I had a long day of depositions today, and when I finally got back to the office about half an hour before our official "quitting time" (not like I ever really leave that early), one of my coworkers was kind enough to let me know that Metro was closed at Pentagon City. (Turns out he meant the Pentagon, but whatever. It's the thought that counts.)
Being exhausted from two long days of work with a concert in between, I wanted to leave at a reasonable hour tonight. But not wanting to have another episode where I wind up having to take a shuttle bus from Arlington Cemetery, I decided to implement "Plan B." Which is to say, I tried to find my coworker who lives down the street from me in order to convince him to drive me home.
Of course, he was out of the office today.
So then there's "Plan C," which is to keep checking Metro's website obsessively until it no longer reports a problem at the Pentagon or any residual delays on Blue or Yellow lines.
Riiiiight. But then, when I walk over to the Gallery Place station, the sign indicates that there's a delay on the Green Line -- meaning that it would be standing room only on the platform.
So, I move on to "Plan D." And that plan involved going to the Ann Taylor Loft and trying on suits, ultimately hoping that when I was finished, my credit card balance would not be nearly as nauseating as a rush hour crowd dealing with train delays.
So what's worse? Getting home at five 'til eight with a new suit or getting home ninety minutes earlier all stressed out from a horrible day in the Metro? All things being equal, I think I'll take the suit and the reduced stress.
Tuesday, November 06, 2007
Monday, November 05, 2007
Remember, remember the fifth of November
In celebration of Guy Fawkes Night, I will not be lighting bonfires or setting off fireworks.
Instead, I'm going to The Police concert.
Instead, I'm going to The Police concert.
Sunday, November 04, 2007
Thursday, November 01, 2007
November promises
One of these Novembers, I will actually write a novel. And one of these Novembers, I will post on the blog every single day.
But it won't be November, 2007.
It just isn't feasible, considering the amount of work that I need to get done between now and the end of the month. Not to mention that November means taking time off for Thanksgiving.
So, instead, I'm going to make November promises that I can keep.
First, I'm going to promise to blog less, not more. Especially when I'm out of town. I'm sure everyone will miss me, but you'll get over it. And in return, I'll strive for quality, not quantity.
Second, I'm going to watch more tv. After all, it is November sweeps. This, of course, includes finally watching the Freaks and Geeks box set, so that I can get around to watching my new DVDs of My So-Called Life and the third season of Veronica Mars. Plus, all that tv will keep me out of trouble when I'm in random hotels in random cities.
Of course, the down side of this is that it'll probably mean less time in the gym, but -- here's the fun part -- I DON'T REALLY CARE!
I also promise to do something about the piles of mail on my desk -- both at home and at work.
And finally, I'm going to promise to not be sad or morose on my birthday. I'm going to treat it just like any other busy work day -- although I'm hoping that it'll be the kind of day that ends in yellow cake with chocolate frosting.
But it won't be November, 2007.
It just isn't feasible, considering the amount of work that I need to get done between now and the end of the month. Not to mention that November means taking time off for Thanksgiving.
So, instead, I'm going to make November promises that I can keep.
First, I'm going to promise to blog less, not more. Especially when I'm out of town. I'm sure everyone will miss me, but you'll get over it. And in return, I'll strive for quality, not quantity.
Second, I'm going to watch more tv. After all, it is November sweeps. This, of course, includes finally watching the Freaks and Geeks box set, so that I can get around to watching my new DVDs of My So-Called Life and the third season of Veronica Mars. Plus, all that tv will keep me out of trouble when I'm in random hotels in random cities.
Of course, the down side of this is that it'll probably mean less time in the gym, but -- here's the fun part -- I DON'T REALLY CARE!
I also promise to do something about the piles of mail on my desk -- both at home and at work.
And finally, I'm going to promise to not be sad or morose on my birthday. I'm going to treat it just like any other busy work day -- although I'm hoping that it'll be the kind of day that ends in yellow cake with chocolate frosting.
Wednesday, October 31, 2007
The diet starts again, tomorrow
I was so good at dieting for so long, but I've been cheating on my diet nonstop since Friday night. Here, in chronological order, are the bad things that I have eaten.
