'Nuf Said

Merry Christmas Y'all. Here's to a momentary pause in the chronic legislative dysfunction endemic to our US Senate.

The Golden Age

All around me, people are turning 30. Coworkers, friends, ex-roommates and semi-acquaintances are fearlessly crossing this age threshold a la Girl Scout Brownies 'bridging' to the Cadet phase of their lives (that which boasted a more tonal, yet equally ill-fitting uniform and perpetual cookie sales). This landmark transition is fast approaching in my life, and I am growing to embrace optimism about the upcoming decade. Yes, more wrinkles will line my face and my already busy sleep schedule is likely to grow, but I fear not.

The thing is, I think I've lived my 20s backwards; late twenties have outshone my early- and mid- twenties by leaps, bounds, football fields and national park spans. If I continue on this upward trajectory, my 30s will be outrageously wonderful. Allow me to engage in a verbal Venn Diagram, if you will:

Professional Life

- Blogger Age 22: Living to work and feeling like a professional failure.every.day.

-Blogger Age 29: Working for passion, minor victories-though few and far between- exist

Week Days

- Blogger Age 23: Early to bed, early to rise to lesson plan and attempt to breath through the day. Norah Jones calms my frazzled nerves on the drive through urban sprawl to work.

- Blogger Age 29: Still early to bed. Less stressful sleep. Walk the historical path through Boston to my new, slightly upgraded work building.

Weekends

- Blogger Age 23: Early to bed, early to rise to lesson plan and attempt to breath through the day. Norah Jones calms my frazzled nerves on the drive through urban sprawl to work. You may notice this is the same as week days, this is due to the fact that I NEVER STOPPED WORKING throughout the middle part of this bizarre 00's decade.

- Blogger Age 29: Sleep IN! Enjoy the company of good friends and (not-so) good wine. Dance frequently.

I could go on and on.

SOOOOOOOOOOOOOO, all signs point to 30 being no big deal, right? RIGHT?

Sactify THIS New York

My recent Twitterfication has enriched my life greatly. And by enriched I mean taken over. A few gems that I've found, that I would not have known about in lieu of my new social networking medium include.

- A new, awesome John Mayer song: http://jhnmyr.tumblr.com/post/267496218/ive-been-thinking-of-a-way-to-say-thank-you-for

(John Mayer, it should be noted, takes ample breaks from breaking the hearts of famous women in order to tweet his life away.)

- A notice that Lou Dobbs is 'too soft on immigration' by the radical right:

http://blogs.abcnews.com/george/2009/12/lou-dobbs-now-too-soft-for-hard-right-immigration-group.html?utm_source=twitterfeed&utm_medium=twitter

- Lo Bosworth's post-Thanksgiving return to spinning class.

By far the best thing I've seen in weeks (Twitter or no Twitter) is NY State Senator Diane Savino's address to her senatorial colleagues regarding the Marriage Equality Bill. In 7 minutes, the witty, genuine leader spoke to the inconsistencies among the anti-gay sanctity of marriage arguments, gay rights as a matter of fairness and the troublesome nature of love in general (and the need to embrace love wherever we may find it). I am so proud to be from a nation that has such leadership.

Savino for America!

Oral Health and Other Things I Thought I was Good At

One unfortunate morning a couple of months ago, while my office mate and I were busily type-type-typing away at our respective desks, I suddenly stopped mid-word; I was stunned to inaction by a loud, persistent squeak emerging from our radiator. The little mouse that inevitably was discovered within scurried off to a place unknown, but that squeak persists in my memory as one of the Worst Sounds in the World.

That squeak was emulated by the water squirty pick thing at the dentist this morning, except this time the squeak was COMING FROM MY MOUTH.

My renaissance with oral health was spurred by a public health report that noted, among other things, visits to dentists as an indicator of good health. Never wanting to lie below the median in that which I can control about my health, I set up an appointment for the following day. The questionnaire I completed was simple enough- allergies, emergency contact, last dental visit...LAST DENTAL VISIT? I sheepishly scribbled in 2007, with full knowledge that my last foray into the reclining seat world of a dental office occurred more in the 2005 range. 2007? The hygienist asked me. And like a good catholic girl who only goes to confession in order to complete the checklist required to be confirmed, I lied to her face and said- yes, 2007. What is a few years between friends (one wearing a lead vest- ready for x-rays, the other wearing a mask- ready for some serious gum disease)?

Buzz. Squeak. 2007. Buzz.

The good news: my oral health is great. Turns out that manically flossing really is a good idea. For all of you readers from whom I've asked if you happen to have floss on your person when you were out...HA! Told you so. And yes, I have some in my purse AND on my desk right now.

The bad news: Turns out the every 6 months dental visit actually carries some merit. I have a cavity that is so developed that I need an EMERGENCY FILLING tomorrow else risk the chance of some serious nerve-cavity-induced pain. Dammit. The Gentle Dentist (not to be confused with Gentle Dental (of which I've heard terrible things)) told me that he **thinks** he'll be able to do just a filling. If not, I'll need a ROOT CANAL. With those two words, everything I've believed about myself flew away on the wings of the Evil Gingivitis Monster.

Dr., did you not hear about my manic floss habit? Are you not aware of my love for all things fluoride-enhanced? I am a DENTIST'S DREAM.

Except, of course, that I avoid the dentist like I do country music or Filene's Basement around the Running of the Brides. Except that. And apparently, that exception is enough.

MMMMM. Sleep.

We have D-Money duty this Thanksgiving. I just went over to her house to give her a tummy rub, run in circles (carefully avoiding the bad-vibes of the invisible fence) and put her to bed. When I finally let her into her house, she ran to her bed, ran circles on her bed and then settled into a fetal-esque position.

I think D-Money may love her bed almost as much as I love mine. Almost.

** Photo is D-Money as a puppy. Cutest dog ever.

Three Hail Mary's and a whole lot of Lost Faith

A couple of years ago, before my parents mercifully divorced, my sister caught my mother stealing beautiful flowers off of a lovely shrub in bloom near a head stone in a nearby cemetery.** Now, I pick and choose my battles with my crazy maternal DNA source, but this was beyond anything that I could tolerate under the 'she is just a walking contradiction' coping mechanism I've developed over the years. When she walked in the door to our home, I inquired, bluntly: "Did you or did you NOT steal flowers from someone's grave?"

She responded with, "You are so angry. You have an anger problem."

"No, I'm not angry. I'm more shocked that you would do that. But you haven't answered my original question. Did you or did you not steal from a GRAVEYARD???"

And while still holding the flowers in question, she countered with, "I pray for you. I will pray for your anger problem."

And that was the moment. It was THEN that I went from being someone who had 'grown up Catholic' to being a 'recovering Catholic'. The idea that actions did not matter, that a set of beads and a few minutes spent confessing without having to even LOOK THE PRIEST IN THE EYE was more important than how one lives her life pushed me OVER THE EDGE.

