While there are plenty of contrary opinions out there around the world, as an American, I feel that I have many reasons to be proud of this country. Of course it's not perfect; I'd even go so far as to guess that no country is. Part of what makes a country great is the refusal to accept complacency - to strive for better. One of the areas in which I think that the U.S. generally gets it right is its laws regarding access for the disabled. Ramps, elevators, parking spaces . . . we've got them. As we should.
But American women don't seem to agree about the proper etiquette concerning one of our accommodations for the disabled, a little place my friend Colleen likes to call "The Suite." The Suite is your standard disabled-friendly bathroom stall, the one that is extra roomy, has a bar along the wall, and sometimes even has its own private sink (the real score). How do I know about all of these features? Because I have visited the Suite many times. (I have even visited the Johnny-on-the-Spot Suite, which is certainly not ideal, but still better than the alternative.)
Sometimes, however, I hear other women talk about the Suite like it's off-limits to the fully-abled - at all times. Do they really believe this? And if so, is it true? Maybe I am a bad person for taking advantage of the extra benefits the Suite has to offer. But then, I am not sure I am in the wrong here. If there were someone with a disability standing behind me in line for the restroom and the Suite suddenly became available, of course, OF COURSE, I'd allow said person to move in front of me and use the Suite. But in general, it's not like a parking space. I'm not planning to occupy the Suite all day. And sometimes, the Suite is the only one available.
When you've gotta go, you've gotta go.
Wednesday, December 10, 2008
Wednesday, November 26, 2008
Fooling Ourselves
Hey everyone! It's officially turkey day on the East Coast (here in Del Rio, we're still shy approximately five minutes)! I could blog about how I spent all day making pies, but I won't. It was pretty anticlimactic (although, I confess that I did have a little taste of my friend Brenda's famous pumpkin bars just to make sure I didn't screw them up (I didn't - and yum!)). Instead, I thought of the perfect blog topic the other night: why do we fool ourselves?
I'm sure we're all guilty of the occasional white lie every now and then. (Frankly, I don't think I could be friends with someone who didn't engage in this practice once in awhile. It's just human nature and a useful resource for sparing feelings.) But what I really don't get is when we try to trick ourselves into believing something. Don't we know ourselves well enough by this point in life? How could we fall for such a thing?
A simple example of this is my constant need to rationalize what I eat. Oh, food regrets - those are the worst. So, in an effort to assuage the guilt I feel after gorging on some snack or sweet, I'll often try to convince myself that I didn't have a full serving or that it didn't have any calories as the package says because it's Sunday or something. Do I buy these ridiculous excuses? No, not really. But I continue to do it, time and time again.
The ultimate attempt to fool myself, though, is when I insist that I am not, I am NOT falling asleep. Here's what I mean: Often, when I'm snuggled up on the couch at night watching the boob tube, I'll start to doze off. But I'm not willing to throw in the towel yet. Oh no. I will finish, MUST finish whatever pointless thing I'm watching. So here's my genius plan: I will simply rest my eyes for a little while, but not to worry - I will still be able to follow the story, sporting event, what-have-you, by LISTENING.
Has this strategy ever worked? Nope. Not even once. Not when my brother and I stayed up late while we were in high school watching "Zapped Again" (which Scott Baio was evidently too good for) on one of the cheap local cable channels. Not during my first three attempts at getting all of the way through the movie "Fletch" (great movie, but it was like some kind of weird curse - sometime after Fletch told them to "put it on the Underhill's tab," the sandman would pay me a visit). Not when I watched my Ti-Fauxed episode of "Samantha Who?" from the other night. (I would start the episode, fall asleep about five minutes in, wake up at some point after the credits and, INCREDIBLY, try to get through it again - with the same master plan.)
The point? I'm not fooling anyone. But you can't blame me for trying.
I'm sure we're all guilty of the occasional white lie every now and then. (Frankly, I don't think I could be friends with someone who didn't engage in this practice once in awhile. It's just human nature and a useful resource for sparing feelings.) But what I really don't get is when we try to trick ourselves into believing something. Don't we know ourselves well enough by this point in life? How could we fall for such a thing?
A simple example of this is my constant need to rationalize what I eat. Oh, food regrets - those are the worst. So, in an effort to assuage the guilt I feel after gorging on some snack or sweet, I'll often try to convince myself that I didn't have a full serving or that it didn't have any calories as the package says because it's Sunday or something. Do I buy these ridiculous excuses? No, not really. But I continue to do it, time and time again.
The ultimate attempt to fool myself, though, is when I insist that I am not, I am NOT falling asleep. Here's what I mean: Often, when I'm snuggled up on the couch at night watching the boob tube, I'll start to doze off. But I'm not willing to throw in the towel yet. Oh no. I will finish, MUST finish whatever pointless thing I'm watching. So here's my genius plan: I will simply rest my eyes for a little while, but not to worry - I will still be able to follow the story, sporting event, what-have-you, by LISTENING.
Has this strategy ever worked? Nope. Not even once. Not when my brother and I stayed up late while we were in high school watching "Zapped Again" (which Scott Baio was evidently too good for) on one of the cheap local cable channels. Not during my first three attempts at getting all of the way through the movie "Fletch" (great movie, but it was like some kind of weird curse - sometime after Fletch told them to "put it on the Underhill's tab," the sandman would pay me a visit). Not when I watched my Ti-Fauxed episode of "Samantha Who?" from the other night. (I would start the episode, fall asleep about five minutes in, wake up at some point after the credits and, INCREDIBLY, try to get through it again - with the same master plan.)
The point? I'm not fooling anyone. But you can't blame me for trying.
Tuesday, November 18, 2008
Who Says Nothing Happens in Del Rio?
Okay, I admit it. I've said that. Many times. When one of the approximately two decent restaurants in town is dead at prime time on a Saturday night, this necessarily causes me to question what on earth people are doing in Del Rio. (Incidentally, Chili's is always hopping; no, I do not consider that one of the select two, although, relative to its competition from iHop to Pizza Hut, it's certainly passable.)
I've voiced my concern several times to my friends in far sexier places (New York, D.C., Dallas, Austin), and I have to tell you - I love my friends. In times of waning excitement, it's nice to know that my peeps are looking out for me. Case in point: I received a flood of e-mails from my preferentially-located pals yesterday with the following (or a very similar) headline:
‘Bachelor’ winner arrested for unruliness; Mary Delgado was arrested after refusing to leave a Texas bar
http://www.austin360.com/news/content/shared-gen/ap/TV/People_Bachelor_Winner_Arrest.html
"Where could this Texas bar be?" I hear you ask. Well, that's the interesting part. Yes, you can probably gather from the context that, indeed, baby-obsessed Bachelor Bob runner-up and Bachelor Byron winner Mary Delgado was arrested for causing a ruckus at some establishment in Del Rio. Of course, the articles I reviewed fail to mention which bar, which I think is a little fishy. I need to know these things, as I'm clearly missing all of the action in this town. If I had to guess, I would say it was probably the bar in the lakeside "resort" purportedly owned by Byron Velvick, the famed pro bass fisherman (note: I use the term "resort" very loosely). Maybe they got into some kind of heated argument over the lack of spice in the queso.
But there you have it. I guess I have to go eat my words now.
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
Information That Would Have Been Nice To Know . . . Yesterday
Cat's officially out of the bag. I've got a bun in the oven. I'm a first timer, so it's super exciting for me (even more so for my husband who got all choked up when he saw the swag I got at an "OB Orientation" class at the Air Force Base - I thought that dads couldn't care less about burp cloths and onesies - evidently, I was wrong). So, as a first timer, I immediately went out and bought the latest "What to Expect When You're Expecting" (which, thankfully, no longer features the picture of that matronly lady in a rocking chair on the cover), and a few very generous friends sent me some other helpful books. So rock on - I was equipped with all of the information needed to navigate my nine month journey. Right? Wrong.
Now, for those of you mothers out there, you remember the food aversions and cravings. Fortunately for me, I didn't have any true morning sickness, but the very thought of certain foods made me want to ralph (case in point: broccoli - still can't do it). Naturally, this led me to crave some very tame foods, a sharp contrast to my eclectic tastes in food. And yet, I couldn't just eat bread every day. The baby needed some protein. So guess what I turned to? Cold cuts.
But oh wait - - After dining on tasty turkey and club sandwiches for a good three weeks (but not every day), a friend tells me that she was told NOT to eat cold cuts. Did I see this in any of the pregnancy books I read? Nope. But all it took was one google search, and I confirmed my fear. Deli meats are off limits unless you first heat them to steaming in a microwave (and yeah - no thanks). So deli meats are out. That might have been nice to know . . .
So I was sitting in the waiting room this afternoon for my latest doctor visit, and I decided to peruse one of the mom-to-be magazines. There was this section with letters from readers about the things they did before they knew they weren't supposed to. One woman wrote about her daily deli sandwiches, and I thought to myself, "Wow, that stinks - every day? At least my slip only happened a few times a month." And then I kept reading until I read, "I was craving Greek salads . . ." Oh no! I have been jonesing for Greek salads for three weeks now, and I have been making them at home, complete with feta cheese. Yup, feta is a no-no. As Adam Sandler would say, that is information that would have been nice to know YESTERDAY!
Thankfully, the baby seems to be all right with these minor slip-ups, as he gave me a little high five wave during my ultrasound today.
Now, for those of you mothers out there, you remember the food aversions and cravings. Fortunately for me, I didn't have any true morning sickness, but the very thought of certain foods made me want to ralph (case in point: broccoli - still can't do it). Naturally, this led me to crave some very tame foods, a sharp contrast to my eclectic tastes in food. And yet, I couldn't just eat bread every day. The baby needed some protein. So guess what I turned to? Cold cuts.
But oh wait - - After dining on tasty turkey and club sandwiches for a good three weeks (but not every day), a friend tells me that she was told NOT to eat cold cuts. Did I see this in any of the pregnancy books I read? Nope. But all it took was one google search, and I confirmed my fear. Deli meats are off limits unless you first heat them to steaming in a microwave (and yeah - no thanks). So deli meats are out. That might have been nice to know . . .
So I was sitting in the waiting room this afternoon for my latest doctor visit, and I decided to peruse one of the mom-to-be magazines. There was this section with letters from readers about the things they did before they knew they weren't supposed to. One woman wrote about her daily deli sandwiches, and I thought to myself, "Wow, that stinks - every day? At least my slip only happened a few times a month." And then I kept reading until I read, "I was craving Greek salads . . ." Oh no! I have been jonesing for Greek salads for three weeks now, and I have been making them at home, complete with feta cheese. Yup, feta is a no-no. As Adam Sandler would say, that is information that would have been nice to know YESTERDAY!
Thankfully, the baby seems to be all right with these minor slip-ups, as he gave me a little high five wave during my ultrasound today.
Sunday, October 26, 2008
Night of the Living Puffy
Apparently, Halloween is the second most decorated holiday (behind Christmas, of course). I didn't really notice this in D.C., probably because most of us in our compact townhouses simply didn't have the kind of yard that easily accommodates a faux grave yard or a collection of creepy scarecrows. That kind of decorating takes space.
In my new town of Del Rio, Texas, however, I've seen several houses that seem to take this idea of Halloween decorating seriously. Tombstones, cobwebs, skeletons, spiders, the works. But you know what else has made a rock star showing this year? Halloween-themed puffies.
For those of you not familiar with this technical term, "puffies" are those inflatable yard characters that became popular around Christmas a number of years ago. They started with oversized Santas and Frosties and escalated to rotating snow globes. "Puffies" is the term of endearment given to these characters by my mom, who became a little violent as we passed by a particularly tacky row of houses on the way back from my brother's house one Christmas eve and blurted out, "I can't stand those puffies!!"
I do see her point. The kinds of Christmas decorations I like are the more traditional ones: pretty wreaths and lights on the trees, maybe a few ribbons here and there - not a scene that looks straight out of a North Pole-themed episode of "SpongeBob SquarePants." The worst of the lot, in my opinion, is the Christmas tree puffy, especially in my hometown - in MICHIGAN - where there are evergreens-a-plenty. Really? It never occurred to these people to just string a few lights on the pine trees already in their front yards?
I have to say, though, I am actually enjoying the Halloween puffies. I guess I never considered Halloween decorating to be a big tradition, so it is kind of a nice treat to drive down Main Street and see that house with the sitting scarecrow with a pumpkin head that rotates 360 degrees. He's pretty cool. And I smile every time I see those Casper-like ghosts coming out of a jack-o-lantern.
Puffies - I have to hand it to you. I never thought I'd see the day . . .
In my new town of Del Rio, Texas, however, I've seen several houses that seem to take this idea of Halloween decorating seriously. Tombstones, cobwebs, skeletons, spiders, the works. But you know what else has made a rock star showing this year? Halloween-themed puffies.
For those of you not familiar with this technical term, "puffies" are those inflatable yard characters that became popular around Christmas a number of years ago. They started with oversized Santas and Frosties and escalated to rotating snow globes. "Puffies" is the term of endearment given to these characters by my mom, who became a little violent as we passed by a particularly tacky row of houses on the way back from my brother's house one Christmas eve and blurted out, "I can't stand those puffies!!"
I do see her point. The kinds of Christmas decorations I like are the more traditional ones: pretty wreaths and lights on the trees, maybe a few ribbons here and there - not a scene that looks straight out of a North Pole-themed episode of "SpongeBob SquarePants." The worst of the lot, in my opinion, is the Christmas tree puffy, especially in my hometown - in MICHIGAN - where there are evergreens-a-plenty. Really? It never occurred to these people to just string a few lights on the pine trees already in their front yards?
I have to say, though, I am actually enjoying the Halloween puffies. I guess I never considered Halloween decorating to be a big tradition, so it is kind of a nice treat to drive down Main Street and see that house with the sitting scarecrow with a pumpkin head that rotates 360 degrees. He's pretty cool. And I smile every time I see those Casper-like ghosts coming out of a jack-o-lantern.
Puffies - I have to hand it to you. I never thought I'd see the day . . .