1. Cornbread;
2. Chili;
3. Breadsticks;
4. Mrs. Fields oatmeal raisin cookie;
5. Half of my mom's brownie;
6. Pizza;
7. Mini quiche;
8. Penne in vodka sauce;
9. Wedding cake;
10. Colored rock sugar;
11. Mints;
12. Rye toast;
13. Plain M&Ms;
14. Pizza and cheesesticks;
15. Special K bar;
16. Brown rice;
17. Milk chocolate Hershey bar with almonds;
18. Leftover pizza and cheesesticks;
19. Special K bar;
20. Wild rice;
21. Peanut M&Ms;
22. Linguine with mushrooms;
23. Reese's Peanut Butter Cup; and
24. Kit Kat.
(Amongst these unhealthy things I have had a total of three salads, a few bites of steak, and a crabcake.)
It should surprise no one when I admit that I feel like total crap. I'm sure it's because I've gotten so used to not eating junk food that my body can't handle it anymore -- at least not all at once or in these kind of quantities.
So, I am done with the junk food, as of right now. I will not be buying candy tomorrow, even if it is on clearance. I will not be eating any candy that anyone brings into the office or even into my apartment. And I am totally over pizza and pasta.
White flour and sugar are, once again, the enemy.
1. Cornbread;
2. Chili;
3. Breadsticks;
4. Mrs. Fields oatmeal raisin cookie;
5. Half of my mom's brownie;
6. Pizza;
7. Mini quiche;
8. Penne in vodka sauce;
9. Wedding cake;
10. Colored rock sugar;
11. Mints;
12. Rye toast;
13. Plain M&Ms;
14. Pizza and cheesesticks;
15. Special K bar;
16. Brown rice;
17. Milk chocolate Hershey bar with almonds;
18. Leftover pizza and cheesesticks;
19. Special K bar;
20. Wild rice;
21. Peanut M&Ms;
22. Linguine with mushrooms;
23. Reese's Peanut Butter Cup; and
24. Kit Kat.
(Amongst these unhealthy things I have had a total of three salads, a few bites of steak, and a crabcake.)
It should surprise no one when I admit that I feel like total crap. I'm sure it's because I've gotten so used to not eating junk food that my body can't handle it anymore -- at least not all at once or in these kind of quantities.
So, I am done with the junk food, as of right now. I will not be buying candy tomorrow, even if it is on clearance. I will not be eating any candy that anyone brings into the office or even into my apartment. And I am totally over pizza and pasta.
White flour and sugar are, once again, the enemy.
Tuesday, October 30, 2007
Halloween costumes
Halloween has always been one of my favorite holidays, seeing as it does not require any kind of prayer, but instead involves free candy (preferably chocolate), and dressing up in fun costumes. But I never wanted to wear a scary costume for Halloween -- I only wanted to be cute or pretty things. My mother has pictures of me in some random 1970's costumes, but the first costume that I really remember was Cinderella, when I was in kindergarten. I had a pink and blue plastic dress and a mask with blond hair.
A couple of years later, fourth grade, I remember dressing up like Cyndi Lauper, with pink hair. It was followed by Madonna the next year -- a very tame Madonna. I mean, even though my mother let me go to school in pink leather pants, she would never have let me out of the house in anything really indecent.
Several years later, in what was either late middle school or early high school, I acquired a French maid's costume, complete with black fishnets and a feather duster. (Yes, I still have that costume. No, I haven't really seriously thought of wearing it in years.) Looking back on that, it was probably age inappropriate, although perhaps not quite as bad as the preteens discussed in the Post article or the women described in the New York Times. I mean, at least it covered my midriff. Still, I'm sure it wasn't exactly the type of attire that my parents wanted their young daughter to be parading around the neighborhood in.
I guess I grew out of that, because nowadays, I tend to go for funny pop-culture costumes: Punky Brewster, Minnie Mouse pajamas with feet and a baby bottle, and the Axl Rose half of Slash & Axl. But, sadly, this will be the second year in a row that I'm not dressing up. I mean, the day that I would have dressed up -- Saturday -- I was in Rhode Island, watching the World Series with my grandmother, mother, uncle, aunt, and 5 1/2 year old cousin, getting ready for a wedding the next afternoon. And tomorrow? It's a Wednesday, a work day. What would I possibly have enough energy to do?
So, instead, for the second year in a row, I think I'm going to the movies, to see The Nightmare Before Christmas in 3-D. I hope someone brings candy.
Update: I love this slideshow of Halloween costumes based on Bob Dylan songs. Maybe next year.
