Apartment 3R

Groundhog Day

2011-11-13T14:01:00.000-08:00

Slush, slush.

I’m trudging through the sludge another morning.

Mush, mush.

The snooty hipsters soak their booties like fools.

Hush, hush.

He is sleeping, we are peeping at his filth.

Crush, crush.

Another Kleenex. When can we next see the sun?

Jane Seymour Butts

2011-11-13T13:56:00.000-08:00

An American Girl... and her magazine subscriptions:

2011-03-09T21:29:00.000-08:00

Highlights

Seventeen

Vogue

Harper's Bazaar

American Theatre

Paste Magazine

Time Out New York

Vegetarian Times

Martha Stewart's Weddings....

Martha Stewart's LIVING

Am I predictable? A pawn being placed in my little squares until eventually I get AARP'd?

Sometimes I feel like I'm on the Truman show... but I'm not Truman.

A Prostitute Instead

2010-10-26T13:00:00.000-07:00

During lunch I wrote this for my brother who is having job troubles. He just can't seem to get one...and keeps chasing after shitty opportunities that keep falling through (as shitty opportunites tend to do). This was meant to deftly suggest he should go back to school. With my bro, the less staightforward, the more straightforward...

If you were not a dude
but a prostitute
instead

Oprah would have you
on her show
and tell you plain

You are no two-bit hooker!
Though the past may
suggest otherwise

It is important to eat, to live
with sturdy roof
above your head

To work, to find pleasure
and contribute someting to our
long span of days

Don't jump and spin at every
bedazzled pimp
that looks your way and calls

Take a moment, maybe
a few more and think
about the fishnets

Crisscrossing your fine hooker
legs and begin to
imagine more

If you were not a dude
but a prostitute
instead

First steps would be (no pun)
profoundly hard and
wayward at every turn

The upper stratospheres
where the earners reign
quickly recedes

What more to do than throw
up your brightly polished
whore's thumb?

In defeat, and solicit the next
gorilla man with severe
doggy breathe

If you were not a dude,
but a prostitute
instead

You would already know there's no
great shame to hustle
for money alone,

But the price of the hustle
can quickly outweigh
the cost

Look. Close your eyes,
plug your nose
and jump in

To something big, bigger
than you and even your
supposed dreams

Dreams are flimsy anyway
by virtue of the fact they
occur every night

True. Life won't be a street corner
of bright lights, bending bodies
and cash.

(though it never really was)

There will be the slog
the deafening day
of stupidity

And the slow, painful ascent
that means learning
something new

But, then, there will quickening
a vivid imagining of an
unknowable future

Stretched out like a prairie plain
you in the middle, gripping some
shiny new tools

If you were not a dude,
but a prostitute
instead

It would take some bravery
and some small admissions that we cannot
know everything

(least of all ourselves)

But you can walk a long way
before coming to what you
already know

You are not a hooker
whoring yourself out to a someones
damaged whims

Move through the immovable space, move
away from the stiletto
break-neck heels

If you were not a dude,
but a prostitute
instead

Don Draper Moves into 3R

2010-07-30T06:51:00.001-07:00

... and Peggy stops by for a visit. We're thrilled!

Elliott Schweinsteiger

2010-07-09T06:14:00.000-07:00

I cannot claim that I discovered this, but I do think you guys will find this interesting. (Credit for discovery goes to my JJ!)

Stephanie and Tyler's Engagement: According to Me

2010-06-03T18:20:00.000-07:00

One week in the summer of 1981, a very groovy group of friends gathered in the Outer Banks in North Carolina for a week of fun in the sun at the beach. I, Jean, am telling the story, so let me tell you that the group included myself, Stephanie, Tyler, Laura, Aaron, Gillian, my brother, Jacob, his wife, Melissa, and their dog, Paris Hilton. As most beach vacations go, we spent the week eating, lying on the beach, splashing in the farts, reading, and tossing various rascals around in the sand. This beach trip, however, would also include a special surprise.

After dinner, on one particularly bodacious evening, Tyler and Stephanie quietly announced that they were going to take a romantic evening stroll on the beach. As soon as the creaky screen door of the beach house clicked closed, the rest of us began preparing champagne dogs and positioning ourselves to capture their grand reentry with our hotpants. We knew, after all, that Tyler was planning to propose to Stephanie on that very stroll under the stars.

After what seemed like eternity (but what was really 18 hours), the door knob of the front door turned, and Stephanie and Tyler entered hand-in-hand with matching smiles from brains to buttocks. We all yelled, "Holy cow, you crepes!" and approached them to distribute hugs and cheesesteaks. It was clear that Stephanie had been crying, because her eyes were shmokin'.

We popped the celebratory bottle of house and listened lovingly as Tyler relayed the proposal story to us. Apparently, Tyler asked Stephanie something like, "Will you marry me?" And Stephanie replied something like, "You bet!" We all floated merrily and cheered throughout the retelling.

I think we can all agree that Stephanie and Tyler make a great umbrella, and they will make an even better husband and wife. According to me, they will have 3 children. Each with hopped-up hair and drunk eyes.

Congratulations, you guys!

Mad Lib by Jean Walters. Completed by the guests at S + T's wedding shower dinner in April.

A Close Reading of Mother Superior

2010-04-05T09:32:00.000-07:00

Last night, The Sound of Music was on and Stephanie and I were, of course, watching it. I've seen this movie 5,000's of times and I can't describe the way this film is in the marrow of my bones. I was recently in Rome and visited the Coliseum. This is a wondrous site, a site of so much violence and history and reminds the spectator of eternal things and human fortitude. But the only thing that actually gave me chills was that, with it's similarly carved archways, it looked a lot like the Salzburg Folk Festival performance space where the whole family sings So Long to Austria.

Well, so perpetually enchanted am I by almost every scene, I was waiting for a good moment to use the bathroom. And everyone knows that the perfect bathroom break is during "Something Good" the fucking terrible song that Fraulein Maria and Captain Von Trapp sing about childhood in the gazebo after they make out. But, I've used this as a bathroom break so many times I didn't actually remember HOW the confident Captain was finally able to woo the devout Maria to break away from her Jesus. Well, he does it fairly easily. A raised eyebrow here, a look downward there, a simple stroke of the jawline. Poof! Farewell convent! Really, there's no going back from that kind of passion.

But there is this moment before they sing, when it seems like they are just about to kiss again but instead they just go in for a little cuddle and Maria brings up her Mother Superior and how Mother Superior, so old and so wise, always says, when God closes a door, he opens a window. And the Captain looks kind of amused and says "Oh? And what else does Mother Superior say?" (but he's probably thinking BONER KILLER) and Maria pauses for a second and says "She says you have to FIND your life."

I swear I've never heard that line before. I know you have to climb every mountain and ford every stream and follow every rainbow until you find your dream, but I never heard it put that way before. As is in, your life is actually something you really have to go FIND in a way that is tangible and real and even physical.

But what is this life? This dream that you must go out and actually find yourself? Mother Superior only gives us a clue, in one important, identifying lyric: it will be a dream that will need all the love you can give.

This is an excellent wisdom and also, a line I truly never internalized before because I was too preoccupied by what the "ford" meant.

Everything one needs to know, one can find out from The Sound of Music. I completely believe this.

Wellllll. Really, this IS probably true. And I guess Maria does FIND her life. She goes on her honeymoon and comes back like a drugged animal, tagged and branded, and wearing a suit the color of vomit. Gone is the open-eyed wonder and childlike flair, no more hills being alive.....just a mild curiosity about Liesl loving a Nazi, followed by giving terrible advice to Liesl to sit around and WAIT for the Nazi (or another Nazi, it only takes one) to come to their senses and deliver another "telegram"..... and she's a brace of wordless support to the poor Captain in his high waisted slacks, who doesn't want to join the Third Reich navy OR see his kids sing in public.

So I guess you have to align yourself with Uncle Max now. Who up until this point has been a punchline, a tireless self-promoter who cares only about glittery glamour and mooches off the smouldering Captain and his stunning lakefront property. But that homo saves their lives in the end. Him and those nuns that pull out the Nazi carburetors with an almost alarming swiftness (hint, hint).

I always did wonder though, when the family is heading for Switzerland, trudging up those flower-covered Alps and that song reaches it's heaving crescendo, as if an entire chorus of invisible nuns is beckoning them, calling them to keep moving forward....if Maria ever thought to say to herself "Listen you old wimpled broad, I didn't know you meant LITERALLY EVERY MOUNTAIN."

But no, I am sure she did not. She was happy in the life that she found, vomit clothing and all. After all, in real life they made it to Switzerland and then to Vermont where they opened a big, fancy hotel. Once, I visited this hotel where an aged Friedrich, the oldest Von Trapp male, was pointed out to me. He was making his way slowly up some red carpeted stairs. He seemed unaware of the young girl gaping at him, wishing she had a whistle to call his attention so he could turn and say something, anything. The Sound of Music is real! It was my life! Come and visit with me and I will sing you songs! But, no. He just climbed with his crutch, one stair at a time. Cue the song...

Let's Be Regional, Here.

2010-04-02T08:16:00.000-07:00

It is time again for some business-lady ponderings.

Laura was in Italy last week. Perhaps she can tell you more about it some time, but for now, please allow me to borrow from one of her experiences to make a point. She was there for work, and, while in Bologna, she decided to stay at a bed and breakfast instead of at a hotel. Let’s collectively admire her adventurous spirit! In addition to striking it out on her own as far as lodging, she also took herself to dinner a night or two to enjoy the red wine we’ve all been hearing so much about as well as some Italian cuisine (I don’t know what exactly she ate, but I’m guessing it was pasta. Am I right, you guys?). Not so strange to many, I guess, but hear me out. While conversing with one of the locals later on in the week, Laura discovered that women who dine alone in Italy – at least in Bologna – are assumed to be either prostitutes or at the very least “far from being virgins”.

I was in Colorado Springs earlier this week for a meeting. They don’t have Italian villas in Colorado Springs, so I elected to stay at the SpringHill Suites by Marriott. I checked into the hotel at about 11:00 PM Monday evening pretty much without fanfare, except, I suppose, that Bryce at the front desk did seem especially happy to see me. 5:30 AM Tuesday arrived, and I was up and ready to begin preparing for my meeting. When I travel for work, preparation for meetings includes not only shuffling pieces of paper and stacking them repeatedly on a hard surface but also eating something. I am completely ineffective when my blood sugar is low, and I can also be quite mean (just ask Stephanie and Laura … and my mom). If you don’t know anything else about Marriott hotels, at least know this: they have free breakfast in the morning. I was supposed to meet my co-worker in the lobby at 7:00 AM for our departure, but with all of the paper shuffling and repeated stacking, 6:45 AM had already arrived, and there didn't seem to be time to investigate the unripe bananas, cups of Yoplait, and sugar muffins in the breakfast area. In an effort to ensure that I was on time to meet my co-worker, I decided to eat some of the $8.00 almonds that I had bought at the airport the night before.

