That is, my blog is moving. I totally have been unmotivated to blog. Maybe a new site will help. I haven't been totally thrilled with the way blogspot lets you manage your settings, etc., so I'm trying wordpress now. Visit me at my new home. Maybe a new venue will get my fingers typing again.
Come visit me soon! I'll have milk and Newman-Os waiting for you.
Saturday, October 18, 2008
Thursday, September 04, 2008
Live from Minneapolis-St. Paul, it's Saturday Night!
I normally don't pay that much attention to national conventions, but I was curious to hear Sarah Palin speak, since nobody knows much about her except that she's essentially a hockey mom on steroids. So I watched the RNC last night much like the rest of the country, and as I was listening to her speech, trying to absorb her platform and measure her charisma, all I could think was, She totally looks like Tina Fey. Especially when Tina used to do Weekend Update. I almost expected Amy Poehler to sidle up next to her midway through and slap her a high five.
Sunday, July 27, 2008
Dear Bride: Shove your spray tan where the sun don't shine
After reading this NYT story, I consider myself lucky enough to 1) have never been a bridesmaid in a wedding with a bridezilla; and 2) not have any friends that would even THINK about asking me to get a boob job just so I can look like the fembot-in-tulle that she wants to flank her at her wedding.
I've been/will be a bridesmaid in five weddings, and the duties, to my understanding, are to 1) throw the shower/bachelorette; 2) act as the emotional support to the bride, especially on the day of, when she's nervous about her perfect day; 3) keep the party going at the reception; 4) and happily rock a dress you'll say you'll wear again but know you never will. I do concede you must do your best to look cute at the altar, but not at the cost of silicon implants or injections to my face. Seriously people, if what you want is a gaggle of barbies with same cup size and shade of spray-tan, get a row of blow-up dolls. Sheesh.
I've been/will be a bridesmaid in five weddings, and the duties, to my understanding, are to 1) throw the shower/bachelorette; 2) act as the emotional support to the bride, especially on the day of, when she's nervous about her perfect day; 3) keep the party going at the reception; 4) and happily rock a dress you'll say you'll wear again but know you never will. I do concede you must do your best to look cute at the altar, but not at the cost of silicon implants or injections to my face. Seriously people, if what you want is a gaggle of barbies with same cup size and shade of spray-tan, get a row of blow-up dolls. Sheesh.
Sunday, July 06, 2008
Starting a Bronx tale
I’ve lived in my current apartment for three years, which in New York years, is really like 10. With my roommate getting hitched, and our lease up in the fall, it’s time to move on. I love my neighborhood, but I’m ready for a change. And since I don’t have the energy, patience, or courage to start a new life in another city, moving to another borough is sort of the next closest thing. And I’m moving to the Bronx at that, which really will seem like another world.
I lucked out this move because I’m moving in with someone I know who happens to have a great apartment at a dirt-cheap price. (It’s not Manhattan, but hey, I’ll get my own bathroom!) But I also lucked out because I’m avoiding the whole NYC apartment search ordeal, where you have to fight tooth-and-nail to get a cardboard box with no closet space and a shower in the kitchen. The ordeal also involves avoiding shady brokers, emptying your savings account to hand over first and last month’s rent (plus a security deposit), and running to all ends of the city to see apartments during open houses. I’ve also realized, just through a very preliminary search on craigslist, that people use the desperation of apartment seekers to their perverted advantage. I’ve seen apartment postings for free rent in exchange for a “friends with benefits” arrangement (but I would get to pick the day of the week — gee, thanks guy!) or reduced rent in exchange for household chores that include “cleaning, cooking, answering phones, massage, etc.” The sad thing is that the apartment hunt here is such a pain in the ass that I actually thought for a New York minute, “I wonder if he means therapeutic?”