A couple of years later, fourth grade, I remember dressing up like Cyndi Lauper, with pink hair. It was followed by Madonna the next year -- a very tame Madonna. I mean, even though my mother let me go to school in pink leather pants, she would never have let me out of the house in anything really indecent.
Several years later, in what was either late middle school or early high school, I acquired a French maid's costume, complete with black fishnets and a feather duster. (Yes, I still have that costume. No, I haven't really seriously thought of wearing it in years.) Looking back on that, it was probably age inappropriate, although perhaps not quite as bad as the preteens discussed in the Post article or the women described in the New York Times. I mean, at least it covered my midriff. Still, I'm sure it wasn't exactly the type of attire that my parents wanted their young daughter to be parading around the neighborhood in.
I guess I grew out of that, because nowadays, I tend to go for funny pop-culture costumes: Punky Brewster, Minnie Mouse pajamas with feet and a baby bottle, and the Axl Rose half of Slash & Axl. But, sadly, this will be the second year in a row that I'm not dressing up. I mean, the day that I would have dressed up -- Saturday -- I was in Rhode Island, watching the World Series with my grandmother, mother, uncle, aunt, and 5 1/2 year old cousin, getting ready for a wedding the next afternoon. And tomorrow? It's a Wednesday, a work day. What would I possibly have enough energy to do?
So, instead, for the second year in a row, I think I'm going to the movies, to see The Nightmare Before Christmas in 3-D. I hope someone brings candy.
Update: I love this slideshow of Halloween costumes based on Bob Dylan songs. Maybe next year.
Thursday, October 25, 2007
Why I need a notebook
(ed. note: This was originally written the old-fashioned way and transcribed. It was interrupted in the middle by the need to board the aircraft.)
On the road in the middle of nowhere -- actually, to be precise, sitting in an airport somewhere in the Southwestern U.S., about to get on the last leg of my flight home -- it suddenly occurs to me that I'm the type of girl who needs to travel with a notebook. No, not a notebook computer. An actual honest-to-god paper notebook. I have a lot of thoughts, you see -- and my work computer's wireless card stopped working mid-trip.
As it stands, I have one remaining page in the back of a legal pad. Well, that's not exactly true either. I have most of a page, since I used the upper left-hand corner to do some rudimentary mid-deposition math.
I spend a considerable amount of time in airports. I think that if you add up all the time I spend in airports and airplanes during a calendar year, and average it out, then I spend no less than four days of each calendar year in the process of air travel. While that only computes to about 1% of each year, it adds up to a significant portion of my life.
I have flying down to a science -- what to pack, what to wear, when to carry on my bags, when to check my bags, how to prepare for security screening. Although maybe it's not really a science -- it's more of an art form. But whatever it is, I know how to do it. (I have been known to get it wrong, though.) And then, once I'm through security, I sit and wait and observe. Which brings us back to the notebook. I need a notebook for times like these, to record my observations, before the constant churning of my thoughts moves onto the next fleeting thing, and I forget the things I've seen and heard, the things that make me laugh and ask questions. There are a lot of those thoughts, especially on days like today -- a day that started hours before the sun was even up -- before the hotel even started serving breakfast, and which will involve three cities and hours of flying time.
If I had a notebook today, for example, I could have started by writing excruciating detail about my breakfast. McDonald's. Which was the only thing open in the entire airport. And about how it was the first time since childhood that I ate a "Big Breakfast" -- which is really not so big, especially if you only eat the eggs and sausage. And I could question how they somehow managed to make the eggs so bland that they taste like nothing, or perhaps describe the looks of horror aimed at me for ordering a large Diet Coke at that ungodly hour of the morning.
Or I could write about the girl I saw in the rust-colored L.A.M.B. velour sweatsuit, and how her hair was dyed a very fake orangey color -- which resulted in her having the overall appearance of a carrot. From there, I would probably venture onto a discourse on how those sweatsuits, especially the ones with the words on the ass, do no favors for anyone's figure. I would probably also note how people need to learn the difference between "outside clothing" and "inside clothing." Not that I am entirely without sin on that one.
I could have told the detailed story of how I killed the bug in the hotel bathroom with my hair mousse, or how weird it was that yesterday, a beautiful day, I was walking outside in the downtown section of a major metropolitan area, but only saw five cars and two people.
I could also express my utter confusion as to why anyone would wear a ten-gallon hat on an airplane. Seems very uncomfortable.