Wednesday, October 8, 2008
Flying the Friendly Skies
This past weekend, my husband and I went to Vermont for a wedding. It was the perfect time to get away, as Vermont gave us a promised taste of fall (my favorite season), which Texas lacks (I'm not even singling Del Rio out this time - Austin presented the same void).
I'm sure it won't surprise you to learn that getting from Del Rio, Texas to Burlington, Vermont is no easy task. No direct flights, that's for sure. Try two connections (i.e., three legs). Good times! Amazingly enough, Del Rio has an airport. Three flights to Houston a day. Just Houston.
So Shawn and I decided to take advantage of the fact that Del Rio has an airport by booking our flights on Continental (for which Houston is a hub). On the way there, it was Del Rio - Houston - Cleveland - Burlington. And you know what? I have to say that Continental is kind of awesome. I recalled flying Continental several times when I lived in Austin, and I never had any issues with that airline. But what Continental offers now, in comparison to other carriers, is seriously impressive. Shawn and I EACH got to check one bag free of charge. And get this - our soft drinks on each of our legs were free, AND we got a lunch on the long leg! It was just a little turkey sub, but still - it was food. And did I mention it was free?
Compare to U.S. Airways, which I flew just a few weeks ago out of San Antonio (keep in mind, this is the same airline on which I foolishly forked over extra money to fly first class at the last minute, only to be served Sun Chips). Oh yes, I handed over the $15 to check my tiny bag. And then I learned (through posters throughout the terminal) that U.S. Airways is NOW offering beverages on its flights starting at $1. Starting at $1? Seems impressive, huh? Oh wait - you mean, $1 for beverages that used to be free? Yes. $1 for a coffee or tea. But if you want water, sorry - that will cost you double.
Hey - I understand that times are tight and that airlines are starting to charge for things that used to be complimentary. But seeing those posters just pissed me off. Hey U.S. Airways - here's a tip: why don't you just admit that you've hit hard times and just tell us that you're sorry you have to charge now? Instead of the "Beverages starting at $1!" like it's some kind of great bargain, why not just put up posters that say this:
"We're sorry to tell you that the soft drinks that used to be complimentary on our flights are now $1 and up. We know it sucks, but we are just trying to stay afloat so that we can afford to get you to your destination. Thank you for flying U.S. Airways."
Or how about this action? At LEAST offer us a glass of water on the flight, for God's sake. Are times really that rough?
I'm sure it won't surprise you to learn that getting from Del Rio, Texas to Burlington, Vermont is no easy task. No direct flights, that's for sure. Try two connections (i.e., three legs). Good times! Amazingly enough, Del Rio has an airport. Three flights to Houston a day. Just Houston.
So Shawn and I decided to take advantage of the fact that Del Rio has an airport by booking our flights on Continental (for which Houston is a hub). On the way there, it was Del Rio - Houston - Cleveland - Burlington. And you know what? I have to say that Continental is kind of awesome. I recalled flying Continental several times when I lived in Austin, and I never had any issues with that airline. But what Continental offers now, in comparison to other carriers, is seriously impressive. Shawn and I EACH got to check one bag free of charge. And get this - our soft drinks on each of our legs were free, AND we got a lunch on the long leg! It was just a little turkey sub, but still - it was food. And did I mention it was free?
Compare to U.S. Airways, which I flew just a few weeks ago out of San Antonio (keep in mind, this is the same airline on which I foolishly forked over extra money to fly first class at the last minute, only to be served Sun Chips). Oh yes, I handed over the $15 to check my tiny bag. And then I learned (through posters throughout the terminal) that U.S. Airways is NOW offering beverages on its flights starting at $1. Starting at $1? Seems impressive, huh? Oh wait - you mean, $1 for beverages that used to be free? Yes. $1 for a coffee or tea. But if you want water, sorry - that will cost you double.
Hey - I understand that times are tight and that airlines are starting to charge for things that used to be complimentary. But seeing those posters just pissed me off. Hey U.S. Airways - here's a tip: why don't you just admit that you've hit hard times and just tell us that you're sorry you have to charge now? Instead of the "Beverages starting at $1!" like it's some kind of great bargain, why not just put up posters that say this:
"We're sorry to tell you that the soft drinks that used to be complimentary on our flights are now $1 and up. We know it sucks, but we are just trying to stay afloat so that we can afford to get you to your destination. Thank you for flying U.S. Airways."
Or how about this action? At LEAST offer us a glass of water on the flight, for God's sake. Are times really that rough?
Friday, September 12, 2008
A Kiosk Does Not A Coffee Shop Make
Dear Friends -
I am afraid the Del Rio situation is more dire than I initially feared. You have heard me rant about the lack of my favorite chain establishments. No Target - that was bad. No Starbucks - absolutely devastating, particularly since I have practically lived at Starbucks in San Antonio for the last four months (I have even hit several different Starbucks in a single day, as I try not to make a habit out of eating both breakfast and lunch at the same place). I tried to convince myself that being inundated with Starbucks in San Antonio would be enough to carry me through the upcoming Starbucks drought. And anyway, it is true that Starbucks was not quite as enticing this summer, without its Orange Mocha Frappuccino and all (Mint Mocha Chip Frap instead? Isn't that, like, a Christmas drink? I don't get the summer debut). I told myself that surely there were some good local places. I can adapt.
Last week, I went in search of the local places. It began with a search on my iPhone for WiFi locations, as we did not yet have internet at our house. This was much more difficult than I could have possibly imagined. I managed to find only a couple of places that had it. Aside from the T-Mobile store itself, the list was strictly limited to hotels. What did this mean for me? Squatting at the Ramada for four hours. I felt like a damn stowaway, hiding out in their upstairs sitting room at the little desk there. I kept waiting for someone to call me out on the fact that I was not a guest (although I did enjoy their breakfast buffet for two days in a row, just in case I was questioned). I escaped unscathed, but I still felt a little sneaky. Unlike theater hopping in high school, my stealthiness did not come accompanied by the glow of "getting away with it." Instead, I just felt . . . well, sad.
But I was not giving up. I had read months before on a chat site during my internet search of whether a Starbucks would ever make its way to Del Rio that there was some place in the town called "Coffee Now." It's simple. It gets the point across. Local is very often just as good, if not better than the big corporate giant. I was optimistic, especially since the poster had poo-pooed Starbucks and said he was a "loyal Coffee Now patron." So I looked up Coffee Now in Google, found the address, and began my search. Funny thing, though - I went back and forth on the street it was supposed to be on a few times, craning my neck to look at every strip mall I saw. Nope. No Coffee Now. Luckily, the listing I found had a phone number. So I called. You never know how long these things stay in business. A cheerful young woman answered right away. Phew! I asked for the cross streets.
And then I went back along the same road. And then it occurred to me why Coffee Now had escaped my notice. It wasn't a store front. It was a damn kiosk, like those Kodak photo labs in the 80's. There wasn't a seat in sight, not even a couple of folding camping chairs in the parking lot. Instead of Coffee Now, for me this realization was more like "Serenity Now!!!"
Welcome to my nightmare.
I am afraid the Del Rio situation is more dire than I initially feared. You have heard me rant about the lack of my favorite chain establishments. No Target - that was bad. No Starbucks - absolutely devastating, particularly since I have practically lived at Starbucks in San Antonio for the last four months (I have even hit several different Starbucks in a single day, as I try not to make a habit out of eating both breakfast and lunch at the same place). I tried to convince myself that being inundated with Starbucks in San Antonio would be enough to carry me through the upcoming Starbucks drought. And anyway, it is true that Starbucks was not quite as enticing this summer, without its Orange Mocha Frappuccino and all (Mint Mocha Chip Frap instead? Isn't that, like, a Christmas drink? I don't get the summer debut). I told myself that surely there were some good local places. I can adapt.
Last week, I went in search of the local places. It began with a search on my iPhone for WiFi locations, as we did not yet have internet at our house. This was much more difficult than I could have possibly imagined. I managed to find only a couple of places that had it. Aside from the T-Mobile store itself, the list was strictly limited to hotels. What did this mean for me? Squatting at the Ramada for four hours. I felt like a damn stowaway, hiding out in their upstairs sitting room at the little desk there. I kept waiting for someone to call me out on the fact that I was not a guest (although I did enjoy their breakfast buffet for two days in a row, just in case I was questioned). I escaped unscathed, but I still felt a little sneaky. Unlike theater hopping in high school, my stealthiness did not come accompanied by the glow of "getting away with it." Instead, I just felt . . . well, sad.
But I was not giving up. I had read months before on a chat site during my internet search of whether a Starbucks would ever make its way to Del Rio that there was some place in the town called "Coffee Now." It's simple. It gets the point across. Local is very often just as good, if not better than the big corporate giant. I was optimistic, especially since the poster had poo-pooed Starbucks and said he was a "loyal Coffee Now patron." So I looked up Coffee Now in Google, found the address, and began my search. Funny thing, though - I went back and forth on the street it was supposed to be on a few times, craning my neck to look at every strip mall I saw. Nope. No Coffee Now. Luckily, the listing I found had a phone number. So I called. You never know how long these things stay in business. A cheerful young woman answered right away. Phew! I asked for the cross streets.
And then I went back along the same road. And then it occurred to me why Coffee Now had escaped my notice. It wasn't a store front. It was a damn kiosk, like those Kodak photo labs in the 80's. There wasn't a seat in sight, not even a couple of folding camping chairs in the parking lot. Instead of Coffee Now, for me this realization was more like "Serenity Now!!!"
Welcome to my nightmare.
Tuesday, September 2, 2008
Fish Out of Water
After being in denial for the past four months that I have officially left Washington, D.C., I finally got a good glimpse of what my new life will be like in Del Rio, Texas (pop. 40,000). Shawn, Shawn's dad, and I started unpacking the new boxes in our lovely new home in our new town. I have to say that the house really is beautiful. I seriously lucked out in marrying someone with similar taste. And I think when we have it all landscaped, it will be a wonderful haven.
The problem for me is the town. 40,000 isn't tiny, I realize. Frankly, that's the size of a decent college campus. The issue is that the closest BIG town is San Antonio. A debilitating 2 1/2 hours away. This is not okay. (I realize that it will have to be, but that doesn't mean that I have to like it.)
I've done a lot of traveling this summer, spending some time visiting my friends in New York, San Francisco, and back to D.C. For each of these visits, I've stayed with people in the city - in great neighborhoods where I could walk to "stuff." While these trips were great, they made me long for the big city more than ever.
If I'm being fair, I should admit that I've never been a true city girl. I've always been more of a suburbanite. But still - the city was always right there. And the suburbs had their own charm (charm = the great chain stores I frequent, such as Target, Barnes & Noble, World Market, The Gap, etc. etc.). In Del Rio, I will have none of those conveniences. Instead, I will be forced to get comfortable with my nemesis, Wal-Mart. I will have to get used to ordering everything on-line.
It really hit home when I visited my nemesis Sunday, in a mission to find dish soap and a few other goodies for the house. I went through five different aisles before I heard a soul speaking my native tongue. It's not like I haven't heard Spanish spoken in a store before. Whenever I visited my nemesis in Alexandria, VA (during desperate times, of course), I often heard customers speaking Spanish. I don't have a problem with it, really - I don't.
But for the first time in my life, I truly felt in the minority. A fish out of water.
The problem for me is the town. 40,000 isn't tiny, I realize. Frankly, that's the size of a decent college campus. The issue is that the closest BIG town is San Antonio. A debilitating 2 1/2 hours away. This is not okay. (I realize that it will have to be, but that doesn't mean that I have to like it.)
I've done a lot of traveling this summer, spending some time visiting my friends in New York, San Francisco, and back to D.C. For each of these visits, I've stayed with people in the city - in great neighborhoods where I could walk to "stuff." While these trips were great, they made me long for the big city more than ever.
If I'm being fair, I should admit that I've never been a true city girl. I've always been more of a suburbanite. But still - the city was always right there. And the suburbs had their own charm (charm = the great chain stores I frequent, such as Target, Barnes & Noble, World Market, The Gap, etc. etc.). In Del Rio, I will have none of those conveniences. Instead, I will be forced to get comfortable with my nemesis, Wal-Mart. I will have to get used to ordering everything on-line.
It really hit home when I visited my nemesis Sunday, in a mission to find dish soap and a few other goodies for the house. I went through five different aisles before I heard a soul speaking my native tongue. It's not like I haven't heard Spanish spoken in a store before. Whenever I visited my nemesis in Alexandria, VA (during desperate times, of course), I often heard customers speaking Spanish. I don't have a problem with it, really - I don't.
But for the first time in my life, I truly felt in the minority. A fish out of water.
Friday, August 29, 2008
The Ding Letter
If you've been following my sporadic posts, you may have learned that I am an aspiring novelist. I learned quickly that it is a tough business, and that you will go crazy if you don't develop a thick skin. As they say in the publishing world, everyone has been rejected at least once, but you have to persevere. In any case, I would much rather receive a ding letter than nothing at all.
Going through this process brings back fond memories of my favorite ding letter of all time. While I doubt it's the norm in any business to take pleasure in drafting the DING!, in this particular case, I have no doubt that this person was sitting at his desk and laughing as he composed this masterpiece. I am sorry that this comes at the expense of my good friend from law school, whom I'll call Mr. Smith.
Here goes:
Like many diligent job seeking law students (note that I did not fit in this group), Mr. Smith set out early on in our first year to secure a summer internship for the transition from obnoxious 1L to even more obnoxious 2L. (This is a generalization, of course. Incidentally, Mr. Smith is one of the least obnoxious people I know.) Mr. Smith's search was very impressive. He visited the career services office and found contacts for dozens of law firms. He dipped into his law school loans to spring for the expensive bond paper (because these were the days before everyone had e-mail). He sent out these letters by the tens, being careful to address each to the hiring partner at the firm to which he was applying. This was the year 1996.