Thankfully, I avoided all the shady craziness. I don’t think my virtue is worth an onsite washer-dryer or walk-in closet. I just dread the physical move now, but hopefully I’ll be able to hire some men with a van (probably hipsters from an emo band who use their equipment van to make money on the side) for relatively cheap. Watch out Yankees, here I come.
I lucked out this move because I’m moving in with someone I know who happens to have a great apartment at a dirt-cheap price. (It’s not Manhattan, but hey, I’ll get my own bathroom!) But I also lucked out because I’m avoiding the whole NYC apartment search ordeal, where you have to fight tooth-and-nail to get a cardboard box with no closet space and a shower in the kitchen. The ordeal also involves avoiding shady brokers, emptying your savings account to hand over first and last month’s rent (plus a security deposit), and running to all ends of the city to see apartments during open houses. I’ve also realized, just through a very preliminary search on craigslist, that people use the desperation of apartment seekers to their perverted advantage. I’ve seen apartment postings for free rent in exchange for a “friends with benefits” arrangement (but I would get to pick the day of the week — gee, thanks guy!) or reduced rent in exchange for household chores that include “cleaning, cooking, answering phones, massage, etc.” The sad thing is that the apartment hunt here is such a pain in the ass that I actually thought for a New York minute, “I wonder if he means therapeutic?”
Thankfully, I avoided all the shady craziness. I don’t think my virtue is worth an onsite washer-dryer or walk-in closet. I just dread the physical move now, but hopefully I’ll be able to hire some men with a van (probably hipsters from an emo band who use their equipment van to make money on the side) for relatively cheap. Watch out Yankees, here I come.
Thursday, April 17, 2008
Your love is better than ice cream, but not quite as good as chocolate
Can I just tell you how much I HATE articles like this — that is, articles that try to analyze and deconstruct love and relationships into its basest parts to figure out why successful couples work, and unsuccessful ones don't. I think the reason I hate them is that 1) they suck all the magic out of falling in love, and really only make you MORE depressed and jaded about relationships. Chocolate, love and drugs evoke the same brain chemistry -- so instead of going on that second date, I should get high and eat some double-fudge Oreos instead? And 2) it's a total waste of money. Scientists get all this funding to do all this research, only to come up with conclusions that are from the DUH files: In this instance, it's that men like hot women, so they'll try harder to keep them - which means becoming a whipped sucker--I mean, "supportive." I could have told you that in elementary school.
Can we just pretend for a minute that guys aren't that shallow and are willing to see beyond the physical, that they actually want a mate who is someone they emotionally connected with? Take today's episode of The Office, for instance. Jim and Pam are the "awww" couple of TV. They clearly had a solid friendship first, and, while Pam is cute, Jim gave up the much hotter Karen because of the connection he had to Pam. C'mon, he bought a ring for Pam a week after they started dating?! Let's say it all together: AWWWW!!!
Okay, so it's a television show, and not reality. But, I'd like to think that it still gives all us single schmucks out there a glimmer of hope. I'd like to think that you are feeling butterflies just because you like someone, not because your brain chemistry is telling you that what you really want is chocolate. Though I could really go for some bittersweet dark-chocolate chips right now.
Screw this. I think I'll go raid my kitchen cabinet.
Can we just pretend for a minute that guys aren't that shallow and are willing to see beyond the physical, that they actually want a mate who is someone they emotionally connected with? Take today's episode of The Office, for instance. Jim and Pam are the "awww" couple of TV. They clearly had a solid friendship first, and, while Pam is cute, Jim gave up the much hotter Karen because of the connection he had to Pam. C'mon, he bought a ring for Pam a week after they started dating?! Let's say it all together: AWWWW!!!
Okay, so it's a television show, and not reality. But, I'd like to think that it still gives all us single schmucks out there a glimmer of hope. I'd like to think that you are feeling butterflies just because you like someone, not because your brain chemistry is telling you that what you really want is chocolate. Though I could really go for some bittersweet dark-chocolate chips right now.
Screw this. I think I'll go raid my kitchen cabinet.
