February 2005 Archives

Some air freshener in the bathroom at work smells exactly like a perfume I used to wear in 6th grade. Exclamation? Malibu Musk? I wonder now who exactly I was trying to attract with perfume. That is, who I was trying to attract by adding perfume to the bike shorts, cat sweatshirt, watermelon earring ensemble that I was already rocking.

My parents were always very lenient about what I was allowed to wear or how I chose to wear (perm) my hair. This is perhaps because I was in the cat sweatshirt area and not the ripped leather and black eyeliner area (I did get in trouble once for dying blue a small braid under my hair), but nonetheless I wish my parents had been more proactive in the fashion category. I once mentioned something like this to my mom—perhaps while browsing pictures of myself in hot pink spandex—and she snorted something like, “Yeah right, would you have listened to anything I said about what to wear?” which is a valid point. Would I have?

There were definite cool kid trends that my parents’ disinterest allowed me to explore (Esleep pajamas, round John Lennon glasses, Blossom hats…ug, this is seriously depressing me), but what about all the in between times? The times when I was simply just wearing what was in my drawer because it had been there since 5th grade and I continued to wear? I guess I imagine this scenario where my mom would have told me that, no, perms are never a good idea. She would have taken me to a salon and they would have given me a flattering haircut. We would have gone shopping and she would have bought me clothes that didn’t have animals on them. She would have picked all the blue eye shadow out of my makeup caboodle and told me why I should never, short of a costume party, be sporting Smurf blue eye makeup. In this scenario, I am saved the self-conscious torture of wondering how I measure up to everyone, and I am simply confident that I look good and I wouldn’t have to worry about it so much any more.

I also wonder if my mom is right, if you can ever, as an adolescent trying desperately to distance yourself from your parents while simultaneously forging an identity for yourself, bring yourself to listen to any advice your mother is giving you on fashion. But weren’t there those girls? The cool ones with enviable clothes and immaculate hair and makeup who weren’t consumed with self-consciousness?

There is also the undeniable fact that the sheer awkwardness of this time in my life absolutely shaped me into an empathetic person, one who learned that not all of life’s problems are answered by pegged jeans and perfectly styled bangs.

One of my oldest and best friends from middle school, one who swears the first thing I said to him was “I like cats!”, and who through some miracle remained my friend all through those unwieldy years, all through high school, all through all school, actually, and into now, just welcomed his second baby girl into the world. If he can navigate their adolescence with even a fraction of the grace with which he navigated ours, I think they’ll turn out great, hypercolor shirt or no.

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Apprentice musings

Will Trump hire the chickenlady?

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Are you sick to death of The Gates yet? Too bad, sucker! We went to see them this weekend, and despite the low murmur that there wasn't that much to see, that the the project was overblown, or that, eh, Gates, I have to admit that I was really taken in by them.

I don't think the effect is an overwhelming one, which I can understand wanting or expecting. But it is a strange sensation to see your park all dressed up with no where to go. No party or celebration, just a bunch of orange sheets flapping in the wind.

The crowds were pretty intense, but if you consider what the wait can get like outside a museum when there's a big show, it wasn't that bad. We had to shove through some people crossing the street and right at the entrance, but other than that: you're in a park. You could climb the rocks and cut across paths, weave past slow people, stop anywhere you wanted. Central Park is usually so full of people doing their own thing--being with a million strangers, but each engrossed in an individual activity. This weekend, it was a million strangers all there for the same party.

Everyone was taking photographs, as was the urge. Even though you are surrounded by the exact same structure everywhere you look, you keep catching strange perspectives, new lighting, or odd juxtapositions.

Eventually, J started taking pictures of all the photographers. --------

He's fine. Pain in the ass, as usual. --------

I’m a bit worried about Max. He was his usual self early this morning, pleading to get into the bedroom, but when I came out of the bathroom, he wasn’t where he usually is, outside the door begging for treats. I found him on the bed looking really tensed up. We would alternately stare intently at Pinky and then stare intently outside the bedroom window. J and I tried to pull him out of it, but it was like he was really paranoid about something (so much so, that I eventually made J check under the bed. Our very low to the ground bed. I know). So, thinking that there is no better way to satiate Max than with treats, I went to the kitchen and got the Pounce can. People: he did not come into the kitchen. Then when I gave him a treat, HE DID NOT EAT IT. He was staring at the bedroom.

