July 2005 Archives

My mom came in last night and will be visiting for a few days. Her visits are always a mixture of pleasure and guilt: the pleasure of her being here and getting to do stuff with her, and the guilt of not having a proper guest bed or a tub that the cat doesn’t pee in or a neighborhood that’s good for wandering or the ability to take off lots of days of work to be able to hang out while she’s here. She’s very good natured about everything and even answered “good” when I asked how she slept even though I eventually got out of her that the air mattress deflated half-way through the night and she ended up crawling up to sleep on J’s college futon. I did buy her fresh bagels, though!

Tomorrow we’re off to do some shopping and…dun dun dun DUN…try out some wedding hair! I’ve kinda been killing myself trying to find a hairstyle that I like that isn’t an up-do (which is like finding a nice wedding dress that isn’t strapless: practically sacrilege in the wedding world). This will be more funny to some of you than others, but I actually spent a frantic lunch hour at Barnes and Nobel looking for a book that was just pages of wedding hair styles and WHY DOESN’T THIS BOOK EXIST? I had to make do with some crap wedding magazines which promise things like “Your Hair Problems Solved!” that turn out to be small photoless articles about what kind of gel to use if you’re styling your hair yourself. Otherwise, I got treated to lots of interesting hairstyles, which, while INTERESTING

weren’t so much helpful.

And speaking of helpful, let’s consult the ol’ internet. Hey internet, what kind of wedding hairstyles do you suggest?

Hmm...well, I uh. Sideburn curls, huh. Let's see what else you got.

So you're pretty into the hair decorations, eh? And the flowers and crap, too, huh? Anything else?

This one looks familiar. Oh yes, fourth grade.

Hey now! Here's a saucy girl with killer hair AND a killer dress-bustier...sleeve...thingy..

So, as I'm sure you can imagine, this appointment will be full of fun as I hand him a couple of pretty combs and give some vague directions about soft spirals. I don't think I'll bring the above images, as I'm afraid they would burn his retinas and debilitate his expertise. Wish me luck.

Also, welcome back, Eva! (ha, the crossout with frowny face hasn't failed me yet)

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When we talked to our landlords about getting the bars on our bedroom window--which faces the backyard garden--replaced with some that could accommodate an air conditioner, there was a brief debate over the short period of time between when the old bars came down and the new one went up that our window would be barless. J was a little nervous, but the landlords told him, while it was our decision, they wouldn’t really be worried about it. They reasoned that the backyards in the neighborhood all jut up against one another, making it a difficult, if not impossible, place to access from the street; plus none of the upper story windows have bars and they’ve never had any problems. In the end, we went ahead with everything and there were no problems.

My morning might have gone a little differently if we had been less concerned about keeping people out than about making sure people can get in. To their apartments. That they pay rent to live in. Namely, me: the Queen of Locking Herself Out.

I’ve been bad about remembering to water our flower boxes lately, so when I thought to do it this morning, I just grabbed the impulse. Unfortunately, I didn’t squash the impulse to close the wooden door behind me when I stepped outside, which we usually do to keep the cats in. There was an extended, heart-stopping, slow motion second where the door clicked shut at the exact moment I realized another thing the landlords told us: the door automatically locks when closed.

So there I was, standing in a lovely garden, in the middle of Brooklyn, an hour before I had to be at work, and with zero ways to get back inside or get to a phone. I climbed up the fire escape to the neighbor’s door, but no one answered. Climbing back down, I got up and stood on the picnic table and took a survey of the situation. Bars on windows? Check. Jimmy-proof locks? Check. Large, connected, very fenced in yards that stretch for the entire block? Check. I have never felt more ridiculous and helpless at the same time. I did a silent thanks for the fact that I was actually dressed; I’ve been known to pop out and water plants in sleep clothes and no shoes. I played with the idea of breaking the glass on my neighbor’s door, but that seemed like something to do only if someone was DYING. And I thought about cutting the screen and trying to wedge myself through the iron bars, but that immediately flashed forward to a scene involving an ambulance, a welder, two escaped cats, and police crashing through the apartment, so I decided against that.