Or I could comment on how cheap the airlines are -- not giving out peanuts or pretzels anymore, instead charging $3 for a candy bar. And how it must totally stink to be one of the people who agreed to take the next flight out for a $150 credit, when the next set of people were given $300. Or how all of the people who agreed to fly out later to resolve the "weight balancing issues" were all skinny. Go figure.
I could attempt to figure out why I always wind up writing in the margins, sometimes even around the corners, having to tie my thoughts together with lines and arrows, and sometimes even circles, when it's one of my pet peeves. And I might even question why rollerball pens explode on airplanes, especially since all of my other pens mysteriously stop working mid-flight.
But if I had a notebook, and a pen that worked, maybe I could find words to describe the beauty of how, when flying over a lake or another body of water, it first looks like a cloud, and then it looks like snow (maybe a glacier?) and then a shimmering piece of silver foil, and then -- only when you're directly over it -- you can see that it's water, with an infinite number of teeny tiny little ripples on the surface. And if I could find the right adjectives for that, I could certainly describe how gigantic and beautiful the full moon was on the way to the airport just before the crack of dawn.
But then there's the practical stuff. Like making a list of the things I need to pack for my trip that stars forty-five hours after my last flight of the day ends. Or figuring out how I managed to keep my .mp3 player and computer in my carry-on bag, while leaving my keys and headphones in my checked suitcase. And how by violating my own three-book rule, I wound up having to buy a new book. But I only have this one page, and I'm already at the end.
On the road in the middle of nowhere -- actually, to be precise, sitting in an airport somewhere in the Southwestern U.S., about to get on the last leg of my flight home -- it suddenly occurs to me that I'm the type of girl who needs to travel with a notebook. No, not a notebook computer. An actual honest-to-god paper notebook. I have a lot of thoughts, you see -- and my work computer's wireless card stopped working mid-trip.
As it stands, I have one remaining page in the back of a legal pad. Well, that's not exactly true either. I have most of a page, since I used the upper left-hand corner to do some rudimentary mid-deposition math.
I spend a considerable amount of time in airports. I think that if you add up all the time I spend in airports and airplanes during a calendar year, and average it out, then I spend no less than four days of each calendar year in the process of air travel. While that only computes to about 1% of each year, it adds up to a significant portion of my life.
I have flying down to a science -- what to pack, what to wear, when to carry on my bags, when to check my bags, how to prepare for security screening. Although maybe it's not really a science -- it's more of an art form. But whatever it is, I know how to do it. (I have been known to get it wrong, though.) And then, once I'm through security, I sit and wait and observe. Which brings us back to the notebook. I need a notebook for times like these, to record my observations, before the constant churning of my thoughts moves onto the next fleeting thing, and I forget the things I've seen and heard, the things that make me laugh and ask questions. There are a lot of those thoughts, especially on days like today -- a day that started hours before the sun was even up -- before the hotel even started serving breakfast, and which will involve three cities and hours of flying time.
If I had a notebook today, for example, I could have started by writing excruciating detail about my breakfast. McDonald's. Which was the only thing open in the entire airport. And about how it was the first time since childhood that I ate a "Big Breakfast" -- which is really not so big, especially if you only eat the eggs and sausage. And I could question how they somehow managed to make the eggs so bland that they taste like nothing, or perhaps describe the looks of horror aimed at me for ordering a large Diet Coke at that ungodly hour of the morning.
Or I could write about the girl I saw in the rust-colored L.A.M.B. velour sweatsuit, and how her hair was dyed a very fake orangey color -- which resulted in her having the overall appearance of a carrot. From there, I would probably venture onto a discourse on how those sweatsuits, especially the ones with the words on the ass, do no favors for anyone's figure. I would probably also note how people need to learn the difference between "outside clothing" and "inside clothing." Not that I am entirely without sin on that one.
I could have told the detailed story of how I killed the bug in the hotel bathroom with my hair mousse, or how weird it was that yesterday, a beautiful day, I was walking outside in the downtown section of a major metropolitan area, but only saw five cars and two people.
I could also express my utter confusion as to why anyone would wear a ten-gallon hat on an airplane. Seems very uncomfortable.
Or I could comment on how cheap the airlines are -- not giving out peanuts or pretzels anymore, instead charging $3 for a candy bar. And how it must totally stink to be one of the people who agreed to take the next flight out for a $150 credit, when the next set of people were given $300. Or how all of the people who agreed to fly out later to resolve the "weight balancing issues" were all skinny. Go figure.