I've always had a difficult relationship with the religion of my childhood- their staunch views on women and gays run completely counter to that which I have faith is The Truth. The commitment to service, creed of kindness to others and love of humanity, however, are all things that I can get on board with. Throughout my adult life, I've considered returning to the church many times; Life's Lows have made me crave a sense of community and spiritual connectedness that the services offer. Recent moves by the Catholic Church have pushed me back in the direction of seeking spiritual alternatives.

Rather than focusing on the needs of the working poor and individuals needing to know they are worthy of love, the Pope and his faithful are focused upon welcoming Anglicans that can't handle the church's new open-arms policy towards all people, regardless of their sexuality or gender. Why are Catholics so damn afraid of us women? We really are quite great if you get to know us. Congressman Patrick Kennedy, still reeling from the very public loss of his esteemed father, is being raked over the alter coals for his political stance on women's health and abortion rights. There are SO many more important battles that the church could and should pick- health disparities among the poor and reforms that could boldly ameliorate them- but they choose anger and disparagement.

We young, progressive types want community as much as conservative, old-school types (some may call them misogynist homophobes, but I do really love some of these types so I'll refrain from big generalizations-- for now). The Catholic Church, however, is not a comfortable place for us to go-regardless of how fantastic the Jesuit strain of Catholicism may be.

Flying Spaghetti Monster it is.

**If you'd like to hear this story in full, buy me a couple of glasses of wine and something carby- it's on.

Literary Genius: For Real

Akira, my svelte Philly friend, so kindly commented on my last post inquiring whether I had, indeed, read the Palin tome or simply passed judgement without a perusal. The answer is, clearly: NO, I did not read it. More importantly, I did not spend any of my precious recession dollars on it. In my defense, however, I would guess that Sarah Palin has also not yet read it. It's on her list, though, just like 'all of the newspapers' that she told Katie Couric she reads.

A book that I am reading, however, was a recent airport purchase. Needing a bit of consoling from my entrance into the dating world at a relatively late age and lack of immediate success (not sure why all the fabulous single men out there have not picked up on my recent 'available' vibe...) I dove into the wonderful world of Self Help books. The brilliant section that boasts Chicken Soup for the Soul and informs me that Men are From Mars and Women are from Venus offered me the latest gem in the 'single women are from the planet clueless' genre: How to Love like a Hot Chick.

This book, ladies and gents, may just change my life. It tells me what I should do to believe that love is in my future and then totally calls me out on the bad, low-self-esteem (LSE) messages that immediately follow and tells me to snap out of it and take risks anyway. It is like a little paperback best friend.

I love the lovely self help section.

Standard Sarah

Sarah Palin didn't leave the spot light for too long. Going Rogue is out and for those of you who haven't heard--it's just behind Fitzgerald's seminal Gatsby as the greatest American book of all time. I put it in the same category as the lush world of Daisey, Gatsby and Nick as it is based in an historical context, but in reality is completely fictional. In honor of the fast-approaching holiday season, I've composed a little jingle...

On the first day of Christmas the world through Palin's eyes gave to me:

A book reframing history.

On the second day of Christmas Sarah Palin gave to me:

Two Piper's piping.

On the third day of Christmas Sarah Barracuda gave to me:

Three doting Fox Newscasters.

On the fourth day of Christmas the Maverick gave to me:

Four lame excuses for exiting her Governorship midterm.

On the fifth day of Christmas Gov. Palin gave to me:

FIVE GOLDEN RINGS! (Why mess with the best line in the song, right?)

On the sixth day of Christmas Mdme. Tea Party gave to me:

Six failed GOP candidates with radically right platforms. (finger's crossed for the midterms next year)

On the seventh day of Christmas Ms. Wasilla gave to me:

Seven first dudes a-snowboarding

On the eighth day of Christmas Tripp's grandma gave to me:

Eight lost civil liberties in the name of family values

On the ninth day of Christmas Levi's number one fan gave to me:

Nine complete political contradictions.

On the tenth day of Christmas the moose hunter gave to me:

Ten giant steps backwards for women in politics.

On the eleventh day of Christmas the second-hand fashionista gave to me:

Eleven spectacular views of Russia from her back yard.

On the twelfth day of Christmas NOT our VP gave to me:

Twelve disparaging comments about us who are not as "Ordinary American" as she.

And a book that reframes history.

Wah. wah. wah.

This past week I've been in the kind of mood that leads one to burrow under the bed-covers and watch ridiculous amounts of Bravo. In short: I've not wanted to face the world. Between my oft-lovely but recently prone to swearing at random inanimate objects office mate and the lack of men falling head over heels in love with me (and/or wanting to go on more than 2 consecutive dates with me), I've been struggling.

To lift me out of my glumness today, I've made note of that for which I am grateful. That is, after all, what Oprah says to do during times like these. While making a temporary office escape disguised as an accompaniment of a friend to a lunch joint, I stood in line behind a highly-functioning blind man. His ability to ask for help when he needs it, rely on other senses for guidance and trust in the good spirit of man floored me. Clearly, I have no idea of this man's history, political affiliation or if he gives good hugs- but his ability to persevere is pretty humbling and awesome.

And then, 2 hours later, after the system in which we must balance our budget failed for the nth time today, my boss said: At least we are not starving children in Africa. At least we don't have to do work with a stone and chisel. The unnecessary martyrdom brought me right back down from my Functioning-Blind-Man-High.

Perhaps if I had a rock star seeing eye dog (or any dog, really) I could de-funk.

Tweet Tweet

And she's back.

Sorry for the hiatus to all of you who have been gently nudging me back on to this literary masterpiece (Yeah I'm looking at YOU sister superlative, Uncle r-b and my svelte fashionable Philly friend). It is a vicious cycle: I don't write because I lack inspiration and then I lack inspiration because I don't write. I'm coming off of a week when my credit card information was stolen, then I lost my wallet and then my cell phone went off to recycled cell-phone land (the Manifest Destiny of naughty cell phones that refuse to engage in outgoing calls). I need some sort of grounding in that which can be mine. So I'm back.

Items that I am planning on discussing in upcoming posts include, but are not limited to:

- Sarah Palin's new book. I do wonder what vacuous ghost-writer she engaged to push this baby out while she was still on minute 14.5 of her fame.

- China, and why they currently own us.

- My recent foray into on-line dating and the explosion of insecurity that has followed.

- The impending half-marathon in Philadelphia

- Frustrations with slow walkers on side walks

- and much, much more!

Breaking news of today: I joined twitter.

Following my standard pattern discovering technological trends slightly after a typical 9-year-old has mastered them, I started stalking the tweets of others in hopes of some entertainment, information and critical distractions from the ongoing budgetary nightmare that is Fiscal Year 2010. The professional, intelligent side of me would like to say that she started tweeting to get up-to-the-minute updates on Senate proceedings on health care reform or insight into the mind of the day's great thinkers. But the reality side of me would call that professional, intelligent side of me out on a lie.