Then, facing the fact that I couldn’t simply sit in the garden for ten hours, I did the only thing I could think of. I stood on the table and yelled for help. This would officially be the first time I have ever had to yell the words “help” in any sort of real way. Obviously, I toned down the intensity of it so it was more like, “Uh, heeelllp? Anyone? Hellooo? Help?” Finally a man stuck his head out the back door of a house a couple yards away. I then had to yell J’s phone number to the guy (Sam) and he agreed to call him and tell him I was stuck. Another minute went buy and Sam popped out to tell me J was on his way. THIS, my dear cell phone dependent friends, is why you memorize at least a few key numbers out of your cell phone.

So then I spent the next 30 minutes or so wandering around the yard, watering and pruning my plants (my fingers smell like basil) and staring at the cats sitting oh-so-helpfully on the kitchen ledge meowing at me. They were very concerned. Eventually, poor J arrived sweaty from the frantic bike ride and was my savior. He was about to substitute teach a class and, er, I think I ruined that.

Plus, this wouldn’t be half as embarrassing if I didn’t confess that this is the second time J rescued me this week, the first being when I somehow managed to lock up my bike at the gym (in Park Slope) and proceeded to lose the key to the lock in the 30 seconds it took me to get to class and realize I wasn’t holding it anymore. No key, no money, no subway card, no cell phone, and where the hell did that key GO anyway? Honestly, thank god for fiances with big hearts and fast bikes.

So, thank you J for being my knight on a shining Trek.

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If there is such a thing as perfection, it would probably be best described as a delicious brunch eaten while very hungry on a sunny late-July Sunday while trying to recuperate after a long night. The brunch would be at a Cuban restaurant in Park Slope where there is no wait and the air is cooled. And despite the fact that you would have come in wanting their eggs Florentine with chipotle hollandaise sauce, you would have ordered eggs over medium that would have come with salty, spicy yucca hash browns and cold mango juice. And for the hell of it, you would have ordered a side of their pan dulce, which would have really been buttery, inch-thick slices of brioche that you would peel layers off of and alternately spread on dulce de leche and mango jam. There would have been black tea with milk, too; and you would have left feeling very full and very content and very near perfect.

On the subway the other day, I was sitting facing a row of blond tourists, a mom, young grandma, and 12-year-old son, who were chatting away in a foreign language. Across from them was a guy in shorts who had a bag at his feet, into which he’d occasionally reach and pull a small green oval fruit or nut of some kind. He’d roll it around in his palms, giving it a good squeeze between is hands. Then he’d cup it in both hands and put his hands between his thighs and squeeze his thighs. Eventually, he would work the casing off and eat the insides before starting again. I was kind of watching this out of the side of my eye and not really paying attention. Yes, it was a little strange, but he was being very quiet and neat about it and the train wasn’t that full. In fact, I became much more engrossed with watching the tourists who were in serious, laughing, debate about something or someone on the train. Even though they weren’t speaking English, the grandma kept putting her hand over her mouth, leaning way over the laps of the other two and whispering something to them which sent them into peals of laughter, which they were trying to cover up. The mom would get it together for a minute, and then start to lose it again, eventually doubling over in silent laughter. At one point she pulled out a tissue because she’d started crying.

They would look at me, then look in the opposite direction, then watch someone else, so I was going nuts trying to figure out what exactly it was they were laughing at. Finally it occurred to me that it must be the guy smashing the fruit between his thighs. And sure enough, as soon as I started looking for it, the uncontrolled snickering would start as soon as the man would pull out another fruit. They were looking at me to see if I also thought this was hilarious. And the awful thing is, it all of a sudden WAS hilarious. I had to bite the insides of my cheeks to keep from losing it when they would start the choking laugh. Because laughing is contagious, because I suddenly realized the punch line, because this guy was cracking weird fruits with his thighs on the subway.

UPDATE: 10 points to Abby! I think she may be right. Maybe he was removing seeds while eating the pulp and I missed that part.