I started getting really creeped out (ghosts! Tsunamis! Earthquakes! Other things animals can sense!) Eventually he started eating the treat. But then STOPPED. Mid-chew. I even tried enticing him with some catnip, to no avail (Pinky on the other hand was LOVING this—morning treats and catnip, woo!). We eventually had to leave for work, but he was still being very weird. Now I’m thinking we should have taken him to the vet or something since he was acting so out of character. Our only guess is that the downstairs neighbors were definitely having an intense wake n bake session that we could smell in our apartment. Was he high? Can we deduct rent money for that? Pinky was a-okay, though. I’m starting to get very nervous now.

Internet friends: reassure me, please! Or let me know if I should send J home at lunch to rescue him.

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I failed to mention that the Chappaqua party was also in celebration of my aunt’s and baby cousin’s birthdays. My baby cousin turned six and received approximately 1,457 gifts from all her friends. We were all pretty floored by the mounds of presents, but she was very polite and opened each one in turn, with a little note of praise for each one. “Oh, a paint-by-numbers. Exactly what I wanted. Ooo: clay. It is always fun to play with clay,” and so forth.

During a break in the gift-opening extravaganza, J and I were sitting on the couch examining all the loot. I picked up one of the games she got, called Elefun. The front of the package is all animated fun and games and butterflies

But a quick look at the actual components of this game painted a slightly different version. One in which objects come flying out of this:

Liz: Ha ha. I see how this could be used for a different sort of game at, say, a bachelorette party.

J: What do you mean?

Liz: What do you mean, what do I mean? Look at the trunk.

J: …

Liz: Things come flying out of the end…

J: huh…

Liz: It’s like a giant penis. You could dress it up like a giant penis and use funny things as the objects.

J: Ooooh! I get it. When you said “bachelorette party” I was thinking you meant you could have girly things flying out of the elephant trunk.

Liz: Girly things? Like what?

J: Oh, I don’t know. Panties.

Find your name, lots of fun! “Elizabeth” is always an all-time favorite, but looks like I’m not as popular as I would have been in 1900. I find it interesting “Willow” doesn’t hit the charts until Buffy. Sorry, Ahe: no games for you.

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Let’s give a nice warm welcome to Willow, who has joined the ranks (for real this time).

J holed up last night to work on our tax forms (I’m very archaic like that, throwing my hands up in the air and shoving my papers at him to figure out. My rationale is that I COULD do them if I needed to, but if J’s offering, what the hell.) After giving him strict instructions to come back with a big refund (ha), I curled up in bed with my book. He came back a while later, holding the federal tax form out for me to see and pointing at the refund line. I couldn’t believe it: $46! Then J pointed out that the staple was covering a number. $461! There was much jumping up and down. I’ve never got money back for taxes, so this is a big event. Am I not supposed to tell you how much I got? Is there etiquette here? I wouldn’t know because this is the FIRST TIME for me! Whoo! Of course, J is doing state and local taxes today, and more likely than not, I will owe $458. Just saying. Also, before you all get excited for the $461 party Liz is throwing, we should take a moment to think of Credit Card Debt, which will probably be eating all of the (possible) refund like the greedy little pig it is.

You know what’s awesome about getting married? People CANNOT stop throwing you parties. They try, but then they are compelled by the presence of love and also the desire to eat goodies and drink wine and they have no choice but to throw you an engagement/celebration/birthday/shower/present party. This is actually one of the powers bestowed upon you when you get engaged: the ability to look cute and catalyze parties. This weekend’s party was with my aunt and cousins and their kids up in Chappaqua, the land of making you want a big house and yard and also cute, intelligent children. All the kids ransacked the costume chest, and my little cousin George (who has an older sister and two girl cousins) wouldn’t be left out of the fun, and went through the whole party in a princess dress, crown, and pink high heels. And if you think there is anything cuter that ever existed you are wrong. We got these hats to wear:

and this cake to eat:

And way too many gifts. We may have to turn down our powers a bit (although not before the IRS gives me another $461 and throws us a party with cake).

If you like literary books about high school that are sleepy and utterly engrossing all at once, I recommend you check out Prep by Curtis Sittenfeld. Here’s Max enjoying it months ago in manuscript form.

He loved it, too.
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I've always thought the subway map could be interpreted as a bit...unsavory.

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We got a big Valentine’s Day package from my parents that is stuffed with candy. They do this every year and it is great because I get these candies that I never see outside of gifts from them.

I don’t know what the hell they are, but they are minty melty goodness, and those little white balls? Totally make the candy.