I joined to follow LC from the Hills.

Yep. I heard she's funny and I am sickly drawn to the fake-real hills crew (It may be a prolonged attachment to Laguna Beach, of which I own Seasons 1&2 if you would like to borrow). She is funny. Not as funny as John Mayer or Sarah Silverman, whom I also follow, but funny nonetheless. Others that I follow, in no particular order: Rollcall, Joe and Mika and Willie, The Economist, Huffington Post, Karl Rove, Larry David, Al Gore, George Stephanopoulos, Jack Welsh and Ann Curry. So I guess my nerd, political side is well satiated there, but I intend to add Kristin Cavallari soon. Perhaps even today.

Buyer's Remorse

It is a recession, people! Why, oh why, are the carrels distributing impractical wrap dresses, gag gifts and zipper bags booming in Faneuil Hall while the average American struggles to make ends meet? Why must my commute home be polluted with the noise of, "It's a zipper!!" (not to be confused with this) Really?

But the most egregious offender of the 'crap that should be neither sold nor bought during a recessionary period (or ever really)' is the newest addition to the Ultimate Tourist Shopping Center: Michal Negrin. The hideous combination of flowers, Victorian prints and little naked plastic baby figurines is vomit-licious and it's blatant, yet misguided allusions to Michelangelo's art must have the poor genius more post-mortem upset than the Ninja Turtles even did. I have to avert my eyes away from the scary images on display in the shop's window and seriously question the emotional stability of those browsing the racks.

For those of you who are unaware of what I'm talking about, please see:

- Example A (AHHHH!)

- Example B (at the cheap, cheap price of $866)

- Example C (What kind of pre-pubescent baby having baby thing is she promoting?!)

It's enough to make a girl long for the simplistic hideousness of a unflattering wrap dress.

Self-Preservation is a Full Time Occupation

Years ago, on my first foray into the wild world of the Adult Table at my family's Christmas Eve festivities, I found myself laughing inappropriately during a very somber toast/blessing delivered by my grandfather. Quickly realizing that the story regarding the infirmed was not being told in jest- and that there is very little funny regarding the infirmed...period- I went into shame mode for the rest of the night. Last night, I awoke at 2:43 a.m. in shame mode again. Remembering an inappropriate laugh that exploded from me during a recent toast during a wedding brought me back to my failed attempt at adulthood among my family members at the Christmas table years earlier. My social awkwardness had tarnished yet another good night's rest and chance at being 'appropriate' and adept at navigating the difficult terrain of adulthood (whether seated at the official table or not).

Each night this week, I have awoken between 2:30 and 3:00 a.m. to fret about my frequent fumbles and misspeaks. Each morning I attempt to rationalize that which a mid-summer-night's panic attack can not. I try to remember the lovely people who are in my life and seem to enjoy (tolerate?) me despite my incredible awkwardness, the times when I actually say something Important and Profound (extremely rare, but encouraging nonetheless), and the slim likelihood that others remember my awkwardness for the days/months/years that I remain embarrassed about them.

(Ir)Regardless, I am now exhausted. And, it should be noted, have been perpetually demoted to the 'young adults' table at Christmas time.

*Title was taken from an AWESOME Ani DiFranco song who, at age 19, was way more profound than I will ever be.

Republicanger

I have not gone on a political rampage of late- since HRC's campaign, really- but a conversation/argument that occurred this past weekend with an uncle rendered me sleepless for a second night in a row and I must vent. Bear with me, this is long. Said Uncle, quite genial in 'real life', becomes a hawkish punk when the topic of governance arises in conversation. The following is his premise and that which I said AND what I wished I had said:

- UncleGOP: Government should be run like a business: deficit spending should be impermissible

-- Blogger: Really? Which business did you have in mind? GM or AIG?

- UncleGOP: Our tax money should not be spent in support of those that do not contribute to the progress and success of the nation.

--Blogger: So the 9.6% of people nation-wide that have been laid off should just leave? I'm sure you know someone who has a family, is a good citizen but is currently not 'contributing' to society. Want them to leave?

-UncleGOP: There are no legal immigrants. In my mind, these 'legal immigrants' do not deserve to receive anything from me- especially health insurance.

--Blogger: They are Taxpayers! They are in the process! They are contributing members to society (you hypocrite. re: see above GOP assertion).

And on, and on, and on until this blogger looked at her elder and said: We clearly do not see the role of government and the importance of the safety net in the same way and I am just going to choose to disengage from this conversation.

But then I became very frustrated with myself.

If I've learned anything from my current job, it's that communicating a policy idea effectively is as, if not more, important as the idea itself. Health Care Reform efforts from Washington are being misrepresented-- both because of juvenile, outrageous behavior of its detractors but also due to failure to present the absolutely essential reform as absolutely essential.

Health Care is bankrupting the nation; those of us that are currently covered feel this inexcusable market pattern in the 8-12% increase in our premiums each year. The uninsured cost our country more and more each year and, the millions of adults aside, there are millions of American children who are not receiving the primary and preventative care that will set them up for a healthy, productive life as American adults (read: taxpayers/contributors to society/etc.). Our current situation, by any standard, is unreasonable, unsustainable and unacceptable. Yet, a majority of Americans (well-educated, thinking Americans) are unsure whether Health Care Reform is really necessary or just a giant leap into socialism.

Here are somethings that I want the Democrats to say in 5th grade language, with accompanying visuals and charts that any 2nd grader could read and understand:

- You are in charge of your own insurance. If you like it, keep it! No changes, nothing will happen to you. I see these people on the side of said visual--out of the legislated realm of HCR. Individuals as well-informed as my grandfather are confused by this point and it really should not be so opaque. President Obama has said this over and over yet the more emotive, simplistic language of the opposition is ringing louder among voters. Hence, we need some pictures and simplistic phrases (Karl Rove style...but for the good guys)

{A problem with producing the simplistic, visual presentation to combat the naysayers (some may call them LIARS) is that they need to be generated by the legislature, who have their heads so far up their asses that they can't decide upon a bill. There is a necessary, but daunting, tension for the administration to both 'sell' HRC but not 'drive' its progress. Congress needs to step up, get on message and just repeat the message over and over. Rinse and repeat.}

- Care Coordination means you will have MORE face time with your doctor, have less wait time for appointments and get exactly the tests you need. Rationing is a big scary word bandied about by the opposition. The administration is attempting to counter this scary one-worder with stats explaining the accepted truth that ~30% of Health Care spending is used on wasteful tests and procedures. The current system rewards quantity of care, not quality. Proponents of HCR need to get individuals out telling their stories about wasteful, unhealthy treatments and procedures they've received. They need to flood the blogs, the news sites, local community gatherings etc. and give real world examples as much as possible to get 'regular folks' to see that care coordination means more primary and preventative care (which, ironically, is way cheaper than secondary and mitigative care), more time with your doctor and more freedom/choice with what a person can do with their own health. Republicans love freedom and choice right? (unless it involves anything that happens in a bedroom, of course)

- Money. Yes, HCR is expensive. Super expensive. But not nearly as expensive as the war in Iraq has been. I'm telling you, draw me (and everyone else who doesn't hold a PhD in Finance) a picture about how we will pay for it. Compare it on a chart to other expenses to show how little it is in comparison to National Defense. Then promote health care reform as a matter of national defense. A sick, broke nation can not defend itself on the battlefield or in the battle for economic sustainability. I may be liberal, but I don't want another unsustainable entitlement to come home to roost in 10-15 years- especially when the precedent of such is two big government entitlements (SSI and Medicaid) that are on the verge of collapse. I want to be told, over and over, why HCR is different.