I could attempt to figure out why I always wind up writing in the margins, sometimes even around the corners, having to tie my thoughts together with lines and arrows, and sometimes even circles, when it's one of my pet peeves. And I might even question why rollerball pens explode on airplanes, especially since all of my other pens mysteriously stop working mid-flight.
But if I had a notebook, and a pen that worked, maybe I could find words to describe the beauty of how, when flying over a lake or another body of water, it first looks like a cloud, and then it looks like snow (maybe a glacier?) and then a shimmering piece of silver foil, and then -- only when you're directly over it -- you can see that it's water, with an infinite number of teeny tiny little ripples on the surface. And if I could find the right adjectives for that, I could certainly describe how gigantic and beautiful the full moon was on the way to the airport just before the crack of dawn.
But then there's the practical stuff. Like making a list of the things I need to pack for my trip that stars forty-five hours after my last flight of the day ends. Or figuring out how I managed to keep my .mp3 player and computer in my carry-on bag, while leaving my keys and headphones in my checked suitcase. And how by violating my own three-book rule, I wound up having to buy a new book. But I only have this one page, and I'm already at the end.
Tuesday, October 23, 2007
Food for thought
When I travel, I have food issues.
It's a multiple-part dilemma. First of all, I'm somewhat of a food snob. I like nice places, not dives. And most of the time, I like "safe" places and somewhat "safe" dishes -- food and places that I know are not going to make me sick. As a result, I like names that I know -- but at the same time, I hate chain restaurants. I know, that's somewhat of an oxymoron, but it's the truth.
The other problem is that I try to eat healthy. I don't always succeed, but I try.
What this means is that I take the recommendations of the hotel, and then usually wind up somewhere having the exact same thing -- a grilled chicken salad. Every once in a while, I'll get a steak or salmon, and before I was reducing my carb intake, I would go for Italian food -- but I've come to find that it's hard for a place to get a plain ol' grilled chicken salad wrong.
So now I'm stuck in a town that I dislike, having just eaten a boring grilled chicken salad. I'm hoping to find something more appealing tomorrow night. Any suggestions?
It's a multiple-part dilemma. First of all, I'm somewhat of a food snob. I like nice places, not dives. And most of the time, I like "safe" places and somewhat "safe" dishes -- food and places that I know are not going to make me sick. As a result, I like names that I know -- but at the same time, I hate chain restaurants. I know, that's somewhat of an oxymoron, but it's the truth.
The other problem is that I try to eat healthy. I don't always succeed, but I try.
What this means is that I take the recommendations of the hotel, and then usually wind up somewhere having the exact same thing -- a grilled chicken salad. Every once in a while, I'll get a steak or salmon, and before I was reducing my carb intake, I would go for Italian food -- but I've come to find that it's hard for a place to get a plain ol' grilled chicken salad wrong.
So now I'm stuck in a town that I dislike, having just eaten a boring grilled chicken salad. I'm hoping to find something more appealing tomorrow night. Any suggestions?
Monday, October 22, 2007
Whatever the opposite of customer satisfaction is
My North American Tour starts in twelve hours or so.
Already, it's hit its first snag. Today, I hung up on an airline. Seriously.
You see, I have plane tickets this weekend, to go to Rhode Island for a family thing. (My cousin's wedding, to be specific.) I booked these tickets months ago, flying out on Saturday, back on Monday. I was planning on taking a day off work.
Today, I found out I have to be in Boston on Monday afternoon for work. As much as I'd rather have the day off, it's really not a big deal -- especially when I consider that it'll save me a couple of hours of travel time, since I was already going to be about an hour away. So, I call the airline and attempt to explain the situation -- I have a ticket to fly from Providence to DC on Monday afternoon, and won't be using it. Instead, I need a shuttle ticket to fly from Boston back to DC.
They couldn't help me. So, I decided that I'd book a one-way ticket back from Boston through work, and I told the airline that I wasn't going to use my return ticket from Providence. They told me it would cost about $200 to change my roundtrip to a one-way, not including the $100 change fee.
I laughed at them at first. "You mean it will cost me less to not use my ticket?"
She didn't laugh back. "That's what I just explained."
"Then never mind."
Since I was already on the phone with her, I dared to ask about my Thanksgiving trip -- because, as it stands, I will not be making it back from my least favorite Southwestern city in time to catch my flight to Florida. But this time it wasn't $300 to change the whole thing -- it was closer to $1000.
