

The Quest

2007-09-13T14:06:00.000-04:00

Today’s big revelation about myself: I can be a bit of a perfectionist. I know you’re all shocked. I once had a teacher tell my parents, “Bookgirl isn’t good at getting things wrong.” I was six. Yes, little Bookgirl was essentially grown-up Bookgirl, except shorter. And without the boobs.

That search for perfection, combined with a vivid imagination, well it’s gotten me into trouble over the years. I’ll get something in my head. Something I want desperately. Nothing but that particular thing will do. And that’s when the quest begins.

My bathroom walls were blank for a year and a half after my last roommate moved out, because I had a vision in my head of what I wanted. I wanted the perfect art to match the pretty dark red bath mat. Changing the bath mat was nonnegotiable. They had to match. They had to call out to me. And nothing I saw in any store, street vendor, or website fit that vision. I finally found prints in Seattle, when my friend Danielle took me shopping. Not only are they perfect, I get fond memories of a great vacation every time I walk in the room. It was worth the wait.
When I was a teenager, my poor mother got the worst of it. I’d make my Christmas list every year, and there’d be some starred item, something I REALLY wanted. It was always something smallish, not very expensive, so my mom would go to all sorts of lengths to find it for me. One year it was the forest green Chuck Taylor All-Stars she finally found in a navy surplus store an hour away. Another year, it was green and white striped tights. I had black and white, and I loved them.
But I really wanted green stripes too. My mom searched. And searched. And searched. Finally, on Christmas morning, after I opened my presents, she apologetically told me she couldn’t find them. Where, for the love of God, had I seen them? At which point I explained that I had never seen them. Ever. Anywhere. Not on someone. Not in a store. But the Strawberry Shortcake dolls had them. And the witch in the Wizard of Oz. And wouldn’t that be cool??
Needless to say, as an adult she requires careful annotation from me at Christmastime—exactly what I want, from where, in what size and color if applicable. Some years I’ll send her an email with the subject line “Buy me for Christmas” and a link to buy exactly what I want. She likes those years best.

So now we come to my current quest, the search that has me looking high and low in every home and kitchen shop in three states. It started with the curtains. My mom made me forest green gingham curtains when I moved into my apartment. (It was 1998. Forest green was the height of cool. I loved them.) But by last year, they were getting a little tired. So the search began. We looked at fabrics and curtains, and nothing was quite right. Until I found The Ones. The catch was they were just panels. And they were 82” long. Not quite right for the kitchen window. So I bought two of them, and mom trimmed them down to the right size. And then she used the extra fabric to make a valance and matching placemats. Yes, I’m spoiled. Horribly.

So the curtains are in place, and they’re perfect. But the kitchen accessories are all still forest green. Wouldn’t it be great if I replaced the trash can and dish drainer with pretty hot pink ones? In theory, yes. I’ve tried everything—home stores, department stores, The Container Store. Even Target failed me. And Target never fails me. I emailed every friend who had either filled out a gift registry or bought a new house in the last two years. Someone had to have seen them, right? Wrong. So I make do with my second-best, forest green trash can, resenting it a little every time I look at it. But the quest continues. I have hope.

Remembrance

2007-09-12T11:07:00.001-04:00

I am incredibly lucky. For me, unlike so many other New Yorkers, yesterday isn’t a day where I have to remember a loved one, to grieve a family member or friend lost. My family was all tucked away in their safe little suburbs. My friends all got out and got to safety before the buildings came down. I am incredibly lucky.

That first anniversary, a friend from another city sent me one of those “never forget” emails. And I pretty much exploded. Maybe the rest of the country needed to remember, but it wasn’t history here in New York. It was still happening every day. The sights and sounds and smells were still so vivid in my mind that I wasn’t sure I’d ever get them to go away for a little while, let alone forever. We were still having anxiety attacks at too many sets of sirens too close together, having our bags checked every time we entered a public building, passing barriers and police blockades and National Guardsmen every time we left our apartments.

The woman who lived 2 apartments down from me was one of the victims. For months, there were flowers taped around the tree in our front yard, with candles and the missing posters that had been posted around the city for her, as they were for so many others. Each year on the anniversary, someone tapes flowers for her to that tree. For the first few years the missing posters were added. Some years there were yellow ribbons. This year, even though her family has moved from the building, it’s the flowers and a simple note.

For many of us, yesterday was mostly a regular day. We are the lucky ones. We go to work, attend meetings, live our lives. But in our own quiet ways, we remember.

Opening Day

2007-09-10T18:03:00.000-04:00

Hey kids! Guess what I did yesterday. I'll give you a hint:

Yes, I got to see the Patriots season opener. Now I'd like to begin by apologizing to all of you who started reading me during the off-season, when the blog was foufy and girlie 100% of the time, and really could care less about football. But I promise that there will be plenty of girly, foufy posts to go around. And football season is only six months long.

Now back to the football. My friend Tara has Jets season tickets, and brings me with her every year for the Patriots game. I really love that about her. There have been years when the New York game was in December, and we were all wearing six layers, and it was almost too cold for beer. Don't worry. I said almost. We New Englanders are hearty. But on years like this one, well it's about as perfect as it gets. Wearing shorts and tank tops, sipping beer (I would never guzzle. It's not ladylike). And the first game, when the weather's gorgeous, well that just brings out the competitive tailgater in each fan. Who has the most elaborate setup? Whose tents are highest, flags are biggest, horns are loudest? Who can stake out the best spot, and cram the most stuff onto it? My friends got there at 7:30 to claim their turf. They've been refining the process over the years, and at this point have accomodations that might be nicer than my apartment--2 tents, a television, 3 coolers, a grill, tables, folding chairs, a bean bag toss game that's fancy enough to attract passers-by. I'm not going to lie. I feel cool just being there. We had snacks and steaks, chili and shellfish, a platter of sushi, and someone brought a small keg. Now that they've put in trailers with flush toilets for the girls, I could happily live in that parking lot.

And that's all before the game even starts. There's something about the energy of walking into a stadium on any game day, but especially opening day. Everyone's so hopeful, so positive that this could be the year. The crowds are chanting. Guys are hugging, shaking hands, slapping one another on the back. They've all become friends, sitting together in the same seats year after year. They have the whole off season to catch up on. Who got married, whose wife is expecting a baby, who lost weight. (Okay, that last observation was all me and Tara. The guys don't notice shit like that.) Oh, how I love the energy.

Of course, then the game started. The Patriots crushed the Jets. The energy died right quick. If you look at the picture up top, you'll see that pretty much the whole stadium was empty by the middle of the fourth quarter. Even my friends left me there alone to watch the end of the game. But you know what? They're going to be back there in 2 weeks for the next home game, hauling out their gear and cheering on their team with all their hearts. Oh, yes. I love me some football.

My Boys

2007-09-09T20:19:00.000-04:00

Does anyone else watch the show My Boys on TBS? It’s one of my favorite shows on television. Now, in the interest of full disclosure, I’m not one of those tv snobs who only watches one or two shows. We watch a lot of television in my house, and get every single penny out of our DVR. So the bar might not be set as high for me as it is for some. But still, I love this show.

My Boys centers around P.J., a twenty-something sportswriter who covers the Cubs, and her close-knit group of guy friends. Great characters, sports, and sarcasm—it’s like a show made in Bookgirl heaven. I can’t entirely relate, because I’ve always been the kind of girl who spends most of my time with other girls. I grew up in an all-female family, joined a sorority as soon as I could in college, and even was placed in the all-female dorm as an R.A. I work in book publishing, not exactly a bastion of the straight man. But I don’t have superpowers either, and I still like Heroes.

The friends are a laid-back, slightly dorky group whose social life revolves around poker night at P.J.’s apartment and hanging out at the local Irish pub. In a recent episode, when one of their friends goes over to the dark side—turning into a hipster club kid—they do the only logical thing under the circumstances. They hold a douchebag intervention. Brilliant. Just freaking brilliant. When was the last time you heard the word “douchebag” on television? Not just once, repeatedly. In almost every episode. And this is basic cable. I love the witty dialogue, the banter, the hot friend eye candy. But this episode alone is enough to win me as a fan for life.

Bitter? Moi?

2007-09-08T16:33:00.000-04:00

Do you ever have an issue from your childhood? One that you thought you had long since put away for good, right up until it comes up and smacks you in the face? It turns out that pretty much the entire state of New Hampshire is that issue for me.

When I was growing up, we took two trips to Disney World, one when I was five and the other the summer before I started junior high. Every other vacation we ever took as a family was either camping locally and taking day trips around southern New England or going to the White Mountains. There was never any deviation. Now I know I have a reputation for exaggerating, so let me clarify. When I say never, I don’t mean mostly never. I don’t mean occasionally. I mean really for truly never.

My parents love New Hampshire. And they love to mountain climb. As far as they were concerned the highlight of the trip was spending at least a few different days hiking up a mountain somewhere, looking at the view from the top, and coming back down. I’m sure there are kids out there for whom that’s a dream vacation. But I was not that kid. I was chubby, unathletic, and bookish. And I hated climbing those mountains.