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Okay, okay: here's your peek at the invitations. The outside:

The inside:

Those are all individual cards that come out. You see how the images should line up? Yeah, that was the major design headache.
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I forgot that the best part of sending invitations (besides having that over with) is that you get RSVP cards back. Mail every day for month! It is interesting how some people are very straight-forward with their name writing and checking of appropriate boxes, while others are reserved but personal with little hearts or red pen or smiley faces. Some come with personal notes or drawings, and we even got one yesterday incased in its own homemade envelope. There are so many wedding things that you do because you are supposed to do them and they have to get done, but then you realize suddenly that these little rituals have meaning. That we just worked very hard on a little art projects that traveled back and forth over the Manhattan Bridge several times, changed hands and trucks over the country, and landed in private homes where people touched and wrote on them and sent them back to where they started.

I finally resorted to bringing Harry Potter on the subway with me yesterday. I usually restrict my commute reading to magazines and lightish books, but leaving a book for at-home reading only does seriously extend the amount of time it takes me to get through something. This week was looking busy, and I finally had to admit that I needed to finish the book more than I needed my shoulder to not be sore. On my morning train the first available seat I saw was next to a woman who had Harry Potter spread out on her lap and, I cannot tell you exactly why, but I was too embarrassed to sit next to her and ALSO lug out my book like we were some kind of little club or something. For some reason it also seemed like something the nerd guy in the movie would do to impress the hot girl he’s been stalking (I know the entire nation is reading this particular book). I mean, not that it made any difference that I sat ACROSS from her or anything, it made me feel better.

There were some shower gift items that shipped to my office, that I’ve been slowly trying to lug home. The biggest so far is the ice cream maker, which I’ve been dying to try out. I decided last night was the night it was coming home, gave myself a pep talk, and proceeded to lug the whole thing into the station during rush hour. I then lugged it all the way BACK to my office, where I retrieved my keys that I’d left on my desk. Then back to the subway station where it was now much more rush hour. I finally made it onto the express train heading over the bridge, and even manage to squeeze a space for myself leaning against the doors, with the ice cream maker on the floor in front of me. I pulled out Harry Potter after some debate over whether it was too much trouble under the circumstances. But let me tell you: it saved my sanity.

The crowded, un-air conditioned subway chugged along the bridge at the slowest speed possible, before stopping for a full 10 minutes on the track. Like I said, I had my back against the doors, which meant the sun was beating directly on my back for this entire length of time. I swear the only thing stopping me from losing it completely was the fact that I had a riveting book in my hands. If I’d had this week’s New Yorker, like I almost grabbed, with the nauseating leech story, several dry political articles, and a report on the terrorism police beat, this story would have been scanned in from a post card I would have sent you from the insane asylum.

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I have this real thing against these signs that hang in the subway cars called “Subtalk.” They are little safety advisories and warnings against walking between trains or holding the doors open or whatever. But the people who are in charge of actually writing the copy for these signs? Monkeys with typewriters would be a KIND guess. There is always something just a little off in the syntax or grammar or errant stab at humor or even just the ridiculous picture they choose to accompany the warning that really sets me off. And of course, if I’m staring at a Subtalk poster it is because I’m stuck in a train with nothing to read and my eyes end up glued to this heinous poster for the entire train ride because it is TOO AWFUL to turn away.

Every time there is a new one I think: “That’s it. That’s the worst one. I hate life.” My brain usually does me the kind service of disallowing me to remember the exact phasing of the signs, but this latest one was such an aggravating puzzler that it has been stuck in my head for the past week. The sign, posted in an otherwise unremarkable subway car, read:

You are standing in one of our new high-tech subway cars. If you’re not, we’ll talk to the person who put up this sign.

Are they trying to be funny, and if so, what’s the joke? That the subway car isn’t really high-tech? Are they laughing at us for wanting all trains to be sleek and well-lit and informative like the 6 trains? And who is “we” and “the person”? Aren’t they both the MTA? I don’t understand the world in which this sign was created, manufactured, and displayed. My brain is throwing up.