A few months later, the letters started pouring in. Many were the standard, "sorry we don't hire summer associates, we have already fulfilled our internship needs, etc. etc." But one special letter stood out from the rest. It was so special, in fact, that it was gingerly placed in the display case by the library in the spring of our third year, the highlight of all of the good times we had as law students. And this is what it said (more or less):
"Dear Mr. Smith,
Thank you for inquiring Mr. Jones [contact person from career services office] about a possible summer internship at [insert name of firm]. Unfortunately, Mr. Jones will not be getting back to you any time soon, seeing as how he died in 1981.
Love,
[insert name of surviving partner/associate laughing ass off while composing letter]"
It was classic.
Going through this process brings back fond memories of my favorite ding letter of all time. While I doubt it's the norm in any business to take pleasure in drafting the DING!, in this particular case, I have no doubt that this person was sitting at his desk and laughing as he composed this masterpiece. I am sorry that this comes at the expense of my good friend from law school, whom I'll call Mr. Smith.
Here goes:
Like many diligent job seeking law students (note that I did not fit in this group), Mr. Smith set out early on in our first year to secure a summer internship for the transition from obnoxious 1L to even more obnoxious 2L. (This is a generalization, of course. Incidentally, Mr. Smith is one of the least obnoxious people I know.) Mr. Smith's search was very impressive. He visited the career services office and found contacts for dozens of law firms. He dipped into his law school loans to spring for the expensive bond paper (because these were the days before everyone had e-mail). He sent out these letters by the tens, being careful to address each to the hiring partner at the firm to which he was applying. This was the year 1996.
A few months later, the letters started pouring in. Many were the standard, "sorry we don't hire summer associates, we have already fulfilled our internship needs, etc. etc." But one special letter stood out from the rest. It was so special, in fact, that it was gingerly placed in the display case by the library in the spring of our third year, the highlight of all of the good times we had as law students. And this is what it said (more or less):
"Dear Mr. Smith,
Thank you for inquiring Mr. Jones [contact person from career services office] about a possible summer internship at [insert name of firm]. Unfortunately, Mr. Jones will not be getting back to you any time soon, seeing as how he died in 1981.
Love,
[insert name of surviving partner/associate laughing ass off while composing letter]"
It was classic.
Monday, August 18, 2008
Journalism At Its Finest
Now that swimming is over and I've just watched two American gymnasts get robbed in the event finals (I'm not biased, I swear - how can a woman who lands on her knees in a vault knock poor team finals choke artist Alicia Sacramone off the podium - I mean how bad can that poor girl's week get anyway?), my interest in the Olympics is starting to wane. For some reason, after former fantasy boyfriend Dan O'Brien got too old for the competition (I was inexplicably drawn to that gap of his), I lost some interest in track and field (okay, the whole Marion Jones scandal certainly didn't help matters - disgraceful!). So in reflection, I thought I would revisit Michael Phel . . . err . . . I mean swimming.
So at this point, you're probably thinking that I'm about to go off on another rant. And ding-ding! You are correct. I would never take anything away from Michael Phelps, and believe me - I was just as excited as anyone else when he out-touched that poor dude to win the 100 meter butterfly by one one-hundredth of a second! The guy is amazing, and he deserved every single one of those gold medals. What bothered me was the failure of a certain journalist to appreciate the efforts of some of his teammates as individual athletes instead of simply supporting characters in Michael Phelps' quest for Olympic history.
Now, I am sure the other swimmers knew that their efforts in the Cube would be overshadowed to a certain extent by the phenomenon that is Michael Phelps. They probably had a special support group just to prepare them for that. But what really got me was when a journalist interviewed Jason Lezak about his clutch performance in securing that gold medal in the 4 x 100 freestyle relay. Jason Lezak, who not only redeemed himself for a previously disappointing performance in the 4 x 100 relay in Athens but who came from behind against the world record holder, beating his personal best by one and a half seconds.
So, as a journalist with a prime two minutes of Jason Lezak's valuable time, what would you say to him? Here's what our friendly correspondent for NBC decided to go with: "I bet the fact that you were helping Michael Phelps keep alive his quest for eight gold medals in a single Olympics helped motivate you for that strong finish." Okay, I'm paraphrasing, but you get the point. Are you kidding me? Yes, random NBC correspondent who apparently graduated from the University of Disrespect, even though Jason Lezak was born a decade before Michael Phelps, he has trained for his whole life, all thirty-two years, with the hope that one day, one day, he could play a small part in someone else's dream. It was not besting his own personal record that helped him edge out the trash talking Frenchie. It was not helping his relay team (which, at last count, included four people). It was all for the cause of one single American.
Jason Lezak - just in case you're reading this, I want you to know that I thought you handled that embarrassing question with as much dignity and grace as humanly possible. And I thank you for gently reminding our friendly reporter that, in fact, the dreams of Michael Phelps were not what drove you to reach that wall first. What drove you was your own passion for swimming and your desire to win for your teammates.
Yes, as in plural.
So at this point, you're probably thinking that I'm about to go off on another rant. And ding-ding! You are correct. I would never take anything away from Michael Phelps, and believe me - I was just as excited as anyone else when he out-touched that poor dude to win the 100 meter butterfly by one one-hundredth of a second! The guy is amazing, and he deserved every single one of those gold medals. What bothered me was the failure of a certain journalist to appreciate the efforts of some of his teammates as individual athletes instead of simply supporting characters in Michael Phelps' quest for Olympic history.
Now, I am sure the other swimmers knew that their efforts in the Cube would be overshadowed to a certain extent by the phenomenon that is Michael Phelps. They probably had a special support group just to prepare them for that. But what really got me was when a journalist interviewed Jason Lezak about his clutch performance in securing that gold medal in the 4 x 100 freestyle relay. Jason Lezak, who not only redeemed himself for a previously disappointing performance in the 4 x 100 relay in Athens but who came from behind against the world record holder, beating his personal best by one and a half seconds.
So, as a journalist with a prime two minutes of Jason Lezak's valuable time, what would you say to him? Here's what our friendly correspondent for NBC decided to go with: "I bet the fact that you were helping Michael Phelps keep alive his quest for eight gold medals in a single Olympics helped motivate you for that strong finish." Okay, I'm paraphrasing, but you get the point. Are you kidding me? Yes, random NBC correspondent who apparently graduated from the University of Disrespect, even though Jason Lezak was born a decade before Michael Phelps, he has trained for his whole life, all thirty-two years, with the hope that one day, one day, he could play a small part in someone else's dream. It was not besting his own personal record that helped him edge out the trash talking Frenchie. It was not helping his relay team (which, at last count, included four people). It was all for the cause of one single American.
Jason Lezak - just in case you're reading this, I want you to know that I thought you handled that embarrassing question with as much dignity and grace as humanly possible. And I thank you for gently reminding our friendly reporter that, in fact, the dreams of Michael Phelps were not what drove you to reach that wall first. What drove you was your own passion for swimming and your desire to win for your teammates.
Yes, as in plural.
Tuesday, August 12, 2008
The Trash Talker
Okay. I admit it. I am a sucker for the Olympics. In the months leading up to them, I ignore all of the hype. I don't watch the trials. I don't follow what's going on with drug testing. I don't rush out to buy a bunch of red, white, and blue garb so I can follow along like a crazed fan from my living room.
But once they are on, I get hooked. And my favorite part of the Summer Olympics, I've decided, is swimming. I love swimming for many reasons, just one being that I know for a fact how ridiculously hard it is. I was never a serious competitive swimmer, but I did spend two summers swimming for the Forest Lake Country Club in Bloomfield Hills, Michigan, and believe you me - that was plenty. It was positively grueling. I also love swimming because it is one of those sports that truly shines in the Olympics. The game-related sports like basketball are totally boring to me because these are professional athletes who are just taking a break from their million dollar salaries to give this little 'ole Olympic thing a try. Now, don't get me wrong - I'm sure Michael Phelps does quite well in endorsements - QUITE well. But swimming is at its pinnacle on the Olympic stage. The contest is over fast, and it's always exciting.
What I don't get is the trash talking. The French swimmer dude (sorry - can't be bothered to look up his name), saying prior to the 4 x 100 free relay, "The Americans? We're going to smash them. That's what we came here for." Is that right??? You didn't come to represent your country with honor? You didn't come to win the gold? You specifically came to bring someone else down? I mean, it goes without saying that, to win, someone else must be defeated, but still - what kind of sportsmanship is that? ESPECIALLY during the Olympics! Not to toot our own horns or anything, but the NBC coverage, while certainly America-centric, does focus on some of the athletes from other countries who deserve to be celebrated. I believe all Olympians do.
I have to say that I was rather proud of the Americans in their response. Of course they let the swim speak for itself. And it did. It spoke volumes, in fact.
Friday, August 8, 2008
Stress for Breakfast
I once had a boss who liked to say he ate stress for breakfast, like it was some ridiculous badge of honor. Well, I ate stress for breakfast, lunch, and a mid-afternoon snack today, and you know what? It tasted terrible.
I had two major "filings" due today for work, and I've once again proven the theory that, no matter how much time you have to complete a project, you will always work until the very last minute. We almost made these filings a month ago and gave a big sigh of relief when we realized we had a whole extra month. "Woo hoo!" we exclaimed. "Now we don't have to rush!"
Yeah. I wish I had a time machine to go tell my 7-8-08 self, "Get it together. Let's nail this thing down so we're not racing the clock trying to get it done at the eleventh hour. Maybe this time, you'd prefer to finish something without that awful tension building up in your back so severely that you can barely move at the end of the day. Maybe you'd like not to snap at your husband when he calls in the middle of your giant C.F. to ask you a question about your bank account."
But no. Apparently, my 7-8-08 self was destined to eat stress for breakfast today.
I had two major "filings" due today for work, and I've once again proven the theory that, no matter how much time you have to complete a project, you will always work until the very last minute. We almost made these filings a month ago and gave a big sigh of relief when we realized we had a whole extra month. "Woo hoo!" we exclaimed. "Now we don't have to rush!"
Yeah. I wish I had a time machine to go tell my 7-8-08 self, "Get it together. Let's nail this thing down so we're not racing the clock trying to get it done at the eleventh hour. Maybe this time, you'd prefer to finish something without that awful tension building up in your back so severely that you can barely move at the end of the day. Maybe you'd like not to snap at your husband when he calls in the middle of your giant C.F. to ask you a question about your bank account."
But no. Apparently, my 7-8-08 self was destined to eat stress for breakfast today.
Monday, July 28, 2008
Mis-Animation
My husband and I were watching "Mad Men," last night (excellent, in case you haven't jumped on that bandwagon), and I started thinking about the business of advertising. I understand from post-9-11, that when times are rough in business, the marketing budget is among the first to be hit. To me, this is a shame. I am not embarrassed to admit that marketing has a lot to do with the purchasing decisions I make. If the packaging is good, or the commercial makes me laugh, I'm more likely to buy the product - plain and simple. But sometimes, I really wonder what those people in advertising are smoking and how their proposals even make it past the boardroom.
The most glaring of these, to me, is the overuse of animation in advertising. And by animation, I mean the kind that personifies an inanimate object. Remember the smashing success of the California Raisins? Well, so do I. But that was over 20 years ago, folks!!! Come up with a new concept. Have we learned nothing in the last two decades?
Last night, I was forced to watch this commercial for Compound-W (I assume it was Compound-W - maybe it wasn't - either way, I didn't care because the commercial sucked). The geniuses at the advertising firm gave life to a wart on someone's finger. And the wart was talking smack or something and then got covered with some kind of liquid, turned white, and apparently died. Gross! This does not inspire me to buy your stupid product. I'd rather pay the extra money to have a doctor remove the wart for me.
This brought to mind two other commercials with animation that I cannot stand (again, please excuse me for not remembering the name of the product, which proves to me that even though your commercial was notoriously memorable, it's still not enough to earn brand recognition). The first of these is that awful commercial with the fungus that lives under the bed of your toenails. That commercial was so unbelievably disturbing that I would interrupt whatever I was doing and leap across the room to change the channel. I do not want to see anyone, even a cartoon, lift up a toenail.
The second was some commercial for diapers (Luvs? Huggies? Again, not sure). These advertisers had the balls to animate a DIAPER! The diaper was turned in profile and had eyes above the hole where the baby/toddler's leg would go, which was apparently the mouth of this character. Are you serious? Do you even realize what diapers are for? And what goes into them? That is beyond disgusting. And unless I have stepped into an Austin Powers movie or something, that is animation gone way too far.
Thinking of these dumb commercials makes me at least appreciate the Geico cavemen a little more. Sure, they blew it with that lame attempt at a sitcom. But it was original. I have to give them that.
The most glaring of these, to me, is the overuse of animation in advertising. And by animation, I mean the kind that personifies an inanimate object. Remember the smashing success of the California Raisins? Well, so do I. But that was over 20 years ago, folks!!! Come up with a new concept. Have we learned nothing in the last two decades?
Last night, I was forced to watch this commercial for Compound-W (I assume it was Compound-W - maybe it wasn't - either way, I didn't care because the commercial sucked). The geniuses at the advertising firm gave life to a wart on someone's finger. And the wart was talking smack or something and then got covered with some kind of liquid, turned white, and apparently died. Gross! This does not inspire me to buy your stupid product. I'd rather pay the extra money to have a doctor remove the wart for me.
This brought to mind two other commercials with animation that I cannot stand (again, please excuse me for not remembering the name of the product, which proves to me that even though your commercial was notoriously memorable, it's still not enough to earn brand recognition). The first of these is that awful commercial with the fungus that lives under the bed of your toenails. That commercial was so unbelievably disturbing that I would interrupt whatever I was doing and leap across the room to change the channel. I do not want to see anyone, even a cartoon, lift up a toenail.
The second was some commercial for diapers (Luvs? Huggies? Again, not sure). These advertisers had the balls to animate a DIAPER! The diaper was turned in profile and had eyes above the hole where the baby/toddler's leg would go, which was apparently the mouth of this character. Are you serious? Do you even realize what diapers are for? And what goes into them? That is beyond disgusting. And unless I have stepped into an Austin Powers movie or something, that is animation gone way too far.