Keep it simple, keep it straight and be honest. The truth is on our side on this one- we just need to get a LOT better at speaking to it.

Kim Jong-Il: Not in my family, but still crazy

President Clinton, on the first trip to North Korea that a US President has made since Jimmy Carter in 1994, apparently chose the 'sea theme' at the Glamour shots studio for this official picture. You can tell it's official, by the way, because no one is smiling. No crazy fun in North Korea, just a little Kim Jong-Il lunacy.

Family Bios: Sister Dancing Queen.

Upon the urging of a stylish and comical friend from Grad school, I'm jumping back into this blogging thing. I am going to warm up with some short pieces that offer some insight into the seemingly normal but actually bizarre group of people I call "my family".

This past week Plaxico Burress accidentally shot himself in the leg when he relied upon his elasticized waistband to provide sufficient support for his illegal firearm. On the same day that I found myself shaking my head at the sheer stupidity of his actions, I wound up stuck at a nature reservation where I went for a walk with my sister Dancing Queen. Said sister relied on her elasicized waist band to hold her keys; keys which, naturally, slipped out of her waistband at some unknown location in the reservations. She and I reversed our hike to find the needle-in-a-haystack keys in a reservation that all of a sudden felt as big and vast as Yosemite. We engaged any and all passersby to help us and finally a kind gentleman with a Golden Retriever chased DQ down, keys in hand. A few individuals a couple paces back cheered.

DQ, for all her qualities and implied dancing aptitude, is not a details person. Details, such as, remembering to hold on to the items that will allow her to enter and drive away from her current location. Things always tend to work out for DQ though, there is always a guy with a Golden Retriever to make her day one of many funny anecdotes, rather than the costly and frustrating situation into which it could have evolved.

A legendary DQ occurrence happened when she was visiting me during the dark years of my adulthood. I offered her my car to inspire herself sight seeing of the scenic strip mall after strip mall ambiance that Houston offers a visitor, while I attempted to inspire ESL 6th graders to give a crap about ancient cultures. Lost and paused at a stop light in one of the more dodgy neighborhoods in Htown, DQ sped-dialed my dad and asked this highly helpful question: "Dad I'm at a stop light and there is a gas station on my right. Should I take a left or right." My dad, in Boston, said, "RIGHT!" DQ made the right and somehow found her way to my school to pick me up in time for dismissal.

And although karma seems to be consistently on her side, I would not advise that she obtain an illegal weapon and/or use her waistband as a means to safeguard it. Pretty sure that Golden Retriever walkers would take as kindly to helping her out.

Single-dom

"Here's the Deal: You are only invited if you are single, but please invite anyone who you know that is single and tell them to invite their single friends", The Facebook invite read. The Facebook invite that I was not going to pay much attention to, until my Friday night plans were cancelled at the last minute and my persistent invite-sending friend followed up with a, "it'll be so awesome!!" text. A text which determined the course of my Friday night. A Friday night that was to be defined by a party with delicious food and lots of single people in their late 20s-early 30s who knew that everyone else there was single- as it was a pre-cursor to attendance to said party.

I chatted with a nice Austrian guy who, although kind and thoughtful- He helped me pick up the many shrimp tails that flew across the room when I inadvertently flung my plate at the floor in a highly expressive story telling manner- was not really my type. I don't remember his name; I got it stuck in my head that I should call him Capt. Von Trapp, as that is the only other Austrian with whom I am familiar. The men to women ratio hovered steadily at a 4:15 ratio, thus the odds were never in my favor anyway. I left, alone, at around 11:30; my invite-sending friend was being chatted up by a handsome young doctor with an ego the size of the state of Montana but a smile that could light up the room.

And although this has been said by a bajillion single women of my generation- there HAS to be an easier way.

At least the food was good.

Moonwalking

The liberal arts curriculum at my undergrad University mandated at least one semester of Fine Arts study. After hearing abundant complaints about how much homework theater class gave and how much supplies for painting and photography costs, I entered a class that, on paper, came close to a basket-weaving level of difficulty: The History of Rock & Roll and Pop Music. And though it was not particularly academic, I learned more in that class about America, our history and our culture than I have in any previous or subsequent class (and my ridiculous student loans speak to the extreme amount of time I've spent in classrooms). Among our studies of transformative lyrics, rhythms and styles we discovered how traditionally 'American' songs have shaped public opinion, inspired fashion and united an otherwise disparate people. We also learned that every once in a while, a pioneer can change the way we interact with each other and communicate- simply through his music.

Michael Jackson was such a pioneer; his recent death is bringing me back to our in-class conversations regarding the hook in "Beat It" and his unprecedented ability to merge black and white tastes into simple, catchy beats. Through distilling him, his musical style and capacity to capture a musical message in the most memorable videos ever aired on MTV, I realized that my peers and I, unlike previous generations, think of music as both audial AND visual. We never questioned buying and dancing to an album of someone not of our race- it would have been criminal to not partake in the Thriller phenomenon. Much has been written, and there is undoubtedly more to come, but MJ really did change music and for that I give him a shout out.

Turmoil

There are not enough F-bombs in the world to encompass the awfulness in Iran right now. This is going to be huge now- and it's going to be even bigger later. Ugh...

"The elections are another potent reminder that there can be no illusions about Iran’s government and its malign intent. That is a hard political fact."

Stop, Drop and Roll

I'm terrified of fire. It's neurotic (completely neurotic), but about 4 out of 7 days a week I will lock my apartment door and immediately proceed to unlock it and shuffle to the kitchen to affirm that I, in fact, remembered to turn off the stove top and my cute home will not be burnt to a crisp in my absence. Sometimes I have to say, "the stove is off," to make an audible memory of the assertion in the event that my Lassie-esque fire-down-at-the-old-mill sense pops up in the middle of a meeting or while writing a memo.