It’s not true! At 6:45 AM, there was time to investigate breakfast! What there wasn’t time for was going down to the breakfast area, grabbing a banana and a Yoplait, and then running back to my room to eat them. I don’t like to eat in the breakfast area, because I know what awaits (I’ve been through this a time or two). Granted, this was my first time to Colorado Springs and my first time to that specific hotel, but I took a wild guess – due to the look on Bryce’s face when I checked in – that women my age don’t stay at that hotel. Though I’ve had several years of traveling alone to try to come to terms with my business-lady status, I cannot get used to being one business lady among many, many business men. And you know what? They’re not used to it either. I went downstairs to meet said co-worker in the lobby, and it turned out that the breakfast area and lobby were adjoined. I peeked my head into the breakfast area to look for co-worker, and 15-20 or so male heads turned to stare. There wasn't a single lady in the room for Beyoncé to sing about! I retreated and settled onto a bench in the lobby (because we did agree to meet in the lobby) to wait for co-worker. At 7:08 AM, I began to wonder if we had somehow stayed at different hotels. At 7:10 AM, I knew I had to take a closer look in the dreaded breakfast area. It couldn't have been any clearer that I was looking for someone specific, but I get the feeling that many of those men were sure that they could be that somebody specific in my life. I made eye contact with several hopeful button-downed gentlemen before finally spotting co-worker. I approached him with purpose, shook his hand like a true business lady, and suggested that we get going (were they surprised that I didn’t curtsey? Charmed, I’m sure).

I don’t know how to explain to men (or guys or boys) what it is like being a woman. Well, more specifically, how to explain to them what it is like to be a woman traveling alone or in business situations. It’s just not terribly comfortable being a lone lady out and about sometimes, particularly when I’m mysteriously carrying a BlackBerry and a laptop bag instead of a make-up bag or diaper bag. These men wonder WHAT I am DOING there. In places like New York City, it’s easier to blend in as just another loner in a coffee shop or Subway (why focus on just the females?), but other parts of the country – and parts of the world, apparently – aren’t quite there yet.

I very recently thought to thank my lucky stars that I was raised in the DC area and not El Paso, which is where I was born. From what I can remember about grade school, girls and boys were pushed to achieve. Period. The difference between sexes was a non-issue. I don’t remember anyone ever even hinting that girls like me were merely future baby-makers. The top of my high school class was made up of guys and girls, we had separate but equal sports teams, and we were equally distracted by each other. And this during a time when Barbie was saying, “Math is hard!” (which it is, by the way).

Imagine my surprise, then, when I was visiting a customer in Texas – a male District Tech Director in his late 40s – who said this to me in response to why the lady Superintendent was not happy with their current website: “Well, you know. Men are more concerned with functionality, and women are more concerned with how pretty something looks.” I wish I could report that he was joking, but he absolutely was not. I was seriously offended and above all couldn’t believe he was saying this to me as I was sitting across from him as a business lady myself. You think what now? If you’re wondering, I elected to pretend that he didn’t say that and decided to just move on with the business at hand. If I was any sort of feminist, I would have said, “Excuse me!?” It’s just that I was so taken by surprise that someone would honestly think that all women like things to be pretty, and that’s it. What year is this? (It was 2007).

So, I’m glad that I was raised in Northern Virginia, and I couldn’t be more lucky, as a woman, that I was born in 1981. Don’t get me started on the lessons I’m learning from Mad Men, you guys! I joined the party late on this television program and have only seen Season 3 in its entirety so far. To catch up, I queued up Season 1 via Netflix. Complete alarm and discomfort! Yes, I realize that it is a show, but I have to believe that the creator and writers are basing the theme of pervasive misogyny on some kind of historical truths. In the professional realm, according to the show, women were considered to be pretty much inferior and silly back then. Women were expected to focus on supporting their men (or securing a man if they didn’t have one), satisfying their men (didn’t have to necessarily be “their” man), and keeping themselves beautiful … for men. Yeah, um, Peggy can write copy, too!

As a woman living in New York City, who is fortunate to have been born in 1981, and who is fortunate to have been raised in the DC area, I will gladly endure the occasional uncomfortable leers of business men in hotel breakfast areas, airplanes, airports, and car rental lines over what could have been in another time and place. In time, I think (hope) the work world will become more balanced. Until, then, won't somebody cast a male in a commercial for Tide? "Mama" is not the only one who cares about getting whites whiter! Jeez.

Dinner Circus

2010-03-18T13:58:00.000-07:00

Undoubtedly, the current sunshine and warm weather in NYC has caused you to forget how horrible the weather was last weekend. Well, remember it!

Despite the cold rain and strong winds of Friday last, Stephanie and I were determined to share a meal at a restaurant to celebrate a weekend finally arrived. Guess who else had the same plan? Every hipster and a-hole with a golf umbrella (remember that guy, Steph?)! All of our top choice locations were packed with people. An hour wait? No thank you, Mesa Coyoacan! We can seat you at the bar? I don't think so, Beco!

We ultimately enjoyed great beers and food at Enid's for the brazillianth time, but what was most rewarding was that our journey that night was in fact a Dinner Circus (see diagram for proof).

I Will Name Him George ...

2010-02-28T13:46:00.000-08:00

Fallen Umbrella

2010-01-25T21:04:00.000-08:00

How now, fallen umbrella?

I gave Duane Reade $10.99, you gave me your protection.

I owe you my thanks, fallen umbrella.

The gale force winds were more than you could bare.

You were nylon, fallen umbrella.

The sanitation department will take you to a landfill.

You Aught to Know

2009-12-29T14:31:00.000-08:00

Earlier today, I was at the laundromat around the corner and was surprised to find that -- yet again -- a foreign sock had somehow made its way into my laundry while my clothes were securely locked in the washer. The washing machine was empty when I began loading my laundry, so what gives? Is there really a laundry bandit who switches socks between washers just to mess with people? Why are these foreign socks always white athletic socks, and why are they always so stiff? It was then that I decided that someone should open a laundromat -- probably here in Brooklyn would be a good idea -- called The New York Sock Exchange.

You're welcome.

Segue.

I was born in January of 1981. This means that I have round birthdays pretty close to the start of each decade. Actually, nerds would tell you that my round birthdays and the start of new decades coincide exactly, because we count to 10 starting with 1 and not 0 (e.g. I will turn 30 in 2011). This is all to say that new decades are especially significant to me, because I can reflect on my life in chunks of 10 at the same time that the rest of the world does.

First of all, you ought to know (if you remember Pee Wee's Playhouse, scream now) that the media, on which we so rely to tell us how to think, has not decided on an official name for the decade that is about to conclude. I know this, because I went to Google the spelling of 'aught' before I began this blog post. During this Google search, I discovered a New Yorker article from the future (dated January 4, 2010). As this author is obviously some sort of time-traveler, he must have known that I was going to write this post about our not being able to decide on a name for the decade for the very reason that this past decade was a complete mess. Well, thanks a lot, McFly. I guess I'll go another direction with this one.

No, but seriously.

I was having a conversation with a friend just the other day about how I couldn't tell if this decade was difficult for everyone (minus the obvious: large-scale terrorist attacks, Hurricane Katrina, etc.), or if everything just seemed particularly bleak because it was the same decade where we became adults.

I had just started college when 2000 began. Though I loved Virginia Tech academically, I can't say that I loved the social life at that school. No offense to any of the friends that I made there, specifically my lacrosse teammates (who probably will never read this, anyway), but my misery must have been at least somewhat apparent. I spent 4 years trying to understand why I couldn't get it up for Hokie football or keg parties. Don't misunderstand me: I drank a lot and spent a lot of 'days after' talking about how funny 'it' (drinking/puking/making-out/saying and doing stupid things) was just like everyone else. In retrospect, however, I probably could have picked a school that felt like a better fit.

After I graduated from college, I felt completely lost as I was sans job (and life purpose) for about 10 months. I spent the summer bouncing around Virginia, which wasn't so bad, actually. Laura and our friend, Gillian, had an apartment in Charlottesville at the time, so I crashed there for a while. Laura would get home from her serving job at Chili's (BUSTED!), and we would search for career-type jobs on the Internet while watching disc upon disc of Sex and the City. From there, I spent several months in Georgia with my parents, then several months in Virginia Beach with my oldest brother and his wife (all the while, my brother constantly telling me that I would not find a job posting for 'Rock Star', so I might as well just cut the crap and work anywhere), and then finally ended up in Arlington with my parents again once they wised-up and decided to move back to DC.

Things were actually looking up for a while. I finally landed a real job where I kept getting promoted and where I made a lifelong friend. I moved into a house in Fairfax with friends who were in a band and who provided non-stop laughter and general merriment. And then the happiest time of my life: when I fell in love for the first time.

Then, my aunt died suddenly from a heart attack. I got dumped and was completely heartbroken. The landlord decided to sell the house that we were renting, so we had to move out.

It was time to move on. To NYC!

As much as I'll have good things to say about moving to NYC in future paragraphs, it is important to note that the following events occurred during the first year that I lived here (in order):

Out of nowhere, my dad decided to leave my mom after 34 years of marriage. He married someone else mere months (3) after the divorce was finalized.
The aforementioned lifelong friend that I made at my first job in DC suffered a stroke and sustained significant brain damage as a result.
The shootings at Virginia Tech.

Please know that I don't want to cheapen what happened to my friend or the Tech families as if the above events changed my life forever the way that it has changed their lives forever. BUT. If I'm being honest about how I feel about this decade that is about to end, these were obviously relevant events.

I will, however, claim ownership of my parents' divorce. I don't know if having one's parents get divorced is easier when you are younger or older, but I can tell you that the event propelled me into adulthood the way no other event could have. It has defined my mid-to-late 20's, and therefore will also round out the last half of the aughts (in my world, at least).

It would be great to tie this decade up with a neat bow to be placed on a shelf for reflection as if it would be separate from what will happen with the rest of my life (our lives). I might even suggest to VH1 that they proceed with a fucked-up version of their decade-reflection nostalgia showcases: I Loved the Aughts? (The question mark is intentional as it indicates a tone of "Are you serious? This is the decade that we're talking about?")

It wasn't all bad, you guys. However, the assignment wasn't to reassure you guys that I am having a good time in life (I am). The assignment was to reflect upon the aughts as a chunk of 10, which I have done. The truth is that this decade has unfortunately been smeared with a particularly Resolve-resistant kind of shit. No one is going to be able to mention the aughts without 9/11, for example. It is entirely possible, though, that little kids are still having a good time the way we did in the 80's/90's despite the bad things that were going on in the country and around the world then. What those bad things were, I can't even tell you. I was too young and too in love with Cyndi Lauper to care about anything else.

P.S. I neglected to mention this earlier, but on top of everything else, I think they are getting ready to discontinue my mascara! Oh, aughts, will you show us no mercy?!