Speaking of throwing up, I ate a lot of sugar this weekend. A lot a lot of sugar. Krista and I did a workshop at 826NYC where we had a bunch of Japanese candy with wrappers removed, and had the kids write mini-reviews. The kids were really hilarious and game to try a lot of strange sweets, including a green tea chew that tasted more like gummy Veggie Booty than anything else. After that there was a trip to Target that involved the purchasing of the new Harry Potter book (which comes enchanted with its own spell that makes it very difficult to put down after opening the front cover) and the purchasing by Krista of a new iPod for J (aww!) and the continued purchasing of Icees. And on Sunday there were the cupcakes of heaven and mojitos of paradise to eat and drink. Long story short: I closed the weekend in some desperate need of leafy green substances and foods with fiber and protein.

I took my bridesmaids to see “Wedding Crashers” last night so they could learn from this informational film what to be on the lookout for at the wedding. Purely educational. The theater was packed for the 7:10 showing, with lines snaking around the lobby for the 9:30. Crazy, I tell you! The movie had its funny parts. Nothing to write home about, but apparently worth writing on your blog about.

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The invites are officially sent. There are one or two that are waiting for addresses, but I’m going to cross them off the big list of things to do. I even think I’ve thought of a clever way to share the design with you. Although it involves me having a flickr account, which…well, I don’t have. But I’ll figure it out! Liz smart.

I think I have to get my dress fitted soon, but I’ve been putting it off. It seems expensive and sort of a pain in the ass. I got the dress from David’s, but Krista, after accompanying me on one of my awful trips there, expressly forbade me from ever entering the store again (at least the Queens location), so I’m on my own here. I do know I get to pick out shoes and undergarments before the fitting, so I think I’ll focus on those things. Which involve shopping for pretty things and seems overall less stressful. But I do have a weird wedding undergarment question for all you smart people. I assume I will buy some sort of bustier, to do the lifting and slimming and fancy-making, to go under the dress. I don’t think I’ll cart my dress around with me to Victoria’s Secret trips, but how do I know if the bustier goes well under the dress? The one I used at David’s when first trying on the dress, for example, poked up over the neckline. I’ve considered trying the dress on, drawing the neckline on my skin, then going shopping with that guideline. Which seemed like a fine plan until I actually told someone that and they were like, “Liz! Have you done lost your mind?” This person, let’s note, did not offer up any good suggestions otherwise, so I’m counting on you guys!

While we’re on the subject of wedding wedding wedding, I’m very much looking forward this weekend where we will be indulging in some cupcake testing. Abby has really taken on this project with gusto and I’m excited to play with all the ideas she came up with. She’s going to a big crazy baking supply store this afternoon to pick up some goodies and she emailed me their website so I could see if there was anything in particular that looked fun. Of course there was lots of great-looking RELEVANT things, but I immediately locked into the petite ghosts. Because, hello, petite ghosts? That’s cute.

Exorcist: So you have a ghost problem?
Lady: Oh, well yes, but it’s very small. It’s only a petite ghost, really.

Tall ghost: Ugh, I hate that store.
Small ghost: But Ann Taylor Loft has an extensive petite ghost section! It’s the only place I can buy sheets that don’t have to be hemmed.

Child ghost: I hate school! Everyone makes fun of me because I’m so short.
Mom ghost: Oh, honey, you’re not short; you’re just petite.

Anyway, I’m changing the theme of the wedding to petite ghost, so dress accordingly. Abby has also hinted that we might be getting mojitos while we taste, so I am expecting everything to taste damn good. We’re on the lookout for some of those plastic containers that supermarket bakery cupcakes come in. Let me know if you have any bakery hook ups, because if we buy wholesale, we’ll end up with one million containers, which is too many containers by a lot.

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You should read my cousin Andy's entry on entertaining Shanghai television. There's a woman biting through rope!

Here's a great obit from the Raleigh News and Observer that one of our clients pointed out as a must see:

On June 3, 2005 at 10:45 p.m. in Memphis, Tennessee, Dorothy Gibson Cully, 86, died peacefully, while in the loving care of her two favorite children, Barbara and David. All of her breath leaked out.