Thus, it would make total sense if I completely freaked out when my fire alarm started to beep in the middle of last night. Except I didn't. Evidently my neurosis was asleep too. To address the beeping situation I took the following steps:

1. Gave said smoke detector a dirty look.

2. Stood up on bed and attempted to take smoke detector apart. Realized that the smoke detector above bed was, in fact, void of batteries and therefore NOT the source of beep.

3. With hands on hips in pajamas and what one can only infer to be amazing bed-hair, stared at empty smoke detector

4. Laid back down

5. Attempted to reason with beep

6. Created a pattern with the beep: it goes off every 2 hours and thus has something to do with TIME not FIRE.

7. Turned on my fan and my white noise machine

8. Faded in and out of sleep, did not burn to death.

Turns out, I have another smoke detector. In the kitchen. Duh.

Under My Umbrella (ella, ella)

I learned a lot from my study abroad experience in Madrid. For example, I learned that one will receive jamon in her meals even if she says she is a vegetarian and that hissing is an appropriate form of inter-gender communication. I discovered how to roll my r's and how to navigate one of the best metro systems in the world- which also appeared to be the top make-out location for all of the nation's young people. Most of all, though, I learned a critical element of essential Spanish womanhood. Allow me to elaborate...

A typical Spanish girl grows up to be a drop-dead gorgeous 20-something with a high pitched giggle and fabulous fashion sense. At some point between her 20th and 60th birthday, however, something crazy happens. Perhaps a result of excessive jamon intake, she shrinks about a foot and becomes attached at the hip to her friends. These tight huddles of older women stroll down the sidewalk at a very leisurely pace with a complete disregard to the pacing needs of impatient Americanas, such as myself.

Evading these amoeba-esque sidewalk clusters proves to be black-diamond-difficult when it is raining out. Each woman carries an umbrella, cleverly called a paragua (for water), creating a patchwork of nylon and metal that completely obstructs one's view and doubles the collective womanly girth of the group. The group of Jamon-I-Shrunk-the-Ladies not only irritated the more well-paced among us, but proved to be a head poking target for us 5'8"-ers whose amply sized dome never failed to be placed at the elder paragua height. Many times I clunked and bumped up against these parasols of death without so much of a 'permiso' or 'perdoname' from a cluster being. As an evolutionary reflex, I grew to avoid busy areas during rain and did not carry my own paragua, neededing full vision capacity to guard against the paragua gangs that roamed the calles freely (and slowly).

Boston has turned into Seattle this week and I have been struck by the number of paraguas out and about in my home Northeastern-turned-Pacific-Northwestern city. I have an umbrella. It's pink and is currently sitting on my desk at work. But I'm pretty sure that the paragua experience of abroad has turned me away from using umbrellas unless it is monsooning, and even then I'll rarely snap it up.

I often like to think of myself as low maintenance; one who can go with the flow and not worry about the frizzy hair and damp clothes that accompany rain exposure. Yet, I'm beginning to think that behavior could be considered unprofessional; at the very least it probably appears that I am just clueless (which is true for a number of things, but seasonal etiquette is not usually one of them). The truth of my umbrella strike, however, lies in the paraguas. Prado-ing visitors, consider yourself warned: You TOO could end up frizzy and damp.

Bring it.

While one may think that the idea of a Cheney/Gingrich ticket in 2012 would elicit instantaneous vomit in the mouth of this blogger, one would be wrong. I am DYING to see these two crazies reveal the beating xenophobic, economically erroneous heart of the conservative wing of the Republican party. I crave for the two drivers of all that is inane in politics over the past two decades to be exposed, like an open, hypocritical wound. I long for the nation to, yet again, reflect on its ability to become devout believers in irrational thought during time of fear and uncertainty- in the hopes that, like times past, we may learn a small bit from our mistakes and refuse to be duped again. I crave a dialogue regarding family values in America that isn't centered upon the facade of perfection as defined by ignorance and stagnancy but one that not only embraces values as rooted in education and growth.

So I urge all the Fox News types to cluster together in the far right, hail their concentrated 2012 ticket of 'no middle ground' right into the ground. And then maybe a party that Lincoln MAY recognize could emerge (although I'm dubious).

This political frothing at the mouth makes me feel...well, it makes me feel downright Republican.

Guilt Squad

This week has been rough at work. The light at the end of the tunnel ended up being a reflection off the nail of the giant middle finger that the economy has been sticking up at us; we wearily plod along. Tuesday was a particularly difficult day marked by poor communication among people necessary for me to do my job, Pelosi making the democrats look bad and sleep deprivation due to a whirlwind bachelorette party. I trudged home, a beaten woman, and was assaulted by the Guilt Team.

If you live, have lived, or even have visited a pedestrian city then you are familiar with the Guilt Team. Young, smiley individuals in smocks that bear the name of their charity of choice ask you a binary question that either sucks you into a sales pitch or makes you sound like a people, place, thing (nouns) hating ignoramus. Questions such as:

- Do you have a minute to protect the environment?

- Can you spare 5 minutes to support gay marriage?
or

- Would you like to stop violence against women?

Answering no to any of these questions frames the most-likely kind person as a Hitler-esque totalitarian, hell bent on 'getting somewhere' without 'giving back'. The question that stumped me this terrible Tuesday was: Do you care about kids?

"Yes", I said, in a slightly smug manner,"I taught for 4 years." In other words, I've walked the walk...leave me alone. "Great!", reacted the smock-wearer and proceeded to go on a 10 minute speech including pictures, sentimental letters and maps (did he know I love maps?) of poverty stricken areas in Africa and Asia. For only $22/month, I could sponsor a child and basically save her from a life of poverty. Or, implied Sir Smock, I could continue to buy lattes everyday and this child will waste away in misery. He persisted, insisting that my frown (per bad day) would be turned upside down by knowing that I had helped the world in some small way.

He gave me a "I am so disappointed in you" parental look when I turned him down (for the third time). The rest of the night, I felt like a terrible person/child-abuse supporter.

Then I got over it.

Penance

Dear Girl on Government Center,

Thank you for so kindly chasing me down this morning to alert me that my skirt was unzipped in the back. Much gratitude for escorting me from the back to a more secluded spot and assuring me that every-one is high in the morning anyway so it doesn't really matter.

Dear Innocent Bystanders on Government Center,

I'm sorry for temporarily blinding you with the extreme whiteness of my ass. I hope your corneas repair in short order.

Dear Readers of my Blog,

I know karma when I see it. I will return to writing...now.

Love and hugs,

Blogger

Recession Eyebrows

This recession is not good for the soul...or the face. Overpriced rent, paired with a reprised love of 'going out and being social', is breaking the bank and I've just realized that the state-wide salary freezes that I gently pushed upon other agencies apply to me too. Defying all stereotypes, I'm less wealthy now than I was as a teacher...without a master's degree...in the south.