I mostly liked going to New Hampshire. What kid doesn’t love vacation? We would camp right on the river, and ride the current on our SuperTubes. After my sister was too old to come with us, and before my niece and nephew started coming, there were a few years when I was allowed to bring a friend. There were theme parks and outlet shopping, and it was the one time of year my mother let me eat Cocoa Krispies for breakfast. When I look back on these vacations, there’s a lot of nostalgia, a lot of happy memories. But what I remember most vividly is the abject misery. Being yelled at by my father once I was a teenager and could do nothing right, being dragged along on outings that I absolutely loathed, huffing and puffing and hiking my fat little adolescent body up mountain after mountain. My parents still do these vacations, and they were trying to remember which one was the last I came on. My dad made the mistake of asking me.

“It was the summer after college. The year I had an anxiety attack in the middle of the mountain and you all kept going and left me there. I’m still bitter.” And you know what? I really am. That week was the single worst vacation of my life. I was 2 months out of college, living back at home and working a horrible data-entry job until I got up the nerve to start looking for jobs in New York. Even though I was working full time, my dad was furious that I wasn’t using my degree, and he was absolutely terrible to me. While he and I had always butted heads, that summer was the only time before or since he’s ever been deliberately mean. I’d be talking, and he’d talk over me like I wasn’t there. Once I called him on it, he stopped. From then on, if I was speaking he’d just walk out of the room. My sister and her family were on this same vacation, and I didn’t get to pick anything we did, anywhere we went, or anything we ate the entire trip. My father made me pay my own way when we did things to make a point. Every time I was alone, I just cried and cried. I cried in bathrooms. I cried in bed. I cried in stores when my family were in different aisles. My only request the entire week was that we go out one night for seafood for dinner. On the last night of the trip, my parents and I went out just the three of us. I was so excited that we were finally going to do something I wanted to. And then my father pulled into a barbecue restaurant. I was 22 years old, and I sobbed through the entire meal. It’s ten years later, and I have tears rolling down my face as I write this. I have never felt so unimportant and insignificant in my life. And until last week, I never went back to New Hampshire again.

I wish I could say that going back as an adult made all the old hurt go away, but that would clearly be a lie. I’m not sure if I even realized how much hurt there was until it all came back again. But it was wonderful to go there on my own terms. To know that unless I choose to, I will never have to climb another mountain. To drive by all those places we used to go and appreciate the happy memories, remember the fun times.

More than anything else I wish I could go back in time and see that 22-year-old, to let her know that she’s going to be okay. That she’s going to do it in her own time and her own way, but in a few months she’s going to make that move to New York, to take her dream job. That her father is wrong about her, and some day he’ll see it. That it’ll take years but eventually he’s going to treat her with respect, and they’ll have a great relationship. That she’s going to be strong and independent and happier than she can even dream at this age. She’s going to be more than okay; she’s going to be great.

Introducing Ruby

2007-09-07T09:15:00.000-04:00

The line that came out of my mouth most often this weekend, besides “I love you,” (No one in my life ever has to wonder. I believe in reminding them constantly.) was “Um, did I mention I have a car??” I’m not sure that there are words to describe my excitement at getting my independence back, at being able to go wherever I want without having to call a friend or family member to pick me up at the train or bus on the other end.

What’s more, I can actually drive her in reverse now! Yes, for the first couple hours, I could only go forward. It seems she has a safety, and you can only go into reverse if you push the gearshift in. It took me a very long time to figure that out, including driving over Mr. Sarah’s freshly planted lawn (love you, mean it!) and only parking in places I could pull out of. Not my finest moment.

But yes, I have a car. One I can now drive in all directions. It has a sun roof. See?

And a radio that... wait for it... ACTUALLY WORKS! She doesn’t leak in the rain like the old car did either. There are a few things that are still giant question marks, but I curled up in bed this weekend with Ella and the owner’s manual, and I think I’ve got most of the gadgets figured out. Oh, and the windows open and the doors lock without having to do it by hand. Evidently there are cars that can do those things by just pressing a button. It’s even got one of those new-fangled air conditioner thingies. Very high-tech and exciting.

Of course, because I am, after all, me, she also had 225 dollars worth of parking tickets within the first 12 hours I had her back in the city. See, it seems in New York you’re only allowed to put the registration sticker in one specific spot on your windshield. No deviation is allowed. Must be that spot. The spot I put mine, alas, was not that spot. Ticket #1. I parked in a school zone, so I had to move her by 8 am. Not a problem, since I was bringing her to get inspected before work. Unfortunately, I lost track of time and got there 10 minutes late. Ticket #2. And for the piece de la resistance, when I got there, my beautiful new car, the one I had owned for all of 4 days by this point, was hooked up to a tow truck. Ticket #3, as a result of #s 1 and 2. Fortunately I got there before they pulled away, so they let me get in the car and wait for an hour for a field supervisor to come release the car to me. If I had gotten there 5 minutes later and she had been gone, the odds of my having a full-on breakdown right there on 82nd Street are better than average, to say the least. It wouldn't have been pretty.

Shoe Slut

2007-09-06T11:43:00.001-04:00

Today's shoes are possibly my very favorite pair. The day I bought them, my sister Celeste declared them "the ugliest shoes she's ever seen." Hmph. Her taste has been suspect ever since, as far as I'm concerned.

p.s. One more funny Ella story from this weekend. I was undressing to take a shower, and Ella insisted on coming in the bathroom with me. She stared at me for a second, then stared down at herself and said, "I have little boobies." Then when I turned around to get in the shower, she spotted my tattoo. I have a tiny little red heart on my butt, just like a Care Bear does.
(Sorry for the blurriness. Have you ever tried to take a picture of your own butt?? Not easy, I tell you.) "Hey!" she asked me, "where'd you get the sticker??"

Big Girls' Weekend

2007-09-05T09:29:00.000-04:00

I’m back from New Hampshire! You know those vacations that you work up so much in your head ahead of time that you’re disappointed in the actual thing? That was not this trip. The bar was set sky-high, and the weekend was still so much better than anything we could have expected. It was perfect and magical and something I think we’ll all remember for the rest of our lives.

Even though Sarah has six kids, we only took two of them, Ella and Jacques. The 2 big boys are too old for Story Land, the baby is too little, and Luc started kindergarten yesterday and was just too freaked out over it to leave his daddy's side this weekend. So we ended up with a 1:1 adult-to-child ratio, which is just about perfect as far as I'm concerned.

There were some major milestones on this trip. In our 15+ years of friendship, Sarah and I have traveled together a lot. But it was always with my family or hers, or one of us staying at each other's house. This was the first time we planned a trip together and went, just us and the kids. Sarah's been a stay-at-home mom for a long time, and she just went back to work in the same maternity ward where she had her babies, "catching" other people's. So she got to pay for the trip with her own money, that she earned herself. I got my new car, the very first one that I picked out and paid for myself. (Ruby will be getting a whole entry on her own soon.) Sarah got the tattoo that she's been wanting for a while. Ella turned three, and the binkie fairy came during the night, to take away all her binkies and give them to the newborn babies at Mama's hospital. (I don't have any pictures of Ella blowing out candles, because she was on my lap, telling me "Me and you. Me and you will blow out the candles.) It was a big girls' weekend all around.

I am, impossibly, even more in love with my goddaughter than I was at the beginning of the weekend. She would come up to me every so often and put her nose against mine and her forehead against mine, and just nuzzle against me, loving me. Bags and bags of gold for that kid. When I sang to her, she'd put her hands on either side of my face, stare into my eyes, and just move her head back and forth to the music. She's a bundle of mush. Of course, that bundle can sometimes be wrapped up in a mighty witchy package, but what can you expect from someone who has me and Sarah as her primary female influences? One morning at breakfast she was mad at us, and she went around the table pointing at Sarah, Jacques, and I one at a time, saying, "I don't like you. And you. And you." But when I pretended to be sad, she tapped me on the arm and said, "It's okay. I like you now."

Story Land was amazing. The oldest parts of the park have been there for more than 50 years, and they're built around the nursery rhymes. Mother Goose is there, Humpty Dumpty, the Old Woman who Lived in a Shoe. Then you enter into Cinderella's kingdom, where Jacques got to take his picture with a REAL KNIGHT'S ARMOR. (He might have mentioned that a time or 80.) Ella had Cinderella wish her a happy birthday. She and I took a picture with that other godmother's wand. And lest you think it was all about the kids, Sarah and I did have a threesome with a giant cock.

We laughed and played and snuggled and swam, and it was the perfect ending to what has been an amazing summer. I even had some special pictures taken while Sarah was getting her tattoo. I always knew those kids were trouble.

So This Is What Hell Looks Like…

2007-08-29T17:41:00.000-04:00

In college, I had a theory that if I ever died and went to Hell, it would be an eternity in Kinko’s during finals week. (I still shudder at the memory.) And for all these years, I’ve held firm by that belief. But no, as it turns out that’s not the case. What Hell REALLY looks like is the midtown Manhattan DMV.