Thursday, April 10, 2008
My life as a grocery list
In some ways, I think my refrigerator reflects my mood at any given time. When I'm feeling good, trying to get to the gym on a regular basis, not feeling stressed at work, and having fun socially, I tend to eat better. I'll buy more fresh fruits and vegetables and "grown up" foods like cous cous, three-cheese tortellini, fresh mozzarella and Carr's water crackers. When I'm stressed out, working late, and in a general bad mood I end up buying like I'm a bachelor: chocolate, potato chips, hot dogs, and soda.
Well, I must have been in a real shitty mood the other day, because, I did something I almost never do: Buy microwaveable dinners. After coming home from work around 9 and feeling a general malaise with the world, this was my shopping list:
4 Banquet Chicken Pot Pies (they were 4 for $3)
two Mama Celeste individual microwaveable pizzas
Vienna Sausages (which I actually enjoy on a regular basis, good or bad mood)
A six-pack of cottage cheese with the special bacteria that makes you poo (have yet to try it out and see if it works)
A six-pack of Mott's apple sauce in the little individual cups that your mom used to pack in your lunch box.
All that was missing was a six-pack of Bud. My saving grace was buying some organic spinach, which I haven't eaten yet, but plan to, along with the Ken's Caesar dressing I bought.
Well, I must have been in a real shitty mood the other day, because, I did something I almost never do: Buy microwaveable dinners. After coming home from work around 9 and feeling a general malaise with the world, this was my shopping list:
4 Banquet Chicken Pot Pies (they were 4 for $3)
two Mama Celeste individual microwaveable pizzas
Vienna Sausages (which I actually enjoy on a regular basis, good or bad mood)
A six-pack of cottage cheese with the special bacteria that makes you poo (have yet to try it out and see if it works)
A six-pack of Mott's apple sauce in the little individual cups that your mom used to pack in your lunch box.
All that was missing was a six-pack of Bud. My saving grace was buying some organic spinach, which I haven't eaten yet, but plan to, along with the Ken's Caesar dressing I bought.
Sunday, March 23, 2008
Happy Crossmass
This article on Slate is an interesting take on Easter. The author's correct in noting that Easter hasn't been a commercial success on par with Christmas, but in terms of what the holiday is actually celebrated for, fewer folks, I think, even understand why Christians celebrate Easter. They just think it's about bunnies and Easter baskets and chocolate and welcoming Spring.
One thing the Slate article touches upon, which also was a central point to the Easter sermon I heard today, was that there's no half-assedness to Easter. Sure, you can celebrate the birth of Jesus regardless of whether you believe he was the Son of God or just a really great guy who said and did a lot of great, loving things, because it's a nice story. But you can't say, sure, I sorta believe that Jesus may or may not have been crucified and then was physically resurrected. If you say you believe it, then there are some serious implications for that on your life.
One thing, though, that I think a lot of people overlook when it comes to the Jesus story is the weight the resurrection should be given. Most people tend to focus on the crucifixion because it focuses on the pain He experienced when he died for all of mankind's sins. But, really, without the resurrection, the crucifixion could also just be a story. The crucifixion is the price that was paid by a man who claimed to be the Son of God; the resurrection is proof that the Man is who He said He was - and that his death did indeed mean Grace personified.
Happy Crossmass everyone.
One thing the Slate article touches upon, which also was a central point to the Easter sermon I heard today, was that there's no half-assedness to Easter. Sure, you can celebrate the birth of Jesus regardless of whether you believe he was the Son of God or just a really great guy who said and did a lot of great, loving things, because it's a nice story. But you can't say, sure, I sorta believe that Jesus may or may not have been crucified and then was physically resurrected. If you say you believe it, then there are some serious implications for that on your life.
