Pulling a Bookgirl

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.

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.

More

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

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

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

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

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.