The woman in front of me gave a 15-minute dissertation on who had died and left the car behind, and who it was left to, and who needed it now and... It was like Who’s on First. Except not funny. And I was stuck behind her.

The woman in front of HER spoke so little English that she was walking up to other Asian people at random and asking if they understood and could help her. She must have found someone who spoke the same language she did, because after the fourth or fifth try, a complete stranger translated for her. Keep in mind this was just for the guy you have the 15-second conversation with to explain what you need, so he knows where to send you. Now feel free to disagree with me, but if you don’t speak enough English to explain why you’re at the registry, isn’t it dangerous for you to be driving? How do you read signs? What happens if we get in an accident? What about if you get pulled over? And that whole question aside, WHY DIDN’T YOU BRING SOMEONE WITH YOU?? My grandmother lived in this country for almost 50 years and just flat-out refused to ever learn English (Yes, I come by my stubbornness honestly.), but she also never would have gone somewhere like the registry by herself.

But all that’s beside the point now, because I’ve got the license plates in my hot little hands.
I’m heading to Massachusetts tomorrow to pick up the new car, and then we’re breaking her in with her very first road trip. Sarah and I are taking Ella and Jacques (ages 3 and 7) to Story Land in New Hampshire for their birthdays. It’s one of those amusement parks that every kid from New England went to on vacation, and I really wanted to be the one to take Ella for the first time. (By the same reasoning that made me buy her a Barbie and a Cabbage Patch Kid by the time she was 3 months, so no one else could do it before I did. I’m the godmother, dammit.)

I’ll be back Tuesday, with lots of pictures of the kids and the mountains and the car. Try not to miss me too much in the meantime.

The Powder Puffs

2007-08-28T17:09:00.000-04:00

Actual conversation from this weekend:
Guy at party: I can’t wait for football season to start.
Me: Me either.
Guy: Yeah, right.
Me: No, seriously. Me either.

Yes, I’m a girlie girl. I love shoes and make-up and anything pink. Sometimes I paint my nails while I watch the game. But I love me some football. And tonight’s my fantasy draft. I’m a little nervous—this is the first time we’ve done a live draft. I’m used to doing it at home, in front of my computer, where no one can see me frantically pawing through lists and doing last minute NFL.com searches before I make my pick. I have second pick this year, which should make me happy, but I had first pick last year and came in last in the league, so I’m not counting unhatched chickens. (Damn you, Madden Curse. Damn you!)

The actual season kickoff may be next week, but my season starts tonight. My team, as it is every year, is the Providence Powder Puffs, for the sheer pleasure of imagining one of the guys in the league having to tell his buddy, “Dude, I lost to the Powder Puffs this weekend.” He he he. That’s not going to stop being funny any time soon.

Social Life 1; Weight Watchers 0

2007-08-27T16:49:00.000-04:00

For me, the hardest part about Weight Watchers is trying to find a balance between weight loss and maintaining a social life. I’m serious about losing weight, but I’m not willing to give up girls’ nights or part ways with my good friend Margarita.

I feel like I’m usually pretty good at the give and take of it. This week, not so much. I had 2 lunches, a film screening for The Nanny Diaries with the authors (Fabulous. Go see it. Now.), margarita Friday ($3 margaritas, I have no self-control. You do the math.), a girls’ night out for 2 friends’ birthdays, what could technically be called a barbecue but instead devolved into roughly 13 straight hours of drinking beer and eating red meat, and dinner with a friend. And that’s all since Wednesday. Even if you do 2-hour workouts, the gym simply cannot make up for that kind of abuse. I only gained 1.4 pounds, though, so obviously the workouts did some damage control. Thank you, Earl.

As some of you know, Polly-my-best-friend-in-California is fascinated by/obsessed with personality types. The beauty of having a best friend with her personality type is that she's willing to do hours and hours of research on my type to figure me out, and to be the best friend possible. Mostly I smile and nod (I debated putting that part in, but you know me too well to be surprised, Pol), but she found out something fascinating about my type this week. Evidently, mine has the single hardest time with weight loss because we're such social creatures, so we don't want to miss out on anything. We hate feeling like we're missing out on a party or gathering or experience by not joining in whole hog (which for me always ends up meaning 20 points in liquor). Also, the vast majority of people in eating disorder programs are my type. I find this information totally liberating, because it means it's not my fault that this is such a struggle. I'm hard-wired that way. While it doesn't mean I can give up the fight, it does mean I can stop beating myself up over it a little bit. Which just may have been what Polly's been telling me all along about this personality stuff.

Been a Long Time Gone... Constantinople

2007-08-26T19:16:00.000-04:00

Polly and Diosa have been talking about music lately, and I decided to join in the fun. I’ve heard that for most people smell is the sense most strongly linked to memory, but for me it’s definitely sound. There are songs that can transport me back instantly to a time and place. I can remember the song I danced with my first love to at my senior prom (SWV’s Weak). Purple Haze brings me back to summers at camp, listening for hours to the guys I grew up with jamming in the rec hall. Polly and I first became friends in junior high over a philosophical discussion of Stairway to Heaven. Ever seen Dawson’s Creek? We were those teenagers.

I was out to lunch at Chat ‘n’ Chew, one of those hip, too-laid-back-to-be-trendy kind of restaurants, the kind that always have the best music, and The Cure’s Pictures of You came on. Suddenly I was seventeen again, driving my parents’ car around Woonsocket, listening to the Disintegration album like we were the first generation to ever discover angst.

I think that the music of my teens will forever be the most vivid in my mind, and closest to my heart, because in my high school at least, music was what defined you. Back before “Alternative” was a label, we were the “Progressives.” The boys listened to the Misfits and the Dead Kennedys. The girls listened to The Smiths, The Indigo Girls, and 10,000 Maniacs. Everyone listened to The Cure and the Femmes, of course. We wore earth day t-shirts with tights and plaid, pleated skirts. Your Doc Martens were your entry card to the group, and back then you had to go to a cool neighborhood to buy them. There were no Docs at the mall. The hip-hop loving crowd would clear the floor for us at school dances when Rock Lobster or Why Can’t I Be You? came on. The cafeteria was our mosh pit, and we would dance until we collapsed, sweaty and breathless.

Although I’ve upgraded most of my favorites to CD, I can’t bear to get rid of my old cassettes: They Might Be Giants, They Eat Their Own, The La’s. They’re old friends, and I want to keep them close by, just in case I need them. I love my life, and there’s nothing that could make me want to be a teenager again. I like being able to make my own rules and call my own shots, thank you very much. But sometimes it’s nice to pretend, just for a minute, that my girlfriends are all within walking distance, that we have the time to spend hours talking about music and watching Pretty in Pink for the fortieth time, that nothing can touch us in our tight little circle.

p.s. I owe you one, ladies. I can't remember the last time I had this much fun researching a blog entry.

Glad We Have Our Priorities Straight

2007-08-23T11:53:00.000-04:00

R.L. White, president of the Atlanta NAACP, gave a statement yesterday saying that Michael Vick should be allowed to return to football. And I sincerely hope that someone higher up in the chain of command chewed that guy a new asshole. When I first heard about it I just read the headline, as so many people do, and I thought that the NAACP as an organization had made this show of support. And all I could think was Seriously?!??!? THIS is what you’re choosing to focus on?? With everything going on in the world, this is where you’re devoting your time and resources?

According to their website, “The mission of the National Association for the Advancement of Colored People is to ensure the political, educational, social, and economic equality of rights of all persons and to eliminate racial hatred and racial discrimination.”

Michael Vick screwed up. He broke the law, he admitted he did it, he completely derailed his career. There was no injustice done to him. HE SCREWED UP. Do I think he should be allowed to play ball again? Sure. If he comes out of prison and a team decides he’s worth the risk and the media shitstorm, then all the power to him. He’ll serve his time, and then he gets to start over. Isn’t that the ideal of the American justice system?

But as fas as I’m concerned, whether or not he plays again isn’t really the point. The fact that an advocacy group chose this cause to champion is. Is that really what the NAACP was created for? To stand up behind millionaire athletes who shot themselves in the foot without any help from anyone else? They do good work, they help real people every day with real struggles, they give a voice to people who may not be heard. This is not one of those situations.

Addiction

2007-08-22T09:04:00.000-04:00

This topic has come up in conversation twice in the past week, so I figured why not just put my dirty laundry out there for everyone to read? For ten years, from high school until my mid-twenties, I was bulimic. If you knew me during that period and had no clue, you’re in good company. With a few exceptions, no one else did either. I am excellent at maintaining a façade. Or lying, depending on your point of view.

Someone asked me recently how I could do it, how I could bring myself to vomit. But what’s impossible to explain unless you’ve experienced it is that I didn’t force myself to do it. I CRAVED it. A counselor I saw once, when I was sixteen and we still thought it was a passing phase, explained it best: You can’t be upset and throw up at the same time. Your body can’t process both, so it has to shut down the emotions. While the root of my bulimia was in my lack of physical self-confidence, in my dissatisfaction with my body, that soon became such a small part of the picture. It’s been years since I binged with the intention of purging, but I still miss the purging part.