One thing, though, that I think a lot of people overlook when it comes to the Jesus story is the weight the resurrection should be given. Most people tend to focus on the crucifixion because it focuses on the pain He experienced when he died for all of mankind's sins. But, really, without the resurrection, the crucifixion could also just be a story. The crucifixion is the price that was paid by a man who claimed to be the Son of God; the resurrection is proof that the Man is who He said He was - and that his death did indeed mean Grace personified.
Happy Crossmass everyone.
Saturday, March 01, 2008
Visiting hours are over
Just got off the phone with my dad, and we had small talk; he told me that he'd eaten dinner and that he'd been taking some over-the-counter medication for his headache. This doesn't seem so significant, except that it's a major improvement over where he was about two weeks ago, lying in a hospital bed, eyes shut tight in a grimace, with a heart monitor strapped to his chest.
For the first time that I can recall, someone in my immediate family had a major health scare. Aside from my mom giving birth, nobody in my family has had a reason to stay in the hospital overnight, and as such, I'd been spared the roller coaster of emotion you feel when you have to spend days at a time in the hospital with a loved one: fear that whatever they have is life threatening, sadness at seeing them weak and in pain, frustration and fatigue from being cooped up in a hospital room for 12 hours, relief when it's time to leave, guilt when you see the expression on their face when they realize they'll be left alone for the night.
It started when he woke up with an excruciating headache; it turned into a trip to the ER when it didn't go away for five days. A CT scan showed that his brain was bleeding. After a few days of tests, the doctors concluded that he had a viral infection in his brain that caused it to swell and bleed. Luckily, no surgery would be required, and the swelling would subside with a three-week anti-viral treatment. While the rest of the family was feeling relief, my father was coming to terms with his mortality.
After the doctors assured him that he would recover and his headaches would subside, the rest of the us just tried to make my dad feel as comfortable as possible until he got to a point where his pain was no longer debilitating. In fact, my sister and I grew weary of my dad's woe-is-me attitude and the way he kept thinking he'd drop dead at any second. We'd roll our eyes at the drama with which he recounted his story to his visitors.
It wasn't until the last day I spent with him before I had to head back to New York did I realize, however, just how much this experience had shaken him. I had been in the hospital with my dad all morning, annoyed because for someone who was supposed to be experiencing debilitating head pain, he seemed to find the strength to talk my ear off in the way parents do when they suddenly feel they want to impart all this wisdom to you - you know, those conversations that really aren't conversations but more like lectures dressed up as meaningful dialogue. I was relieved when my sister showed up and he could spread the wisdom amongst the two of us.
We settled into our hospital chairs and watched the golf channel as my dad finally lay back and relaxed. Suddenly we heard him breathe harder, in almost wheezing gasps, and it sounded as if he were having some sort of seizure or asthma attack. Instead, we realized that he was sobbing - sobbing so hard he couldn't catch his breath, the way little kids do when they are inconsolable. I had never seen my dad cry like that so it was rather shocking. To keep from bawling myself I had to turn away, watching golf through blurred vision as a few tears managed to escape down my cheeks while I clutched his rough, dry hand. My sister (who had spent every day for the past week in the hospital with him and had become a hospital veteran of sorts because of her experience prior to the death of her father-in-law), was not as emotional; she simply adjusted his blankets, covered him up, and asked why now, after all this time, he was crying. He couldn't really answer and eventually calmed down, and we continued on with our afternoon of being glued to the golf channel, chatting about politics, and watching him get his vital signs taken.
My dad is now back at home, and is feeling better every day. He still has to take his medication, administered through a catheter snaked directly under his skin and into his vein, but his voice sounds stronger every time I talk to him. He'll probably still tell his dramatic story to anyone who will listen, but I think I'll humor him next time. I just thank God he's around to recount the tale.
For the first time that I can recall, someone in my immediate family had a major health scare. Aside from my mom giving birth, nobody in my family has had a reason to stay in the hospital overnight, and as such, I'd been spared the roller coaster of emotion you feel when you have to spend days at a time in the hospital with a loved one: fear that whatever they have is life threatening, sadness at seeing them weak and in pain, frustration and fatigue from being cooped up in a hospital room for 12 hours, relief when it's time to leave, guilt when you see the expression on their face when they realize they'll be left alone for the night.