Thinking of these dumb commercials makes me at least appreciate the Geico cavemen a little more. Sure, they blew it with that lame attempt at a sitcom. But it was original. I have to give them that.
Tuesday, July 8, 2008
Repeat, Repeat Performance
This past weekend, my husband Shawn and I went in on a couple of condos in South Padre Island with some of my Austin friends. We were pretty happy to be included, especially since we could not get our act together and figure out what we were doing until the night before everyone was leaving. This wouldn't have been that big of a deal except that it was 4th of July weekend. We got the room with the two single beds in the condo with the couple that had two kids. Call us Ward and June Cleaver.
Well, incredibly, it rained the ENTIRE weekend. This is not supposed to happen in Texas. I don't mean a few sprinkles here and there. I don't mean the bummer of an overcast sky. Oh no. I mean rain. Rain, rain, rain. So we drove four and a half hours to a beach in order to stay inside all weekend to eat, drink, eat, and drink some more. And some more. Good times. (You can ask my friend Michelle from New York, who I think tried to drunk dial me on that first night but got more than she bargained for - I'm sure I was probably twice as looped as she was, and she was the one who was eventually like, "Uh, yeah, I gotta go.").
So, take four couples and throw in some cabin fever, and what do you get? Let's call them "debates." There were a lot of doozy "debates" (thankfully none between Shawn and me), but my personal favorite involved the value of a story that one has already heard. Here's how it goes: the "day after," my friend Jenn and I kept bringing up a story from the night before. The story itself is not important. What is important is the fact that her boyfriend became very annoyed at having to hear it repeated several times. Fair enough - it wasn't the best story I've ever heard. But where he went too far was to proclaim that people should never repeat stories at all because (and I quote), "nobody cares."
Whoa! Excuse me?? I beg to differ. A good story is a good story. And each and every one of my friends has at least one of these gems. And you know what? Like a good movie or a book, I'm going to want to hear that story more than once. Heck, I just finished watching "Old School" for the umpteenth time, and it was even the crappy sanitized version on TBS. If I like a story, I'm going to get sucked in again, especially because, unlike the sanitized "Old School," there may be nuances in the second, third, twelfth time around that weren't in the first. New details = new laughs. And here's the other thing, perhaps the biggest thing of all: if there weren't any repeat stories, there wouldn't be any inside jokes.
And, where, my friends, is the fun in that???
Well, incredibly, it rained the ENTIRE weekend. This is not supposed to happen in Texas. I don't mean a few sprinkles here and there. I don't mean the bummer of an overcast sky. Oh no. I mean rain. Rain, rain, rain. So we drove four and a half hours to a beach in order to stay inside all weekend to eat, drink, eat, and drink some more. And some more. Good times. (You can ask my friend Michelle from New York, who I think tried to drunk dial me on that first night but got more than she bargained for - I'm sure I was probably twice as looped as she was, and she was the one who was eventually like, "Uh, yeah, I gotta go.").
So, take four couples and throw in some cabin fever, and what do you get? Let's call them "debates." There were a lot of doozy "debates" (thankfully none between Shawn and me), but my personal favorite involved the value of a story that one has already heard. Here's how it goes: the "day after," my friend Jenn and I kept bringing up a story from the night before. The story itself is not important. What is important is the fact that her boyfriend became very annoyed at having to hear it repeated several times. Fair enough - it wasn't the best story I've ever heard. But where he went too far was to proclaim that people should never repeat stories at all because (and I quote), "nobody cares."
Whoa! Excuse me?? I beg to differ. A good story is a good story. And each and every one of my friends has at least one of these gems. And you know what? Like a good movie or a book, I'm going to want to hear that story more than once. Heck, I just finished watching "Old School" for the umpteenth time, and it was even the crappy sanitized version on TBS. If I like a story, I'm going to get sucked in again, especially because, unlike the sanitized "Old School," there may be nuances in the second, third, twelfth time around that weren't in the first. New details = new laughs. And here's the other thing, perhaps the biggest thing of all: if there weren't any repeat stories, there wouldn't be any inside jokes.
And, where, my friends, is the fun in that???
Monday, June 30, 2008
What Would You Say?
I am a creature of habit when it comes to eating. While I certainly enjoy a variety of cuisines, when I first discover something I like, I tend to go on a little mini binge with it. It's not really binging in the true sense (no, I don't gluttonously consume mass quantities in one sitting), but I do engage in a routine of consuming my new discovery on a frequent, and often repetitive, basis.
My friend Kim once gave me a Whirlipop for my birthday. It's no secret that I love popcorn, of course (hence the decision to gift to me this fantastic contraption), but I bet even Kim didn't know just how far I took it. I ate popcorn every day for a solid two weeks after that sucker was mine. Did I eventually get sick of it? Well, not really. Popcorn is one of those things I could eat every day without complaint. But I did end up eventually having to make room for some other foods in my diet, so I had to start occasionally letting popcorn take a backseat.
Since moving back to Texas, while I, sadly, have been robbed of the Starbucks molasses cookie (damn regional differences), I have been reintroduced to two WONDERFUL fast food delights. Taco Cabana and Sonic. If you haven't become acquainted with Taco Cabana, you're missing out. It is so many leagues above Taco Bell (try the chicken fajita taco - out of this world), and they even serve beer there. What could be better? I have to be honest too - I have eaten at countless sit down Tex-Mex places since I've been here, and Taco Cabana's chips and queso cream them all (is that a pun? almost, I think - but not quite). I ate Taco Cabana yesterday and then immediately craved it again today. And yum. It was just as tasty and satisfying on Day 2.
And then there's Sonic. Man, oh man. Sonic is awesome. It's true you have to deal with that awkward dilemma of whether to tip the carhop who delivers your food (they have a drive thru, but I can't tell the difference between that and the regular ordering style - you still get a carhop when you "drive thru"). However, it is well worth the effort. I've become accustomed to swinging by the Sonic after a good gym workout to get a refreshing Diet Cherry Limeade. I recently added a regular sized tater tots to my routine, which kind of defeats the purpose of the gym, but they're so tasty that I can't pass them up. I've earned it.
Which brings me to my point for today. After a great hour and a half workout at the gym, I pulled into Sonic to reward myself with a Diet Cherry Limeade and some tots. When the carhop comes out to deliver my food, I ask the rhetoric "How are you?" (translation: "Give me my tots and scram!")
Here's what I get in response: "Ugh. I feel fat today. It's all my husband's fault."
Now, I think I just uttered a non-committal, yet sympathetic "awww," but this begs the question - what the heck did she expect me to say? The girl looked like she was in her early twenties, and she was puffy - not fat - but dough boy puffy. I had seen her there before and observed her as a little chubby, but nothing out of the ordinary. But was she pregnant? Perhaps that was what she was trying to tell me.
But I wouldn't dare suggest such a thing and risk ruining my Sonic routine.
My friend Kim once gave me a Whirlipop for my birthday. It's no secret that I love popcorn, of course (hence the decision to gift to me this fantastic contraption), but I bet even Kim didn't know just how far I took it. I ate popcorn every day for a solid two weeks after that sucker was mine. Did I eventually get sick of it? Well, not really. Popcorn is one of those things I could eat every day without complaint. But I did end up eventually having to make room for some other foods in my diet, so I had to start occasionally letting popcorn take a backseat.
Since moving back to Texas, while I, sadly, have been robbed of the Starbucks molasses cookie (damn regional differences), I have been reintroduced to two WONDERFUL fast food delights. Taco Cabana and Sonic. If you haven't become acquainted with Taco Cabana, you're missing out. It is so many leagues above Taco Bell (try the chicken fajita taco - out of this world), and they even serve beer there. What could be better? I have to be honest too - I have eaten at countless sit down Tex-Mex places since I've been here, and Taco Cabana's chips and queso cream them all (is that a pun? almost, I think - but not quite). I ate Taco Cabana yesterday and then immediately craved it again today. And yum. It was just as tasty and satisfying on Day 2.
And then there's Sonic. Man, oh man. Sonic is awesome. It's true you have to deal with that awkward dilemma of whether to tip the carhop who delivers your food (they have a drive thru, but I can't tell the difference between that and the regular ordering style - you still get a carhop when you "drive thru"). However, it is well worth the effort. I've become accustomed to swinging by the Sonic after a good gym workout to get a refreshing Diet Cherry Limeade. I recently added a regular sized tater tots to my routine, which kind of defeats the purpose of the gym, but they're so tasty that I can't pass them up. I've earned it.
Which brings me to my point for today. After a great hour and a half workout at the gym, I pulled into Sonic to reward myself with a Diet Cherry Limeade and some tots. When the carhop comes out to deliver my food, I ask the rhetoric "How are you?" (translation: "Give me my tots and scram!")
Here's what I get in response: "Ugh. I feel fat today. It's all my husband's fault."
Now, I think I just uttered a non-committal, yet sympathetic "awww," but this begs the question - what the heck did she expect me to say? The girl looked like she was in her early twenties, and she was puffy - not fat - but dough boy puffy. I had seen her there before and observed her as a little chubby, but nothing out of the ordinary. But was she pregnant? Perhaps that was what she was trying to tell me.
But I wouldn't dare suggest such a thing and risk ruining my Sonic routine.
Sunday, June 22, 2008
Okay, So Your Name Is Mudd. Who Cares?
A week or so ago, my husband and I sat down to watch "National Treasure: Book of Secrets." While the first "National Treasure," was passable (certainly not great), I think even People magazine gave "Book of Secrets" a dismal review. Regardless, I do like history, and for a semi-action flick, there was at least the possibility that I could pick up a few historical tidbits. "Book of Secrets" partially delivered on that score. I learned a little more about the origin of the desk in the Oval Office. I learned that a smaller scale Statue of Liberty exists in Paris. But, I am sorry to report, that's about it (unless you count learning that Nicholas Cage really needs to just admit he's going gray and balding and be done with it - that was some seriously bad hair).
I just couldn't get behind the premise of the movie. I'll give you the nutshell. Nic's character, something "Gates," has his family name threatened when inexplicable bad guy (played by Ed Harris (see Nic - the bald thing isn't so bad)) comes forward with a dog eared page from the diary of John Wilkes Booth that implicates Nic's great great grandfather in the assassination of Abraham Lincoln. Nic spends the entire movie, traveling to Paris and London, and then ultimately kidnapping the President of the United States (yeah, right) at a birthday function at Mount Vernon trying to clear the Gates family name. He tells the story of Dr. Mudd, how even when he was cleared after setting Booth's broken leg, his reputation remained tarnished by association and the rumor that he was somehow complicit (I suspect that this was supposed to be one of those neat tidbits to pick up from watching the movie, but I already knew it so was unimpressed). Oh, and some kid at the White House Easter Egg roll taunts Nic with the latest headline, "Your family killed President Lincoln, nanny nanny boo boo." (as if an eight-year-old boy is really going to get all worked up about something that happened a century and a third before he was even born).
The entire plot was absolutely ridiculous and unbelievable, which still would have been okay with me had I found it remotely entertaining. What was even worse than Nic's antics was Ed Harris' bad guy, who was so obsessed with having his own family name get a gold star in the annals of history that he was willing to tap into Nic's dad's phone, follow Nic across the ocean, have a wild car chase in London that resulted in millions of dollars of property damage, and hold various members of Nic's family and friends at gunpoint. Really? Would you go that far?
As a relative of John Wilkes Booth myself, I would have to say no. Get over it. You weren't even there.
I just couldn't get behind the premise of the movie. I'll give you the nutshell. Nic's character, something "Gates," has his family name threatened when inexplicable bad guy (played by Ed Harris (see Nic - the bald thing isn't so bad)) comes forward with a dog eared page from the diary of John Wilkes Booth that implicates Nic's great great grandfather in the assassination of Abraham Lincoln. Nic spends the entire movie, traveling to Paris and London, and then ultimately kidnapping the President of the United States (yeah, right) at a birthday function at Mount Vernon trying to clear the Gates family name. He tells the story of Dr. Mudd, how even when he was cleared after setting Booth's broken leg, his reputation remained tarnished by association and the rumor that he was somehow complicit (I suspect that this was supposed to be one of those neat tidbits to pick up from watching the movie, but I already knew it so was unimpressed). Oh, and some kid at the White House Easter Egg roll taunts Nic with the latest headline, "Your family killed President Lincoln, nanny nanny boo boo." (as if an eight-year-old boy is really going to get all worked up about something that happened a century and a third before he was even born).
The entire plot was absolutely ridiculous and unbelievable, which still would have been okay with me had I found it remotely entertaining. What was even worse than Nic's antics was Ed Harris' bad guy, who was so obsessed with having his own family name get a gold star in the annals of history that he was willing to tap into Nic's dad's phone, follow Nic across the ocean, have a wild car chase in London that resulted in millions of dollars of property damage, and hold various members of Nic's family and friends at gunpoint. Really? Would you go that far?
As a relative of John Wilkes Booth myself, I would have to say no. Get over it. You weren't even there.
Friday, June 20, 2008
I'd Like To Be Envious, But Don't I Need A Reason?
Nope. Take it from me - you don't need a reason. At least not a legitimate one.
Case in point: Last night, I was watching the second episode of the second season (?) of "My Boys," that cute TBS sitcom about a twenty-something girl sports writer, P.J., who is always hanging out with the guys (including her male crushable roommate, Brendan, and her older brother, Andy - superbly played by Jim Gaffigan). So far, this season isn't quite as cute (or funny, for that matter), but of course I'm going to watch because what else is on besides "Celebrity Circus?" In addition to the "boys," P.J. has a sassy single girl sidekick named Stephanie, whose purpose seems solely to contrast P.J.'s tomboy with a boy-crazy, girly girl female character. In a word, Stephanie is annoying. It's probably just the writing, but Stephanie's lines are always so contrived, so stereotypical, so not funny. But last night, I learned something else about this Stephanie - she has one upped me!
At the end of last week's episode, Stephanie announced that she was going to forget about men for awhile and was going to focus her energy on writing a book. She even held up a little journal to show that she was serious. Well, last night, Stephanie and P.J. are walking down the sidewalk, and P.J. makes some comment about how Stephanie looks so happy. And this is what Stephanie reports: "I finished my book, and I sent it out, and four publishers are interested in it, and one of them even offered me a three book deal!!"