In order to save money I've taken the following steps:

1. Tweezing of the eyebrows. My eyebrows, relatively speaking, are not horrendous. Yet, as reiterated many a time by Carmindy on What Not To Wear (I worship at the shrine of Clinton and Stacey), the eyebrows are the frame of the face. My frame, at the moment, appears to be of the shoddily designed, plexi-glass variety sold at Ocean State Job Lot. Those guys are tough to keep up with! I am now very aware of my discount-store frame when in the presence of a woman with well-groomed eyebrows, and although I like to think of myself as low-maintenance and unconcerned with that which doesn't really matter...I'm insecure.

2. Peanut Butter for lunch. Every day. I od'ed on Peanut Butter around age 5, resulting in a 10 year hiatus from the spread of the gods. I am keeping my fingers crossed that the inexpensive redundancy in my lunch 'meat' does not result in a similar embargo in years to come.

3. Outlet shopping. I tend to enjoy stores that have a pile of the same piece of clothing, sorted in ascending size order. That way, I can just go in, find my size, purchase and leave. Stores that have a mish-mosh of clothes, regardless of how inexpensively priced, stress me out to the point of hives. The Filenes Basement Bridal Sale is among the things I would find in the inner circle of my own personal hell. Thus, outlet shopping is not ideal. I am, however, currently wearing a jacket purchased at 70% off this past weekend. It's a size too big and I just resewed a missing button back on...but desperate times call for desperate measures.

My actions, I believe, are in full support of Mr. Geithner's bold- if not scary-as-all-get-out- plans to reign in outrageous spending and align priorities for long term success. Yet if my long term success is dependent upon, let's say, looking good- I am setting myself up for a long life of misery.

Bracketology

March madness always sneaks up on me.  I mean, it shouldn't; the title is pretty clear as to what time of year it will fall.  Yet, every year, I find myself with a bracket listing 64 teams from universities and colleges which, in relationship to basketball, mean nothing to me.  One can use the rankings, but it is widely known that a difference between a #10 rank and a #7 rank may be one loss three months ago.  Thus, rankings are for suckers.  I choose to rely on my conscious, my inherent genius and my love for certain color combinations.  Some techniques that I, and others in my office with similar levels of knowledge about college basketball, employ include:

- Academic levels.  The harder to get into the school, the less likely those nerds can game with the big boys.

- Color schemes.  A good friend of mine refuses to place any team that wears the color orange beyond the top 32 teams.  

-Old School alliances.  If I don't know about either of the schools, it is best to choose the one that would have been in the Union, not the Confederacy.  Boston brackets best not support succession- even 140 years later.

- History.  Michael Jordan went to UNC.  Therefore, by the associative property, UNC must dominate at basketball...right?...

-Jesuits.  They value education and are a liberal haven in the crazy Catholic church.  It is therefore totally reasonable to support the Jezzies in hoops.

It appears that I am already WAY down in the friendly office bracketeering.  Guess my inherent genius is not so finely tuned this year. 

O'verrated

Once upon a time in America, when anti-immigrant xenophobia was not constrained to 'alien' requirements of brownness and/or practitioners of non-Western religions, my great-grandfather refused to walk my great aunt down the aisle at her wedding.  His grievance with her: she was marrying outside of the race.  Rather than sticking with a ruddy-faced Irishman, she was egregiously daring to mate with an Eye-Talian.  All that he, his homeland and its potato famine had stood for was being wiped away in the blink of a marital eye.  It would not serve my great grandfather justice, or my Karma well, to frame him as an angry Irish xenophobe.  Along with building half of the town of Dorchester and leaving a legacy of generosity and ambition that still serves my family well, he left two of the greatest men in this world as his heirs- my father and my grandfather (who, it should be noted, proudly escorted his transgressing sister down the aisle to her life-long love).  

Big Bill, as he was referred to in reverence and fear by my dad and his siblings, came to mind last night as I celebrated my Irish heritage in fine style- drinking Red Wine and eating Chicken Cacciatore at a local Italian restaurant.  There was not a brough in sight as I drizzled olive oil on my ciabatta bread nor was there a Scalley cap to be found as I was escorted to and from my table by a thug-like individual who was so off-the-boat Italian looking that I swear he could be an extra in any Godfather movie.  I'm pretty sure that Big Bill rolled many a time in his grave in his post-mortem awareness of the serenade by an Italian quartet singing That's Amore to his descendant, while only blocks away a drunken Irishman wailed out, Oh Danny Boy.  

The truth is, I've left the Hot Mess that is St. Patrick's Day in Boston well in my past.  I have no energy to deal with excessively drunken individuals nor their green beer and temporary tattoos of shamrocks.  As one of my favorite people says in response to the slogan, 'Every one's Irish on St. Patrick's Day!', I'm Irish everyday.  I don't need to OD on Guinness on March 17th to assert my heritage.  

Italian food is WAY better than Corned Beef and Cabbage anyway.  We should have started incorporating the Eye-talians into our holidays a long time ago.

Hell in a Handbasket

I knew the day would come. The day in which I would finally approach my mounting stack of Economist Magazines and reenter the world of 'whats happening' beyond the 4 corners of State Policy. The result: I walk around a little less confident in the promise of tomorrow. I fear the bottom falling out of every global economy; even in countries I've never even thought about before. In essence, we- as a global community- are seriously screwed.

In good news, it looks like the drug trafficking industry is on the up and up, and that this downturn isn't racist; its color-blind in its attack. Fortune magazine reports that the world's dwindling billionaire population is the hardest hit- which, I suppose, in raw dollars is true. In the very least, I hope that the world has to endure fewer brats to fill the air space on "My Super Sweet 16"- or maybe that they only get ONE new Range Rover for their birthday.

As we plod along, I do wonder when we are going to get to the 'fear itself' part of being afraid and make some serious lifestyle changes. Until then, I'll keep writing to you from my over-priced apartment while noshing on yumminess from Whole Foods while my bank account hovers around danger zone. No big deal.

A Word on the Octo-Mom

I worry about her mental stability, I lament the lack of mother that each of her FOURTEEN children will have but most of all I turn to musical genius-turned-creep, Michael Jackson. As the living legend so clearly says in the opening song of his incredible Thriller album (Wanna Be Startin' Something): "If you can't feed your baby, then don't have a baby. And don't think, 'maybe', if you can't feed your BAby."

Que Guay, Mija!

At the risk of sounding trite, Ecuador is a fascinating place. Describing my trip in full would be highly difficult, and would inevitably serve as an injustice to the beautiful, difficult lifestyle maintained by the nation’s people, as well as bore you readers to tears. Thus, I shall focus upon a few select highlights…

Transportation
Multiple hours of my life in the Southern Hemisphere were passed on buses. Unexpected heavy rains crippled key roads in the capital and the nation at large, resulting in ample traffic and LOTS of time to reflect upon our precarious proximity to the edge of many a cliff from our bus windows. On one eventful bus ride, the driver and his wing man (whose job is to open the bus door and scream out the destination of said bus at random passer-bys in the event that they will spontaneously decide to join us on our trip and leap onto the moving bus as it continues. Clearly, this practice would not exist if this decision-making-process to travel was not employed A LOT by Ecuadorians), decided that playing kung-fu movies at full volume would be the best way to pass the time. The kung-fu movie boasted Chinese actors, dubbed with Spanish voices that impersonated Chinese accents. Cinematographic excellence.