It started when he woke up with an excruciating headache; it turned into a trip to the ER when it didn't go away for five days. A CT scan showed that his brain was bleeding. After a few days of tests, the doctors concluded that he had a viral infection in his brain that caused it to swell and bleed. Luckily, no surgery would be required, and the swelling would subside with a three-week anti-viral treatment. While the rest of the family was feeling relief, my father was coming to terms with his mortality.
After the doctors assured him that he would recover and his headaches would subside, the rest of the us just tried to make my dad feel as comfortable as possible until he got to a point where his pain was no longer debilitating. In fact, my sister and I grew weary of my dad's woe-is-me attitude and the way he kept thinking he'd drop dead at any second. We'd roll our eyes at the drama with which he recounted his story to his visitors.
It wasn't until the last day I spent with him before I had to head back to New York did I realize, however, just how much this experience had shaken him. I had been in the hospital with my dad all morning, annoyed because for someone who was supposed to be experiencing debilitating head pain, he seemed to find the strength to talk my ear off in the way parents do when they suddenly feel they want to impart all this wisdom to you - you know, those conversations that really aren't conversations but more like lectures dressed up as meaningful dialogue. I was relieved when my sister showed up and he could spread the wisdom amongst the two of us.
We settled into our hospital chairs and watched the golf channel as my dad finally lay back and relaxed. Suddenly we heard him breathe harder, in almost wheezing gasps, and it sounded as if he were having some sort of seizure or asthma attack. Instead, we realized that he was sobbing - sobbing so hard he couldn't catch his breath, the way little kids do when they are inconsolable. I had never seen my dad cry like that so it was rather shocking. To keep from bawling myself I had to turn away, watching golf through blurred vision as a few tears managed to escape down my cheeks while I clutched his rough, dry hand. My sister (who had spent every day for the past week in the hospital with him and had become a hospital veteran of sorts because of her experience prior to the death of her father-in-law), was not as emotional; she simply adjusted his blankets, covered him up, and asked why now, after all this time, he was crying. He couldn't really answer and eventually calmed down, and we continued on with our afternoon of being glued to the golf channel, chatting about politics, and watching him get his vital signs taken.
My dad is now back at home, and is feeling better every day. He still has to take his medication, administered through a catheter snaked directly under his skin and into his vein, but his voice sounds stronger every time I talk to him. He'll probably still tell his dramatic story to anyone who will listen, but I think I'll humor him next time. I just thank God he's around to recount the tale.
Monday, February 18, 2008
The write-off
The writers' strike is finally over, and I'm glad that they are getting what's due them. However, I honestly can't say that my life had a gaping hole in it because I wasn't getting new episodes of, say, The Office. Instead, all the writers' strike did was further my illicit love affair with reality TV, throwing me into the arms of shows like Celebrity Rehab with Dr. Drew, Randy Jackson Presents America's Best Dance Crew, American Idol and Project Runway.
First of all, I think Dr. Drew just might be the hottest man on TV right now. On top of rocking a full head of premature grey (well, white, really), he has that nurturing quality to him that women love (sort of the way you feel when you see a hot guy pushing a baby stroller) as he tries to right the wrongs of a whole motley crew of slobbering, vomiting, crying, yelling, withdrawal-stricken drug and alcohol-addicted B-list celebs. (In one episode a poor aide has to slather some type of Ben Gayish lotion on Jeff Conaway's ass.) Dr. Drew makes me swoon.
Then there's the talent shows. American Idol has too many favorites for me to name right now (the soulful Irish tattoo artist and the soulful Australian are my current faves), and I'm loving the Jabberwockys and Kaba Modern on the dance show. And competitions like Project Runway and Top Chef have been more compelling than regular TV for a long time.
