A Portrait of Domestic Tranquility

Usually, my boyfriend has to get up very early for work. This morning, he did not have to be in until 10, so he made me very cute eggs and peppers for breakfast. He is very good at sneaking vegetables into my diet.

Right before I left, I told him that one of the things I loved most about him was that I am confident that, in the event of a zombie invasion or apocalypse, he will protect me and our theoretical future children. He then started planning our theoretical future weapons cache.

This is why he is my boyfriend.

Scott Baio is my new Twitter BFF!

On Saturday, I attended our annual Christmanukkah party/gag gift exchange.  I wound up getting a Scott Baio poster and a fart machine.

Of course, I took to Twitter to comment on my good fortune. But then a funny thing happened.  Scott Baio responded to my tweet.  For realz, yo:

Now, you should also know that I grew up watching very little television -- until we moved to Florida when I was almost thirteen, all the television I ever watched was:

1. Saturday morning cartoons;
2. Shows on Friday or Saturday nights when we had a babysitter;
3. Growing Pains (because my mom thought Kirk Cameron looked like my brother);
4. Nickelodeon;
5. General Hospital;
6. reruns of The Brady Bunch and Gilligan's Island when I was home sick;
7. various game shows, also when I was home sick;
8. Romper Room, Sesame Street, and the Electric Company; and
9. whatever I was able to watch at my friends' houses. 

I was forbidden from MTV, and a whole lot of other stuff.  So, while I know about shows like "Joanie loves Chachi" and "Charles in Charge," I can honestly say that I might not have ever seen an entire episode of either.  Pretty much all of my pop culture comes from books and movies.

So, of all the 80's teen heartthrobs in the world (query:  is Scott Baio an 80's heartthrob?  Do I even have the years right?  Did I miss it because I am too young?), Scott Baio was not even on my radar.

I do, however, think it's pretty great that he responds to stuff on Twitter.  It was funny and awesome and totally made my day.

Gift Horse's Mouth

For the record, I have little or no expectation of receiving gifts, pretty much from anyone.  When I was a kid, my dad used to go on business trips and bring me back hotel soap. I genuinely appreciated the token of affection, however meager.  Today it's not much different:  I am genuinely touched when someone thinks of me, even when I don't necessarily understand the thought.

All of this brings me to last week, when I was in New York, and saw my aunt -- who gave me my "birthday present." For those who don't know, my birthday was in the fall, approximately six months ago.  And the present?  Let's just say that it consisted in part of my grandmother's underwear.

Okay, not exactly underwear.  Three half-slips.  Probably vintage.

I am certain that this chain of events was the result of my telling her that I needed something of the sort to wear under a sweaterdress.  In the winter.  And despite the weirdness of it all, it was genuinely quite lovely that my aunt remembered the conversation and then spent the time searching through my grandmother's drawers -- and drawers, ha ha -- to find them for me.

Which then, brings me back to my dad.  The other night, I told him about how, thanks to his sister, I was now in possession of his mother's delicates.  He didn't think it was quite so funny, and he was perplexed by my reaction.

"It's a good thing you think the whole thing is funny.  Personally, I'd be insulted if someone gave me used underwear for my birthday."

"Dad, at least it wasn't real underwear.  And besides, I'm just glad she thinks I'm as skinny as Grandma."

Favorite Jeans

Originally, I was only supposed to be in Florida for a day and a half -- Friday night until Sunday morning. But, on Thursday morning, when I realized that the snow was coming, I changed my plans to leave that afternoon. I ran from work to my condo, threw some stuff in a suitcase, and raced to the airport. I forgot pajamas, but I did manage to remember to pack a few t-shirts, a pair of flip-flops, and my favorite jeans.

The jeans are my favorite jeans, but by no means do they fit me. They are at least three sizes too big; I can put them on and take them off without opening the button. Basically, they are denim sweatpants.

Saturday night, I found out that my flight home was canceled. Sunday morning, I ran to the grocery store with my dad, wearing the jeans and a very large Florida Law t-shirt that I had given him during my first year of law school. When I got back to the house, I walked past a full-length mirror and caught my reflection. I yelled, something to the effect of "Dad, why the hell did you let me go out of the house looking like this?"

He shrugged his shoulders and said that I looked okay in his opinion. But when pressed, he did say that I looked like I was twelve.

On Tuesday, I finally got to fly home. The security lines at Palm Beach International were very long, but I travel enough that I have it down to a science.

Or so I thought.

I remembered to take my liquids out of my bag. I remembered to take off my shoes. I remembered to take everything out of my pockets. My luggage did not set off any alarms. I did not set off any alarms. Still, I got selected for a pat-down. The TSA agent was very kind about it, and let me know that my baggy clothing was the reason. Apparently, people hide all sorts of things in baggy clothing.