It seems like I am too old for such things, but then again, what is too old? Who doesn’t want candy gifts? Unless it is a Hallmark bear and he is holding those chocolates and was bought for $5 at Duane Reade--then even the presence of chocolate and well-meaning sentiment will be completely overwhelmed by the fact that you hired Duane Reade and Hershey’s as representatives of your feelings towards the recipient. Unless of course they, in return, give you a piece of heart/pink themed jewelry that you saw advertised on national television for a low low price. In which case, you are probably meant for each other, and best of luck to you.

Once I dated this guy in high school for about a month, who later turned out to be quite the nut case. He managed to stay within our orbit of friends for quite a while, allowing us to amass a healthy repertoire of his crazy stories. There are too many to list here, but the agreed upon top three involve his obsession with and subsequent abandonment of a poor dog named Mingus, his absentmindedly pouring plaster down the kitchen sink of a friend’s house and ruining their plumbing, and his crazy art (picture halved coconut shell candles with lumpy wax bases).

MY personal favorite crazy story is the Valentine’s Day one, where the exchange of gifts between him and his (new, also crazy) girlfriend were as follows: he to her: one pair of earrings, stolen from his mom; she to him: $20.00.

True love!

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I knew my heart had been stolen a few months ago when I saw all my Tupperware cabinet problems solved right before my eyes. I was embarrassingly excited about this infomercial, even more so than I was for the pasta pot (which is saying something).

The lady opening the cabinet only to have everything FALL on her? Me.

I so unabashedly desired the Smart Spin that I would gush about it whenever the infomercial came on to whoever happened to be in the room. Or in the next room. It got to the point where J actually decided to buy one for me. This was very exciting, but just so you know if you ever go to order anything from an infomercial, it is also a test of your wills. We were assaulted with additional deals and free things (for which you pay shipping) and extended this and expanded that. You have to decline an entire warehouse full of undersold inventory before they will reluctantly allow you to buy one, singular product. But not without first telling you what a moron you are.

They told us 6-8 weeks, so I was surprised when it arrived a mere two weeks later. Big excitement. Meanwhile, I was expecting another package that my dad had told me he sent. “A surprise.” When a week passed and nothing had come, he called to follow up.

Dad: I called the place and they said that the package DID arrive.
Liz: Huh, well. I don’t…you mean the catnip? We got that.
Dad: No, no, it was separate. You should check and see if the downstairs people have it.
Liz: Oh yeah, that’s a good idea. [glimpses Smart Spin, wheels start turning] Hey, what’s in the package anyway?
Dad: Well, actually…I got you one of those spinning Tupperware things you were talking about.
Liz: Ooohhhh…!

So you see what overexuberance gets you? Two infomercial products from people who love you and your space saving needs. My dad is really cute and has the habit of repeating himself endlessly if he is excited or baffled. The conversation following the revelation that we both ordered the Smart Spin consisted of approximately ten minutes of him going over and over the coincidence. Eventually, you have to cut him off in these situations, or he might never stop.

Anyway, I’m loving the Smart Spin (the second one hasn’t arrived yet), although it is currently sitting on our counter because—ironies of ironies—fitting it into the designated Tupperware cabinet requires a cleaning out and rearranging of said cabinet that I haven’t yet had time for.

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Things weighing heavy on my mind that are not North Korea having nuclear weapons or bad mornings:

New Disney movie.

What makes children’s books classics, and what solidifies them as precious in our minds, are often things intangible or simple. Yet these are also the tender parts that Hollywood mercilessly zeros in on and plows over in their movies. In the book versions, the Grinch didn’t need a back story, the Cat in the Hat was without sexual inclinations, and the Polar Express was magical without flight.

This new movie is especially irritating for the fact that not only is it exploiting a character that never existed bodily in the original Pooh stories, who was in fact a creation of the combined imaginations of the friends, but that by constructing the existence of the Heffalump, they ruin the very heart of the original story.

I am, however, very much looking forward to Brad Pitt voicing the feature-length animated movie of an obsessive compulsive vampire child who solves mysteries by night, and finds that by fulfilling his compulsion to say “good night” to each object, he is soon led to solve his big case.

Tonya Harding’s new career.

Okay, this isn’t weighing heavy as much as it is blowing my mind.

Did you know someone could once look like that and now look like that. I mean…the face. Holy big face! My favorite part is the personalized belt. Fancy pants.