In the same way that someone who hasn’t had a drink in twenty years will always be an alcoholic, I will be bulimic for the rest of my life. A few years ago I got into a fight with one of my friends, which turned into a war. The battle was fought for years, with casualties on both sides. And every time she walked into a party I was at, I went into the bathroom, vomited, and had to go home. Even now, when I get upset, the worst part is not necessarily the upset, it’s the bone-deep knowledge that if I just let myself slip back into my old ways, it would fix it. It might not fix the problem, but it would make me feel better. Immediately. Sometimes I’m not even sure which is the cause of my tears—the initial issue, or the frustration that after all these years and all this work and all that freaking therapy, that this is where my body immediately goes. To an upset stomach and a voice in my ear telling me “Just do it. You’ll feel better.”

Every time I stopped, when I was positive that I had beaten it, for real this time, I would tell a few people. My older sisters. My closest friends. I figured that if they knew, then it couldn’t happen again. Like saying the words somehow made it taboo in a way that my self-loathing didn’t. It didn’t work, of course. Anyone who’s ever battled an addiction knows that fear of exposure and shame aren’t enough to actually stop you. But they watched me, and they called me on it when I started again, and they made sure I couldn’t hide it. I think that’s what kept me from ever seriously hurting myself, or from ending up in the hospital, and why I eventually was able to beat it as much as I have. Those people never let me just sink down into the dark with the bulimia. They made me face it and talk about it, and expose it. And addictions don’t flourish well in the light.

Shoe Slut

2007-08-21T09:29:00.001-04:00

The Shoe Slut feature was conceived entirely as a vehicle for me to show off this new pair of shoes. They’ve been in my apartment, waiting patiently for a day that felt fall-like enough for me to wear them. Today was that day. (Actually, yesterday was, but the shoes got trumped by my Weight Watchers milestone. I love the shoes, but all I had to do was plunk down my debit card for them. I EARNED the fifteen pounds.)

I had gone into my favorite outlet store, the only place I’ll buy gym socks because they have the perfect blend of function, comfort, and cute little embroidered designs. You didn’t expect me to work out in plain white socks, did you? While I was there I decided to breeze through the shoe section, and there they were. They were calling my name. Polly can vouch. She was on the phone with me at the time, and I spoke about them in a voice I normally reserve for Lindt truffles and muscular bald men. They didn’t have my size, and I was about to leave disappointed when I saw one pair mis-shelved. It was clear. God wanted me to have these shoes. I put them on, and that was it. They made me feel sexy and pretty and feminine. And they hardly hurt at all, which given my tendency to choose style over comfort is pretty much a slam dunk.

I wore them with all black, naturally, and kept popping into other women’s offices to show them off. The beauty of working in marketing is that my coworkers can really appreciate an accessory. One friend even asked to touch them. Now that’s a sign of a good shoe.

p.s. I took the picture in my office window so you could see part of my view. In case you were beginning to wonder if I was lying and really blogging from like Omaha or something.

Milestone Monday/Weight Watchers Ain't Easy

2007-08-20T13:10:00.000-04:00

It's a real milestone today, kids. Not like last week's fake one. I'm down 2 more pounds this week, for a total of 15.6. I've crossed the 15-pound mark in 8 weeks. My Weight Watchers leader asked me to tell the group how I was doing it. And I'm not going to lie. Weight Watchers is HARD. I know anything worthwhile is supposed to be difficult, but seriously, if someone out there has a weight loss wand they can just wave at me, I'd much rather choose that option.

It's not as hard as it has been in the past, as evidenced by the fact that I'm actually doing it and not just saying I am. I dug out my old Weight Watchers books from the file cabinet this weekend, and I found a bunch of examples where I spent a few months and a couple of hundred dollars to end up weighing more than I started. Nice. If you ever feel like paying someone to help you gain 12 pounds, I'm your girl.

There are all the different pieces that go into it: the working out, the walking, the planning ahead, writing down everything I eat, drinking enough water to save a drought-stricken country, the incessant peeing. But most of all it's the food. The picture here might look to you like what you'd pack to go camping, but no, that's just what I have to bring to get through the day without cheating. I leave my house at 8 am, and often don't get home from the gym until 9:30, and I'm always about a second away from just saying "fuck it" and grabbing a Twix bar from the vending machine. It's like Weight Watchers Survivor. What do I have to pack to get through the day without eating junkfood, turning into a raving bitch, or jumping on the woman eating the candy bar next to me on the subway and screaming, "Mine!!!!" I dedicate one weekend morning to cooking vegetables so I have them for the week, and on Sunday I cooked a spaghetti squash, a cauliflower, a brocolli, a couple pounds of brussel sprouts, and cut up half a watermelon. If you and your entire extended family ever decide to stop by unexpectedly for dinner, we could all eat comfortably.

Right around the time I was starting Weight Watchers, one of our friends had someone call her a fatty to her face. Now she said it like it was a joke, but every woman knows there's no way to spin that. That's just vicious. So of course, having our warped sense of humor, Sarah and I just can't let it go. She made up a weight loss cheer for me: "Go Chrissy, go Chrissy, you're not a fatty." And every Monday when I call her with the week's results, she doesn't even say hello. She sees it's me and answers the phone with, "Who's not a fatty?" Yes, Weight Watchers is hard. But being able to mock it makes the whole process a lot easier.

Earl

2007-08-17T10:35:00.000-04:00

This is the part of the blog where Bookgirl makes an irresponsible decision, but you all pretend it’s a good one. Let’s call you what I need you to be: enablers.

My computer at home hasn’t been working lately, so I decided to buy a new one with the money I don’t really have. I thought about what I wanted, I researched laptops, I debated exactly what I needed this computer to do, I questioned whether I could justify the cost of a new one. And then I spent the money (which again, I don’t really have) on a trainer at the gym instead.

This trainer had come up to me once while I was working out and basically said, “You’re doing that all wrong.” But he said it in such a nice way (and with such a pretty accent) that I wasn’t insulted. And then he went around the gym with me showing me exercises that were better for my body. I got lazy and eventually stopped working out, as these things go. But then when I got back into the groove this summer, I saw him there one day. The seed was planted. Should I get him to train me? And then something sealed the deal in a way nothing else could have. I didn’t see him again for months. Let’s face it, ladies. There’s nothing I want more than something I can’t have.

This, I’m sorry to say, is where the stalking set in. I tried showing up at different times to find him. I cornered the girl at the front desk and described him in detail until she finally figured out who I was talking about and could tell me his name. For the sake of the story we’ll call the trainer Earl. Because it sounds cool. Also because it’s his name.

So this week, finally, FINALLY, Earl and I were at the gym at the same time. Our eyes met. I sidled over to him and said, in my sexiest voice, “Hey baby, you looking for a girl?” (Okay, really I said “Can you come over when you have a sec. I want to buy some sessions,” but the first version sounded way better, right?) Now deep down, I know that he can’t possibly live up to the hype. It’s going to be like every time that hot guy I’ve been fantasizing over finally talks to me and I realize he’s dumb as a stump. But right now, I have the best thing of all: hope. I’m quite sure that Earl, I, and my new body will be quite happy together. Let’s hope he doesn’t work me so hard that I have to go all Dixie Chicks on him.

Shoe Slut 2

2007-08-15T10:28:00.001-04:00

I love today's shoes. And what's more, they're a source of a good memory. Diosa and our friend Amy, with whom we've been friends since the second or third grade, came to New York to spend a weekend with me. We saw Sweet Charity on Broadway and went to nice restaurants and wandered around the city. And Amy was pregnant at the time, which made it all the more special. We had one of those perfect girls' weekends, the kind that just make me feel lucky to be me. And in some teeny little shoe store in Chelsea, I found these shoes. I love pink. I love flowered anything. I love shoes. It's like the perfect storm.

p.s. I was going to crop out the background, but since you've all heard stories about what a train wreck my office is, I decided to leave it in so you knew I wasn't exxagerating. Also, to make you feel better in case you were beginning to worry I was perfect. (Stop giggling!!!) My boss came into my office when I got back from vacation and said, "I thought something wasn't right. I could see the carpet in here. But then someone reminded me that you were away and had shipped out all the books before you left. That made more sense." Thanks, Mr. Bossman.

Remembering Vikki

2007-08-14T13:20:00.000-04:00

I know there are people for whom their college sorority is ancient history, just a group of women they were friends with when they were young. I am not one of those people. Ten years after college, my sorority sisters are still the women who take me out for every birthday, who let me spend holidays with their families when I can’t be with mine, who share my good news and bad, who pick out bridesmaid dresses for me to wear or scripture to read at their weddings. They are, in every way, my New York family. And when things go right or wrong for any one of us, there we all are: at weddings, funerals, bars, barbecues, birthdays, showers, and hospitals. For me to go a day without texting or calling or emailing at least one of them is rare. For me to go a week is almost unheard of.