WTF?!!!! I'm not even kidding around. I was mad. Mad, mad, mad. How could this silly Stephanie person write a book in a week, and send it to four publishers (evidently skipping the whole agent step all together), and get ALL FOUR of them to consider it??? I spent months on my book, and have sent it to three agents, two of whom politely rejected it (well, assuming you count the one "Dear Author" letter as polite), and one of whom has not yet responded after several weeks. Four publishers? FOUR publishers?
I was practically inconsolable, having to remind myself again and again, "It's just a t.v. show, Amanda. It's not real."
Case in point: Last night, I was watching the second episode of the second season (?) of "My Boys," that cute TBS sitcom about a twenty-something girl sports writer, P.J., who is always hanging out with the guys (including her male crushable roommate, Brendan, and her older brother, Andy - superbly played by Jim Gaffigan). So far, this season isn't quite as cute (or funny, for that matter), but of course I'm going to watch because what else is on besides "Celebrity Circus?" In addition to the "boys," P.J. has a sassy single girl sidekick named Stephanie, whose purpose seems solely to contrast P.J.'s tomboy with a boy-crazy, girly girl female character. In a word, Stephanie is annoying. It's probably just the writing, but Stephanie's lines are always so contrived, so stereotypical, so not funny. But last night, I learned something else about this Stephanie - she has one upped me!
At the end of last week's episode, Stephanie announced that she was going to forget about men for awhile and was going to focus her energy on writing a book. She even held up a little journal to show that she was serious. Well, last night, Stephanie and P.J. are walking down the sidewalk, and P.J. makes some comment about how Stephanie looks so happy. And this is what Stephanie reports: "I finished my book, and I sent it out, and four publishers are interested in it, and one of them even offered me a three book deal!!"
WTF?!!!! I'm not even kidding around. I was mad. Mad, mad, mad. How could this silly Stephanie person write a book in a week, and send it to four publishers (evidently skipping the whole agent step all together), and get ALL FOUR of them to consider it??? I spent months on my book, and have sent it to three agents, two of whom politely rejected it (well, assuming you count the one "Dear Author" letter as polite), and one of whom has not yet responded after several weeks. Four publishers? FOUR publishers?
I was practically inconsolable, having to remind myself again and again, "It's just a t.v. show, Amanda. It's not real."
Thursday, June 12, 2008
Come On, Get Happy
I confess that I have been a little moody lately. Okay, more than a little. The highlight of my day yesterday was when I set my mocha light frappuccino on the edge of the table at the Riverwalk Starbucks, and it landed perfectly upside down on the ground, like a stellar flip cup performance. Too bad I hadn't taken a single sip before this happened. I still managed to salvage about a third of it, and I did drink it, out of pure desperation.
When it comes to feeling down, I turn to music if I can. Sometimes there is a part of me that just wants to feel sorry for myself, and that's when I put in something syrupy sad like a little Josh Groban. Other times, however, it's just time to pick myself up and play something that makes me deliriously happy. And I look to three tunes to accomplish this.
1. The Girl From Ipanema. Who doesn't know this song? It seems like it's been around forever. But I was reintroduced to it when I guy I dated in D.C., Josh, pulled it out of his CD collection in his car one day. He told me that he and his friends always put that in the CD player when one of them was pissed off, and it instantly cheered everyone up. I could see exactly what he meant. Normally listening to a favorite song of a guy who dumped me would cause me to wallow in self pity. But "The Girl From Ipanema" puts a smile on my face every time.
2. Freedom! '90. If you know me well, you know that I have a mild (very mild) obsession with George Michael. There are so many great George Michael songs, including the now mostly forgotten "One More Try" (very big at the Van Hoosen after school dance when I was in the 8th grade, but I think I've only heard it on the radio about five times in the twenty years since). I may not be a supermodel, like the women in the famous Freedom! video, but whenever I hear this song, I just want to get up and dance. It makes me think of my friend Michelle's bachelorette party and good times at the Adams Mill when I first moved to D.C. It just makes me happy.
3. Never Wanna F'n See You Again. This is the granddaddy of them all. It's a lesser known song, and probably only really recognized amongst those of us in college in the great state of Indiana in the 1990s. The chorus to this song would never make it on the radio because censoring it just doesn't have the same impact. I'll give you a half censored version anyway: "No, I never wanna f'n see you again. You've always been a bitch. Since I can't remember when. You irritate my brain. You're driving me insane. No, I never wanna f'n see you again. Why do you have to be such a bitch?" I can't explain what it is about this song, but the melody is so hoedown happy, and to have it go with these lyrics, where you know Rich Hardesty is smiling as he sings - it is everything that is right about swearing. Sometimes, it just makes you feel better. Proof of this, to me, was when I went on a Spring Break trip in law school to Vegas, Phoenix, and Mexico with eight of my classmates. And when we were all bickering in the van en route somewhere, singing along to this song was the only thing that could bring us all back together. In a word: awesome.
When it comes to feeling down, I turn to music if I can. Sometimes there is a part of me that just wants to feel sorry for myself, and that's when I put in something syrupy sad like a little Josh Groban. Other times, however, it's just time to pick myself up and play something that makes me deliriously happy. And I look to three tunes to accomplish this.
1. The Girl From Ipanema. Who doesn't know this song? It seems like it's been around forever. But I was reintroduced to it when I guy I dated in D.C., Josh, pulled it out of his CD collection in his car one day. He told me that he and his friends always put that in the CD player when one of them was pissed off, and it instantly cheered everyone up. I could see exactly what he meant. Normally listening to a favorite song of a guy who dumped me would cause me to wallow in self pity. But "The Girl From Ipanema" puts a smile on my face every time.
2. Freedom! '90. If you know me well, you know that I have a mild (very mild) obsession with George Michael. There are so many great George Michael songs, including the now mostly forgotten "One More Try" (very big at the Van Hoosen after school dance when I was in the 8th grade, but I think I've only heard it on the radio about five times in the twenty years since). I may not be a supermodel, like the women in the famous Freedom! video, but whenever I hear this song, I just want to get up and dance. It makes me think of my friend Michelle's bachelorette party and good times at the Adams Mill when I first moved to D.C. It just makes me happy.
3. Never Wanna F'n See You Again. This is the granddaddy of them all. It's a lesser known song, and probably only really recognized amongst those of us in college in the great state of Indiana in the 1990s. The chorus to this song would never make it on the radio because censoring it just doesn't have the same impact. I'll give you a half censored version anyway: "No, I never wanna f'n see you again. You've always been a bitch. Since I can't remember when. You irritate my brain. You're driving me insane. No, I never wanna f'n see you again. Why do you have to be such a bitch?" I can't explain what it is about this song, but the melody is so hoedown happy, and to have it go with these lyrics, where you know Rich Hardesty is smiling as he sings - it is everything that is right about swearing. Sometimes, it just makes you feel better. Proof of this, to me, was when I went on a Spring Break trip in law school to Vegas, Phoenix, and Mexico with eight of my classmates. And when we were all bickering in the van en route somewhere, singing along to this song was the only thing that could bring us all back together. In a word: awesome.
Wednesday, June 11, 2008
The Best of Sex
With the Sex and the City movie still fresh in my mind, I have been thinking back lately to the six seasons of the show on HBO. This was a great show for single women, and I have to say that it helped me through a lot of tough times, whether serious or shallow. I have Sex and the City to thank for my purchase of "He's Just Not That Into You," a book that, while largely tongue-and-cheek, could be the most liberating piece of self help I have ever read. This is where the mantra was born: "Don't Waste the Pretty" (i.e., don't waste one moment of your fabulous self on some guy who doesn't appreciate you). Here's a quick look at some of the best, most touching episodes.
1. Unoriginal Sin. This episode was a bright spot in an otherwise pretty much crap Fifth Season of the show (the one that was cut short because both Cynthia Nixon and SJP were pregnant - at least SJP was, which was obvious by the flowy, unflattering dresses they put her in (although nothing could explain the horrendous haircut)). This is the episode where Brady is baptized and Carrie is trying to decide what kind of message her book will have - whether it will be optimistic or pessimistic. Carrie also attends a daily affirmation seminar with Charlotte, who is discouraged about the way her marriage ended. In the end, after Charlotte suggests that "maybe it will work out" between Samantha and the cheating Richard, Carrie dedicates her book "To single women everywhere, and one in particular: My good friend Charlotte - who always believes in love." Whenever this episode comes on, I have to watch to the end because it is so sweet and makes me want to be a little more like Charlotte.
2. A Woman's Right To Shoes. How can any single woman not love this one about someone stealing Carrie's Manolos at a baby shower and the mother-to-be (a great cameo by Tatum O'Neal) criticizing "her choice" to buy such ridiculously expensive shoes? Even though the average age of brides has increased significantly over the last twenty years or so, I think there is still some pressure or expectation to want to get married and to want to have kids. But even if we don't do those things, our lives still matter. This episode really touched me because it made me think of all of the late nights at work at my old job and people talking about getting home to their spouses and kids while I, it appeared to be assumed, could work as late as needed because I only had a cat waiting for me at home. As women in the twenty-first century, we are lucky to be able to make many choices in life, and sometimes the non-traditional ones deserve to be celebrated too. I LOVED this episode.
3. Don't Ask, Don't Tell. This episode can be heartbreakingly hard to watch, but I think it just may be my absolute favorite. This is the one where Charlotte gets married to Trey and Carrie confesses the "Big Affair" to Aidan. There are so many parts that are sad, most notably Carrie pleading to Aidan, "maybe I can just be flawed" like the wood in the beautiful love seat he made as a wedding gift for Charlotte, and later Aidan coming to the church yard and telling her that he loves her but that it just isn't the kind of thing he can get over. But there are two gems in this episode that are unforgettable. The first is when Charlotte expresses some reservations to Carrie just before she walks down the aisle, and Carrie reassures her, "You don't have to do this. We can just catch a cab and get out of here, and everyone will just have to get over it." (her delivery of this line is perfect, and I can't do it justice in writing). And the second, the best, is at the very end, when she and the girls are taking pictures on the steps of the church and Carrie voices over, "It's hard to find people who love you no matter what. Lucky for me, I had three of them." I get a tear in my eye every time, and it is worth it EVERY TIME.
The episode where Carrie and Aidan break up a second time, however, I can't watch at all.
4. A Hop, Skip, and a Week. I very well could be the only person I know who liked Carrie with Jack Berger. Perhaps it is my obsession with Ron Livingston in Office Space - I'm not sure. But I was so happy to see him on Sex and the City. This episode, where Carrie and Berger take a "break" because he can't seem to get past his inferiority complex around her is another one of those sad ones. But at the same time, there is something strangely familiar about it. While Berger was certainly flawed, he was so in a very human way, and I felt bad for the guy. Sure, he shouldn't have dumped her on a post-it note, but he was a coward, especially because he knew he was wrong in his envy. The reason I love this episode, which is probably obvious to those who have seen it, is the reunion with Charlotte and Harry, when he asks her to marry him at the Jewish singles mixer. Her speech, "I don't care if you ever marry me. I just want to be with you" is her shining moment of the entire series. But I also love the end - Carrie knocking over the vase of carnations after receiving the post-it break up note - to the soundtrack of nothing but the water dripping from the vase onto the floor.
5. My Mother Board, My Self. This is yet another tearjerker, but it's such a goodie. While Carrie is a real jerk when she doesn't accept Aidan's help when her computer crashes, there are so many things to like about this episode. I love the scene with Miranda in the dressing room when the saleswoman is trying to help her pick out undergarments for the black dress she had to buy last minute for her mother's funeral - how Miranda resists the woman's efforts to help and finally breaks down and cries into her arms. I love when Carrie, seeing Miranda trying so hard to keep it together down the aisle after the service, jumps out of the Church pew and walks with her. And I love her voice over at the end when they spot Steve and Aidan at the back of the Church, "There's the kind of support you ask for, and the kind of support you don't ask for. And then there's the kind that just shows up . . ."
1. Unoriginal Sin. This episode was a bright spot in an otherwise pretty much crap Fifth Season of the show (the one that was cut short because both Cynthia Nixon and SJP were pregnant - at least SJP was, which was obvious by the flowy, unflattering dresses they put her in (although nothing could explain the horrendous haircut)). This is the episode where Brady is baptized and Carrie is trying to decide what kind of message her book will have - whether it will be optimistic or pessimistic. Carrie also attends a daily affirmation seminar with Charlotte, who is discouraged about the way her marriage ended. In the end, after Charlotte suggests that "maybe it will work out" between Samantha and the cheating Richard, Carrie dedicates her book "To single women everywhere, and one in particular: My good friend Charlotte - who always believes in love." Whenever this episode comes on, I have to watch to the end because it is so sweet and makes me want to be a little more like Charlotte.
2. A Woman's Right To Shoes. How can any single woman not love this one about someone stealing Carrie's Manolos at a baby shower and the mother-to-be (a great cameo by Tatum O'Neal) criticizing "her choice" to buy such ridiculously expensive shoes? Even though the average age of brides has increased significantly over the last twenty years or so, I think there is still some pressure or expectation to want to get married and to want to have kids. But even if we don't do those things, our lives still matter. This episode really touched me because it made me think of all of the late nights at work at my old job and people talking about getting home to their spouses and kids while I, it appeared to be assumed, could work as late as needed because I only had a cat waiting for me at home. As women in the twenty-first century, we are lucky to be able to make many choices in life, and sometimes the non-traditional ones deserve to be celebrated too. I LOVED this episode.