My favorite jeans are now retired. I'm going to have to start wearing pants that fit me. For security reasons.

Seeing comedy in tragedy

I very rarely write about former relationships because I was taught that it's not nice to speak ill of the dead. (Just kidding! Or am I . . . .) No really, what I was taught is that if you can't say anything nice, you shouldn't say it at all. And while that rule doesn't apply to when I am sitting around with friends and family trading what seem to be witty barbs, it certainly applies to a written medium, and even more so to one that's as permanent as the internet.

But I keep thinking that there's something inherently comedic in this last breakup. Mostly because (1) I really didn't see it coming at all and (2) the location. And as someone who self-identifies as a writer, I can't get it out of my head without getting it down on paper. It plays out like a screenplay:

Enter scene. Urban IHOP, rainy evening. Girl walks into restaurant, in long coat, umbrella and shopping bags in hand. Sees boyfriend sitting at table, and goes over to him, grabs his hand.

You all can figure out how it goes from there.

The Great Schlep

The Great Schlep from The Great Schlep on Vimeo.

Vice-Presidential Debate Drinking Game

In a surprising bit of awesomeness, TV Guide posted this Vice-Presidential debate drinking game:

The rules are simple. You take a drink....

If Biden:
• refers to John McCain as "a friend" or someone he respects just before trashing him.
• tries in any way to justify the complete failure that is Amtrak.
• has to explain what his son did for a living after law school.
• says any of the following: "climate change," "biofuels," "green," "ethanol," "drilling," "Big Oil," or "Bridge to Nowhere."
• refers to Palin's recent interview with Katie Couric.
• exceeds his time limit.
• mentions the number of years of experience he has.
• makes any allusions to the pregnancy of Palin's daughter Bristol.
• displays righteous anger.
• suggests a title for Larry Flynt's Sarah Palin-themed adult film.

If Palin:
• invokes McCain's POW history
• mentions her husband or any of her children by name (make it a double if she says "Track in Iraq").
• says any of the following: "pitbull," "lipstick," "hockey mom," "Joe Six-Pack," "maverick," "barracuda," "glass ceiling," or "plagiarism."
• says "gosh," "gee," "golly," "darn," "heck" or any other homespun curse euphemism.
• evades answering a question.
• cries poverty.
• is actually carrying a firearm.
• cites Russia's proximity to Alaska or talks about her great love for the state of Israel in response to a question about foreign policy (been there, done that!).
• mentions by name any animal species native to her home state.
• is wearing a suit that costs more than her plane.

If either candidate:
• says any of the following: "change," "God," "hope," "Beltway," "insider," "lobbyist," "energy," or "Bush."
• says "Delaware" or "Alaska" in a funny accent to sound folksy.
• invokes the specter of Hillary Clinton's presidential campaign.
• actually curses.
• says "Wall Street" and "Main Street" in the same sentence.
• uses hyperbole to talk about the current financial crisis.
• says, "Let me finish."
• mispronounces the name of a world leader.
• milks the crowd for applause.
• mentions Tina Fey.

I am sure that I will have one heck of a headache tomorrow.

Politics and Gender

I've been avoiding politics like the plague this year, but everyone keeps talking about Sarah Palin. Of course, those in the know are now talking about Jon Stewart talking about Sarah Palin:



This made me laugh. But this made me think:

I don't care about how Sarah Palin or John McCain take care of their families. I care about how their policy choices affect my family and millions of other Americans.

McCain and Palin get their health insurance paid for by the government (hers in Alaska and his in Washington). Yet they oppose giving the nearly 46 million uninsured Americans the same access to affordable health care.

John McCain's kids don't have to worry about paying for college. Yet he has opposed every single education support program to help others.

McCain and Palin say they will stand up to oil companies. Yet the only energy policy they support gives millions of dollars in tax breaks to oil companies to do more drilling and he has opposed every piece of federal legislation to explore alternative fuel sources.

McCain and Palin say they will revamp how Washington does business. Yet his campaign is filled with lobbyists and she has cooperated with Sen. Ted Stevens in funneling federal money for useless projects in Alaska for years. And McCain and Palin have no solutions for Americans worrying about their jobs in a fragile economy.

McCain and Palin want us to leave their families alone. Yet they want to make rules for our families by eliminating our right to make our own choices over abortion, eliminate our access to family planning education or domestic partner benefits, and our freedom from discrimination.

They want to control what our kids learn in school about sex and about science. In short, through the policies they promote and the judges they support, they want the government to have more control over our private lives than at any time in history.