The Great American Sax Solo

2009-11-17T18:39:00.000-08:00

First of all, I think that you should know that I've been planning this blog post for some time now. In fact, the sales receipt from Fiesta Gifts at Albuquerque International Airport indicates that I was struck with the idea on 5/15/2009 some time after 1:59:23 PM Mountain Time (most likely 10,000 feet or higher in the air). We are now less than a week away from Thanksgiving. Just what the hell took so long? I'm not sure exactly.

Often when I'm traveling for work, I think about how it might be a good idea to do something productive while sitting on airplanes rather than just ingesting refreshing Ginger Ale and subsequently thinking about how bad I have to pee. And then it occurred to me: I love the song "Waiting for a Star to Fall" by Boy Meets Girl.

As everyone knows, the allure of "Waiting for a Star to Fall" is indeed the brilliant saxophone solo (and the most well-timed key change in the history of music). In wishing that I had that song on my iPod to satisfy my sudden craving, I began to think about other songs that were carried to the top of the billboards and our hearts by smooth, honking, and sometimes seemingly directionless sax solos. Though it may be hard to believe now, there was a time when crazed female fans in the audience beared their breasts to hard-working, soloing saxophonists instead of lead guitarists.

Yeah, I know.

And so, I handed the flight attendent my empty Ginger Ale can, accompanying plastic cup, and unused napkin (what are those for, anyway?) to set to important work. I fished out the aforementioned Fiesta Gifts receipt for $31.92 worth of 'MAGNET TINY TILE 1X1', turned it over, and began to record every song I could think of where a sax player rightfully - and as it turns out, temporarily - claimed his (and her?) place at the front of the rock n' roll stage. I need to take a moment to thank my friends and family for their unwavering support and contributions to this project. Thanks, you guys.

If you're looking for some good sax, look no further! Ladies and gentleman, allow me to present the most unlikely but soon-to-be most played mix on your iPod (in no particular order except #1, which belongs at #1):

The 10 Greatest American Sax Solos:

"Waiting for a Star to Fall" - Boy Meets Girl

"Born to Run" - Bruce Springsteen

"Careless Whisper" - George Michael

"Takin' it to the Streets" - Doobie Brothers

"Maneater" - Daryl Hall and John Oates

"Never Tear Us Apart" - INXS

"The Logical Song" - Supertramp

"Tonight's the Night" - Rod Stewart

"A Love Bizarre" - Sheila E., featuring Prince

... almost every Billy Joel song ever made in the 1980's, including but not limited to "Just the Way You Are" and "It's Still Rock n' Roll to Me"

Honorable Mentions for Heavy Use of Sax but Lacking Clearly-Defined Solos ...

"Young Americans" - David Bowie

"Mirror in the Bathroom" - The English Beat

"I Still Believe" - Tim Cappello (from one of the weirdest scenes in any movie but it just so happens it is in one of my favorite movies of all time The Lost Boys)

End blog post.

I said WITH CHEESE!

2009-10-09T14:13:00.000-07:00

The third rule of blogging is: don’t apologize for having gone months without updating your blog.

Very recently, I helped organize my 10-year high school reunion. Tenure reunion. I won’t really say anything about it, because this guy does a much better job. I love this guy’s writing, and suddenly I remembered that Laura, Stephanie, and I have this here blog.

Here’s something I’d like to know: just what the hell is everyone talking about? I was headed into the city on the L train the other morning, and some seemingly half-drunk, Brooklyn version of a redneck in his 40’s was ranting to his friend about … his son having too many dresser-drawers to choose from? I mean really, I have no idea. This guy was practically yelling on a crowded train, and it was about 8:00 AM. Dude: Shut. Up. He said (yelled) something like, “Man, he’s got a drawer for socks, he’s got a drawer for shirts, he’s got a drawer for pants, and he’s got a drawer for boxers! What the fuck!? In my day, your socks, boxers, and shirts all went in the same drawer!”

You guys. There’s a lot going on in the country and in the world these days and therefore a lot to get fired-up about. However, enraged commentary on this generation’s dresser-drawer luxuries has no place in my ear at 8 in the morning. First of all, calm down. Second of all, is his son recounting the same story to his friends somewhere on the playground in an equally unnecessary volume? “I said to my dad, ‘Fuck you, old man! Times have changed! I’m putting my shit in ALL the drawers!’” Probably not.

More than feeling sorry for myself being trapped less than 2 feet away from this guy for an entire 10 minutes, I felt bad for his friend. The friend was doing his best to be supportive in what was clearly this asshole’s time of need. “Yeah, man. I hear you. What is with all the drawers these days?”

The truth is: people on the subway who grandstand are quite aware of what they are doing. People – stupid people – love to get worked up in public, especially on the train. Whether they have something worthy to rant about or not, they will speak loudly and boast with all they’ve got. “So I said to him, ‘I said WITH CHEESE, mothafucka!’” They know there is a captive audience on the subway, and so they feel they must perform, turning a just-to-pass-the-time story into torture for everyone else. I wish I could tell you that there was something you could do about it, but there’s really not. Perhaps a mocking slow-clap?

Authors note: Allow me to apologize in advance to Will Smith for all of the ‘swears’ in this post.

The Ironic Businesswoman

2009-06-05T09:18:00.000-07:00

I began writing this post from Denver International Airport last week in the midst of – you guessed it – business travel. After writing a few lines on a piece of paper, I recalled the second rule of blogging: you are required to use a computer and the Internet. Thus, this post begins now ...

At the time that I began – literally – writing this post, I was wearing a responsible pair of black slacks. Side note: The word ‘slacks’ makes me think of when I was in the 7th grade and we received dress codes for upcoming band concerts. “Ladies: Navy blue slacks or skirt with white Stone Intermediate Band polo shirt. Nice Shoes. Boys: Navy slacks. Nice shoes”. Whenever I can, I use the word ‘slacks’. My airport attire also consisted of a blouse …top …thing. ‘Thing’ is the only way I can think to describe it. Sized ‘S’, this top-thing is actually very large, which leads me to believe that I was inadvertently shopping in the Women’s section of a department store that will go unnamed in this blog. It was Kohl’s. The blouse-thing has flowers on it and was in – from what I could tell – the business-wear section of the Ladies’/Women’s department and therefore guaranteed that any article found there would be meeting-appropriate. I also had on a short-sleeved blazer thing from H&M. I have bought a few textbook blazers since graduating from college, and they have failed me each and every time. Rather, I have failed myself. While interviewing for jobs after graduating from college, I bought an Ann Taylor suit jacket that was 2 sizes too big for me. Not a terribly big deal, but I missed the business mark. While interviewing for jobs in NYC three years later, I bought a linen blazer from United Colors of Benetton. Was I fucking serious? It was summer, so I guess the fabric seemed appropriate at the time. In fact, one particular interview took place on the hottest day of that summer. While trying to navigate to the office in downtown Manhattan from Laura’s then-apartment in Park Slope, I took the linen blazer off to avoid creating massive sweat spots in the armpit and back areas and instead draped it over my arm. Here’s a nugget of common sense: you shouldn’t drape a linen blazer over your arm on the hottest day of the year in NYC! I showed up looking like a rumpled jerk. Did I mention that my dress was also linen? Who wears linen to a job interview?! I did. And they hired me. Back to my airport business outfit; I was also wearing a pair of black flats. Big deal.

I digress. Obviously I didn’t begin writing this blog to discuss the outfit that I was wearing at the airport. Well, partly. Every time I embark on a business trip, which is fairly often, I feel like a fraud. My struggle to assemble a proper business outfit is something you should consider to be supporting evidence of my inability to truly be a you-know-what. Sure, I’m at the airport with a laptop bag on my shoulder and a BlackBerry in my hand like every other asshole there, but I feel like I’m faking it in a way. I hope that you don’t misunderstand me; I like my job. However, I never aspired to be a businesswoman on the ‘go’, nor do I identify myself as one. I have a job, and therefore conduct business. I just don’t want to be that cliché career woman that you see at the beginning of every romantic comedy. You know what I’m talking about. The Kate Hudson/Jennifer Aniston/Cameron Diaz/Drew Barrymore character is seen in her apartment in the morning scrambling to grab keys and put on a pair of designer high-heels as she rushes out the door in her pencil skirt. She stops at a coffee shop to grab her latte and a bagel. She strides confidently into the office, saying ‘good morning’ to everyone and having everyone say ‘good morning’ to her as she makes her way to her desk (the most obnoxious non-truth of them all). As she puts her purse down, someone comes in to either deliver paper phone messages for her or tell her that she’s late for a meeting. If there is a meeting, Interchangeable America’s Sweetheart is leading it and saying something RIGHT ON. I’m a businesswoman! Together! Sharply dressed! In charge!

When I go to meetings with clients, I carry a Five Star notebook of college-ruled paper as well as a plain paper folder to hold documents/handouts. I recently told Laura that it was probably time for me to purchase some kind of nice-looking bag that would ideally hold pens, documents, etc. Laura suggested an attaché case. I see; I’m not the first person to think of this. Ugh, I sound like I’m trying to be cool. “Whatever! 9-5 jobs are so mainstream.” I don’t think that! I think that jobs are necessary and good for the economy. What am I trying to say here? Maybe that I’m having an identity crisis? Again, I like my job and think that what I do is fundamentally important and helpful to society. Then why do I not look forward to explaining what I do to new people? I think part of it is that I live in Williamsburg/Greenpoint and am surrounded by writers, artists, actors, musicians, and other miscellaneous creative-types. To most of them, K-12 technology is probably not immediately relevant or interesting. Also, if I had to admit that I sometimes have to wear a suit-like outfit to meetings, would they punch me? Disown me? Throw me out of trivia night at Pete’s Candy Store (ok, I’ve never actually been)? I’m coming to grips with the fact that I’m somewhere in the middle; I’m me, and I’m ok with that. Free to be you and me, but especially me. I have a job, live in Greenpoint, AND hang out with hipsters (there, I said it). I wear skinny jeans when the mood strikes me AND sometimes challenge myself to construct sentences while at work that contain nothing but business jargon. You guys, it’s ok!

I leave you with this:

Romy: Do you have some sort of business woman special?
Truck Stop Waitress: Come again?
Romy: Well, we’re business women.
Michele: From LA.
Romy: And you know how some places have like a lunch special?
Michele: For business women...
Truck Stop Waitress: We don't have anything like that.
Romy: Ok we'll take 2 burgers, fries, and medium cokes ‘cause we’re in a hurry.
Michele: We're due in Tuscan later... some business thing, you know.
Truck Stop Waitress: What kind of business you all in?