But now we’ve lost one of our own. At first I wasn’t sure if I wanted to write about it, or even if I should. I wasn’t as close to her as some of my other friends were, and it didn’t feel like my story to tell. But isn’t it everyone’s job, as part of a group, to add their talents to the whole? To do what they’re good at? I’m the writer. So I write.

Vikki was beautiful and funny and smart. She was wildly popular, knew everyone in every fraternity and sorority on campus. She chaired philanthropy events, was president of Panhel (the governing body of all the sororities). She had what felt like a permanent spot up on the ledge overlooking McHebe’s, our favorite bar, where she would talk to everyone who came by. She was so incredibly full of life. The fact that she died so young is wrong and senseless and crazy and just… so… sad.

When I first got the call that the police had found her body, it was shocking, but there were ways to not think about it. There were phone calls to make, people to tell, friends to console. But the next day I called one of my sisters and asked her, “Did that really happen? I didn’t dream it?” And it seems that’s one of the feelings everyone else has been stuck on too—the sheer unreality of it. The feeling that this can’t really be happening. Things like this happen in Law & Order, not in real life. And certainly not to us. Our lives have no place for words like police and autopsy and ashes.

The funeral was yesterday, and sisters came. They came in from neighboring states. Two couldn’t find babysitters, so they brought their children and took turns coming in so neither had to stay home. Sisters who pledged after she graduated, who maybe only met her a handful of times, came to pay their respects. And that was the one thing in all of this that DIDN’T shock me. Because that’s what we do.

One of our sisters, Vikki’s best friend, got married in June, and that was the last time we saw her. And I’m so glad that’s the memory we get to keep as our final one. All of us laughing and dancing and teasing one another, and just enjoying being together. Coming together for something as purely joyful and hopeful as a wedding. I like to think that if she could have picked that last memory for us, that’s exactly how she would have wanted it.

I know there are a lot of sisters who read this. I'd love it if you added a comment with a memory of or a story about Vikki.

Milestone Muesday

2007-08-14T09:53:00.000-04:00

I didn't get to go to Weight Watchers yesterday because I had a funeral. Which is the same reason I haven't been writing. I can't bring myself to write about her, but I can't write about anything else either.

I weighed in this morning on the way to work to cheer myself up, and I lost 2.6 pounds. 13.6 total. No, it's not a milestone, but it's the only positive I have going this morning, so I decided to bend the rules a little.

Poooooor... Me

2007-08-09T15:50:00.000-04:00

My sisters and I have this thing we do. When we’re having a bad day, we call each other and say “I need a poor you.” Now, there is one and only one acceptable response to that. It’s an immediate, heartfelt, drawn out “Poooooooor you.” Followed by a session in which the aggreived sister gets to vent

And I could use a poor you right now. (I'll wait.)
Okay, here’s the venting part:

• It’s been hot here. Mind-numbingly, clothes wet when you take them off, 100% humidity hot. Power walking is NOT supposed to make you queasy.
• I ate soup, a salad, and a fiber bar for lunch. Why, you might ask? Because I’m a moron. The rumbling coming from my stomach is actually drowning out my radio. Fiber is good. That much fiber is not.
• My shower broke. Now, if Murphy’s Law had an official bathroom, it would be mine. It’s been regrouted, replastered, and in general redone every couple of years because it was leaking. Again. I woke up one morning, I swear to God, with mushrooms growing from the wall. Not okay. The good news is that my shower is not currently leaking. The bad news is that it’s not working either. There’s just the faintest trickle of water from the shower head. I actually got pissed off yesterday, got down on my hands and knees, and rinsed the conditioner from my hair with the tub faucet, which fortunately works. If I’m going to be naked and on my hands and knees, suffice it to say I don’t want that to be the reason.
• Work. Enough said.
• I miss my friends. Between everyone’s vacations, most of my closest friends and I can count how long it’s been since we’ve seen each other in months. I just got an email from my friend Doug telling me he missed me, and I actually got teary.
• I’m freaking exhausted. Yes, I know that you’re all rolling your eyes right now. Because suddenly this rant makes sense. You all know that when I get overtired, I’m this cranky, bitchy, teary mess. But you’re wrong. Sure, I’ve been doing way too much. And having crazy nightmares every night. And waking up a million times. But I would be just as upset about all those things if I weren’t overtired. They’re totally valid reasons for me to be this upset. I am not being a baby. Stop laughing. I’m going to go take a nap.

Wretched City

2007-08-08T15:14:00.000-04:00

I have two words to describe New York City today. And the first one is Cluster.

There was a big storm during the night. Heavy rain, lightning, the whole bit. It stopped before I left for work, so no problem, right? Wrong.

Every train into, out of, and around the city was flooded. Most of them were closed down. Moments like these make me embarrassed for the city. You want to host the Olympics, but your public transportation system can completely melt down from heavy rain? Seriously?!?!?! With a track record like that, you’re lucky if you can get The Wiggles to perform at Madison Square Garden.

It’s, according to the thermometer in front of the NewsCorp building, 89°. Humidity is about 100%. Which makes the subway platforms, oh, about FOUR HUNDRED AND TWENTY-SIX FREAKING DEGREES!!! At one point, I was sweating so badly, that it was actually dripping off my nose. It’s a classy look, in case any of you are thinking of adopting it for your own. My 25-minute commute took 2 hours. And the question I was asking myself, was, naturally, “Why do I live in this wretched city???”

But of course, dear readers, I have a theory. Did you expect anything less? New York City is never going to be just somewhere you live. Some days it’s a fierce opponent, some days an ally. But it’s always a factor. There will always be those days, what I call the “Why do I live in this wretched city?” moments. And yes, they blow. Hard. But there’s something else, too. There are the “I love New York” moments. And those, well they can be so magical, so absolutely perfect, that it makes it all worth it. Sometimes it’s a big thing, but usually it’s not. Maybe it’s being able to go out for sushi at two in the morning, or a roof party, or free tickets to a Broadway show, or just walking through the Village on a spring evening, feeling sorry for anyone who doesn’t get to be me. As long as I get just one perfect “I love New York” moment for every three “Wretched city” moments, I feel like the balance still tilts in the right direction. Today this is a wretched city, but before long I’ll be loving New York again.

Shoe Slut

2007-08-07T14:09:00.001-04:00

I'm in sales conference this week presenting my spring 08 list and have 2.2 seconds to myself. I figure if you're the kind of person who reads my blog, there's a good chance you also share my affinity for/obsession with shoes. So I'm starting what might become a semi-regular feature, depending on popular reaction: Shoe Slut; Pictures of the Fabulous Shoes I'm Wearing Today So You Can All be Appreciative and Jealous. Eat your hearts out.

Expecting

2007-08-06T10:16:00.000-04:00

I have big news, my friends. Big, big news. My little family is about to get an addition. Yes, I’m expecting. It’s due September 2-—my bouncing baby Jetta. Lots of excitement in my house, people.

I was doing just fine with public transportation, until my dad lent me his car for the month of July. And then I remembered how much fun driving was, and how much I loved being able to hop into the car and go wherever I wanted to. “A car in New York City is a luxury,” I lectured myself. “You don’t need one.”

But that’s when I saw her. She’s cherry red. Red is my favorite color. She’s standard. I love driving standard. She has all sorts of things on the dashboard that light up and that I can learn how to use. I love pretty lights. Could all these things be coincidence? No, no they could not. Which left only one other explanation. God WANTED ME to have this car.

I bought it in Rhode Island from Sarah’s brother-in-law. Another plus, since if his twin brother is married to my best friend, and he knows he’s going to have to see me FOR THE REST OF HIS LIFE, there’s a 0.0% chance that he’d sell me a lemon. I’m going home Labor Day weekend because we’re taking the kids away for Ella’s birthday, and I’ll pick it up then. She gets a trip to New Hampshire. I get a new car. Everybody wins.

The 4.0s; Or Why Smart People Are So Stupid

2007-08-02T14:42:00.000-04:00

When I say I’m smart, it’s not a brag or a boast. It’s not even something I would consider boast-worthy. I was just born that way. I take no more credit for my brain than I would for my hair or eye color. Some people have athletic ability. Others have artistic talent. I have a genius IQ.

I’m not sure when the grown-ups around me figured out that I was smart, but from the time I started school, it was just easier for me than it was for other people. But like so many of my kind, book smarts does not necessarily translate into any other kind of smarts. When we were growing up, my cousin Christina and I were inseparable. (No, ours mothers weren’t cruel enough to name us Christine and Christina. She was adopted and came with the name.) As teenagers, we used to joke that I was going to grow up and get a great job and make a lot of money, but she was going to live longer, because I was destined to step out in front of a bus without looking and get myself killed.

Now, I have an explanation. I believe that we each have a limited and finite amount of brain space. And the fact that I can do things like algebra in my head, well that just means that there’s way less space left for things like remembering to take my drink off the roof of my car before I drive away, or making sure I have my keys before I lock the door.