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It is Tuesday night and I am writing this on a laptop in bed. I’ve had this little Compaq Presario since college, but it’s been buried under piles of junk and was only resurrected yesterday as a nighttime journaling tool for J. It feels a little weird and disconnected to blog from home and also the day before you all are reading this. Usually the title of this blog says it all: I am at work; I am working, dashing off an entry if I can spare a few minutes. Although I guess that’s what I’ll be doing tomorrow when I post this, so in your world, now, everything is the norm.

Okay, I’m going to start getting confused over what tenses to use, so I’m moving on.

Television tells me that there are people out there who “get money back” from the government at tax time. “Tax refunds,” if you will. I know nothing about this, as I always seem to break even or owe one bajillion dollars. Similarly, due to the fact that my professional life has been limited to the publishing world, all my raises have been orderly and steady (which is nice! Love raises! Blogging from home!) but not in the what you would call “insane” category. It just so happens that my lovely and (very) deserving friend, Krista, came into the random windfall of a healthy tax refund and a chunk of raise at about the same time. And because she is a generous soul, she decided to celebrate by taking a couple of us out for a “surprise outing” Sunday morning.

Being the clever girl that I am, I immediately surmised that this Sunday outing would fall into the brunch category and prepped myself accordingly. As per instructions, on Sunday morning, J and I dressed up and headed over to Krista’s, where we met Abby. After throwing around a few guesses as to where we were actually headed, it became clear that perhaps we weren’t thinking quite in the right direction. Yes, there would be brunch, but there would also be something else.

Not only that, we were heading to Times Square. Now if you were to pick one of the last places you would go looking for me on a Sunday morning, you could put Times Square right up there on that list. And if you were perhaps looking for me based solely on the knowledge that I am a Jewish vegetarian, the other last place you would look for me was exactly the place Krista landed us:

The World Famous Harlem Gospel Choir and Southern Brunch.

I will have to admit that at this point—-the point where we rounded the corner and saw the only marquee with the word “brunch” on it also had the word “gospel” next to it—-I had some reservations. But apprehension only takes you so far when your belly is growling and there is free coffee and a long table of southern food waiting for you. Mmm, grits and biscuits, baby. The music was good, too. They only “took us to church” for two songs, and the rest were of the pop song that could be interpreted as Jesus song if sung with particular soul by a woman in a gospel choir who holds up her hands to the audience and the audience is Christian and totally into it variety. Which was cool.

But even more exciting, while we were piling our plates full of brunchity goodness, J got to the end of the brunch table, where they place the obligatory bowl of whole fruit, and...he took an apple. A whole green apple. And then when we got back to the table, and the rest of us tucked into our mac and cheese and jambalaya and peach cobbler...J ate the apple.

Liz: I can’t believe you’re eating an apple at a buffet brunch. You are the first person ever to eat an apple at a buffet brunch.

J: What, no. I’m sure someone else has eaten an apple.

Liz: No, you are the first person, ever. No one eats apples at a brunch. In a fruit salad: yes. Cut up as an ingredient in something else: yes. A whole apple, all by itself? No.

J: [looking around] I’m sure there is someone else in this room who is eating an apple.

Liz: Are you not listening to what I’m saying? You are the first person—in the ENTIRE HISTORY of eating brunches—to EVER eat a plain, whole apple. There’s no one else.

As it turns out, the eating of the apple inspired Abby to eat an apple next. Then the guy behind us got one as well. J may have started something big. It’s hard to watch someone eat a crispy apple without wanting one yourself.

So even though on paper, Jesus, southern food, whole apples, and Times Square does not look like a fun morning for Liz, in real life it is very fun. Screw you preconceived notions!

(thanks, Krista!)

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I’m feeling very excited for some karaoke fun tonight for someone’s birthday. It is raining ice out today, so a little singing and drinking is sounding like a mighty good combatant to the violent dreariness out there. On the subway this morning I got to thinking about when a bunch of us went out karaoke singing and almost won the guitar. And I had one of those huh moments, where it was suddenly very clear to me that we didn’t almost win a guitar and that they probably just put one of us in the running to get our group to stay until 3 in the morning. No offense to Kelly’s air guitar skills, but c’mon, in the bright light of February, doesn’t this all look a little shady now?

It is funny what your mind doesn’t allow you to think about in the heat of the moment. I’m reading Blink right now, so this seems very relevant, but isn’t it possible my subconscious understood what was happening the whole time we were fruitlessly strumming away, but that it just didn’t have the heart to tell me until now that maybe—just maybe—the owner rigged the whole thing to give a guitar to his buddies? It’s very sweet of my subconscious, but honestly, it can grow some balls and tell me these things sooner. I can handle it. You hear that, subconscious? I'm alls grown up!