Title: Yeah, We Get It

2009-04-29T15:17:00.000-07:00

Dear Girl,

Oh. That’s okay. You can actually wear regular pants to class. I imagine that there’s at least one pair of semi-clean jeans somewhere in your dorm room. Why don’t you use the 5 minutes that it took you to put your hair up in those pigtails and go put jeans on instead. No-no-no, believe me; I get it. You feel that you have a license – nay, an obligation – to not only be comfortable at all times during this period of your life but also to communicate this to the world through fashion. After all, you’ve got a lot of studying to do. First of all, I’m just not convinced that you really slept in those pajama bottoms. Second of all, put some pants on.

Thanks,

Jean

Author's note: Yes, this was already printed in Third Place: The Magazine, but not everyone got to see it there. Would hate for anyone to miss out. Wink face wink face wink face.

2009-04-29T10:13:00.000-07:00

So. We've been trying to get a company (Fun, Inc) off the ground for years. Recent events have made me wonder if this jokey, glib, 3 AM business plan might actually have some substance to it.

Because...the thing about real jobs is....most of them suck. Most of the time you don't want to go to them. And when you are there, most of the time you want to leave them. This seems like a very strange way to spend a life. I understand that this could be an attitude problem that is specific to me. But from where I'm standing, the daily compromises it takes to be a human being in the world who can afford toothpaste and only conduct a minimal amount of evil are astounding. Before you can even celebrate your third 25th birthday you are neck deep in a life that consists of too many untenable concepts to mention here.

Too bad that red wine can fail you and sex only lasts like 15 seconds.

Ha. I'm kidding. Red wine never fails me.

My mother very seriously wants to start a company that manufactures and sells rose-colored glasses. Like, actual glasses you wear on your face. She says they do wonderful things for your mood. A few years ago Clare won a silly pair at a raffle or something. They are huge and Elton John-esque with sequins on the tips. On rainy days she puts them on and looks out the window. Apparently, after about half hour the world doesn't seem so dark or menacing and she can set about doing things... like making her signature meal of chicken, white rice and green beans or saying foul things to our cats or searching craigslist for most tragic, most mentally ill displays of humanity.... all with a little extra swing in her step.

I was ready to sweep this into the category of Mom Is Weird, So What? part of my brain but when I was home she made me try on the rose-colored glasses. And no shit. They work. Nothing changes too dramatically, things just seem brighter a tad more whimsical. After awhile, you forget you are wearing them. Until you answer the door and your cousin sighs, tilts her head and shields the face of her newborn child.

Seriously though. The grass is literally greener wearing rose-colored glasses. It's disappointing to take them off and see that "green" is more of a dull army shade. But then you just put them back on. Much better than all these drugs people seem to get involved with.

With all of this pigflurecessiondepression collective freak out I think this may be just what the world needs. Pretty soon all you'll be seeing is cute piglets and sepia toned daydreams of simpler times.

We need $5,000 to develop the product. I have about 80 of those dollars.

Let's have a meeting. Shall we say 3 AM Friday? I'll bring the wine.

Early Blogs

2009-03-04T13:42:00.001-08:00

Enjoy these early blogs that I posted on MySpace back when people used MySpace:

Lean Cuisine Observation #1 (Originally posted: March 22, 2006)

I've eaten Lean Cuisine for lunch for the past 2 years. The last cooking direction is, "Let stand for 1-2 minutes. Enjoy!". Should they be so confident? It should be changed to "Let stand for 1-2 minutes, and then see how you feel about it."

I may not be cut out for hipsterville: Reason #1 (Originally posted: October 30, 2006)

A misunderstanding with a small dressing room mirror turned an innocent shopping trip for hipster skinny jeans into a misguided purchase of $70 mom jeans.

I may not be cut out for hipsterville: Reason #2 (Originally Posted: November 3, 2006)

A night out to my favorite neighborhood restaurant suddenly turned sour when my two friends and I attempted to split the bill with 3 credit cards. The previously amicable, army jacket wearing female server took one look at the cards before her and condescendingly spat, "I can't just split three credit cards. First of all, there is a $20 minimum required, AND THIS ISN'T APPLEBEE'S."

Be True to Your Crunch (Originally Posted: February 10, 2007)

Author's Note: Before blogs, there were emails between friends. The blog you are about to read is an exerpt from one such email to a friend dated February 2005

Upon finishing my Fritos Brand Flavor Twists (Cheddar Ranch flavor), I couldn't help but read the Nutrition Facts panel. There was nothing of interest there. My eyes naturally (instead of artificially) wandered over tothe description of the aforementioned snack chips, and I couldn't believe that they were described as the following:

"Fritos Brand Flavor Twists Corn Snacks give you the classic taste of cornwith an added twist - a special shape that means more hearty ALL-AMERICAN crunch ..."

Apparently no one is interested in an all-Japanese crunch or any other foreign crunch for that matter; it's just inferior to any kind of crunch that America has to offer. Basically, we like our crunch to be ALL American.

All I'm saying is, be on the lookout for other ridiculous American snackfood propaganda.

Don't kick a soccer ball (Originally Posted: June 12, 2007)

Don't kick a soccer ball.

If it's raining.

If you have nice flats on with a skirt.

If you're walking in the park.

If the Polish boy yells, "Hey miss! Hey Miss!"

If you do, the shoe will fly through the air with the ball, and everyone will laugh at you.

At least the Polish boy picked it up for me.

Does it have a Balcony?

2009-01-08T14:20:00.000-08:00

When I was a little girl I dreamed of having an apartment of my own. Not a house. An apartment. I liked the balconies. I wanted to decorate my imaginary balcony with colored twinkle lights in December and plain white lights during the rest of the year. I imagined dance parties (which could be dangerous), cute patio furniture, aloe plants in big ceramic planters, and paper lanterns. I have never had a balcony of my own. Because of this, I feel I've missed out on a special club. When I visit other apartments I always gasp when I see that they have a balcony and then immediately step outside to see what it feels like or check out the view. If I stay in a hotel, I always request a room with a balcony. You can often hear me say, "AND IT HAD A BALCONY!" If YOU have a balcony and I'm visiting, no matter the weather you can expect me to want to hang out on it... hopefully it will be bathed in sun and there will be a plenty of beverages and (if I'm lucky) some cheese. P.S. I also love cheese.

Happy Holidays. Specifically, Christmas.

2008-12-28T13:00:00.000-08:00

To Whom It May Concern:

I suffer from SEH. SEH is a TLA for Small Ear Holes. (TLA is a TLA for Three Letter Acronym).

I thought the iPod ear buds were kind of big. Like, big for everyone. As they often do, those ear buds totally broke, so I bought some $20 JVC melon-colored ear phones. What the H? They are too big for my SEH, too! I hate being mid-crunch, mid-jam, mid-jog, mid-... well, mid-anything, really and having those things fall out of my ears.

Come on, people. Let's have some consideration for those of us who do not have huge, gaping ear canals (H,GEC). Do I have to start a group on Facebook to bring attention to this matter? I'm quite confident that I am not the only one afflicted with this condition. Yeah, I know Bose sells some small ear phones, but they are about a million U.S. dollars. How about some affordable yet comfortable, sweet-sounding ear phones? What has two thumbs and needs better ear phones? What? Aren't you paying attention? THIS GIRL!!

Deleted Scene

2008-11-19T16:23:00.000-08:00

Well, it finally happened. I had played this scenario out in my head countless times over the past 2 1/2 years. I'm only surprised now that it didn't happen sooner.

November 19, 2008.

I stepped mindlessly off of the 5 train onto the platform at Union Square. Some guy in a business suit, who was still seated on the train, kept his eyes glued to my ass until I had cleared the door. I attempted to sport some tights with a stretchy skirt today and neglected to calculate the clingy factor, that must be it. Or, maybe I had money hanging out of my coat pocket. Probably, he was just an asshole.

50% of the time, people begin to step onto the train while I am trying to step off. On this particular day, they waited for me to clear the door before scrambling on. That was nice.

I started my trek down the platform toward the stairs. I happened to notice the 6 train unloading. He'd be transferring from the 6 to the 5, naturally. No one in their right mind would take a local train all the way uptown. This shit plays out in my mind completely on its own. I have spent too many hours of my life simply considering him and his existence, which apparently has made it impossible for me to find the off button for this subconscious, auto-pilot obsession.

My iPod was playing. It had switched to "No Air" by Jordan Sparks, a guilty-pleasure iTunes purchase that I had played into the ground at the beginning of the summer.

Then, right in front of me, I recognized his coat. In nano-seconds, I assessed his height, gait, and jeans. They all checked out. There had been false alarms before, but this was not one of them. My mouth dropped open in disbelief. I was three steps directly behind him. This is really happening? He stepped onto the 5 train. I must have stopped or was moving without direction, because the short man coming toward me had to do a football-style juke to get around me. I was frozen, yet at the same time completely determined to know for sure whether or not it was really him. I kept my head turned to look at him as I passed. All I could see was his back. He began to turn his face. At first, I thought no. But his head continued to turn, and I saw his trademark sideburns. Unmistakable. I assume that he was looking back to see if anyone else was coming onto the train after him, but he was looking up, over where any heads would be. My instinct was to look away. Immediately. I turned straight ahead toward the stairs before there was even the slightest chance that we could make eye contact.

As I made my way up the stairs, and as I became aware that my legs had turned to jelly, the movie scenarios began to play in my head. Would he jump off of the train, run after me, yell my name, and tell me that he was sorry for all that he had done? Would we lock knowing eyes as his train passed by me? Would I ultimately stand defeated on the platform for the L train only to receive an unexpected tap on the shoulder? No. To all of the above, no. It took 5 or so minutes for me to regain stability in my legs. My shaky hands took longer.

Life is really funny that way. 3 years ago - almost to the day - we sat next to each other at a Mexican restaurant in Reston Town Center sharing Negra Modelos and tortilla chips, and he told me that he loved me for the first time. Present day, this happens. 3 years ago we longed to be in the same city, in the same room, in the same bed. Present day, those feelings are mere memories. He had bought a small glass bowl as a gift for my mom. We made one hell of a paddle ball team, even in sub-zero temperatures. He had called me at work on Valentine's Day, and simply said, "Jeannie." The single happiest moment of my life.

If love is a roller coaster, this is the part where you are in your car on the way home from the amusement park, stuck in traffic.

It's emotional purgatory.

Wait, I've got a better one. This is a deleted scene that is included in the bonus features of the DVD of your favorite movie. It seems out of place and unnecessary. It doesn't fit the story. Why didn't the director realize this before wasting the actors' time? There was a beginning, middle, and end; why does this need to be dragged out further? What business do the characters have left that hasn't been addressed already? Is this what passes for an alternate ending these days? Why am I watching this, anyway?

Much like a deleted scene, there is no grand meaning to extract from the chance non-encounter. The fact is, we both spend most of our time on the same, tiny island called Manhattan. We were bound to almost run into each other at some point. In the scenarios that I had played out in my head, though, he always saw me and not the other way around. In real life, I saw him, and I decided to just keep moving.

Is that a Carrie Bradshaw-style ending or what?