My response was "Great. Don't bother. I'll find an airline that wants to work with me." I then hung up before she could respond.
So, I went on the work website and booked my shuttle flight from Boston, and the last trip of the tour, which currently consists of one way from DC to my least-favorite city, and another one way from that city to Florida. It wound up costing less than the contract fare.
Now I have two plane tickets that will go unused. And it's entirely the airline's fault. This is not a good business model. No wonder airlines keep having to file for bankruptcy.
Already, it's hit its first snag. Today, I hung up on an airline. Seriously.
You see, I have plane tickets this weekend, to go to Rhode Island for a family thing. (My cousin's wedding, to be specific.) I booked these tickets months ago, flying out on Saturday, back on Monday. I was planning on taking a day off work.
Today, I found out I have to be in Boston on Monday afternoon for work. As much as I'd rather have the day off, it's really not a big deal -- especially when I consider that it'll save me a couple of hours of travel time, since I was already going to be about an hour away. So, I call the airline and attempt to explain the situation -- I have a ticket to fly from Providence to DC on Monday afternoon, and won't be using it. Instead, I need a shuttle ticket to fly from Boston back to DC.
They couldn't help me. So, I decided that I'd book a one-way ticket back from Boston through work, and I told the airline that I wasn't going to use my return ticket from Providence. They told me it would cost about $200 to change my roundtrip to a one-way, not including the $100 change fee.
I laughed at them at first. "You mean it will cost me less to not use my ticket?"
She didn't laugh back. "That's what I just explained."
"Then never mind."
Since I was already on the phone with her, I dared to ask about my Thanksgiving trip -- because, as it stands, I will not be making it back from my least favorite Southwestern city in time to catch my flight to Florida. But this time it wasn't $300 to change the whole thing -- it was closer to $1000.
My response was "Great. Don't bother. I'll find an airline that wants to work with me." I then hung up before she could respond.
So, I went on the work website and booked my shuttle flight from Boston, and the last trip of the tour, which currently consists of one way from DC to my least-favorite city, and another one way from that city to Florida. It wound up costing less than the contract fare.
Now I have two plane tickets that will go unused. And it's entirely the airline's fault. This is not a good business model. No wonder airlines keep having to file for bankruptcy.
Friday, October 19, 2007
Rain, rain go away. Seriously. I want to go home.
It is pouring outside and, as a consequence, I am stuck at my office at almost 10:00 on a Friday night.
The sad thing is that I'm stuck at the office because of my own stupidity. Not because I did anything wrong, mind you -- but because, after my evening plans were canceled, I decided to stay a little late to finish up some things -- and then one thing led to another, and all of a sudden, it was 8:00. Then I looked outside, and it was pouring. So I decided to wait until the rain let up.
Big mistake. It's only gotten worse. And according to the weather report, the big dark yellow heavy downpour area is going to be over here for a while.
So, now I'm going to run outside and hope to not get too soaked, right? It's not like I have any other choice in the matter, at least if I don't want to stay here all night.
I know we're all praying for rain, but this stinks.
The sad thing is that I'm stuck at the office because of my own stupidity. Not because I did anything wrong, mind you -- but because, after my evening plans were canceled, I decided to stay a little late to finish up some things -- and then one thing led to another, and all of a sudden, it was 8:00. Then I looked outside, and it was pouring. So I decided to wait until the rain let up.
Big mistake. It's only gotten worse. And according to the weather report, the big dark yellow heavy downpour area is going to be over here for a while.
So, now I'm going to run outside and hope to not get too soaked, right? It's not like I have any other choice in the matter, at least if I don't want to stay here all night.
I know we're all praying for rain, but this stinks.
Thursday, October 18, 2007
Joe Torre
Let me begin by stating that, despite disliking the Yankees, Joe Torre is my new hero. To work for a franchise and in a city where you're always going to be the scapegoat -- blamed for the bad and ignored about the good -- has got to get to a person, yet he did it with class and dignity. Even if you hate the team, you have got to respect that.
And then there is that whole leading the team to four Championships and nine straight division championships thing. Sure, the Yankees haven't won in a while -- but it's not his fault. (See, e.g., Jeter, Derek and his surprisingly low 2007 postseason batting average.)
But I digress. To have your job threatened in the middle of the postseason, and then left guessing for days on end is bad enough, but then, to have the ownership insult you with a low-ball contract offer is insulting. It takes guts to walk away from a job you clearly love, with millions of dollars on the table. But clearly the payoff was not worth the hassle.