Let me tell you a little story. We were fresh out of college, and my friend Adriana and I were talking about football.

A: It’s so weird. There are all those states that don’t have football teams at all, and New York has three.
Me: 3?
A The Giants, The Jets, and The Bills
Me: The Bills play in Buffalo.
(Now to truly appreciate this, imagine this line delivered in my snottiest, most know-it-all, most horribly you-are-obviously-an-idiot voice.)
A: Bookgirl, where do you think Buffalo is?
Me: Oh.
A: And you got a 4.0 in college.

Now, in my defense, I only got a 4.0 one semester. I came close another time, but I got an A- in Fitness for Life. Oh, the irony. But from that day on, our friend Anthony and I, the other book-smart member of our little group, were dubbed the “4.0’s.” If you need something explained, give us a call. But we’re inevitably the last two to get any joke. And let’s just say that when street smarts were handed out, neither of us got the lion’s share.

I was accepted into Mensa last year, and I love to wonder about the national meetings would be like. I don’t buy into the stereotype of all those geeks with no social skills I think it would be a lot of people like me. Smart, funny people. Who couldn’t remember where they left their room keys.

Jonesin' for a Fix

2007-08-01T13:25:00.000-04:00

I tried something new last week. And now I can’t get it out of my mind. I want more. I just keep thinking about it. I need a fix, dammit!

At first I was afraid. Should I try it? It never occurred to me that I might like it too much, just that it might be dangerous. Was it worth the risk? Was I really ready to… KAYAK??

Now, to get why this was such a big deal, there are a few things you need to understand about me.
#1 I am the clumsiest person on earth. I hurt myself walking. I once walked into my fridge. A FRIDGE, people. That’s a hard one to not see coming. The first (and only) time I went skiing, the instructor actually gave up on me. “You’re not going to get it. Why don’t you just sit down over there, honey?” Who knew they were even allowed to do that??

#2 I am TERRIFIED of water. I love the beach. I’m a strong swimmer. I’m in the water every chance I get. But I’m scared the whole time. Fear of drowning would be rational. That’s not my problem, though. No, I’m afraid of beasties. There are things in that water. And they can eat you. When I bring my nephews to the beach, I’ll go in the water with them all they want, but one of them always needs to be out just a few inches deeper than I am. Let’s call them what they are—shark bait. It’s not limited to just the shark fear, though. Fresh water freaks me out too. Have you ever seen The Raft??? If you see me periodically looking over my shoulder in your swimming pool, you shouldn’t be all that shocked. I know this isn’t rational. And that’s why I don’t give in to it. I’ve canoed, I’ve gone white-water rafting, I even snorkeled with sharks once just to prove the fear couldn’t beat me.

So given these 2 major obstacles, the fact that I got in the kayak and shoved off was huge in and of itself. But then came that feeling: I was doing it! And not only that, I was good at it! I glided along the water, feeling like I was flying. I pushed a little harder to go faster, laughing out loud at the sheer joy of it. I felt amazing—strong and powerful and free. I went back the next day, and did 4 miles, and loved it even more, with fewer tinges of fear. I worked up a whole fantasy in my head about how I was going to get myself a kayak. It would be so much fun, and such good exercise, and… then I remembered I live in New York City. The image of me kayaking along, dodging trash and the Staten Island ferry, holds a lot less appeal.

Polly says my type is the kind that will take risks and discover things like, “Hey! I’m good at kayaking!” And I love knowing that about myself. Are there other things out there that will give me that “Hey, look at me!!” feeling?? Preferably, things a little more compatible with an urban lifestyle?

The Aunt

2007-07-31T14:10:00.000-04:00

I’m baaaack! Did you miss me? Did ya? Did ya? Don’t say no, or I’ll cry real tears.

Vacation was, in a word, fabulous. My sister and her kids came to New York for the Harry Potter festivities. (I haven't seen it myself, and probably shouldn't be sharing it in case I look like an idiot, but evidentally I'm part of someone's webcast. I know I swore I wasn't going to put on a costume, but yes, that's me in the Hogwarts baseball cap, Harry Potter glasses, and forehead scar tatoo.) Then I camped at the beach in Rhode Island with my family for a week. Coincidentally, without any planning on our part, Sarah was on vacation 15 minutes away with her family. Yeah, I was all broken up over that.

I am, as I like to say, darker than the average Caucasian. The first time I visited Polly when she was living in Georgia, her Alabama friend said she didn’t know they “had them that dark up North.” At the end of one of these trips, though, it’s ridiculous. Combine my Native Canadian skin tone with 7 straight days of going inside only to sleep and shower, and there is no sunscreen up to the challenge. I usually end up so tan that I’m the color of fried food, and am completely grossed out by own self. But this time I came prepared. I bought four different kinds of sunscreen with Helioplex, with SPF numbers like 70. Most days I would apply a 55 or 70, and then spray 30 over it every hour or so. I’m told that I’m more golden this time, and not so monochromatic (dark brown hair, eyes, and skin), so I guess I did okay. No woman wants to be human camouflage.

Now, as you all know, I love kids. Love, love, love them. And am so… freaking… happy I don’t have any of my own. What happens when you take one single-and-childless-by-choice woman, and put her with kids for nine straight days? It’s not pretty. On Friday (day 8) I looked at my mother and said, “I’m going to lunch. By myself. Somewhere they serve liquor.” Between my nephews, my niece’s goddaughter, Sarah’s kids, and her nieces and nephew, total kid count for the week was 14.

As overwhelming as it was, though, I loved doing it. I kept my 12-year-old nephew for the whole week (even though he never… stops… talking). I babysat Sarah’s little boys (ages 5 and almost 7), and brought my magic wand with me, insisting that it did real magic. I kept my goddaughter overnight, only to find out that she wasn’t feeling well, which meant that all things: eating, sleeping, sitting, had to be done on top of me. Literally. I got more cuddling in than you can imagine, and enough belly giggles to make my heart soar. At one point I was tooling around in Sarah’s van with 5 boys, having a blast. I love being the aunt. And you know what? I’m good at it. We were sitting around on the beach one day, and Sarah’s sister looked at me, as if it had just occurred to her, and said, “You’ve really got it made, don’t you? You can take the kids for as long as you want, and then you can just give them back and go home alone “ Yes, my friend. Yes, I do have it made. That’s the beauty of being the aunt.

Introducing Milestone Monday

2007-07-30T16:57:00.001-04:00

No real post today, as it's my first day back from vacation and I'm still trying to get back into the habit of coherent thought. But as Monday is my Weight Watchers weigh-in day, I'd like to introduce a new feature -- Milestone Monday! I passed the 10-pound mark today. I'm down 11.4 pounds. Woo hoo!

And this was taken pre-weight loss, but it's a cute picture of me and Sarah from girls' weekend, so I thought I'd share. Call it my before picture. I look huge next to her, but I've accepted it as part and parcel of having a best friend the size of a sixth-grader....

The Last Express to Hogwarts

2007-07-19T15:39:00.000-04:00

Tomorrow's the day!! Hurrah!! And as of Saturday I'm on vacation with my family, camping at the beach, so Bookgirl will be on hiatus. I read this today in Shelf Awareness, an email newsletter I get, and it made my heart smile, so I leave you with this...

The Last Express to Hogwarts
It is the eve of our last trip to Hogwarts.

Can you think back to that very first time?
The discovery that we are all merely Muggles?
That first taste of Bertie Bott's Every Flavor Beans,
Strawberry, curry, coffee and sardine?
Harry's maiden ride on the Nimbus Two Thousand,
And his victorious capture of the Snitch in Quidditch?
Wasn't it all a wonderful surprise?

For Harry it's been seven years,
For us, nearly nine.
The children themselves championed Harry Potter
And the Philosopher's-turned-Sorcerer's Stone in the fall of 1998.
Impatient readers ordered the sequels from Amazon UK.
Their infectious enthusiasm precipitated
A global [English-language] release date for the Goblet of Fire.
Generations read the books aloud together,
Stood in midnight lines together,
Filled movie theaters to capacity,
And witnessed Richard Harris's departure
Before it was beloved Dumbledore's time to go.
And, as Harry broke all records for sales and first printings,
The children prompted the birth of their own New York Times bestseller list.

The children grew up with Harry,
In a trailblazing series that literally matured with its hero.
Laura may have grown up in the woods of Wisconsin,
And on the shores of Silver Lake,
But, in the Order of the Phoenix, we suffered through Harry's adolescence,
Excruciating for its perfect resonance with our own.
When the insidious, unidentifiable threat of terrorism invaded our shores,
Voldemort was a knowable villain.
Evil had a face, and Harry had faced him down--
With a scar on his forehead to prove it.
What more heartening message
Could one give a child?

So, as we stand on Platform Nine and Three-Quarters,
Awaiting the last train to Hogwarts,
We taste the same bittersweetness
That those seniors must taste.
Excited, but a little sad, to graduate from a place
We've embraced as part of our own community.
And though we will bid farewell to Harry, Hermione and Ron
On the final page (one or two of them perhaps sooner),
They await our return at every rereading.