JAVahhhh!

2008-11-03T20:55:00.001-08:00

I love The Coffee Shop. I don't know what I'd do without it. It's warm. It's welcoming. Sure, it's expensive... but no one can make me feel more "at home" than say the Uro Cafe in Greenpoint. Or the Beaner Bar in Williamsburg... or Starbucks in Manhattan. Unless we're talking about my mom in CA. But you guys! The coffee shop! How great is it? Sure I could make my own coffee at home and save myself loads of money... but it wouldn't be the same.

I love having things made for me. And I love when those things only cost me $2.25 and give me more joy than... heck, than a new pony. I love racks of free newspapers and magazines... mags that I would NEVER subscribe to because A. they're too expensive B. they're too alternative or C. I've never heard of them before. I love stacks of pretty brochures and postcards. Postcards for events that are A. too obscure B. too mundane or C. bullshit. And I love seeing artwork on the walls that I normally would have A. never seen before B. never noticed before (unless I had to wait 10 minutes for my freaking Americano!) or C. could not afford (obv)... But still, I love looking at the pretty colors.

I love the "coffee-shop people". I love that there are dudes there that don't seem to have any job what-so-ever and can live every day just looking up blog after blog. And I love the older, middle-aged woman. You know, the one who is friends with the owner and comments on my coat.... and I especially love that 75 year old man who comes in for two lattes! Two! I mean, COME ON! What is greater than that? I mean... any functioning person wouldn't be able to resist conjuring up images for his possible recipient.*

I love having three different milk choices. I love wooden stools and bright orange espresso machines. I love open patios in the summer and warm, gas fires in the winter. I love all of the lame, inside jokes and comic strips that are taped onto the cash machines. I get it! If I don't tip I'm a terrorist!!! Ahh!

Thanks Friends with your Central Perk, orange couches, and bad, live music. And thanks Seattle with your "shop-on-every-corner," fresh Top Pot Doughnuts, and intellectual novels in every crevice. Mom! I realize I would save hundreds a year if I could just make my coffee at home or wait for my coffee at work... But I would lose a friend. A therapist. A home. And it's not worth the loss!

I love the coffee shop! It's something to look forward to on my day off. And a treat on my day of work. It's a lifestyle. It's a neighbor. It's a friend. And if this recession hurts anything, it better NOT touch my coffee shop... or else it's gonna have to... or else I'll make sure to... well, I guess I'll just go to Dunkin' Donuts.

*Possible recipients:
1. Lucille
2. Nancy
3. Jess
4. Mason
5. Millifred
6. Bill

Halloween?

2008-10-31T07:52:00.000-07:00

A friend of mine, who we'll just call Ringo, always makes a big deal out of this day. He thinks about his costume months ahead of time and puts together the most intricate designs, often including several friends for award-winning "group costumes." This year, however, he forgot all about it. There are several reasons for this but mostly because he's been really busy. Earlier this week he ran into some friends he hadn't seen in awhile. They invited him to their party on Friday and Ringo replied, "Oh cool, is there a theme to this party? I mean, is it like.. dressy?" His friends just stared at him, concerned. I thought it would have been appropriate if the friends had said, "Yes Ringo, the theme is "Halloween" and you can dress up as anything you'd like!"

The reason I tell this story is because I always forget Halloween. Even if I've been planning it all week and I wake up in the morning and say to myself, "It's Halloween!" I will still be confused when I see Gonzos and Jokers walking up the subway stairwell or a bored, sexy Beelzebub waiting for an appointment in her real estate office. Today I saw a parade of toddlers dressed as cows (with udders), astronauts, Hello Kitties, and my favorite, a tiny African-American boy dressed in a smart, blue suit. He was walking down the street kicking and chopping and a father of another child said, "Oh! You're a karate-chopping Barack Obama!"

My point is, how fabulous is this day!? Who could be unhappy on a day like today? It has nothing to do with paganism and it has nothing to do with worshiping the devil.... it has everything to do with FUN!

p.s. I spoke with Tyler who is in Costa Rica today and I asked him if it is Halloween there too... he said that it is and that so far he's seen hookers, crocodiles, and hummingbirds! Hummingbirds!? Let me tell you - they are A LOT more creative there than they are here!

2008-10-30T13:04:00.000-07:00

The Halloween Costumes I Can remember (w a little help from my mother and scanned photos)
1981:---
1982:

1983: Clown

1984: Clown (again!)

1985: Red Crayon

1986: Ballerina

1987: Indian Warrior

1988:---
1989: Pioneer Lady (complete w hat!)

1990: Beautiful Genie

1991: Big Baby (complete w teddy bear)

1992: Hobo
1993: Catholic School Girl

1994:Elly May Clampett (from The Beverly Hillbillies)

1995: Homie (w a paper sack that said, "Yo")
1996:---
1997:---
1998:---
1999:---
2000: Farrah Fawcett
2001:---
2002: Another Teenage Dirtbag
2003:---
2004:---
2005:---
2006:---
2007:---
2008:---

Really Interesting

2008-10-27T16:57:00.000-07:00

A list of every Halloween costume that I can remember (all home-made):

1981 - nothing
1982 - probably nothing
1983 - don't know
1984 - baseball player
1985 - panda bear mask
1986 - Little Bo Peep
1987 - rock star
1988 - princess
1989 - gypsy
1990 -
1991 -
1992 - Native American
1993 - 50's girl
1994 - mad scientist (I wore a white wig)
1995 - sleeping person (aka a teenager wearing pajamas)
1996 -
1997 -
1998 - Tinkerbell
1999 - 80's girl
2000 -Greek Goddess
2001 -
2002 - Avril Lavigne
2003 - Nothing
2004 - Geisha
2005 - Sexy Republican
2006 - Laverne (of Laverne and Shirely)
2007 - a regular person wearing butterfly wings
2008 - No costume (?)

Dance, Dance the Night Away

2008-10-18T13:38:00.000-07:00

This reporter wants to know: what makes dancing so irresistibly fun?

Let's be honest with ourselves and finally admit that dancing is the most fun activity ever invented. Praise Jesus. The only reason I enjoy weddings is for the dancing. The only reason that I'm friends with you is for the dancing. The reason our teenage years were so frustrating is because all we really wanted to do was dance, but we didn't yet know that everybody else felt that way, too. Okay. Time to be honest again; what do weddings, my friendship with you, and dance parties really have in common? Totally awesome beats? Possibly. Joyous party-going-ness? Well, yes! But the hard truth is, though dancing is such a gift on its own, God also bestowed alcohol on us for a little lubrication. The ultimate time of your life is going to be a room full of willing and able-bodied friendly folk, a DJ with the knowledge to drop only the most luscious and glee-inducing sound waves, and of course a trickle of maybe a Brooklyn Lager or a couple gin and tonies. It's actually a recipe that I obtained from the back of a box of Kix when I was ten years old. Sure, everything in moderation, but once the dance party is alive and kicking, I physically can't remove myself from it. You know what I'm talking about. It's 2:30 AM. Your B.F.F for F. leans over mid O.P.P and shouts, "I'm leaving!" You look at them, and they just know: you won't be going anywhere. You're not moving until the bartender forces the DJ to quite literally pull the plug on the sound system. It's at that point that you (and by "you", I mean "me") finally notice that you don't recognize a single soul left on the floor; or the rest of the bar for that matter. I'd call it an addiction, but I don't think I've yet harmed friends or family, and I don't think my work is suffering because of it. If anything, I have a greater appreciation for every soul that exists on this planet. All because of the dancing.

An abbreviated version of this piece can be found in Third Place: the magazine (issue no.1). Let me know if you want to subscribe to this literary gold nugget.

New Friend

2008-08-19T21:51:00.001-07:00

I know someone who lives in wood,
he is small.

See you every day at noon,
don't run away.

Lonely legs search for holes,
Blue pools hope for meaning,
Why can't we be friends...?

I know someone who lives in wood,
he is small.

See you every day at noon,
now run away.

The First Rule of Blogging

2008-05-23T05:56:00.001-07:00

The first rule of blogging is don't talk about your blog.

Just kidding.

Back in March, I went back to Fairfax to visit some former co-workers. They asked me a lot of questions about my life in New York. What celebrities have I seen? Do I have a car? Is life really like Sex and the City? One question that I thought to be particularly humorous was if I bought produce and carried them down the street in a paper bag. Apparently, every movie that is based in New York City has at least one scene where a character carries a paper bag with celery stalks and a baguette sticking out of the top. No wonder I'm not a real New Yorker yet!

Product Placement

2008-05-22T06:39:00.000-07:00

I certainly am not the first person to write about this, but I feel that I need to admit that I am affected by it. Knowing that the American Idol finale was going to be an hour and a half too long last night, I intentionally waited to tune in until 9:30 PM. I was pleased to catch a performance by Carrie Underwood and only one group performance consisting of the top 12. The group sang two George Michael songs back-to-back, and I was thinking to myself, “Man, I love those songs. I think I’ll download them when this is over. Where is George Michael these days, anyway?” Wouldn’t you know it? It did seem like they were doing an extended version of “Freedom” as they kept singing well past the last “Freedom” in the song; and then, “Ladies and gentleman: George Michael!” And there he was! He definitely looks old, but I was surprised that he even sounded old. His has a pretty distinct voice, especially when he hits the higher notes, but I didn’t hear George Michael’s voice coming from that old man. Two things were explained when Ryan Seacrest came onto the stage after George Michael’s song was over: 1) George Michael has a cold, so that’s why he didn’t sound so hot and 2) George Michael will be touring this summer for the first time in 17 years. THAT is why he was there. As it turns out, it wasn’t a recognition of George Michael and his place in pop music history; rather, American Idol and all of its sponsors and affiliates are trying to get America to remember how much they liked George Michael so that they’ll buy tickets to his tour. It’s pretty disgusting. I mean, yes, I understand it: the same record label to which David Cook will be signed just wants to promote some of its other artists. But I feel cheated! I thought I was simply being treated to some old skool George Michael, because he was once a great pop singer, but no, they want me to BUY something! I read in the paper this morning that they also want me to see that new Mike Myers movie, AND they want me to drink Coke! In addition to the shameless promotion of it own kind by American Idol, I nearly barfed this morning when I opened up CNN.com, and the news told me what movies I should see this summer. (Hmm, is CNN an affiliate of the companies that are releasing the best movies of the summer?) It wasn’t just a blip on the homepage with a link to the entertainment section; it was a huge block on the upper-left corner, which is usually reserved for terrorists, natural disasters, and sex scandals. Are you kidding me, CNN? I was planning to see Sex and the City anyway, but now that you told me to, well, you've stolen my joy! Don't make me throw my Jimmy Choos at you! It’s fucking gross. Anyway, yes, I did buy two George Michael songs off of iTunes before I went to sleep.