Sure, I do get back episodes of Lost (though I could do without the Cliff's Notes episodes, where they explain the plot--isn't part of that show's appeal the fact that it's too confusing to follow?), but it might be too late for "regular" shows to woo me back, even with promises of Matthew Fox's pouty, longing looks at Kate, or Wentworth Miller's pouty, longing looks at life outside bars. These new writer-produced episodes better be worth the space they take up on my Tivo's memory.
First of all, I think Dr. Drew just might be the hottest man on TV right now. On top of rocking a full head of premature grey (well, white, really), he has that nurturing quality to him that women love (sort of the way you feel when you see a hot guy pushing a baby stroller) as he tries to right the wrongs of a whole motley crew of slobbering, vomiting, crying, yelling, withdrawal-stricken drug and alcohol-addicted B-list celebs. (In one episode a poor aide has to slather some type of Ben Gayish lotion on Jeff Conaway's ass.) Dr. Drew makes me swoon.
Then there's the talent shows. American Idol has too many favorites for me to name right now (the soulful Irish tattoo artist and the soulful Australian are my current faves), and I'm loving the Jabberwockys and Kaba Modern on the dance show. And competitions like Project Runway and Top Chef have been more compelling than regular TV for a long time.
Sure, I do get back episodes of Lost (though I could do without the Cliff's Notes episodes, where they explain the plot--isn't part of that show's appeal the fact that it's too confusing to follow?), but it might be too late for "regular" shows to woo me back, even with promises of Matthew Fox's pouty, longing looks at Kate, or Wentworth Miller's pouty, longing looks at life outside bars. These new writer-produced episodes better be worth the space they take up on my Tivo's memory.
Tuesday, January 08, 2008
New Year's not-so-resolved resolutions
Ah, the holidays. It wouldn't be a real holiday season without some credit card debt, packing on extra pounds, and the tense moment at the family dinner table. My holiday season was filled with all three. (Let's just say I'm shocked at my ability to ignore screaming while eating soup simultaneously.)
So now that I'm back home having successfully dodged a week's worth of "You have to get married before I die!" requests, I have time to think about New Year's resolutions. But I have to do something that I can really stick to. I already exercise a decent amount, so that's out. I can say I won't work late or on the weekends, but I already know that's not possible. So here's what I'm thinking:
Declutter. Learn to throw things out more. Maybe this way my room will also cease to be one large dust ball.
Go to sleep earlier. I'm already breaking this one. But before 1 am is a good start. Maybe I won't be such a walking zombie in the mornings then.
Read more. By that, I mean books that I won't be ashamed to be seen reading on the subway.
Try more new restaurants. That's not hard to do in New York, but might be hard on the pocketbook.
Save more. Hey, at least I'm earning mad interest off the hundred bucks I have in there.
Travel. I haven't been on an international flight for a few years...it's time to risk deep vein thrombosis so I can have some foreign adventures.
More to come...happy new year to all.
So now that I'm back home having successfully dodged a week's worth of "You have to get married before I die!" requests, I have time to think about New Year's resolutions. But I have to do something that I can really stick to. I already exercise a decent amount, so that's out. I can say I won't work late or on the weekends, but I already know that's not possible. So here's what I'm thinking:
Declutter. Learn to throw things out more. Maybe this way my room will also cease to be one large dust ball.
Go to sleep earlier. I'm already breaking this one. But before 1 am is a good start. Maybe I won't be such a walking zombie in the mornings then.
Read more. By that, I mean books that I won't be ashamed to be seen reading on the subway.
Try more new restaurants. That's not hard to do in New York, but might be hard on the pocketbook.
Save more. Hey, at least I'm earning mad interest off the hundred bucks I have in there.
Travel. I haven't been on an international flight for a few years...it's time to risk deep vein thrombosis so I can have some foreign adventures.
More to come...happy new year to all.
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