The mother of four children, grandmother to 11, great-grandmother to nine, devoted wife for 56 years to the late Ralph Chester Cully and a true friend to many, Dot had been active as a volunteer in the Catholic Church and other community charities for much of the past 25 years.

She was born the second child of six in 1919 as Frances Dorothy Gibson, daughter to Kathleen Heard Gibson and Calvin Hooper Gibson, an inventor best known as the first person since the Middle Ages to calculate the arcane lead-to-gold formula. Unable to actually prove this complex theory scientifically, and frustrated by the cruel conspiracy of the so-called "scientific community" working against his efforts, he ultimately stuck his head in a heated gas oven with a golden delicious apple propped in his mouth. Miraculously, the apple was saved for the evening dessert. Calvin was not.

Native Marylanders and long time Baltimore, Kent Island and Ocean City residents, Ralph and Dot later resided in Lakeland, Florida and Virginia Beach, Virginia. Several years after Ralph's death, Dot moved to Raleigh in 2001, where she lived with her son, David.

At the time of her death, Dot was visiting her daughter, Carol in Memphis. Carol and her husband, Ron, away from home attending a "very important conference" at a posh Florida resort, rushed home 10 days later after learning of the death. Dot's other children, dutifully at their mother's side helping with the normal last minute arrangements - hospice notification, funeral parlor notice, revising the last will, etc. - happily picked up the considerable slack of the absent former heiress.

Dot is warmly remembered as a generous, spiritually strong, resourceful, tolerant and smart woman, who was always ready to help and never judged others or their shortcomings. Dot always found time to knit sweaters, sew quilts and send written notes to the family children, all while working a full time job, volunteering as Girl Scout leader and donating considerable time to local charities and the neighborhood Catholic Church.

Dot graduated from Eastern High School at 15, worked in Baltimore full time from 1934 to 1979, beginning as a factory worker at Cross & Blackwell and retiring after 30 years as property manager and controller for a Baltimore conglomerate, Housing Engineering Company, all while raising four children, two of who are fairly normal.

An Irishwoman proud of and curious about her heritage, she was a voracious reader of historical novels, particularly those about the glories and trials of Ireland. Dot also loved to travel, her favorite destination being Eire's auld sod, where she dreamed of the magic, mystery and legend of the Emerald Isle.

Dot Cully is survived by her sisters, Ginny Torrico in Virginia, Marian Lee in Florida and Eileen Adams in Baltimore; her brother, Russell Gibson of Fallston, Maryland; her children, Barbara Frost of Ocean City, Maryland, Carol Meroney of Memphis, Tennessee, David Cully of Raleigh, North Carolina and Stephen Cully of Baltimore, Maryland.

Contributions to the Wake County (NC) Hospice Services are welcomed.

Opinions about the details of this obit are not, since Mom would have liked it this way.

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You know how when couples say they’re going to make their own wedding invitations and then everyone says how much work that is and the couple is like, whatever we can do it and screw the invitation industry any ol’ way. Well let me tell it to you now, from the middle of an invitation swamp: it’s a lot of work. BUT we are saving like $800. Which is like a whole pair of shoes! Or a satin ring pillow! Or something else infinitesimal that is overpriced! Seriously though, $800 = good amount of money to spend on honeymoon save. Also seriously: invitations = huge pain in my ass. We somehow, in the midst of designing a frickin’ beautiful invitation, managed to also make it the most design-intense thing possible, so that one part that’s one bit off ruins a big overall design scheme. We’re going back and forth between “Fuck it, no one will notice,” and “We can’t give up now! We’ve come so far.” Right now I’m plowing through with the latter mindset, but the former one is playing close by. Moral: don’t forget to tell me how much you love the invitations when you get them. La la.

J: You know that old sitcom guy set up where he always forgets the wedding anniversary? I just…
Liz: That’s going to be you?
J: …don’t understand how you could possible forget the day.
Liz: *heart melts*
J: I wake up with September 24th seared into my brain.

Krista Backwards is back! We are all very happy about this. Don’t tell her mom, who likes to quietly stalk her blog and then pounce out.