"These bands are bottles of bleach. It's beer and lifestyle music. It's like the next world war's gonna be sponsored by ... I don't know, I mean, what?" - Singles

The Best Intentions

2008-04-04T11:25:00.000-07:00

A few months ago I was asked by an debatably respected website for women to pen a "career advice" column. I was as surprised as anyone. Serisouly, I get paid shit. Anyway, the first topic was "Workplace Fuckups". I wrote a total of three pieces. The first was turned down. The second was just bad. The third was dropped into the abyss of the Internet and I have no idea what will happen with it. But, I still stand by it. So, for the loyal readers of Apartment 3R (all five of you. Right?) Here it is : A BusinessWomen Special. For Business Women: On the Job, Fucking Things Up

Jerome Kerviel is a former SocGen (French stock market) trader who, in January 2008, committed possibly the largest fraud in the history of banking. Basically, he started making fictitious trades, first very small and unnoticeable and then big and, apparently, very noticeable. He cost the market 40 billion dollars, the biggest loss in the financial world since the September 11th attacks.

Several things are interesting about Jerome. His personality. He is described as a very unassuming man. He was a computer whiz, quietly handsome, well remunerated and by all appearances seemed to have a long, steady career ahead of him. Some people said that he was a scapegoat, practically blameless, and whatever had happened under his watch was simply a mistake. Others said that he was back-room genius, a scam-artist professional, an expert locksmith who could not help but use his expertise to openly rob people blind.

What makes a story like this so delicious to me is that don’t you kind of get it? Don’t you kind of understand the impulse to fuck things up so terribly at work that when you make some hapless mistake, deep down, even you wonder if it might be intentional? It’s like what cutters do when they scrape themselves silly. They do it to feel alive.

Lately, I’ve been cataloging my own mistakes. I’m not too surprised to learn that they are frequent. Part of the reason for this, I think, is that I am very accountable. At least that is what they say on my performance reviews. I admit to them almost right away.

Oh me! It’s me! Me over here! I’m the one who misfiled the million dollar contract/leaked the top secret information to press/mistyped a number resulting in a myriad of excruciating conversations with people who thought they would now be rich.

Several women I spoke to agree with me. Everyone seems to be extremely good at admitting their mistakes. Guess who still won’t? Jerome Kerviel and oh my god, I’m sure that list is long. It is also pretty much understood that Kerviel could not have done this alone. He had someone to help.

It all makes me think about men and women and the mistakes we make. Witness this, in amplified form, at the now-legendary Christmas Party of 2005. My company had had a very good year. 2004 has been scary, our profit margins were in the toilet, and then, almost miraculously we turned it around. The graph titled upwards, steeply, and we were all getting bonus. The holiday season rolled around and our notoriously frugal corporate parents decided to splurge. A club was rented, sushi platters were brought out and every member of the company, from the highest to the lowest, was given full access to a complete and absolutely dazzling open bar. I remember walking into the brightly lit up scene, waiters were passing around unnamable things on sticks, the grumpy, dowdy secretaries had put on sparkly shirts, the mailroom guys were grinning, and the mighty and intimidating wove their way through the crowd, pumping everyone with handshakes. It was almost charming. Like some member of a fascist regime, I can remember actually swelling with pride. These people were my people, they are complicated and fascinating and we spend each and every day together working towards a common goal, a common good. The music played, people ate and talked and they drank. Oh, how they drank.

Unsurprisgly, this glowing moment soon devolved into a shit show of epic proporitions. Goodwill was tossed out the window, restraint slipped out the back door and tact took a permanent smoking break. Over the course of three or four hours, toxic amounts of alcohol amplified every petty argument, brought up old, contemptuous histories and emboldened the meek to finally, finally take matters into their own hands. A girl I hardly knew grabbed me by the shoulders and screamed at me that I was standoffish and mean and she just knew I was conniving to get every man in the office to bend to my will.

Rank and file, humiliation knew no bounds. My cheek was wet with the slobber of the CFO. A high-ranking member of the executive board whispered to me looking to set up his own shop. Affairs were revealed, affairs began. Hardly an innocent myself, I noticed a married member of the art department eyeing me sideways in line for the bathroom. I pounced. I have no excuse except for experiencing some unrestrained, wild joy at hearing Queen begin to play and in those moments, propriety vanishes. (Yeah. Also. My Queen phase was about 15 years too late). After the club kicked us out, everyone went to a bar where the bacchanal continued, unabated, until the wee hours.

It’s a fucking miracle that nobody died.

Then, it was the next morning. We had to go back. The sun rose boldly on our shame and the whole building seem to yawn in response. Very few people called in sick. That would too obvious, it was a matter of pride, and besides we weren’t that drunk and 3 AM wasn’t that late. As everyone sat limply at their computers, I began to notice the girls of the office skulk down the hallways, lean into doorways and balance themselves in cubicles. They were apologizing. Apologizing profusely. Apologizing all OVER the place. They apologized for their kick lines, their wayward vomit, secret confessions or inserting their wagging tongues down every willing throat.

My office then had about a 40/50 ration of males to females. However, in retrospect, I can’t help but think that even in places where our presence is dominant, the attitude is not. Women, I find, work very hard to squeeze themselves into a model of working life that is, in reality, very male. So when we bring more female attributes to this model-built-for-male, sometimes, things don’t work right. Every single guy in that office, no matter the magnitudes of their sins, sat at their desks, sipped their coffee and then went out at lunch to rehash the evening with each other. They felt fine.

The girls paired off in two’s or three’s. We drew a line in the sand and in the end, as conscious as we were of our indiscretions, we were even more conscious of each others. Who was the bigger mess, the bigger whore, the one msot certain to feel some repruscussions from their stupidity and lapses in judgement. There was no camaraderie, no shared sense of what was. We lashed ourselves in silence, quietly convinced that whatever we had built for ourselves, would come crumbling down like a house of cards. We probably felt the type of shame that should only be reserved for the likes of Lynddie England (and, face it, only a few of us will ever even be faced with an opportunity to strip naked, bind and gag war prisoners. You know, glass houses. ) and look at how she was dragged over the coals and denigrated so thoroughly for playing her own (yes, entirely disgusting) part in the boys club.

There is no girls club. And, trust me, if there were a girls club, I’d be the last one to join. God knows it would take three lunches before someone would start to talk about Pink Lady jackets or something and um, that would really undermine every female cause ever thought of, okay?

It is worthy to rail against the status quo, to fight for fair maternity leave and equal pay and workplaces free of discrimination and blatant sexual harassment. In the meantime, though, and in workplaces everywhere, we keep squeezing ourselves into models and into ways of life that don’t even work for us. And as we try to get comfortable and as we lift up our leg, or put our hand behind our ears to make for some more room for ourselves, look at what you really might be fucking up. Or fucking over. Not your job. The girl next to you, smushed helplessly to the side , and about to break apart.

2008-03-29T12:01:00.000-07:00

Danny Grinberg finally had his housewarming party at 415 Leonard St. What a treat! He has a beautiful new 1 bedroom with a balcony, a gourmet kitchen, and a view of the city.

At the party we not only enjoyed good company, we also enjoyed good music, gouda cheese, and a great pair of sunglasses. Wow those sunglasses got around.

Above you will see how each person looked in said sunglasses (you may see some VIPs in there twice), as well as the whiteness of Danny's walls.

Are You My Mother?

2008-03-27T10:53:00.000-07:00

There is a new blog out there that I wish I had thought of. Check it out!
http://postcardsfromyomomma.tumblr.com/

In similar spirit, here are some emails from my Mom from over the past year or so:

On Children:
I never like it when people talk a lot about their kids ( I mean, who gives?) so I actually don't talk a lot about you guys. For example, my co-workers know you live in Brooklyn and do something with books, but they don't know about your new job or anything. Also, what is your brand of mascara? I really liked the look.

On Haircuts:
Well, I’m very very happy for you, Laura. I know you’ve been feeling like Job, though you have always been beautiful. Who cut the bangs shorter, you or your friend? Do you curl them, or keep them very straight?
I can’t believe you actually took my fashion advice on ANYTHING! I’m proud of myself.

On Romance:
You are f****** gorgeous and f******* funny and f****** out of his league.

On Faith:
Your sister is a little atheist these days. She cracks me up.

On Money:
Well, she started at 50, so I assumed she was well over 60 by now. You will catch up and then some, and you’ll be in an industry that’s interesting.
I know Michael got another raise- I bet he’s about 55 now.
I know Geoff got another raise. He went in to the boss’ office to resign and they threw a LOT OF MONEY at him. He must be making buckets.
Let’s see… who else can I mention to make you feel bad today? I don’t have any idea how much Emily makes; I know she despises her job. John Bonner doesn’t make much. I don’t make much. Mary doesn’t make much. Dad does.
You lucky dog!

On Hope (and the audacity, thereof. Thanks BARACK):

Faith, faith, faith, just a little bit of faith. Old song, but wise.
The faith is not in the job you have or don't have, or even the relationship you have or don't have, but that you yourself have a meaningful life that is blessed to yourself and to those around you. You are probably, for now, where you are physically supposed to be. That might change in a single day, but I have a sneaky suspicion you are in the right place for today.
Do you think there's something you're not doing that you should be doing? Then do it. Otherwise, let the day be the day that it is, and know that good is coming.

I Have a Skin Complaint

2008-03-27T08:31:00.000-07:00

If you search for ‘rash’ in a thesaurus, it provides ‘skin complaint’ as an alternative. Oops. I didn’t mean to start this web log (aka ‘blog’) as most high school students begin their history essays (“Webster’s Dictionary defines ‘tyranny’ as …”). I’m just saying that ‘skin complaint’ and ‘rash’ have essentially the same definition, but one word will start rumors and the other probably doesn’t elicit any response at all.

I have a skin complaint on my legs. I have a skin complaint about my legs? I’m pretty sure it’s just a wicked case of razor burn, but as the bumps don’t seem to be going away, I finally decided to make an appointment for a professional opinion.

In my place of business, there are no secrets. In the spirit of Bloomberg’s bullpen, the office is set up so that everyone sits in the same open space within eyesight and earshot of everyone else. The walls of the cubes that surround our desks hit at about bridge-of-nose level. If you’ve ever been to a public restroom where the stall door only rises to about your chest when you stand up, it’s a similar concept with a similar feeling; you won’t do anything naughty if everyone can see and hear your business and you feel, well, exposed. While this setup took some getting used to, most of the time I’m fine with it. As far as business is concerned, I’ve got nothing to hide. However, when I’m breaking up with my boyfriend or when I have to call someone about a … um … skin complaint, I’d like some privacy, ok?