Millions of children grew up with Harry,
And whether they go back to their video games,
Or go on to be lawyers or teachers,
Writers or booksellers,
Their lives have been touched by magic.

They won't forget Harry.
And neither will we.--Jennifer M. Brown

Code What?

2007-07-18T11:04:00.000-04:00

If I got my news from any source other than Yahoo!, I might know this, but is there currently a high terror alert for New York City? Because my neighborhood has been crawling with police this week. I mean, traveling on foot in packs of three, posted on street corners, squad cars everywhere. Last night ten of them passed me, lights blazing, sirens blaring. I heard one of the officers on foot explain that they’re a special anti-terrorist squad that travel around the city. I, personally, am choosing to believe last night was just a drill. The good news is that when I went walking at 10:30 Saturday night, I felt really, really safe.

I like the police way better than the National Guard. (Yes, these are actually distinctions that need to be made in a 21st-century New York City.) When you see a lot of cops around, you can just tell yourself, “See? Look how safe we are? All that extra security.” Besides, police are at all sorts of fun stuff. Like parades. And carnivals. And high school dances. And who doesn’t love those things?

But in the first couple years after 9/11, when there were still National Guardsmen everywhere, there was just no way for me to rationalize that into a good thing. And I can rationalize anything. There’s no way to spin the guy next to you in camouflage, carrying a shotgun, into anything other than, “Dude. We really are fucked, aren’t we?”

Are You Ready For Some Football?

2007-07-17T09:23:00.001-04:00

It’s finally time. I got the email last week. You know the one. The one inviting me to rejoin my Fantasy Football league. Ah, those sweet, sweet words… Fantasy Football.

For someone like me, who can watch any sport but only really follows one, the period between the Super Bowl and August is one long, lonely time. Sure, there are other sports. But I don’t want other sports, dammit. I want mine. I want to be able to spend 11 hours on a Sunday on my couch drinking beer and watching whoever happens to be playing. I want to talk about football with guys and see that dawning respect in their eyes as they realize. ”Wait… She knows as much about this as I do.” I want to be in a bar with my girlfriends, talking about the game, and watching it work its magic as men around us realize we know what we’re talking about, and it sings its siren call, drawing them in. I want to be at the stadium, getting there hours early to tailgate. Good weather, bad weather. I don’t care. I just want to be there.

So welcome back, boys. All you players and fans. Even those of you who know less about it than I do, I’ll fake it if you’re cute enough. Bring on the commercials that make me laugh out loud, the commentators ribbing on one another like they’re back in the locker room, the ex-players who impossibly look even better in their suits than they did in uniform. Come on, boys. Come to mama. Are you ready for some football????

Dumbledore's Army

2007-07-16T11:18:00.000-04:00

As I was walking through Rockefeller Plaza at lunch on Friday, I saw a group of teenage girls with their Harry Potter books, and one of them was wearing a “Dumbledore’s Army” t-shirt, as though it was a rock band. And the pure joy this brought me, the excitement that a book—A BOOK!—could still enthrall kids this way, could make them that enthusiastic about reading, well, it just about made by heart burst. On behalf of teachers, librarians, and book lovers everywhere, I hope someone, somewhere, just gave J.K. Rowling a big, wet, sloppy kiss.

My sister Denise and my nephews Jon and Dan (ages 18 and 15) are coming to New York on Friday for the book’s on-sale, and we’re meeting up with my friend Jeanine and her son, and the whole bunch of us are Harry Potter party-hopping downtown. We’ll ooh and aah over the people in costumes, and have a blast, and then at midnight stand in line for our copies of the book. The crowds will be ridiculous, and I’m not only willing to deal with them, I’m thrilled. Just the thought of all those grownups and kids coming together over the love of a book kind of makes me teary. As Polly would say, “These are my people.”

Tom Campbell is co-owner of the Regulator Bookshop in Durham, N.C. It’s one of those fabulous independent bookstores that everyone in the industry knows and respects. He wrote the following in his store newsletter, and captured the spirit perfectly. He, too, is obviously one of my people.

"This is the last Harry Potter book, and it will quite likely be the last time in any of our lifetimes that people will line up, in the middle of the night, all across the country, and all across the world, to buy a book. To 'see what happens next' in a story. The only other time this has ever happened, as far as I know, was with Charles Dickens more than 150 years ago when crowds waited on the quays in New York for the ship carrying the latest installment of The Old Curiosity Shop to dock, calling out to the passengers and crew, 'Is Little Nell dead?'
"We don't yet know who is going to die in Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, but we do know that more than a million Harry Potter readers are dead to the real significance of this event. These are the people who ordered their books from Amazon, and who at 12:01 a.m. Saturday, July 21, will be home asleep, waiting for the UPS delivery of their book the next day, or two days later, or whenever it arrives. They are indeed getting a great deal on the price of their book, but sometimes in life you get what you pay for. And sometimes you also get an experience that is truly priceless, a once in a lifetime kind of thing."

Little Scrubs

2007-07-13T15:43:00.000-04:00

Last month I was on vacation with Polly Poppins and the girls (for those of you longtime readers going ”huh?” that’s the online name adopted by the friend previously known as my-best-friend-in-California). We were listening to a hip hop station, and there was an ad for a day care called Little Sprouts, which I misheard as Little Scrubs. A reasonable mistake, I think, given the context.

But ever since then, I can’t get the idea out of my head. How cool would that be??? Little Scrubs – the hip hop daycare. Can’t you just picture it? All those babies in do-rags and gold chains. Blinged-out, jewel-encrusted pacifiers. Pants that sag below the diapers so you can see the Elmos across the back. Low-rider strollers with speakers mounted so the bass makes them bounce.

Instead of the hokey pokey, at play time would the kids learn the Electric Slide?
Would they answer the phone with “Yo. Little Scrubs. What up?”
The possibilities are endless.

Working the W's

2007-07-11T17:40:00.001-04:00

I swore I wasn’t going to blog about Weight Watchers, in case I lose my motivation. Then I’ve put it out there, and everyone knows I’m trying, and I’m still fat.

But as is the case with any major life change, I’m completely obsessed and can’t keep myself from thinking, talking, and now writing about it. Constantly. If you’ve never struggled with your weight and totally don’t get where I’m coming from, please, for the love of God, don’t tell me. I was a chubby kid who grew up into a chubby adolescent, teenager, and adult. Then about five years ago I went through a really unfortunate time emotionally, which coincided exactly with my dad being diagnosed with cancer. It was like a perfect storm of bad. I ate. And ate. And ate. And ate. Until I woke up one morning, 50 pounds heavier, trying to figure out who that girl in the mirror was.

So while I’ve been on and off Weight Watchers since I was 11, this is the time. I think. No, really. This is it. It feels different this time. I’m in that focused zone, the “you’d damn well better believe I’m going to make this work” zone. And it feels great.

Well, mostly it feels great. Not so much when I’m getting up to pee for the THIRTIETH time today, because I’ve now drunk something like 80 ounces of water so far. Or that moment when I suddenly realize my body was not meant to consume half a head of cauliflower, a large salad, 2 cups of cherries, and some broccoli on the same day. That moment, not so great.

On vacation last week, I actually packed healthy snacks to take to the beach. And ate everything, all weekend, out of the same measuring cup, so I could control my portions. (I’ll probably feel less good if I get food poisoning from the measuring cup, but that’s another story. I’m guessing clam chowder and milk aren’t supposed to mix). I’ve been looking up menus online before I go out with my friends to plan out what I’m eating and figure out the points ahead of time, and exercising more than I have for months. (Sorry New York Sports Club, I’m no longer pure profit.) I mean, I’m FOCUSED. And determined to stay that way, which is what I need you guys for. Who wants to be my cheerleader??

p.s. 5 pounds down after 2 weeks. Woo hoo!!
p.p.s. The amount Weight Watchers wants me to lose to get down to their idea of my ideal weight is actually more than Sarah weighs. I suggested that I just dump HER, and then I’d have lost all the weight with a lot less work, but she reminded me that then I’d just be fat AND unhappy. She might have a point…

Pimpin' in the Camry

2007-07-10T18:43:00.000-04:00

As some of you know, I gave up my beloved car in November. Well really, it more gave up on me, but that’s semantics…. Now I know for you suburbanites, going without a car would be somewhat akin to giving up your right foot, but this is New York City. There’s literally nowhere I need to go that I can’t get to on public transportation. So I’ve been walking, busing, or training it everywhere.

But my dad, my lovely, lovely dad, lent me his car for the month of July. Not only do I get to drive, this car has two things my old one didn’t—air conditiong AND an AM/FM Radio. Unless you’ve been there, I can guarantee you that you have absolutely no frame of reference for what it’s like to drive 200 miles each way Fourth of July weekend, with heat in the high 90s, the windows open, listening to Radio Disney because it’s the only station that comes in.