Good for you, Joe.
And then there is that whole leading the team to four Championships and nine straight division championships thing. Sure, the Yankees haven't won in a while -- but it's not his fault. (See, e.g., Jeter, Derek and his surprisingly low 2007 postseason batting average.)
But I digress. To have your job threatened in the middle of the postseason, and then left guessing for days on end is bad enough, but then, to have the ownership insult you with a low-ball contract offer is insulting. It takes guts to walk away from a job you clearly love, with millions of dollars on the table. But clearly the payoff was not worth the hassle.
Good for you, Joe.
Wednesday, October 17, 2007
Airline schedules stink
In the coming weeks, I'm going to be traveling a lot. By my count, I have five trips between now and Thanksgiving, not including Thanksgiving, and two trips thereafter. All but two -- including Thanksgiving -- are work trips. I am referring to this period of my life as my "World Tour." In actuality, it's a North American Tour, but why split hairs?
Today, I went to go book the first of the work trips, to a large city in the southwestern part of the country. Because of where I work, not only is it budget-constrained, but we have contracts with various airlines, and we can only get exceptions for very limited purposes. The city to which I'm going is a hub for one airline -- but said airline is not one of our contracted airlines. So, I have to take a connecting flight, which means, that, at a minimum, my trip will take around six hours. Which also means that, if I don't want to spend an extra night in a hotel, I'll have to be prepared to leave the downtown area around 2pm. Ultimately, the sum of this is that I will have to (1) stay two nights -- the day before and the day after my eight-hour long work event, and (2) ask someone else in my office to cover something for me on my travel day.
This, while very very annoying, is moderately acceptable. What will be unacceptable is when a very similar trip screws with my Thanksgiving plans.
Today, I went to go book the first of the work trips, to a large city in the southwestern part of the country. Because of where I work, not only is it budget-constrained, but we have contracts with various airlines, and we can only get exceptions for very limited purposes. The city to which I'm going is a hub for one airline -- but said airline is not one of our contracted airlines. So, I have to take a connecting flight, which means, that, at a minimum, my trip will take around six hours. Which also means that, if I don't want to spend an extra night in a hotel, I'll have to be prepared to leave the downtown area around 2pm. Ultimately, the sum of this is that I will have to (1) stay two nights -- the day before and the day after my eight-hour long work event, and (2) ask someone else in my office to cover something for me on my travel day.
This, while very very annoying, is moderately acceptable. What will be unacceptable is when a very similar trip screws with my Thanksgiving plans.
Tuesday, October 16, 2007
A glimpse into my worklife
I left work kind of early -- for me at least -- today. Technically, our work day lasts from 9:00 am to 5:30 pm. In all honesty, I can't remember when I've ever gotten in at 9:00 or left at 5:30 -- I'm more of a 9:30 to 6:30 kind of girl. But I've been staying a little later than that pretty much all month -- for example, last night, I left at around 8:10, since I got home at 8:30.
Granted, some of it is that I've been really busy, but a large part of it is that, after my time at the anonymous law firm, I feel guilty leaving the office while it's still light outside. I know I shouldn't -- after all, I get more accomplished in a short day at my current job than I ever did in 8 billable hours.
Today, though, was painful. It all started with an office meeting -- a very long meeting, that, while productive, presented the opportunity for the bosses to discuss their preferred procedures for getting work done, and for various co-workers to complain about the implementation of those procedures. All in all, it was like Festivus for airing workflow grievances.
Afterwards, I got pulled into a lengthy follow-up discussion with some of the assistants where they griped about the things discussed at the meeting, and the difficulties of working with the attorneys in the office. As the sole representative attorney, I listened patiently, nodded my head, expressed appropriate confusion, and even chuckled where appropriate. Most importantly, I made a mental note of something that, while basic to me, most others in my office seem to miss: It's not about the work; it's all about how you deal with people.
If you're nice, and you're patient, and you talk to the support staff like they are your equals, they will like to work for you, even if they don't particularly like the work. If you yell at them, or talk down to them, or blame them for mistakes, then they will not want to do anything for you -- and getting what you need will be like pulling teeth.
It was lunchtime when this was over, and by that point, I was so worn out that I could have gone home then and there. I'm surprised I made it until 6.