I have two standard karaoke songs: “Tainted Love,” and “I Think We’re Alone Now” (with dance moves). Once, I sang “Stay” by Lisa Loeb and I put on my dark-rimmed glasses for the song. But either no one got the joke or, more likely, the fact that dark-rimmed glasses are no longer the quirky things they were of the early 90s no one cared, but in either case, no one seemed particularly amused. Except me. I was very amused.

I need more song suggestions! Keep in mind I am a very mediocre singer, so catchy songs that people like to hear/sing along to anyway are the best bet for me. Help me out!

Some Friday linkities for you:
Sparring muffs
“He is testing a hand-held ion-particle gun, which he said is for levitating food.”
Mother F*cker polar bear undies (thanks Krista!)
I wonder whose book this is?

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Congratulations to Amy and her good news! Ooo, more baby blogging...I'm such a sucker! --------

J took me shopping last night, as my birthday present from him was a clothes shopping spree (that dipped into the boots category over the weekend—how luck am I?) I am one to fully appreciate sales, and end-of-season-sales are particularly wonderful, but it seems that somewhere during the flip of the calendar page all the big stores rid themselves of their sale section and dedicated themselves fully to their spring line. Yes, I know this is how fashion works, and yes, I understand that some parts of the country (where?) are probably experiencing a gradual warming. But Punxsutawney Phil aside (despite the fact that even he has predicted six (ha) more weeks of winter), it stays cold here well into April. Sweater weather even. And even when it starts to heat up a bit, we still have several more months until it’s time to break out the flip flops and shirts with palm tree prints. You’d think they’d consider the money they’d make selling warm clothes to people when it is cold outside. Cold! As in 33-degrees. As in not micro-mini weather.

But you know what is good when it is cold? Hot chocolate. And woe to all of you who don’t live in New York and who cannot visit City Bakery and who cannot eat their giant cookies and drink the melted sauce they pass off as hot chocolate. Woe. They are actually having a hot chocolate festival this month with a new flavor every day and this is bad news because this means I am thinking about chocolate many more times a day than is absolutely necessary. I am not even a chocolate person, really. I couldn’t tell you where this intense craving is coming from. But anyway, here’s how you can help me. Go here and enter their contest. When you win, you can give the $50 to me and I will subsequently pass my happiness along to others, and just like that Coke commercial, everyone will soon be glowing in happy thoughts. World peace is what I’m promising, nothing less.

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I finally finished Jonathan Strange and Mr Norrell after what felt like an eternity, but was in actuality only three weeks. But still. I finally resorted to lugging it on the subway in lieu of the New Yorker just so I could make sizable dents in my reading. I am very excited to move onto neat and slim Blink.

I am going to tell you my dream last night because it was about a blogger, and maybe only you will appreciate as much as I how ridiculous it seems to dream about blogs. In this dream, Wil Wheaton wanted to give me a red door for an engagement present (like this one). He wanted to, but it was too expensive, but he nonetheless wanted me to know that the desire was there. I remember thinking, “That’s so nice. I guess he’s not such an asshat after all.”

That’s it. Interpret away.

When he was visiting, my dad could not believe that we hadn’t introduced the cats to catnip. You have to understand that our apartment is small, and the cats are on the crazy side WITHOUT any crazy-inducing nip. This seemed only short of denying them the breath they breathe, apparently, because we got a discreet packet in the mail yesterday addressed to the cats and filled up with catnip. We decided to let them partake, or rather they decided by practically tearing the envelope open with their teeth. It took approximately 3.4 seconds from the kitties to go from normal to writhing on the floor licking the mail that had sat adjacent to the catnip package, dilated pupiled, all out junkies.

After about half an hour Max rejoined us on the couch, filthy from all the dust he collected rolling around on floor (these guys actually double pretty well for Swiffers), and looking a bit worse for the wear. The whole scene from beginning to end would actually make a pretty good anti-drug campaign, with Max yelling at my dad that he “learned it by watching you!”

The funny thing about registering for wedding gifts online is that in the process of updating your lists, you notice if someone’s bought you a gift. This is very exciting, since we’re not even into heavy wedding-gift getting stage yet, but it can also be confusing. As in, who bought us the teakettle? Why hasn’t it arrived yet?

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