So here’s the scenario: I’m going to Rhode Island for the 4th because it’s my parents’ 52nd anniversary. I’m all excited. I go out drinking Tuesday night, because hey, I have a car. I can just drive to Rhode Island in the morning. I get up early on Wednesday, pack up, get ready to leave and realize it. I. Have. No. Keys.

My house keys are still in my purse. My parents’ house keys. The keys my friend gave me so that I can get into her apartment in times of crisis. Yup, all there. But the key to dad’s car? Not so much. I tear apart my entire apartment. Nothing. I call AAA to get them to send someone out on the off chance that (Please, God) I accidentally locked them in the trunk They remind me that my subscription has expired. I didn’t renew it since, you know, I don’t own a car. So I pull out my credit card, and they send someone to unlock the car. (Current stupid mistake price tag: $58.00, one hour looking for keys, and a call to Sarah that begins with “I have to tell you something. But if you laugh our friendship is over.”).

The nice garage man comes and no dice. So now it’s back on the phone with AAA, so they can send out a locksmith. (Current tally, $58, 2 hours, 6 phone calls to Sarah, and one to my family informing them “something came up and I won’t be making it to lunch.”) The locksmith comes, removes the lock from the trunk, takes it back to the shop, and makes me 2 keys. All for the low, low price of $250. Because if you’re going to do something stupid, why not do it on a national holiday when it’s even more expensive to fix it? For those of you keeping count at home, we’re up to $308, four hours, and a phone call to Sarah involving the words “I really think I’m going to throw up.”

So I finally get on the road. I make it to Rhode Island, pull into the campground where my family is spending the weekend. Great, yes? No. Because I can’t find the campsite where I’m meant to leave my car. One would think that the numbers would go in order, right? But one would think wrong. I’m looking for 541—538, 539, 540, 542.Huh? So I kick it into reverse, thinking I must have driven past it. And that’s when I hear the loud crunching noise. Yes, hat there’s one lone tree planted out four feet further than any of the other trees. And that tree is standing where my side mirror used to be.

So I can just refuse to explain why I’m late, but the missing piece of my dad’s car? That’s not one I can brush over.

Me: So you might have noticed that your car used to have a side mirror, but doesn’t anymore.
Dad: What happened?
Me: It’s gone.
Dad: (Now speaking slowly carefully) What…Happened?
Me: I don't want to talk about it. It’s just gone.
Dad: Did…You…Get…In…An…Accident…With…My…Car?
Me: No. I hit a tree. I’ll get it fixed.
Dad: (Relieved now that he doesn’t have to deal with the insurance company) You do realize that it costs at least $250 to replace the mirror, right?

So yes, grand tally: $558, one humiliating conversation with my dad, and reconfirming the popular family opinion that I’m a complete flake. Good thing I borrowed the car and saved myself that $65 on a bus ticket, eh?

p.s. If you know my dad, he doesn’t know about the whole lost key part. Let’s keep it on the down low, shall we?

p.p.s My sisters and brothers-in-law were taking bets as to why I was late. Popular opinions included both a hangover and me having an overnight guest. If only…

p.p.p.s My friend’s husband, He-Who-Can-Fix-Anything, found me a used mirror for $100 and is fixing it for me. I heart him. While this will most likely be paid in the previously mentioned currency, I will not be the one paying the debt. Way to take one for the team, my friend.

Girls’ Weekend

2007-07-09T19:25:00.000-04:00

I’m not sure that there are 2 words in the English language, put together, that bring me as much joy as these two: Girls’ Weekend.

I’m now up to three different girls’ weekend traditions with three different groups of girls. In the winter, it’s my college friends in the Poconos. (Really girls’ weekend and Anthony, since he’s the only boy who comes every year). In June it was my high school friends. And this weekend was the grand-daddy of them all, Duplessis family girls’ weekend.

The year my niece got married (yes, you read that right. My niece. Married. She’s only 4 years younger than I am) we rented a couple of hotel rooms by the beach and all went away together. Between the giggling and the beaching and the sunning and the drinking, we realized we had something there. And so a tradition was born. The next year, we decided to try camping, and now every year, the weekend after the fourth of July, we all show up at the beach. Once we started camping, it became girls’ weekend and dad, since he who owns the motor home is automatically welcome.

We were ten this year: my parents, me, 3 of my sisters, my niece, her sister-in-law, Sarah (who my dad described as “like another daughter”), and my oldest nephew’s girlfriend. Her invitation was a momentous occasion, as we don’t let newbies in lightly, and David really likes her and would have been upset with us if we scared her off. There’s only one rule of girls’ weekend: no husbands, no kids. Pretty much everything else is fair game.

Conversations ranged from blow jobs as currency: “I know someone who gave her husband one a day for 6 months to get a Dyson vacuum cleaner. That’s not worth it. A cleaning lady, maybe. But not a vacuum.” To family history: (Were there really prostitutes in our background? Or did our mom’s sister make that story up?) to an in-depth discussion of the best way to remove the hair “down there.” And I loved every second of it.

There’s nowhere else in the world where I’m happier, where I’m more loved, where I make more sense, where I’m more “me” than right there, surrounded by my girls. They don’t only remind me of who I am, they are who I am. I’ve spent my entire life, since I took my first breath, as “the baby,” the youngest Duplessis girl. And there’s nothing in my life that could make me prouder.

p.s. A special thank you to Diosa, who developed my cute new signature. Isn't it great?? It's EXACTLY what I wanted.

Girls of Summer

2007-07-03T10:13:00.000-04:00

I live for summer. If you read my winter entries, they're whiney, and sad, and lethargic. But as soon as the weather starts getting warm, I come alive. Put me out in the sun and I'm happy as a clam. And even better than summer? Summer weekends. I spent this entire weekend, margarita in hand, either in or next to Sarah’s pool. My favorite quote of the weekend:

Me: Is it noon yet?
Sarah: Somewhere. Go get the blender.

Sarah has six kids (the oldest of whom inherited her perfect comedic timing), and I brought along my godson, so it was a full house. Sarah’s kids seem to think I was put on this earth to do exactly what they want me to do. As my mother put it best, “Yeah, because you’ve given them so much reason to think otherwise…” So basically I am the human jungle gym at their house. At one point I had three of them hanging off me and I said, “Dude… too many kids.” So the littlest boy would grab onto two of the other kids, have all of them hold on to me, and yell, “Too many kids!” I’m thinking of having that stitched onto a pillow for Sarah since it so perfectly encapsulates her life…

Sarah lives in the country, as do two of my sisters, so while I love my nephews dearly, they’re hicks. Dirtbike-riding, John Deere-loving hicks. Sarah’s seven-year-old told me “Mommy won’t go into Wal-Mart (she shares my loathing for their ideology and prefers not to have her hard-earned Benjamins going to the religious right) but Daddy will take me. Maybe I can go without my shirt on. Wouldn’t that be cool?” he he he. Aim high, baby. Aim high.

I swore I wasn’t going to blog about it, but I’m back on Weight Watchers. Again. (I lost 3.2 pounds this week! Woo hoo!) My weekend diet strategy was best summed up as “drink your points.” Something has to go, right? And it sure as hell wasn’t going to be the juice. While a pitcher of margaritas and a salad is no one’s idea of a balanced meal, it got the job done. My mother, however, doesn’t share my theory on such things.

Mom: You know, if you want to bring those little packets of sugar-free lemonade to the party tonight, no one would ever know. It looks just like a cocktail
Me (genuinely confused): Why would I want to do that?
Mom: In case you don’t want to drink
Me: No, I definitely want to drink.

I’m attaching my favorite pictures from the weekend. I only have pictures of three of the kids. Yeah, I know. I suck.

Thirty-Two Going on Seventeen

2007-07-02T18:12:00.000-04:00

I spent the weekend in Woonsocket with the ‘rents, and it was an awful lot like spending a vacation with my teenage self. Staying with my parents, having to ask, ”Dad, can I borrow your car?” every time I wanted to leave the house, sleeping in the twin bed in my old bedroom.

Saturday morning, I was ready to go to the gym when my dad decided that at that exact moment he had to wash and wax the car. It was hard to argue with him, since, well, it’s his car. So I decided to go walking instead. As a teenager who was both without a car and constantly struggling with my weight, I walked everywhere. The CVS where I worked all through high school was right across the street from the church where I went to confirmation classes and taught CCD and volunteered at the summer carnival and hung out with the CYO (and yes, the Frank Zappa song was right). It’s about 4 miles round trip, and I could pretty much do that walk in my sleep.

So I set off, through the dead end where I learned to ride a bike, through the prep school where the rich kids went, through my elementary school, which looks EXACTLY the same, by the park where Diosa and I first sampled pot, by the yard where I let my friend dye my hair forest green (her mother wouldn’t let us do it in the house), by the house where one of my childhood best friends grew up. I had a nice little nostalgia fest. The best part, however, bar none, was a large orange sign. “Public Water Supply” it announced. No fishing, swimming boating… it went on and on. And this was what the sign was in front of. God, I love Woonsocket.