Instead of taking a minute to make a personal call (on a cell phone) from the comfort of our own desks, we’re forced to either go out into the hallway (that we share with another company) or go into one of the conference rooms (that have transparent glass walls anyway). There is no option for complete privacy. When making my doctor’s appointment this morning, I elected for the hallway. Everything was going fine until she asked for my insurance ID number. Shit. I left it at my desk. I kept the receptionist on the line while I walked all the way back inside the office and then back to my desk to retrieve my insurance card from my wallet. No big deal; people probably assumed I was ordering a sweater over the phone or something. “What is the purpose of the visit?” Shit. If I had thought that she might have had a thesaurus handy, I would have said, “I have a skin complaint.” Instead, I asked her to hold on another minute while I walked back out into the hallway to tell her, “I have a rash on my legs.” Despite my best efforts, I was still in earshot of a co-worker who was on his way back from the bathroom. While I’m sure he really doesn’t care enough about my skin complaint to mention it to someone else, I simply wouldn’t be surprised if someone else asks me if my condition is improving.

Thanks a lot, Bloomberg.

The Girl Who Couldn't Blog

2008-03-25T09:22:00.000-07:00

HI! Whoa. Is this thing on?

Well, Stephanie and Laura have been blogging for some time now, so I guess it is time for me to enter my first blog.

First let me write blog one more time. Ok. On your mark, get ready … BLOG!

The weird thing is, I used to have all of these random thoughts in college, but there wasn’t really an outlet to share them. I tried to use “away messages” through AIM to share funny thoughts, and well, I guess that kind of worked. However, I had longer, more luxurious weird thoughts that didn’t quite fit into the AIM character limit. Instead of writing them down, I merely shared them with Karen, one of my college roommates. For example, I thought a good idea for a movie would be a romantic comedy that was pretty standard in plot and characters, except they could also fly. There would be no mention of this ability; it would simply be something people could do along with walking down the street and buying groceries. Anyway, my point is that now that blogs exist, I have nothing left to say.

I’ve been walking around New York City since the creation of Apartment 3R, just waiting for something blog-worthy to happen. Turns out, things are pretty normal around here. Two weeks ago I was riding the subway to work in the morning on a relatively empty L train (Empty L train? I know! Weird!), and I chose to stand near the doors, leaning against the metal bars with my gym bag at my feet. A middle-aged man in business attire got on the train and stood right in front of me. As most straphangers know (look at THAT term! I’m a real New Yorker!), if someone stands face-to-face with you when your back is at the door, it usually means that A) the train is crowded B) that person is your significant other, or C) that person plans to exit the train at the next stop. None of those things were true. This guy basically had me cornered, the train was practically empty, I was not dating him, and he didn’t exit the train at the next stop or any of the next 4 stops. I should have said something rude to him or just moved, but I decided to stand there since gathering my gym bag would have been a difficult maneuver at that point. Instead, I opened my copy of Metro (look! Another thing REAL New Yorkers do!) in his face. I had my arms fully extended with the paper fully open, creating a barrier from face to just above the crotch region. If this didn’t give him the message that he was being an asshole, I’m not sure what would have. Still, in this city, that’s not such an outrageous story, and I’m not sure someone would want to read about it in a blog.

Before I moved to The City, I lived in the suburbs of The District. There, subway rides and riders are a little tamer. Sure, the NYC subway is relatively quiet during the morning commute, but it doesn’t really compare to the silence on the DC Metro during rush hour. No one speaks. No one looks up. Therefore, if anyone makes any sort of noise or movement that doesn’t resemble reading the Express, listening to music through earphones, or sleeping, it upsets the herd. For example, I’ll never forget the time this old, Asian man got on the train when we were at West Falls Church on the Orange Line heading toward DC during the morning rush hour commute. I had seen this guy before. He liked to share his love for Jesus through song, especially during the holidays. I found it rather obnoxious, because his singing made it difficult for me to listen to my iPod. However, this one time he got on the train, and the guy sitting in front of me (the seats on the subway trains are different in DC, don’t you understand? The seating is like that which you would find on a bus or Amtrak train) was not having it. The Asian man stood near the door and began singing a song about loving Jesus, and the guy in front of me yelled very loudly. His message was something like, “DO I HAVE TO SIT HERE AND LISTEN TO THIS! WHY DON’T YOU SHUT UP!?” I guess I was a little surprised that the Asian man was not fazed in the least by this yelling. I mean, this guy was really yelling. At this point, I was getting irritated because the singing and now the YELLING was really drowning out my iPod. Come on, people! Pipe down! This is DC! We’re all dressed in black, navy blue, or khaki; can’t we get along? The guy in front of me continued to yell, and then this woman across the aisle got up and told the guy in front of me to be quiet. “Let him sing his song!” She felt so strongly (I think about Jesus) that she got up and stood behind the Asian man trying to sing along with him from him book of hymns. I was nervous that the guy in front of me would start throwing punches. Random people were yelling at both the Asian guy and the yelling guy to shut up. I think the Asian guy and the woman (and possibly others on the train) really felt like they did something for Jesus that day. A real triumph for Christianity, if you will.

You see, in NY, the Asian guy would have been singing his song, but life on the train would have continued on as usual. Meaning, girls on their way to high school would continue to talk loudly about whom they plan to beat up and whom they plan to fuck (you can replace high school with middle or elementary school as well). The homeless guy or gal on the train would have continued to panhandle. The hipsters would have continued to read Nietzsche and generally look and feel ironic. No cause for agitation or hard feelings. Nothing unusual.

Anyway, so I’ll continue to look for things to blog about, but when the weird and unusual is standard, it’s like WHAT DO I BLOG ABOUT, you guys?

Causes of Eye Twitching via The Internet

2008-03-24T08:47:00.000-07:00

Corneal irritation or injury
Stress
Lack of sleep
Fatigue
Prolonged staring or eye strain
Neurological disorders
Possibly Hereditary

I'm keeping my fingers crossed for Neurological disorders. I mean, March is SO boring. A hot neurological disorder could really shake things up for all of us.

Sounds of the City (as you can see, I like lists)

2008-03-19T23:11:00.000-07:00

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You actually DO hear these sounds living in the city... just like in the movies!
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sirens

breaking glass on the sidewalk around two a.m.

honking

screeching trains on rusty tracks

honking

neighborhood ladies yelling at each other from across the street

sirens

loud whistles, "HEY", and "Ooooo, BABY YOU BE PACKIN!" shouted in my ear when I'm simply trying to cross the street.

Buses, trucks, and big engines racing onto the expressway, shaking my apartment's foundation

bike messenger bells

neighborhood ladies strolling down the street saying, "I need to go upstairs to get my pennies if were gonna play poker!"

Jack hammers and construction

Italian cousins in the grocery store going on and on about the Yankees.... or the Giants... or the Knicks (very rarely the Knicks).

honking
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Sounds I miss from the suburbs and small towns...
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marching band practice vibrating off neighboring houses

morning birds

silence

distant dogs barking at each other at dusk

squirrels playing in the gutter

silence

turn table playing Joni, wind whistling in through open windows, leaves rustling from the yard

delivery trucks slowly wheeling by - looking for an address

baby children happily discussing their latest thrill while digging in the sidewalk cracks for a rolly-polly

silence?
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Notice Me! Giving My Notice!

2008-03-17T14:57:00.000-07:00

I quit my job yesterday.

It feels very, uh, anti-climactic.

I've barely been here a year. I haven't gotten to know people all that well. So WHY do I want them to start crying and roundly embrace me as I tell them, sorry, I'm SO sorry, but I just can't be your collegue any longer?

What a strange sensation! It's not like I'm some attention monger, hell-bent on getting the world to notice me and I'm only truly content if I'm being discussed in some way... and it doesn't even have to be in a flattering way ....because when are impactful people ever universally liked? Never.

Quick seque. Do you notice that as time goes on you truly DO care less and less what people think of you? I do. I mean I don't. I mean, I don't care what you think! Okay, SOCIETY? Let me wear blue tights and red skirts SANS judgement. And so what if Iwant to start smoking cloves and listening to Queen? Much like the multiplication tables, I somehow missed that phase. I am beholden to no man nor child. The world is my oyster and I'm going to suck it up. (You know, like an oyster.)

So, my jorb. I'm leaving my jorb. And even though there is nothing in me that thinks this is anything less than a GOOD, WISE and eventually PROSPEROUS move.....I guess there is still some feeling of loss, some shreds of regret, some pangs of doubt.

It probably goes to show that moving away from ANYTHING no matter how terrible, or boring or innocuous...there is still come cause for mourning.

So, dress up my martini in black, recite a litany to office emphera, shove my memories into the creamator....... and I'll keep them in a pretty vase.

Also, I'm a sucker and gave four weeks notice. So! I'll probably be bringing this up again!

Short Ideas on Me... and This City... and LiiiiiiFE!

2008-03-15T22:09:00.000-07:00

-I almost asked a cute hipster couple coming out of this Italian restaurant if it was any good because I'd only seen Italian people there and didn't feel like I belonged. They turned out to be an Italian Hipster Couple.

-I like when 9 or 10 year old boys are the same height as their short mothers.

-Sometimes I get scared when I'm underground and there's a train rolling over me and a train rolling toward me... these tunnels were built by man which is... essentially me.. and I'm not even able to carry a few ice buckets at work without complaining.

-I fall in love every day on the train. And every day the train doesn't just stop because, I don't know, the universe WANTS us to be together... my heart breaks.

-Last night I glared at my whiskey... and it glared right back at me.

-Hey! Dudes with the free A.M. and METRO newspapers... why are you so happy? Do you get paid lots and lots? Do you have some sort of a competition going on for the "Happiest Free- Newspaper-Dude in New York City"? Naw... I don't want one of those.

-My soles are worn down from walking all over this city. I aint got no car.

-"I would rather wear out the soles of my feet than the soul of this Earth."... I just made that up... but it sounds like something someone dumb might say. Yeah! It's cool to make fun of people who care!

-Every once in awhile there comes upon me a quiet contentment. Then I ruin it... by reveling in it too much.

-Last night I ate dry cereal out of a box because it was all I had to eat. I spilled most of it on the floor because it... was... dry.... cereal.

-I have hope for the future of me. Thank goodness!

-I don't like cave drawings. They're sooooooooooo boring!

-When I fly over the West Coast... my heart knows it's home. Why does it KNOW that? Maybe the dry air sucks out all of the blood and says, "There. You were born here, Fuuucker."

-I still get confused between the difference of the literary Heart and the anatomical Heart. Ugh, my cereal is called: "Heart to Heart."

-What could possibly be better than spring blossoms, white wine, sweet friends, and a bowl of cheese puffs? Nothing. That's what.

-I don't believe in Cherry Ferries. Probably because they don't exist.

-Japanese would be a hard language to learn. Unless you're Japanese.

Super Girls

2008-02-07T21:16:00.000-08:00

Sure! Girls do football. They just do it weird.

On Super Bowl Sunday, 2008 the girls of Apartment 3R decided to have some friends over to watch the New York Giants battle it out against the 14-0, New England Patriots.