McCain and Palin now say their campaign is about change, too. Yet the only real change they have proposed is a change from a suit to a skirt in the vice president's office and one man fighting a misplaced war for another in the Oval Office.

Ms. Rosen is absolutely right: Talking about Sarah Palin's family or debating about how much experience is enough is a waste of time. It's the policies that matter. And, for the record, there wasn't a lot of that in any of the speeches this week.

Move in progress

I ran out of boxes at about midnight, and my kitchen wasn't yet packed. (Not to mention the closet, but let's not even go there.) So, I set the alarm for 5:30, woke up, moved the wash into the dryer, and started throwing pillows, blankets, and other bedding into garbage bags. Then, at 8, I went to Staples and bought more boxes. You know how they advertise about it being "easy"? Well, buying boxes at Staples was probably the easiest thing I did all day. It took longer to drive there than to complete the transaction -- and, as a point of reference, the store is 2 miles away.

Anyway, then the movers came. The kitchen was still not packed. By the time they finished loading the stuff that was packed, I had managed to pack one box of dishes and glasses. Boy were they quick! After they left, I tried to take a nap, since my head was pounding due to a lack of sleep and the remnants of the cold from hell -- actually, I'm becoming suspicious that it's a full-blown sinus infection.

So I got up and came back to the old place for the evening, ostensibly to pack the rest of the kitchen, but really to check my email. (Alas, there will be no cable or internet in the new place until Saturday evening.) I'm hoping that I'll be able to get the rest of my stuff packed and brought over to the new place tomorrow, but I'm not holding my breath. And I have until the 31st -- well, really I have until the 29th, because that's when the cleaning lady is coming. Still. . . .

On the drive over, I saw something that made my day. There was a traffic sign that said "Short Weave Area." I laughed out loud, at least until I started sneezing again.

Sleeping through it all

My dad came to visit over the weekend. On Monday, he insisted that I drop him off a the airport what I consider to be very early -- 90 minutes before his flight. I then went to go run errands, and late that evening, realized that he hadn't called me to let me know he had made it back home. But it was too late to call, so I waited until yesterday.

As it turns out, he didn't make his flight -- not because he got to the airport too late, but because he got there so early. He fell asleep while waiting for his flight to board, and missed the announcement. Lucky for him, Southwest put him on another flight -- through Tampa -- and he got home really late.

Of course I made fun of him. It's what I do.

Cut to this morning. As usual, I was exhausted and running late. I got on the subway heading to my office and -- you guessed it -- fell asleep. I woke up after having missed my transfer station by several stops, and wound up being about an hour late to work.

Amazing powers of observation

Friday morning, on the way into work, I was on the escalator coming out of the Metro station, and I looked down and noticed some girl's sandals.

My first thought was "Those are really cute and they look comfortable."

The second thought was "Oh, they're Tevas."

The third thought was "I am wearing the exact same shoes."

George Carlin

The first thing I read this morning was the news about George Carlin, who, for as long as I can remember, was my favorite comic. And not just because he was in Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure -- one of my favorite movies -- but because he was, at heart, a grammarian. He is one of the first people who got me thinking about words -- sometimes the dirty ones -- in a deeper way.

Here's a story: In 11th grade, some friends and I made a movie. It started out as a bunch of planned out sketches, but eventually broke down into us roaming around the halls, videotaping whatever amused us at the time. And in a tribute to Heathers, we decided to take lunchtime polls. This was right after I discovered George Carlin. So my contribution to the poll questions was first to steal "Why do you park on a driveway and drive on a parkway?" and later, continuing down the linguistic path, to open to random pages of the dictionary and to ask people to come up with definitions of the more unusual words.

Get off of my lawn!

There were annoying tourist kids on Metro tonight when I was on my way home. And it was really late for me, which means it was way too late for kids to be making tons of noise while their parents ignore how they're twirling around on the poles as if they were practicing their routines for when they eventually become strippers in their inevitably sad and pathetic adult lives.

Suddenly, I had this great idea for a t-shirt. On the front it says "I don't hate all children. . . " and on the back it says ". . . Just Yours." I think I'm going to submit it to Threadless.

Anyway, that's when the train stopped and one of the twirling children fell. And shrieked. I laughed out loud. I couldn't help it. I guess I'm an asshole.

Dumped for Obama

On my way home from work, on Metro, I formulated a plan to write a whole big political/tax-geek thing about the failed attempt on a windfall profits tax on the oil industry. But then I got home and realized that I don't really write about politics anymore. People think that I can't because of work, but that's not really true. The truth is that I don't because I just don't have it in me anymore. Things are a mess and our elected officials keep going in circles, which gets us nowhere. And gas prices are over $4.00 a gallon. It's depressing.