3. Don't Ask, Don't Tell. This episode can be heartbreakingly hard to watch, but I think it just may be my absolute favorite. This is the one where Charlotte gets married to Trey and Carrie confesses the "Big Affair" to Aidan. There are so many parts that are sad, most notably Carrie pleading to Aidan, "maybe I can just be flawed" like the wood in the beautiful love seat he made as a wedding gift for Charlotte, and later Aidan coming to the church yard and telling her that he loves her but that it just isn't the kind of thing he can get over. But there are two gems in this episode that are unforgettable. The first is when Charlotte expresses some reservations to Carrie just before she walks down the aisle, and Carrie reassures her, "You don't have to do this. We can just catch a cab and get out of here, and everyone will just have to get over it." (her delivery of this line is perfect, and I can't do it justice in writing). And the second, the best, is at the very end, when she and the girls are taking pictures on the steps of the church and Carrie voices over, "It's hard to find people who love you no matter what. Lucky for me, I had three of them." I get a tear in my eye every time, and it is worth it EVERY TIME.
The episode where Carrie and Aidan break up a second time, however, I can't watch at all.
4. A Hop, Skip, and a Week. I very well could be the only person I know who liked Carrie with Jack Berger. Perhaps it is my obsession with Ron Livingston in Office Space - I'm not sure. But I was so happy to see him on Sex and the City. This episode, where Carrie and Berger take a "break" because he can't seem to get past his inferiority complex around her is another one of those sad ones. But at the same time, there is something strangely familiar about it. While Berger was certainly flawed, he was so in a very human way, and I felt bad for the guy. Sure, he shouldn't have dumped her on a post-it note, but he was a coward, especially because he knew he was wrong in his envy. The reason I love this episode, which is probably obvious to those who have seen it, is the reunion with Charlotte and Harry, when he asks her to marry him at the Jewish singles mixer. Her speech, "I don't care if you ever marry me. I just want to be with you" is her shining moment of the entire series. But I also love the end - Carrie knocking over the vase of carnations after receiving the post-it break up note - to the soundtrack of nothing but the water dripping from the vase onto the floor.
5. My Mother Board, My Self. This is yet another tearjerker, but it's such a goodie. While Carrie is a real jerk when she doesn't accept Aidan's help when her computer crashes, there are so many things to like about this episode. I love the scene with Miranda in the dressing room when the saleswoman is trying to help her pick out undergarments for the black dress she had to buy last minute for her mother's funeral - how Miranda resists the woman's efforts to help and finally breaks down and cries into her arms. I love when Carrie, seeing Miranda trying so hard to keep it together down the aisle after the service, jumps out of the Church pew and walks with her. And I love her voice over at the end when they spot Steve and Aidan at the back of the Church, "There's the kind of support you ask for, and the kind of support you don't ask for. And then there's the kind that just shows up . . ."
Sunday, May 25, 2008
Standing the Test of Time
I am a little bit of a movie buff. It makes sense, if you think about it. After all, popcorn does top my list of all time favorite foods. And popcorn and movies are one of those matches made in heaven.
I watch a lot of movies. Some good, some terrible. Some surprisingly good even though they are panned by the critics (think "Catch and Release" - and NOT just because of Timothy Olyphant). Some that I can't stop thinking about long after I've left the theater. (These are my favorite - they can be anything from "Schindler's List" to "Love, Actually" - I don't discriminate on a genre-basis.)
What I find funny, though, is movies that I THOUGHT were good when I first saw them, but later realized that they were total junk. Again, there's no genre or setting/decade bias here. I have seen "Don't Tell Mom The Babysitter's Dead" at least ten times, most of them unintentional (HBO seems to like this one). I saw it shortly after its video cassette release (sadly missed this one at the Winchester Mall when I was in high school). And you know what? I still freaking love this movie. The premise is ridiculous, the plot cheesy, the clothes are BEYOND dated. And yet, it is irresistible. Christina Applegate is fantastic, and where else can you see the early work of a rising David Duchovny?
But last night, I was reminded of another one of my favorite movies of the early '90s: one "Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves." This movie is not just mediocre; it is downright awful. It is melodramatic and stupid, and Kevin Costner's acting sets the bar for horrific. And yet I was so drawn to it that I had to buy it immediately after its video release. The best part of this movie is the ridiculously overexposed Bryan Adam's ballad "(Everything I Do) I Do It For You."
Now that's saying something.
I watch a lot of movies. Some good, some terrible. Some surprisingly good even though they are panned by the critics (think "Catch and Release" - and NOT just because of Timothy Olyphant). Some that I can't stop thinking about long after I've left the theater. (These are my favorite - they can be anything from "Schindler's List" to "Love, Actually" - I don't discriminate on a genre-basis.)
What I find funny, though, is movies that I THOUGHT were good when I first saw them, but later realized that they were total junk. Again, there's no genre or setting/decade bias here. I have seen "Don't Tell Mom The Babysitter's Dead" at least ten times, most of them unintentional (HBO seems to like this one). I saw it shortly after its video cassette release (sadly missed this one at the Winchester Mall when I was in high school). And you know what? I still freaking love this movie. The premise is ridiculous, the plot cheesy, the clothes are BEYOND dated. And yet, it is irresistible. Christina Applegate is fantastic, and where else can you see the early work of a rising David Duchovny?
But last night, I was reminded of another one of my favorite movies of the early '90s: one "Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves." This movie is not just mediocre; it is downright awful. It is melodramatic and stupid, and Kevin Costner's acting sets the bar for horrific. And yet I was so drawn to it that I had to buy it immediately after its video release. The best part of this movie is the ridiculously overexposed Bryan Adam's ballad "(Everything I Do) I Do It For You."
Now that's saying something.
Friday, May 23, 2008
The Next Fifteen Minutes
Andy Warhol's "fifteen minutes of fame" is one of my favorite prophecies of all time. It's certainly a recurring theme these days, with all of the reality television clogging up the airwaves. The question for me is this: when it comes to our "fifteen minutes," what counts?
Now, I don't have any grand illusions of becoming the next Reese Witherspoon or Scarlett Johansson or anything of the sort. I don't really want to be famous like that; I'd like to continue my routine of dining in obscurity (although, did you know that you can "hire" paparazzi to follow you around? interesting concept). What I do strive for, however, is success with my writing. I'd love to land a contract with a publishing house and see my book in print. I guess you could say that achieving this dream would involve a certain amount of "fifteen minutes," even if my writing never makes it to the level of Marian Keyes or Lauren Weisberger.
I worry, however, that if Mr. Warhol's prophecy rings true, my "fifteen minutes" may already be up. On three occasions now, I have been interviewed by the local news. Once was in Washington, D.C., while I was lunching at Freedom Plaza (Channel 7 news asked me what I thought about the height restrictions on buildings in the city). The second, hilariously, was in London's Covent Garden (some morning show correspondent asked me if I was concerned about the salt content in pre-packaged foods - my reply: "I like salt. I have low blood pressure."). And finally, just yesterday, while sipping on a mocha light frappucino from the Riverwalk Starbucks, some San Antonio news channel asked me how seeing drunk drivers swerving on the highway "makes me feel" (this inspired me to wonder about this woman's journalism education - kind of a loaded question, don't you think? It's not like I was going to answer "Why, it makes me feel great! I'm all for it!" (although I did think about it, given the stupidity of the question)).
In any case, while I have yet to see any of my "interviews" on television (couldn't find the London program and believe my D.C. footage was left on the cutting room floor), a part of me worries that this is it for me. My "fifteen minutes" of cheap, localized fame.
Let's hope that's not the case.
Now, I don't have any grand illusions of becoming the next Reese Witherspoon or Scarlett Johansson or anything of the sort. I don't really want to be famous like that; I'd like to continue my routine of dining in obscurity (although, did you know that you can "hire" paparazzi to follow you around? interesting concept). What I do strive for, however, is success with my writing. I'd love to land a contract with a publishing house and see my book in print. I guess you could say that achieving this dream would involve a certain amount of "fifteen minutes," even if my writing never makes it to the level of Marian Keyes or Lauren Weisberger.
I worry, however, that if Mr. Warhol's prophecy rings true, my "fifteen minutes" may already be up. On three occasions now, I have been interviewed by the local news. Once was in Washington, D.C., while I was lunching at Freedom Plaza (Channel 7 news asked me what I thought about the height restrictions on buildings in the city). The second, hilariously, was in London's Covent Garden (some morning show correspondent asked me if I was concerned about the salt content in pre-packaged foods - my reply: "I like salt. I have low blood pressure."). And finally, just yesterday, while sipping on a mocha light frappucino from the Riverwalk Starbucks, some San Antonio news channel asked me how seeing drunk drivers swerving on the highway "makes me feel" (this inspired me to wonder about this woman's journalism education - kind of a loaded question, don't you think? It's not like I was going to answer "Why, it makes me feel great! I'm all for it!" (although I did think about it, given the stupidity of the question)).
In any case, while I have yet to see any of my "interviews" on television (couldn't find the London program and believe my D.C. footage was left on the cutting room floor), a part of me worries that this is it for me. My "fifteen minutes" of cheap, localized fame.
Let's hope that's not the case.
Tuesday, May 20, 2008
Who's Married to Her??
This afternoon, I took a little break from my lovely "office" at the Hawthorne Suites. Now don't get excited. It was just a run to Target for contact lens solution and whatever other random stuff I might come across while there (oh yeah, and Shawn requested that I pick up some Stride spearmint gum (very specific)). When I got to the eye care aisle, I had to scoot past a woman with a cart, small child in tow (now if this had been Wal-Mart, I would have simply backed up and tried to get to the contact solution from the other end, seeing as how even two women under 150 pounds cannot possibly squeeze into the width of a Wal-Mart aisle (I must note that this woman, however, was well over that weight - not fat - just very very tall and solid)).
You wouldn't think this woman's size would be relevant to this story, given that I was able to retrieve the desired Target-brand contact solution with no problem. But I promise it is (stay with me . . .). As I reached for the solution, I heard a very loud instrumental version of Carrie Underwood's monster country crossover hit, "Before He Cheats." At first I didn't think anything of it. After all, we were not far from the music section. Somebody probably just hit a button on one of those CD sample displays. But oh no. "Before He Cheats" is this woman's ring tone!
Because I am 100% nosy, I took a little extra time in that aisle. I had to see who was on the other end of the phone. If it were a girlfriend calling, perhaps, the ring tone might be a little funny. Okay, you're a Carrie Underwood fan. Whatever. People made fun of me for my very stellar choice of the theme to "Beverly Hills Cop." But when she ended the call, there it was: an unmistakable "I love you, honey. Goodbye."
It got me thinking. Does this poor guy have any idea of the song that comes up when he calls? And if he doesn't, I feel like we should warn him. If he cheats, not only is he going to have all four of the tires slashed on his pretty little four-wheel drive, but unless he has the stature of Paul Bunyan, that woman is going to beat him to a bloody pulp. Think before he cheats, indeed!
You wouldn't think this woman's size would be relevant to this story, given that I was able to retrieve the desired Target-brand contact solution with no problem. But I promise it is (stay with me . . .). As I reached for the solution, I heard a very loud instrumental version of Carrie Underwood's monster country crossover hit, "Before He Cheats." At first I didn't think anything of it. After all, we were not far from the music section. Somebody probably just hit a button on one of those CD sample displays. But oh no. "Before He Cheats" is this woman's ring tone!
Because I am 100% nosy, I took a little extra time in that aisle. I had to see who was on the other end of the phone. If it were a girlfriend calling, perhaps, the ring tone might be a little funny. Okay, you're a Carrie Underwood fan. Whatever. People made fun of me for my very stellar choice of the theme to "Beverly Hills Cop." But when she ended the call, there it was: an unmistakable "I love you, honey. Goodbye."
It got me thinking. Does this poor guy have any idea of the song that comes up when he calls? And if he doesn't, I feel like we should warn him. If he cheats, not only is he going to have all four of the tires slashed on his pretty little four-wheel drive, but unless he has the stature of Paul Bunyan, that woman is going to beat him to a bloody pulp. Think before he cheats, indeed!
Wednesday, May 14, 2008
Starbucks Survivor
A few days ago, you heard me lament about the sad absence of "Face Time" with my new "remote office." But of course, there are positives to working remotely too (aside from being able to work in my pajamas). One of these positives is the ability to be able to take my office basically anywhere (hence the use of the term "remote").
Today, I am in NYC, visiting my friend Michelle and planning to go to a book signing of one of my favorite authors. I felt a little silly booking the trip, but why not? I should take advantage of one of the perks of my job. Does anyone really care whether I am at the San Antonio Hawthorne Suites or East Village? I see no difference. And, in fact, I am getting a better internet connection here at Starbucks than I did at the hotel.
So I have been here for three hours and counting. Don't worry - I'm not a freeloader. I bought my coffee and breakfast here and enjoyed it for quite awhile now (I recommend those little petite vanilla scones - delicious!). What is interesting, setting up office at Starbucks, is the number of people who come in and out. While a frequent Starbucks patron, I can't really say I've been here for the long haul. But surprisingly, even the people with laptops - they don't last forever. Forty-five minutes maybe. An hour tops.
Except for the one guy in the other corner, who was here when I arrived. He's committed to his laptop and his earphones. I haven't seen him move once, not even to take a bathroom break. I've outlasted everyone else, but can I outlast him? Stay tuned.
For more Starbucks Survivor.
Today, I am in NYC, visiting my friend Michelle and planning to go to a book signing of one of my favorite authors. I felt a little silly booking the trip, but why not? I should take advantage of one of the perks of my job. Does anyone really care whether I am at the San Antonio Hawthorne Suites or East Village? I see no difference. And, in fact, I am getting a better internet connection here at Starbucks than I did at the hotel.
So I have been here for three hours and counting. Don't worry - I'm not a freeloader. I bought my coffee and breakfast here and enjoyed it for quite awhile now (I recommend those little petite vanilla scones - delicious!). What is interesting, setting up office at Starbucks, is the number of people who come in and out. While a frequent Starbucks patron, I can't really say I've been here for the long haul. But surprisingly, even the people with laptops - they don't last forever. Forty-five minutes maybe. An hour tops.
Except for the one guy in the other corner, who was here when I arrived. He's committed to his laptop and his earphones. I haven't seen him move once, not even to take a bathroom break. I've outlasted everyone else, but can I outlast him? Stay tuned.
For more Starbucks Survivor.