Also, FYI, I am not still reading The Great Gatsby. I read that on the plane to Denver along with Catcher in the Rye for a little nostalgic reading and it has not, though indicated otherwise by my lack of updating, taken me three weeks to get through. I will change that soon. I am busy, which makes me lazy with stuff like that.

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You know how it goes when so much happens in your real life that you have trouble translating it to the sweetened condensed blog version? It’s not even big things that happen, just a series of little stories and excitements and observations that add up to one intimidating post. Which would be why I haven’t posted all week. That and the busyness. Oy, the busyness. I’m up to my eyeballs in wedding all of a sudden, but I think I’m enjoying it.

There is also the sadness of all the London tragedies, which makes me feel less like I should be writing about wedding showers and choreographed dances and more like I should be writing about my anger and helplessness in the face of this terrorism. There’s also the New Yorker article I just read—about interrogation practices at Guantanamo—that made me feel like the people in charge are going about things in such a dramatically wrong way, that eventually the resulting pain will be because of what they’ve done, in spite of their belief they are helping cease it.

But we must keep marching along, and there are much better blogs than this one to go to for political damnations. I mean, let’s face it: you’re here for reality TV recaps and funny stories. At least that’s what I’m here for. Though of course the reality TV river runs low in the summer, so we’re really hunting for the funny stories. Here are a few highlights:

My mom loves to feed people. She’s particularly attracted to men of the Fill-up-my-plate and come-back-for-thirds variety, and not having much in the immediate family, she goes a little bonkers when we get a hungry guest. What usually happens is she lobs approximately 73 choices at you while you stand bewildered in the kitchen, a little jet lagged, a little hungry, and not able to process the frenzy that is my mother shoving brownies and cheese and crackers into your arms. My friend’s husband was at the center of one of these feeding fits while in Denver last weekend. My mom had pulled some cookie dough out of the fridge to pop some in the oven and offered us some. Though I love the stuff, it’s usually in a spontaneous way, rather than a come-and-get-it way. We all demurred. Several seconds later she came over to the table with a glob of dough on a little plate and placed it in front of us.

My friend Joey was in town with me and we have a bad habit of lapsing into our high school selves when left to our own devices. He showed me a Napoleon Dynamite soundboard he found and we proceeded to lose our shit and call everyone we knew and have Napoleon leave long, conversational messages for them. We also found the Pedro soundboard and worked that in, too. Seriously, you would have rolled your eyes at us, but we could not catch our breath we were laughing so hard. Here is the #1 reason why prank calling now is different than before: caller ID. Every single time we left a message for someone, they’d call back approximately seven seconds later and go, “Liiiz…is that you?”

The bridal shower went fabulously. There was food and wine and a punch made of HEAVEN (and vodka) and also one million gifts. I thought it’d be all nighties and earrings, but it was all ice cream makers and dishes, which, yea! Although we had to return most of it to the stores in Denver and I’m picking the same stuff up here in the New York stores. I think that’s the closest we’ve gotten to teleportation.

The wedding was a blast. Aside from Spiderman shaving, there was also the awesomeness that is the choreographed dance. We all learned the dance the morning before the wedding and surprised the couple with it later. A friend pretended he was giving a toast and then: wham! Dancing. Best. Thing. Ever. I kept going, “This is MY dream for MY wedding!” Aahh.

On the flight back, I sat next to a screamy toddler who kept trying to sit in my lap, despite weak protests from her mom. Then the mom gave her a bottle full of Dr. Pepper. Then the flight attendant said there were lots of empty seats and we were free to move around, and I don’t think I even bothered with an excuse as ran out of there to an empty row.

Lastly, there is now a 7-11 on the corner near work. They were handing out free donuts and coupons and I felt myself drawn to take everything. I tried to give the free hotdog one away to the old lady in front of me

Liz: Do you eat hotdogs?
Lady: No!
Liz: Me either.
Lady: I don’t even know why I took this.
Liz: Ha ha. Me either.
Lady: I don’t even want this donut!
Liz: I don’t really want mine either.
Lady: I don’t know what’s wrong with me.

Also, does anyone own a digital camcorder? What’s the best one for the best price?

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