But then Caroline sent me this, which made me laugh. And calmed me down. So here it is:

I forget what eight was for, too

more song chart memes

Irony is hard; mocking is easy

If there's one thing I've learned over the past two-plus years, it's that irony requires a deft touch. Especially in written form.

When an author writes about something, and the article turns out to be the best example of the subject, it's not really irony. Well, maybe it's dramatic or situational irony, but it's not truly ironic. And it's not really funny, either.

Case in point: a discourse on the overuse of the word awkward is, for lack of a better word . . . awk-ward.

Phone calls

This afternoon, my Nana called to check up on me. It was a bizarre conversation, almost as if she was cross-examining me. At one point, she said, "Is there anything else I'm supposed to ask you?"

I said "Nana, what are you talking about?"

She said, "Well, when you would talk to your mother, what would she ask you?"

I didn't know whether to laugh or cry. I opted for laughter then, but as I'm typing this I have tears in my eyes. After all, there's something precious and funny -- and at the same time, horribly sad -- about my Nana feeling that she somehow needs to be my mother's conversation replacement. But no one -- not even my determined little grandmother -- could ever be that; it's pointless to even try.

So, I told my Nana about the phone conversations. How I talked to my mother almost every day, about nothing and everything. About how sometimes it was to ask a question, and sometimes it was just to tell her about something I did or something I bought -- but how the conversation never went according to a script.

But I didn't tell Nana about the real point of almost all of the conversations: To make my mother laugh. On the airplane down to Florida exactly two months ago, one of the things I jotted in my notebook was that "She always found my strangeness funny. And I always obliged because I didn't care if she was laughing with me or at me. As long as she was laughing."

At the funeral, I stood up and said some things, most of which I don't really remember. I do, however, know that I said that my mother had the best laugh. And it's that, not the rambling conversations, that I miss the most.

Trial, day 12

Actually, forget about that. The Judge basically kicked us out of her courtroom at noon to address some criminal matters -- which was perfectly fine with me, since I made it back to DC on the 1:14 Acela.

It also meant that it was okay that I stayed up late to watch Jimmy Kimmel, and got to see this video:


For the record, this may be the first time I've ever really liked Sarah Silverman. So funny.

Trial, day 2: puke and funerals

I would blog about trial today, but I was only there for a couple hours. Apparently, when you've been puking for hours, your co-workers really don't want you sitting at counsel table with them.

Yesterday, we told our opponents what was going on, and they said that none of my witnesses were going to come up today, so I could take off for the funeral. This morning, one of their attorneys cornered me on one of my frequent trips to the vomitorium (aka bathroom) and smarmily told me that, "Well, I guess we'll have to readjust our schedules, and you'll have to hope that we don't have to call {your witnesses} while you're out."

I told him that we had cleared the schedule with his co-counsel the day before and that had been assured that there was not going to be a problem. I then ran off to puke, and when I came back, relayed the prior episode to my co-counsel. The only word we could think of was "Dick," but feel free to add your thoughts on synonyms below.

So, when the judge got back, my co-counsel asked the judge that I be excused to attend my grandmother's funeral. She agreed. And while I didn't need for it to be on the official record, it was a good protection against them pulling any shenanigans.

Then I left the courthouse, puking all over beautiful downtown Newark on my way back to the hotel, where I tried to drink some red gatorade, puked some more, and went to my grandmother's funeral. Conveniently enough, the cemetery is only about fifteen minutes away from my hotel. Then, everyone went back to sit at my aunt's friend's mother's house, and I stopped in, drank some more red gatorade, and scurried back to the hotel, for another round of puking.

I am hoping to be done with the puking by the morning. And on that note, I'm going to sleep.

Stupid camera phone

On Metro earlier this evening, I wound up sitting directly behind a woman in a fuzzy royal blue coat.

I looked at her and did a double-take. It looked like her coat was made out of Grover.



Or maybe Cookie Monster.



Heck, maybe it was both of them.

Seriously, though, wearing fur is a fashion faux-pas. But wearing Muppet fur? Ridiculous. (Not to mention challenging. I mean, what kind of shoes would one wear with a Muppet-skin coat?)

So, of course, I tried to take a picture.

Lo and behold, my camera phone picture was totally crappy, a fuzzy-blurry mess. So you're just going to have to take my word for how funny this coat was.

But, while waiting for my dinner, I tried to fix the problem. After several tries, I managed to get one halfway decent picture of this sign:



Eh, it's still not that good. Clearly, my camera phone is shit.