Monday, May 12, 2008
Face Time
I'm a social person by nature. Whenever I get my annual review at work, one of the positives is usually "good with the clients." On the negative side, I get something along the lines of not "digging deep enough." Both are pretty accurate, I'd say. Mingling with clients can be tough at times, especially during detailed discussions of the industry, but I am all about expressing interests in their hobbies, their children, their guinea pigs (seriously). And I joke around with them (although I am pretty careful about taking any joking too far).
I also work very hard about establishing good friendly relationships at the office, whether it is with my superiors or the support staff. I take a certain pride in having won over the veteran secretaries in my office. Believe me, it wasn't easy. But I know that it is important to have a good rapport with everyone, and the support staff plays an essential role in business. Without them, I'd be in trouble.
Given my social nature, working remotely, from the comfort of the Hawthorne Suites (currently) is a very strange experience. Sure, it's nice to be able to just roll out of bed to go to the "office." It's great to know that I can move my office to the pool deck or to the Riverwalk Starbucks.
But it's sad too. Technology is amazing, but it's no substitute for the real thing: face to face contact. Getting up to go to work was a pain, but there was often a certain excitement wondering what the day would bring. And when I bought a new outfit, there was nothing better than taking it out to show it off.
Dressing up to go to the grocery store somehow isn't the same.
I also work very hard about establishing good friendly relationships at the office, whether it is with my superiors or the support staff. I take a certain pride in having won over the veteran secretaries in my office. Believe me, it wasn't easy. But I know that it is important to have a good rapport with everyone, and the support staff plays an essential role in business. Without them, I'd be in trouble.
Given my social nature, working remotely, from the comfort of the Hawthorne Suites (currently) is a very strange experience. Sure, it's nice to be able to just roll out of bed to go to the "office." It's great to know that I can move my office to the pool deck or to the Riverwalk Starbucks.
But it's sad too. Technology is amazing, but it's no substitute for the real thing: face to face contact. Getting up to go to work was a pain, but there was often a certain excitement wondering what the day would bring. And when I bought a new outfit, there was nothing better than taking it out to show it off.
Dressing up to go to the grocery store somehow isn't the same.
Thursday, May 8, 2008
Taking it Personally
One characteristic you will never hear used to describe me is "tough skinned." It's just not me. Sure, I try to be laid back. And I am sometimes - about some things. I have fun with life, and I try to see the humor in a bad situation (if you look closely, there is a lot of it). I am self deprecating. But I also take some things personally.
That's not to say "taking it personally" is always the wrong reaction. When my husband and I debate about things, he sometimes throws that "don't take it so personally" argument my way. This will annoy me because what we're talking about is a personal matter. So of course I will take it personally.
But I take it personally where I shouldn't too. Case in point: the sale of our townhouse. My realtor set up this nifty survey that he would send out to each of the showing agents. Sometimes they responded, sometimes they didn't. But I will tell you one thing: I was always disappointed. My favorites were the first two questions, "Did your client like the property? Answer: no;" "Is your client considering a second showing? Answer: no." Makes you feel great, no? No. It made me feel like all of that time I spent remodeling my kitchen, my master bath, installing hardwood floors, and buying new carpet weeks before it went on the market were all for NOTHING!! Never mind that I bought state of the art stainless steel appliances and created a kitchen that is 100 times better than what was there when I moved in, my house was "average." I took this as a reflection on me.
Well, we finally got an offer on the place, and it looks like we are on our way. And that's all great, and I am happy. Not as much as I wanted, but hey - I still come out ahead. But you know what my favorite part of the whole deal was? The buyer wanted me to leave the wall vases in the dining room - vases I picked and installed myself.
She likes my house, she really likes it!!
That's not to say "taking it personally" is always the wrong reaction. When my husband and I debate about things, he sometimes throws that "don't take it so personally" argument my way. This will annoy me because what we're talking about is a personal matter. So of course I will take it personally.
But I take it personally where I shouldn't too. Case in point: the sale of our townhouse. My realtor set up this nifty survey that he would send out to each of the showing agents. Sometimes they responded, sometimes they didn't. But I will tell you one thing: I was always disappointed. My favorites were the first two questions, "Did your client like the property? Answer: no;" "Is your client considering a second showing? Answer: no." Makes you feel great, no? No. It made me feel like all of that time I spent remodeling my kitchen, my master bath, installing hardwood floors, and buying new carpet weeks before it went on the market were all for NOTHING!! Never mind that I bought state of the art stainless steel appliances and created a kitchen that is 100 times better than what was there when I moved in, my house was "average." I took this as a reflection on me.
Well, we finally got an offer on the place, and it looks like we are on our way. And that's all great, and I am happy. Not as much as I wanted, but hey - I still come out ahead. But you know what my favorite part of the whole deal was? The buyer wanted me to leave the wall vases in the dining room - vases I picked and installed myself.
She likes my house, she really likes it!!
Tuesday, May 6, 2008
A Tale of Two Shirts
This past weekend, my husband Shawn and I went to the FedEx Kinkos Classic tournament in Austin. It was a real treat for him - my friend Jenn's parents got us the tickets, including entry into the VIP lounge on the 16th hole. Not too shabby. According to Jenn, her dad is basically the mayor of Lakeway, or at least it seems that way based on his popularity among the retired set. Shawn happily tagged along with Jenn's dad all day to watch numerous holes. During this adventure, he confirmed that, in fact, everyone knows Jenn's dad.
While Shawn and Jenn's dad were out gallivanting, Jenn and I decided to hit the gift shop. I wanted to buy Shawn a souvie for his birthday (today!!). Jenn thought she would buy a shirt too for her boyfriend. She decided against it when she saw the hefty price tag. But then the sales clerk revealed a special deal: buy a shirt on a hanger and get a folded pique shirt for only $10. What a bargain!! I had already selected one of the hanging shirts (a pretty blue number), so I told Jenn that she could pick out a $10 shirt for her boyfriend. We spent a long time debating the color. Would it be orange, or green, or yellow? (her boyfriend is drawn to bright hues). After the debate, we finally selected blue. The salesclerk bagged them for me, and we headed back to our home base: the VIP lounge.
While we spent a great deal of the day going our separate ways, at one point, all five of us (Jenn, Jenn's mom and dad, and Shawn and me) managed to be in the same place at the same time at the 16th hole. We sat and watched the current foursome tee off, and Shawn revealed to me that one of his favorites was in this foursome: one Ben Crenshaw.
Well, soon Shawn and Jenn's dad were on their merry way again, and Jenn and I walked around some more with Jenn's mom. We walked past the 16th hole and along the 17th. Finally, we got to the 18th hole, where a foursome was just finishing up. As they walked off the hole, people were lined up getting autographs. And this is where we realized - this was Ben Crenshaw's foursome!! Well, I knew what I had to do - I had to get that autograph! Only problem was that I had nothing good to sign. A lot of people had hats and gloves and balls. I had none of these. I really thought about going back to the shop and picking up a hat, but alas, I just didn't think I had the time. I started to panic. I couldn't miss out on this grand opportunity. So I decided it had to be done: I had to have Ben sign the shirt I bought. I pulled it out of the bag, and I positioned it on a program for easy signing. And sure enough, Ben came through and signed my shirt. I even got extra interaction with him because I had to pull the shirt taut while he signed. I was so thrilled with myself. It was the perfect gift!!
It was only when I walked away from the line with a big old grin on my face that I looked at the tag: XL. For some reason, I thought I had bought Shawn a Large.
"Yeah, I wondered about that," said Jenn. "That was Tom's shirt."
Whoops! Not anymore!
While Shawn and Jenn's dad were out gallivanting, Jenn and I decided to hit the gift shop. I wanted to buy Shawn a souvie for his birthday (today!!). Jenn thought she would buy a shirt too for her boyfriend. She decided against it when she saw the hefty price tag. But then the sales clerk revealed a special deal: buy a shirt on a hanger and get a folded pique shirt for only $10. What a bargain!! I had already selected one of the hanging shirts (a pretty blue number), so I told Jenn that she could pick out a $10 shirt for her boyfriend. We spent a long time debating the color. Would it be orange, or green, or yellow? (her boyfriend is drawn to bright hues). After the debate, we finally selected blue. The salesclerk bagged them for me, and we headed back to our home base: the VIP lounge.
While we spent a great deal of the day going our separate ways, at one point, all five of us (Jenn, Jenn's mom and dad, and Shawn and me) managed to be in the same place at the same time at the 16th hole. We sat and watched the current foursome tee off, and Shawn revealed to me that one of his favorites was in this foursome: one Ben Crenshaw.
Well, soon Shawn and Jenn's dad were on their merry way again, and Jenn and I walked around some more with Jenn's mom. We walked past the 16th hole and along the 17th. Finally, we got to the 18th hole, where a foursome was just finishing up. As they walked off the hole, people were lined up getting autographs. And this is where we realized - this was Ben Crenshaw's foursome!! Well, I knew what I had to do - I had to get that autograph! Only problem was that I had nothing good to sign. A lot of people had hats and gloves and balls. I had none of these. I really thought about going back to the shop and picking up a hat, but alas, I just didn't think I had the time. I started to panic. I couldn't miss out on this grand opportunity. So I decided it had to be done: I had to have Ben sign the shirt I bought. I pulled it out of the bag, and I positioned it on a program for easy signing. And sure enough, Ben came through and signed my shirt. I even got extra interaction with him because I had to pull the shirt taut while he signed. I was so thrilled with myself. It was the perfect gift!!
It was only when I walked away from the line with a big old grin on my face that I looked at the tag: XL. For some reason, I thought I had bought Shawn a Large.
"Yeah, I wondered about that," said Jenn. "That was Tom's shirt."
Whoops! Not anymore!
Wednesday, April 30, 2008
From Genius To Loser In 60 Seconds
I find it kind of fascinating how quickly my opinion of myself can change. In the office, for instance, I may be cursing myself for being an idiot - then suddenly I have miraculously finished whatever it was I set out to do. I have somehow succeeded. But the high of my success does not last long. Sometimes just mere moments later, I revert to wondering when they will figure out that I have no idea what I'm doing. One moment it is, "I know everything!!" The next, it is "I know NOTHING!!"
It is the same way with writing. If you have read my most recent posts, you probably know that I am working on writing a novel. The current draft is over 86,000 words. I guess the sheer word volume should be exciting. That's over 310 pages, double spaced, after all. That's way more than I write at work, even with my 20+ page pleadings.
As far as quality is concerned, though, that's a different story. One day, I will wake up feeling fantastic. "You're the next Helen Fielding," I'll tell myself. "You're the next Emily Giffin! Soon your book will be everywhere, from airport newsstands to the aisles at Target. Soon, you'll be selling the movie rights. And if you play your cards right, you may even get total control over casting." (in which case, Timothy Olyphant – how does your schedule look for the next three or so years?). I’ll reread the passages I’m particularly fond of, thinking to myself, “Oooh, this is good. This is funny!”
The next day, unfortunately, I am plagued by this recurring thought:
“This is total crap.”
It is the same way with writing. If you have read my most recent posts, you probably know that I am working on writing a novel. The current draft is over 86,000 words. I guess the sheer word volume should be exciting. That's over 310 pages, double spaced, after all. That's way more than I write at work, even with my 20+ page pleadings.
As far as quality is concerned, though, that's a different story. One day, I will wake up feeling fantastic. "You're the next Helen Fielding," I'll tell myself. "You're the next Emily Giffin! Soon your book will be everywhere, from airport newsstands to the aisles at Target. Soon, you'll be selling the movie rights. And if you play your cards right, you may even get total control over casting." (in which case, Timothy Olyphant – how does your schedule look for the next three or so years?). I’ll reread the passages I’m particularly fond of, thinking to myself, “Oooh, this is good. This is funny!”
The next day, unfortunately, I am plagued by this recurring thought:
“This is total crap.”
Tuesday, April 29, 2008
Janitoritis
In a post awhile back, I believe I commented on "closing up shop" at the office. I had this routine, starting at 5:30 on the dot, which involved a lap around the office and a visit to the candy dish on one of our paralegals' desks (who, not so coincidentally enough, left the office each day at 5:30, leaving me to stuff my face in peace). The candy dish, while important, was not the only reason for temporarily leaving my desk. The most important reason was to leave my office unmanned so that the cleaning people could empty my trash without interruption (this was really more for me than them, though. I couldn't stand the thought of them cleaning my mess while I lazily sat there surfing the web until traffic died down).
Things got really bad, though, when I had to clean my office for the big move to Texas. I discovered that when you're in an office space for 5 years or so, you acquire an awful lot of crap. I purged a good 75% of my files to make room for the new inhabitant. And you know what that means, don't you? A lot of trash and recycling. For a good week straight, my recycling bin would be overflowing every night. I even became a "Trash Fairy" of sorts. Once my own bin was full, I'd sneak around and load up other people's recycling bins with my junk. Poor Denise by the printer suffered the worst of it. I don't think the cleaning people ever saw so much recycling coming from her. One of our conference rooms also saw a fair share. I'm sure the cleaning guy (who, by the way, is a very nice man - a little heavy handed on the cologne, but nice nonetheless) was a little like, "WTF? There's never recycling to empty in here!" (keep in mind, these are really more subtitles - I'm sure he would have thought these things in Spanish, his native tongue)).
One evening, wanting to escape the trash rounds, I headed down the elevators at 5:30 for a little walk around the block outside. One of our other secretaries, Jen, happened to be catching the elevators too - on her way home from work. As we swished through the revolving door outside, she asked if I was going to get a snack (she knew I worked past 6:00 every night). I had to admit, "Nope. I'm actually hiding from the cleaning people. I just left a lot of stuff in my recycling bin." She was shaking, she was laughing so hard. She then reported me to my boss, Wendy, who gave me an extra hard time about it when I pulled the same stunt the next day. I think she even shouted, "Chicken!" when the cleaning people came by my office and I was nowhere to be found.