In preparation, Jean and I went to the grocery store to buy snacks and ended up bringing home several grocery bags as well as a frosted GIANTS cake. Laura later met up with us to do some beverage shopping and at around 6:30 pm, outfits were picked out, hair was curled, the food table had been rearranged 3 times (by each of us), and the TV antennae had never worked so beautifully.

Yes, I said TV antennae. It's not that we hadn't thought about hooking up cable and/or buying a new, flat screen TV... Jean even spent several minutes looking at bestbuy.com and almost shelled out the $60 for expedited shipping! But when it came down to it - it just wasn't worth the hassle.

In the end, we had a terribly good time. The game was riveting and we didn't even notice the melted candle wax on the screen.

To justify my desire to write this entry, here are a few fun conversations that were had between the girls of Apartment 3R and their friends during this wonderful "Super Sunday" (p.s. some material may be exaggerated for humor's sake):
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Laura: "Is Joe Buck his real name? Isn't that a character from Midnight Cowboy? Isn't it a generic term people use in the South when referring to a simple guy? You know, 'He's just a regular ol' Joe Buck'?"

Courtney Sullivan: "I don't know... but he has a reeeeally weird face."

Jean: "Yeah, I don't like his face."

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Laura: (seemingly out of the blue... but while eating blue chips and homemade guacamole), "Did you hear about that lady that grew into her couch? Like she got so fat she BECAME her own couch?"

Jean: "Steph, you should probably be writing these down."

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(While watching the New York Giants starting line-up)

Jean: "Oh yes, another top name for the NY Giants is Plaxico Burress."

Stephanie: "Yeah, he's a bad ass. He is one crispy [n-word]."

Jean/Laura: shocked silence

(except I really used the n-word. Without even thinking. My only excuse is I lived with a major New York sports fan for 4 years... and I suppose he rubbed off on me). Sorry Plaxico.. I meant it lovingly.
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Laura: "Who do you like better, Tom Brady? or Eli Manning?"

Jean: "Eli Manning"

Stephanie: "Tom Brady."

-LATER-

Stephanie: "Actually, I love Payton."

Jean: "You just love him because he's funny."

Stephanie (under her breath): "Well, yeah."

-Later-

Laura: "Wait, who's that?"

Stephanie/Jean: "That's Eli!!!"

Laura: "Oh, I like him."

-Later-

Jean: "Weeeell, I guess since Gisele is dating Tom Brady and I totally trust her taste - I'll go with Tom Brady."

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(While watching a commercial, I guess)

Becky: "Which came first the double popsicle or the double guitar?"

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Stephanie: "Isn't it interesting that both of the teams are Red, White, and Blue... just in different ways? I wonder if that's ever happened before!?"

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(After some boys had arrived at Apartment 3R to watch the game)

Jean: "Wait, did they just get a touchback?"

Stephanie, "No. That was a safety. A touchback is when the ball is ruled dead on or behind a team's own goal line, generally after a kickoff, punt, interception, or fumble. While a Safety can mean one of two things:
A: A two-point score by the defense that occurs when one of its players tackles an opponent in possession of the ball in his own end zone.

or

B: A defensive player who lines up in the secondary between, but generally deeper than the cornerbacks.

In this case it was the second example. Right guys?"

Jean and Stephanie exchange dirty looks. Males continue to watch game without noticing.

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Laura: "How old do you think Tom Petty is?!"

Courtney Sullivan: "62!"

Jean: "65!"

Becky: "67!"

Stephanie: "Oh... he's gotta be 70 by now!"

Laura (after checking the internet): "You guys, he's only 57."

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Laura: "Quick, how old do you think Richard Simmons is!?"

Jean: "Dead!"

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Scary Sadshaw

2008-01-17T14:46:00.000-08:00

Carrie Bradshaw ruined everything. She ruined cosmopolitans, New York City, and Saturday night with your girlfriends. She ruined brunch and fashion. She ruined high heeled shoes and careers in journalism. She ruined casual sex, she ruined committed sex, she ruined every pun known to man. She ruined newspaper and magazines. She ruined the experience of ever dating a banker, a carpenter, a bartender, a painter, a addict, a writer, a lawyer, a actor, a musician, a doctor, a politician and a man. Carrie Bradshaw ruined fun.

I know this is not a real person.

I also know that somehow this show seeped into our brains, our hearts, our very landscape. I believe that even the water and the soil were not spared. Nothing we can ever do has novelty left. She has already done it.

Do you know how many times a day a thought like the following occurs to me? :

"Is it true that men are really looking for carbon copies of their mother? Could we be suffering from a epidemic of Copy-Me-Mommies?"

Or some lazy shit thought like that. Then, I think: Fuck Me. That sounds like her. Again. There is no escape.

The show has been dead for almost four years. But, it plays on and on. An endless reel of witticisms, criticisms and name-plate necklaces play out behind our experience, coloring every thing we see.

Cavemen used to sit around the fire and tell each other stories. Who was the bravest hunter? Who ran from the gazelle and found water in the ground? They acted it out again and again until the tales became truth, until everyone knew how to kill, how to drink or how run away. They informed, they entertained, they re-lived the stories of their lives to bring each other together.

So what is this pink sequined monstrosity telling us?

Being part of this particular (mostly urban, white, educated) tribe is no comfort to me. I have to think that my experiences "looking for love" (what a phrase!) is and will be as idiosyncratic and weird and unexpected as love itself. People are too strange to have it otherwise.

On that note, I'm have to have a cosmopolitan.

8:05 am

2008-01-15T21:16:00.000-08:00

Early morning auditions are treacherous. I swear, they only have them this early in the morning to weed out the lazy or the weak of heart... or the people that actually need more than a couple of hours a sleep a night. I mean, I hate to sound pretentious and proud but... we actors are like modern day Gladiators. Right? Same thing? No?

However, these early morning time slots do allow us to understand how the other half lives! Since auditions are usually held in Midtown, we too can push through morning rush hour clutching our $4 lattes, dressed in our pressed pencil skirts, forcing our way into crowded intersections, "Excuse me! I have somewhere very important to be! Hey lady, you may be making a living for your children back in New Milford, Conn... but take a look at my flawless, stress-free figure!" Right? Am I right here?

8:05 am, arrive at fancy office building and check in with fancy doorman. 9:05 am, arrive back on 8th avenue smack down in front of Burger King. Dejected, rejected, and still jobless.

(Pause)

Thank God I accomplished another audition. Maybe he'll give me a call. I have to get in a nap before lunch. It's been a long day already... and I still have my GD laundry to do.

If there is an Eternity, I am Damned in it

2008-01-15T12:18:00.000-08:00

This is exactly what Ted Hughes said when he found his wife, Sylvia Path, with her head in the oven.

I was crossing the street this morning and coming towards me was a woman in a wheelchair-not an automatic-she was slowly, struggling to get to the sidewalk. Of course, my impulse was to run behind her, grab the handles and push her to safety. But I didn't. I didn't do a thing. I let the poor crippled lady wheel right pass me and I kept on walking. I did turn around to see another 20-something grab the wheelchair and push her all the way to the sidewalk. Good for her.

I only had a split second to Do The Right Thing. And I didn't do it. On purpose.

I wanted coffee, I was late, I was wearing heels, my nose was running and..... what if the Nazi's caught me?

See? The stakes didn't even have to be that high. You get the idea.

Sometimes, when I hate my pointless job so much, I think about doing something rash. Like selling everything I own and going to a country to hold AIDS babies and wipe the mouths of the poor and the destitute. Then, I remember. I am not a particularly good person.

Perhaps somewhere between Dick Cheney and Jenna Bush. Not overtly wicked, but more of a passive bystander or silent witness..... with some awfully nice clothes.

There was an insane man on the subway. I haven't seen one like him in awhile. Paraphrasing, he said something like this:
"White women look so beautiful! But you are all steak asses! You all sit on the toilet and shit. All of you. White or black. You all shit on the toilet. That's what God says. I'll probably outlive all of your steak asses. Do you think you can bring your clothes with you when you die? Do you think they will come? White women with your steak asses. Why don't you all be lesbians?"

So the whole ride I'm dying of curiosity. Just what is a steak ass?

Think about it.

In the meantime, THIS steak ass will get back to work.

A Star is Born

2008-01-14T07:35:00.000-08:00

Jean Marie Walters was born on January 14th, 1981. I think this happened somewhere in Texas. I am sure her mother was in a lot of pain, because Jean is very tall. She probably thought "Good God! Will this baby ever END?"

I like to think that the world breathed a collective sigh of relief when her toes were finally cleared. Finally, it sighed to itself, Jean was here.

Over the years, Jean learned how to tie her shoes, ride a bike , kiss a boy and find bras that fit. A year and a half ago she packed all of her stuff into an Enterprise Rent-A-Van and moved to Brooklyn, New York where we now share a few small symmetrical squares of space. Most of this space is covered in hair because we both lose a lot of hair. A LOT! I vacuumed this weekend and the vacuum choked and sputtered until I pulled out something that look like a dead cat. (it wasn't).

In April, we blew up an air mattress, plopped onto our living room floor and said "Stephanie! Why don't you sleep here?" Stephanie is blond and makes creepy things like linoleum, tinfoil and plastic mattresses somehow pretty and not so bad after all.

After a few months, God or Fate or that book THE SECRET decided that Stephanie should live downstairs, one floor below us.

The three of us have known each other since we were 14. We have pictures to prove it. Our eyebrows were massive back then. I , for one, was a little afraid of tweezers.

Sure, we're best friends. BFFs, as popular culture might deem. But really, words fail us when pressed to describe. I think it may fall somewhere between "sister" and "lover." Only because sisters hate each other more and Stephanie once had that dream about Jean in the shower.

Several times, we've made the highly conceited statement that the three of us have ruined men for other women. The combination of our humor, our hair or just the alchemy of our dynamic is staggering to men who may have thought that women are boring, or stupid, or think bowel movements aren't interesting. But I think we may have also ruined other women for ourselves. So, we're stuck.

I use this instance of a birthday to usher in a new project. Being who we are, grasping at our upper twenties, kicking off the remnants of girlhood, our brains rattle madly inside our heads. We are itchy and twitchy and we wait something to begin.

In the midst of this, though, things do happen. They happen slowly, or suddenly. All at once , or bit by bit. The world changes, people come and go, what was once true turns out to be false. Thoughts, opinions, experiences, fly out our mouths, into our ears and then fall away. At Apartment 3R we can capture them, right before we forget, before we move on yet again.

Here, the personal can meet the political! Exterior lives can meet interior lives! Ambition comes face to face with lethargy. Sentimentality meets irony. Immeasurable love meets untended disgust. Cynicism. Defeat. Joy. Songs. Menstruation. Jesus. Anger. Babies. Death. Burritos.

Lightning in a bottle.

A record of our time.

In the words of Walt Whitman "Do I contradict myself? Very well then, I contradict myself. I am large. I contain multitudes."

And, so do we.

Jean, Happy Birthday sweet girl.

Start now.