Economy
Spanish conquistadors long ago banished the indigenous farmers of Ecuador to the steep pitches of the Andes; the colonizers settled in the better situated valleys and attempted to convince their indigenous victims that the sides of the mountains were actually the best locations because they would be so much closer to their Sun God. The jury is still out on whether the Inca’s bought that story. About mid-way through our trip, sister Dancing Queen dubbed me an “Indigenous Magnet”; los indigenos gravitated toward me and wanted to tell me about their lives, their families, their pasts…anything. One indigeno, Juan, told me of the demise of the co-op that had sustained him and his family for years. Another, Miguel, excitedly recounted the volcano activity of the previous night, drawing the direction of the resulting lava in the dirt with his 3-foot machete. Later, after wildly swinging his machete around in excitement, he assured me that the weapon was for removing weeds- not for violence toward me. Miguel, roughly 70 years old, then tried to kiss me. I coyly deferred to the cheek and hustled away from him, and his machete, as fast as possible. A third, also wielding a machete, held my arm as he implored me to believe that he and his people were not aggressive but rather gentle and loving. A smile, nod and reflection later, I started thinking about how old, Spanish-imposed stereotypes still sustain themselves and maintain a vastly inequitable and, frankly, inefficient economy that is more feudal than globalized.

Home-slice
There are a few people in the world that I would love to pocket-size; I’d like a mini-version of them to carry around with me to make me laugh, give me strength and challenge me to think. If I ever tell you that I want a pocket sized version of you, you should take it as the highest form of complement.

I’d like to introduce you to the newest member of my action-figure collection of favorite, pocket-sizable people in the world- my Ecuadorian host mother Consuelo. My love for Consuelo began almost immediately after I met her when she recounted her experience at the snobby, euro-centric Spanish ambassador’s office when she was denied a visa into the European Union. The story ended with, “I do not even WANT a visa from you ignorant people. You WILL NOT treat me like this. I would rather not go to Europe than deal with such stupidity.” Touché.

As the week progressed, Consuelo gave frank advice and reflections and became the Ecuadorian mother that I never knew I had. After several impassioned arguments, she nearly convinced me that a. my Spanish was EXCELLENT and that b. smoking doesn’t kill people, stupidity kills people. I still have work to do on the subjunctive tense and am not planning on picking up a cigarette at any point in the near future- but the passion Consuelo put into every element of her life and the humor she brought to every situation was quite an inspiration and balm to the anxieties inherent to cultural immersion.

…Highlights to be continued at a later date…Hasta Llugo mis amantes!

Not even close to Newsies' greatness

I have much to update you all on, dear readers, I’ve been horrendous at updating with regard to my first trip to the southern hemisphere. This negligence is primarily, but in no way completely, due to the funky computer keyboard structure in said continent; each key says its intended purpose yet what appears on the screen may or may not be congruent with that purpose. In other words, typing was a pain in the ass and required far more time than I was willing to dedicate during my vacation.

Allow me to begin from the end and work my way backwards. The flight home was highlighted by on-time departures (evidently less rare in South America than in North), a hideous purplish burn on my sister’s face (a result of poorly applied sunscreen and underestimation of the sun’s power…on the Equator) and – most importantly- my first viewing of a High School Musical movie.

I like me a good love story. I enjoy love stories that involved random musical interludes even more. I maintain the belief that the world would be a whole lot nicer if instead of withdrawing from and/or abusing each other when the going got tough, the tough broke into harmonic verses and synchronized dance routines. Thus, I was a ready-made candidate for a little High School Musical love.

Though I must admit that I have a slight (ly pedophilic) crush on the two male leads, I was otherwise disappointed in the much hailed musical extravaganza produced by my friends at Disney. Not only was the plot line dull, the musical numbers were lackluster and I really had a hard time believing that the hair stroking Vanessa Hudgens waited until mid-way through the third movie in the series to kiss her cutie-pie boyfriend Zach Efron- who nobly chose BOTH basketball and drama club at the movie’s end.

This movie does not even belong in the same genres as such masterpieces as My Fair Lady, Annie or The Sound of Music*. I almost would have rather watched the interminable little plane make close to no progress on the trip navigator for 2 straight hours.

* The Sound of Music, now among my favorite movies, was discriminated against by this blogger due to its title: I thought it was a hideous documentary for about 5 years before I finally succumbed to its magic.

Honest Monday

Lately I've been feeling more like a seventh grader than I have since, well, since I was in 7th grade.  I'm unable to articulate abstract thoughts, I get lockjaw at the idea of telling the cute boy that I have a crush on that I like him and a giant pimple has magically appeared on my chin.  It is through this lens that I am pretty skeptical of the phenomenon in my office called "Honest Monday."  

Honest Monday, essentially, involves a box placed in the common work area for all budget nerds to offer reflective commentary regarding the budget process and handling of fiscal crises within the state.  At its best, Honest Monday is an airing of positive attributes of the hectic season (Jeans as proper office attire for 2 weeks straight) and things that could use improvement (Assignments received at 4:30pm that must be complete by close of business... on a Saturday).  Yet, my 7th grade antennae, finely honed at the moment, sense the potential for this to turn into a Slam Book session.   In theory, it is a productive means to address inter-office problems, assert best practices and work through future challenges.  In practice, I'm a bit afraid that I'm going to have to console someone in the bathroom to rejoin Life in the office.  

Honest Monday was set to happen today- it is Monday after all- and I was to miss it, thankfully, due to a meeting in the Middle of Nowhere with my health care partner in crime.  Upon returning to the office, however, I discovered that Honest Monday was postponed so that all could be present for the 'honesty'. 

Bring on Honest Thursday and my perpetuated, 7th grade anxiety.  

Americanism part Deux

I think it's safe to say that if we Americans are going to watch someone fall, we'd like to see them fall spectacularly. We are not a moderate people, we like it big and splashy- there are entire shows dubbed our nation's funniest that rely on the premise that stumbling, mumbling and failing is a funny thing if done on a huge level. I think my thirst to see a BIG demise, inherent in my Americanism (adjust flag pin on lapel), has left me slightly disappointed in this whole Tom Daschle situation.

The former senator from a state to which I will probably never travel stepped down from consideration for Obama's secretary of Health and Human Services- the president's nerdy-red-glasses Clark Kent in the heroic path to meaningful national health care reform- for tax evasion. These actions are, understandably, Not Good and perhaps his name withdrawal will ultimately be the best course of action.