Well, even though I've left the office in D.C., my cleaning person phobia is far from over. As it turns out, Shawn and I are staying at an Extended Stay in San Antonio for four months. One of the advantages of the Extended Stay, as opposed to a short-term apartment lease, is that we have cleaning service. Hooray, right? Not necessarily. Now, instead of my 5:30 routine, I am uprooted in the middle of the day, trying to find something to occupy myself for an hour or more so that I can allow them to change our sheets and towels and empty our garbage without me in their way. I had to tell Wendy all about it yesterday, because I knew she'd find it amusing.
Her response: "I think there should be a name for your condition . . ."
Janitoritis.
Things got really bad, though, when I had to clean my office for the big move to Texas. I discovered that when you're in an office space for 5 years or so, you acquire an awful lot of crap. I purged a good 75% of my files to make room for the new inhabitant. And you know what that means, don't you? A lot of trash and recycling. For a good week straight, my recycling bin would be overflowing every night. I even became a "Trash Fairy" of sorts. Once my own bin was full, I'd sneak around and load up other people's recycling bins with my junk. Poor Denise by the printer suffered the worst of it. I don't think the cleaning people ever saw so much recycling coming from her. One of our conference rooms also saw a fair share. I'm sure the cleaning guy (who, by the way, is a very nice man - a little heavy handed on the cologne, but nice nonetheless) was a little like, "WTF? There's never recycling to empty in here!" (keep in mind, these are really more subtitles - I'm sure he would have thought these things in Spanish, his native tongue)).
One evening, wanting to escape the trash rounds, I headed down the elevators at 5:30 for a little walk around the block outside. One of our other secretaries, Jen, happened to be catching the elevators too - on her way home from work. As we swished through the revolving door outside, she asked if I was going to get a snack (she knew I worked past 6:00 every night). I had to admit, "Nope. I'm actually hiding from the cleaning people. I just left a lot of stuff in my recycling bin." She was shaking, she was laughing so hard. She then reported me to my boss, Wendy, who gave me an extra hard time about it when I pulled the same stunt the next day. I think she even shouted, "Chicken!" when the cleaning people came by my office and I was nowhere to be found.
Well, even though I've left the office in D.C., my cleaning person phobia is far from over. As it turns out, Shawn and I are staying at an Extended Stay in San Antonio for four months. One of the advantages of the Extended Stay, as opposed to a short-term apartment lease, is that we have cleaning service. Hooray, right? Not necessarily. Now, instead of my 5:30 routine, I am uprooted in the middle of the day, trying to find something to occupy myself for an hour or more so that I can allow them to change our sheets and towels and empty our garbage without me in their way. I had to tell Wendy all about it yesterday, because I knew she'd find it amusing.
Her response: "I think there should be a name for your condition . . ."
Janitoritis.
Thursday, April 24, 2008
Say Yes
When I first moved to D.C., I reconnected with a law school classmate, Staci. We had mutual friends in law school, but we were really more acquaintances in those days. I really couldn't have told you much about her, other than that she was a smarty pants because she made the Indiana Law Journal (I was not so lucky; then again, I didn't even try because my brother's wedding fell on the weekend before our entries were due).
I first hung out with Staci when I was visiting D.C. to look for apartments. It was the night of our friend Nancy's bachelorette party. Staci had a pre-party at her townhouse. I still remember what she was wearing. It was a cute light blue "shimmy shirt," which she immediately admitted was purchased from Wet Seal. I thought it was really funny because I knew she was making serious bank at her big law firm job. That part of the evening was the best, because I really got to know Staci, find out how friendly she was, and scored an invite to her next dinner party (whenever that would be).
The real dinner party invitation came after I was settled in D.C. I can't even recall how it arrived (via e-mail or phone). But I do recall one important fact: I said yes. And I said yes to everything Staci invited me to after that. I said yes when I was tired. I said yes when I was feeling a little under the weather. I said yes when I had a pile of laundry at home calling my name. "Yes" was the way to Staci's "A" list. It was the way we became not just friends, but good friends - "go to" friends.
Since becoming friends with Staci, saying yes has become somewhat of a mantra for me. Part of it is selfish: saying yes will get you more invites. Saying yes is also fun. I think about all of the times that I have been on the fence about doing something. Sometimes, staying home seems so much easier. But when I'm on the fence, I still say yes. And I would say 95% of the time, it ends up being a great decision. I have a good time, and I am so glad I went.
But there's more to saying yes than that. I appreciate when people throw parties and organize events. And I think they are putting themselves out there when they do it. I know that's how I feel when I host something. And when we host something like that, the worst thing that could happen is for no one to show up.
So don't worry. You've got my yes.
I first hung out with Staci when I was visiting D.C. to look for apartments. It was the night of our friend Nancy's bachelorette party. Staci had a pre-party at her townhouse. I still remember what she was wearing. It was a cute light blue "shimmy shirt," which she immediately admitted was purchased from Wet Seal. I thought it was really funny because I knew she was making serious bank at her big law firm job. That part of the evening was the best, because I really got to know Staci, find out how friendly she was, and scored an invite to her next dinner party (whenever that would be).
The real dinner party invitation came after I was settled in D.C. I can't even recall how it arrived (via e-mail or phone). But I do recall one important fact: I said yes. And I said yes to everything Staci invited me to after that. I said yes when I was tired. I said yes when I was feeling a little under the weather. I said yes when I had a pile of laundry at home calling my name. "Yes" was the way to Staci's "A" list. It was the way we became not just friends, but good friends - "go to" friends.
Since becoming friends with Staci, saying yes has become somewhat of a mantra for me. Part of it is selfish: saying yes will get you more invites. Saying yes is also fun. I think about all of the times that I have been on the fence about doing something. Sometimes, staying home seems so much easier. But when I'm on the fence, I still say yes. And I would say 95% of the time, it ends up being a great decision. I have a good time, and I am so glad I went.
But there's more to saying yes than that. I appreciate when people throw parties and organize events. And I think they are putting themselves out there when they do it. I know that's how I feel when I host something. And when we host something like that, the worst thing that could happen is for no one to show up.
So don't worry. You've got my yes.
Monday, April 21, 2008
Crackberry
A few years ago, in preparation for a week long business trip, I asked the managing partner in charge of the client, "Do you think I could get a Blackberry?" At the time, the firm's policy was to provide Blackberries only to partners - not to associates. My colleague, Andy, was pleased as punch with this policy. To him, no Blackberry meant that no partner could e-mail him at all hours of the night with ridiculous demands and expectations for a response. To be fair, my firm is not at all like that, and I can still count on one hand the number of times a partner has called me at home or on vacation regarding a work-related matter. But Andy was on to something and that something appears to be an epidemic: Blackberry = Crackberry. That's right, Blackberries are addictive.
The managing partner accommodated my request given that I would be out of the office for an entire week. And to his credit, he warned me to resist the urge to check it 'round the clock. I am just not that strong. Admittedly, a good portion of the time, I check to see if I have received any new personal e-mails. I love receiving personal e-mails. Who doesn't? I'm not always great about responding, but keep 'em coming!
The real problem with the Crackberry, though, is that I never truly get away from the office. Through no fault of anyone else, I am always plugged in. On our drive to San Antonio this week, I was tapping away on that thing on various work matters. I accepted invitations to join conference calls on the road. My husband thought I was ridiculous. It is not unreasonable to expect some free time to move halfway across the country. I should simply explain that I am unavailable for a couple of days, at least until I get settled.
But I can't. Because I am a Crackberry-head.
The managing partner accommodated my request given that I would be out of the office for an entire week. And to his credit, he warned me to resist the urge to check it 'round the clock. I am just not that strong. Admittedly, a good portion of the time, I check to see if I have received any new personal e-mails. I love receiving personal e-mails. Who doesn't? I'm not always great about responding, but keep 'em coming!
The real problem with the Crackberry, though, is that I never truly get away from the office. Through no fault of anyone else, I am always plugged in. On our drive to San Antonio this week, I was tapping away on that thing on various work matters. I accepted invitations to join conference calls on the road. My husband thought I was ridiculous. It is not unreasonable to expect some free time to move halfway across the country. I should simply explain that I am unavailable for a couple of days, at least until I get settled.
But I can't. Because I am a Crackberry-head.
Monday, April 7, 2008
I Recommend
I was just talking to my friend Calaneet the other day about the movie "Catch and Release." I've mentioned this one before, in my post "Fashion in Film" on Morning Cupcake.
http://morningcupcake.blogspot.com/search?q=%22fashion+in+film%22
We agreed that it was a surprisingly good movie. Nothing earth shattering. It's not "Schindler's List" or "Dances With Wolves" or "The Shawshank Redemption." But I was expecting very little from it - just some mild fluff to serve as the background for my popcorn gorging. And it really kind of touched me.
I won't pretend that Timothy Olyphant had nothing to do with it (see http://morningcupcake.blogspot.com/search?q=olyphant), but it was more than that. It was the scenery (beautiful), the story (simple but effective), and the dialogue (half-way decent). It was the chemistry between Jennifer Garner and her leading men. It was Kevin Smith in a speaking role (although I still missed Silent Bob).
But something else came out of it - the soundtrack. Even in movies I don't particularly care for, there is usually some scene that resonates purely based on the music. While I liked "Catch and Release" on its own, the music in one scene really struck me. I thought to myself, "I must hunt this down."
Lo and behold - Joshua Radin.
The song was "What If You," which has become #1 in my Top 25 Most Played List. I liked it so much that I bought the "Catch and Release" Soundtrack (no more Joshua Radin there - but some other goodies). That led to a download of the entire album "We Were Here" and also the four track package "Unclear Sky." I also discovered that Joshua is a friend of Zach Braff, which was kind of an "a-ha" moment for me. Whatever Zach Braff packages as far as music, I seem to like (cases in point: the "Garden State" and "Scrubs" soundtracks). Joshua Radin can be found not once but TWICE on "The Last Kiss" soundtrack (which stands on its own as one of the best soundtracks I've heard in a long time).
Check him out. http://www.joshuaradin.com/
http://morningcupcake.blogspot.com/search?q=%22fashion+in+film%22
We agreed that it was a surprisingly good movie. Nothing earth shattering. It's not "Schindler's List" or "Dances With Wolves" or "The Shawshank Redemption." But I was expecting very little from it - just some mild fluff to serve as the background for my popcorn gorging. And it really kind of touched me.
I won't pretend that Timothy Olyphant had nothing to do with it (see http://morningcupcake.blogspot.com/search?q=olyphant), but it was more than that. It was the scenery (beautiful), the story (simple but effective), and the dialogue (half-way decent). It was the chemistry between Jennifer Garner and her leading men. It was Kevin Smith in a speaking role (although I still missed Silent Bob).
But something else came out of it - the soundtrack. Even in movies I don't particularly care for, there is usually some scene that resonates purely based on the music. While I liked "Catch and Release" on its own, the music in one scene really struck me. I thought to myself, "I must hunt this down."
Lo and behold - Joshua Radin.
The song was "What If You," which has become #1 in my Top 25 Most Played List. I liked it so much that I bought the "Catch and Release" Soundtrack (no more Joshua Radin there - but some other goodies). That led to a download of the entire album "We Were Here" and also the four track package "Unclear Sky." I also discovered that Joshua is a friend of Zach Braff, which was kind of an "a-ha" moment for me. Whatever Zach Braff packages as far as music, I seem to like (cases in point: the "Garden State" and "Scrubs" soundtracks). Joshua Radin can be found not once but TWICE on "The Last Kiss" soundtrack (which stands on its own as one of the best soundtracks I've heard in a long time).
Check him out. http://www.joshuaradin.com/
Not Fixin' to Say Fixin'
After a nearly seven year stint in our nation's capital, I'm headed back to the Lone Star State next week. My husband and I ate lunch yesterday at the Lone Star Steakhouse to kick things off. He commented on the moose head on the wall, by the kitchen. He asked, "Do they have moose in Texas?" I responded, "Uh - I don't think so. Yeah, that's weird." So perhaps a chain restaurant like Lone Star isn't the way to get into the Texas state of mind.
There's another way to get into the Texas state of mind, though, and that's the jargon. I'm gradually adding "y'all" back into my vocabulary. I kind of like "y'all." Sure, "you" can be plural, but it can lead to some confusion. People don't know whether they're being singled out or lumped into a group when you use "you." And that's where "y'all" fits in nicely. The only thing is - real Texans also use "y'all" to refer to just one person. So you eliminated the confusion by coming up with "y'all" and then you reinserted the confusion by using "y'all" to refer to just me? I guess that's how it works, y'all. Welcome to Texas.
"Fixin,'" however, I refuse to say. Nope. I just won't do it. While I am much more partial to a good Northeastern accent, I am willing to admit that a Southern drawl can be charming at times. But there's a difference between charming and hick, and to me, "fixin'" easily crosses that line. I may be "fixing" my car or "fixing" my hair, but I will never be "fixin" to buy a new t.v. or "fixin'" to find a new job. I won't even be "fixin'" to grab a can of Lone Star beer with salt sprinkled on the rim.
So I guess in Texas, I'll always be a Yankee.
There's another way to get into the Texas state of mind, though, and that's the jargon. I'm gradually adding "y'all" back into my vocabulary. I kind of like "y'all." Sure, "you" can be plural, but it can lead to some confusion. People don't know whether they're being singled out or lumped into a group when you use "you." And that's where "y'all" fits in nicely. The only thing is - real Texans also use "y'all" to refer to just one person. So you eliminated the confusion by coming up with "y'all" and then you reinserted the confusion by using "y'all" to refer to just me? I guess that's how it works, y'all. Welcome to Texas.
"Fixin,'" however, I refuse to say. Nope. I just won't do it. While I am much more partial to a good Northeastern accent, I am willing to admit that a Southern drawl can be charming at times. But there's a difference between charming and hick, and to me, "fixin'" easily crosses that line. I may be "fixing" my car or "fixing" my hair, but I will never be "fixin" to buy a new t.v. or "fixin'" to find a new job. I won't even be "fixin'" to grab a can of Lone Star beer with salt sprinkled on the rim.
So I guess in Texas, I'll always be a Yankee.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)