But, man, its not like he tried to take away civil liberties and then took hold of the Justice department. Or a received a coveted Supreme Court position after sexually harassing a coworker. Those falls were BIG- yet our collective national appetite was not yet whetted for engaging to the point that they were no longer in contention for those most crucial of constitutional positions. The appointing presidents, with their own shared Oedipal complex, were not willing to splat out in front of their nation and thus 'stood resolutely' behind these bad guys and watched as their house of cards weathered the storms (at least for a little while, when it comes to Ashcroft).

Now we have a president that not only admits to his small mistakes but actually apologizes for them? This doesn't sit well. There is no climactic court scene, no transcripts from terse Senate grilling. There is only two guys that didn't do all of their homework and required citizen assignments, realized their mistakes and said that they messed up. How Dick Van Dyke show. Fox wouldn't sign this plot if it was hand delivered by Bill O'Reilly. I feel like I don't even know my country anymore.

(On a personal note, I am a bit disappointed that Daschle is out of the picture. Working within the complexities of health care reform in the state has taught me the value of good leadership, if nothing else, in progressing meaningful reform. I hope that whomever is ultimately charged with this task has the appropriate connections and wherewithal exhibited by Daschle in all of his other legislative endeavors.)

No! Baby Good!

While perusing the various veggies during my weekly trip to the Haymarket, I happened upon a lovely Greek man who was selling cashews at a ridiculously good price. I wove my way through the crowds in my post-workout sweatpants and Puffercoat up to the gentleman who looked at me and said, Terrets-like, "you're very beautiful." I responded with a quick 'thank-you' and chalked it up to his being older and into girls that wear full sweats and high ponytails. What happened next is in no way an exaggeration and is NOT the first time it's happened to me...

Dude: Very beautiful. Points at my stomach. Baby?
BIV: I'm sorry, I must have misheard you AND read your body language wrong
BOV: um, no. My jacket's puffy
Dude: No, you big there. Baby?
BOV: NO.
BIV: Give me my flipping nuts you ass.
Dude: No baby? But baby Good (thumbs up)

I proceeded to take half-narcissistic, half-panicked profile glances of myself in every reflective surface I passed for the rest of the day.

Completely unrelated (unless the nuts had some rogue germs sprinkled in), I puked for the first time since 1999 on Saturday night and have just managed to milk down a piece of toast after 31 straight hours of sleep. My body is quickly working off its baby weight and helping me get over my terror of throwing up in general.

Overall a very exciting post House One weekend.

Black Ice; An Ode to my Puffer Jacket.

My dad brought a bit of the Beijing Olympics into our house this summer. Every now and again, he would enter the kitchen pour himself a cup of coffee and stick the landing-- In celebration of the most cursory of activities, he’d assume the arms-up-feet-together-huge-grin pose that occurs at the end of every successful gymnastic apparatus event in Serious Competition.

Last week, vulnerable from a the deadly combination of a exhaustion with a relentless work schedule, targeted by the cunning black ice that lines Boston’s sidewalks, I lost my sense of balance. For three straight days last week, I found myself completely sprawled on the various sidewalks as a result from serious, full-body-commitment falls.

Day One (Tuesday- a New Day in America): The New Day in America turned out to be not a good day for this blogger. Upon my first step onto my apartment building’s landing, my foot skidded on black ice and I proceeded to engage in a slow motion fall down the three steps that separate my landing from the sidewalk. My lower back slammed back into the bottom step and I sat, stunned, on the sidewalk for a solid two uncomfortable, cold minutes before I fully processed what had happened.

Difficulty: 8
Execution: 2
Overall Score: SUCK. Serious, nasty bruise on left arm. Backache for entirety of New Day in America.
Landing: Not even close. What my dad would look like if he actually tried to stick a gymnastic landing.

Day Two (Wednesday): Mid-way through the day I wrote a desperate email to a friend petitioning for a few hours of her time that evening to talk about anything BUT work-related topics/remember that I have friends despite my anti-social behavior of late. Obliging, she welcomed me with open arms and an open bottle of cabernet. As I navigated the two blocks of icy terrain that separate our apartments I found my self sliding, base-stealing style, into a full side sprawl on the sidewalk. From a 3rd party’s perspective, it may have appeared as if I got the sudden and urgent need to drop to the floor and do some Jane Fonda-style leg lifts. Rather than engage my adductors, I arose and walked home unscathed.

Difficulty:7
Execution: 6
Overall Score: Decent. Cabernet definitely helped soften the blow
Landing: Slight studder step. 2/10 deduction.

Day Three (Thursday): Exiting the ATM on a prominent street in my Neighborhood I took one step, then another and then upon the third my body dropped directly into seated, cross-legged pose (Indian style for the less politically correct among us). A bit surprised by the unprompted bodily surrender into the sidewalk, I was able to catch the glimpse of a concerned couple who were not expecting me to collapse right in front of them- and certainly not collapse with such bodily organization. Together, the three of us laughed it off and I was able to proceed on my way.

Difficulty: 9
Execution: 9
Overall Score: Awesome. My reign as champion faller is redeemed.
Landing: Mary Lou Retton would be proud.

Work Treadmill

My utter apologies to all. My world has been dominated by a hot mess of fiscal woes, commission seating and budget production. In other words, since New Years Day, my job has swallowed me whole and spat out a less interesting, creative and available shadow of myself.

A day in the life of this utterly lame Blogger:

6:00am Alarm: Proceed to engage in a three slam minimum of my fist with the snooze button.

7:00am Gym: Attempt to avoid the crazy lady that has decided that I am the recipient of her opinions regarding Sarah Palin’s awesomeness, the Mannings’ superiority on the football field and any other blanket statement with which I am certain to disagree and/or her loudly voiced disdain of me for not engaging her in her craziness. Jack ipod volume level as necessary.

8:30am Work. Answer 35 red-exclamation-point-marked emails that have infested my inbox in the past 12 hours.

8:55am Work. Briefly wonder what people send such emails at 2am. Assert that I am not impressed by their dedication to their work, rather totally unimpressed with their inability to properly time manage.

9:00am-1:30pm Work. CRISIS. Small victory. CRISIS CRISIS CRISIS.

1:30pm-2:00pm Work. Meet with one of many individuals/advocates/groups that believe that “Budget cuts are good. The fiscal climate is bad. Budget cuts are good…for everyone but me.”

2:00pm-5:00pm Work. CRISIS, chase down boss, make necessary adjustments. CRISIS.

5:00pm-7:30pm Work. Get work done that would have been handled during the work days were it not for multiple crises.

7:30pm-8:30pm Home. Drown about 2.5 glasses of wine and watch an episode of either the West Wing or Gossip Girl- the television juxtaposition that best reflects the duality of my two chief sources of news: The New York Times and US Weekly.

8:30pm Bed.


I’ll be back soon, homies, and I’ll no longer be restricted to talk about any of the aforementioned crises. Until then…