Granted, some of it is that I've been really busy, but a large part of it is that, after my time at the anonymous law firm, I feel guilty leaving the office while it's still light outside. I know I shouldn't -- after all, I get more accomplished in a short day at my current job than I ever did in 8 billable hours.
Today, though, was painful. It all started with an office meeting -- a very long meeting, that, while productive, presented the opportunity for the bosses to discuss their preferred procedures for getting work done, and for various co-workers to complain about the implementation of those procedures. All in all, it was like Festivus for airing workflow grievances.
Afterwards, I got pulled into a lengthy follow-up discussion with some of the assistants where they griped about the things discussed at the meeting, and the difficulties of working with the attorneys in the office. As the sole representative attorney, I listened patiently, nodded my head, expressed appropriate confusion, and even chuckled where appropriate. Most importantly, I made a mental note of something that, while basic to me, most others in my office seem to miss: It's not about the work; it's all about how you deal with people.
If you're nice, and you're patient, and you talk to the support staff like they are your equals, they will like to work for you, even if they don't particularly like the work. If you yell at them, or talk down to them, or blame them for mistakes, then they will not want to do anything for you -- and getting what you need will be like pulling teeth.
It was lunchtime when this was over, and by that point, I was so worn out that I could have gone home then and there. I'm surprised I made it until 6.
Monday, October 15, 2007
Jumping on the "Rocktober" bandwagon
I was going to write something all serious about today being Blog Action Day, and how this year, it's supposed to focus on the environment -- but I just got distracted by the Colorado Rockies' 4th inning 6-run offensive barrage.
Damn, this team is good! They were in fourth place in mid-September, and now they're in the process of winning their 21st of 22 games. Consider me officially on the bandwagon.
I will go so far as to say that, absent a good reason (i.e. you grew up rooting for the Diamondbacks or you are allergic to purple and black), it is unAmerican to be rooting for anyone else right now.
I want a t-shirt.
Too bad it's so late here, because I don't want to turn off the tv.
Damn, this team is good! They were in fourth place in mid-September, and now they're in the process of winning their 21st of 22 games. Consider me officially on the bandwagon.
I will go so far as to say that, absent a good reason (i.e. you grew up rooting for the Diamondbacks or you are allergic to purple and black), it is unAmerican to be rooting for anyone else right now.
I want a t-shirt.
Too bad it's so late here, because I don't want to turn off the tv.
Sunday, October 14, 2007
Poor weekend time management
Earlier today, I was thinking I would write about this article -- about this book -- and how I think it's a little strange to think about punk rock and Judaism together.
But then I started watching the baseball game and talking to my brother on the phone . . . . And now it's approaching midnight, and I still haven't washed my dishes or folded my laundry -- and I'm in no shape to think about anything critically, let alone Judaism and punk rock. It's always amazing how time manages to slip away from me.
But at least the Rockies won.
But then I started watching the baseball game and talking to my brother on the phone . . . . And now it's approaching midnight, and I still haven't washed my dishes or folded my laundry -- and I'm in no shape to think about anything critically, let alone Judaism and punk rock. It's always amazing how time manages to slip away from me.
But at least the Rockies won.
Saturday, October 13, 2007
Salsa Dancing vs. Football
Early tonight, before I realized how awful the event we were in the process of heading towards was going to be, I offhandedly joked that, "You can only open your mind so much before your brain falls out."
Boy, was that prophetic. Being open-minded can come back to bite you in the ass.
You see, tonight I was convinced to go to some random nightclub in the middle of ghetto Arlington for salsa dancing lessons. Not only that, this was a nightclub with a dress code -- no jeans, no sneakers. So, I did what any girl would do -- I primped. I took my hair out of the ponytail. I put on eyeliner and mascara. I wore a dress. Heck, I even wore a push-up bra -- and trust me, the girls looked good.
Sadly, it was a waste of all of the effort. The nightclub, for lack of a better word, stunk. It was pretty much empty. And, to the extent that there were people there, there were way more women there than men -- which was not entirely unexpected -- but most of the men there were really old. Plus, despite the dress code, many of the people in attendance were, indeed, wearing jeans.
To add insult to injury, they played two Ricky Martin songs before the salsa lessons even started.
So, rather than dancing with an icky old random guy, with one of my female friends, or by myself, I opted to sit down and watch -- figuring that I could put the merengue knowledge to use once I had someone worth merengue-ing with. But within minutes, someone who is even less open-minded than I am convinced me to leave.
So we went to go hang out with another friend, who was watching football at a local sports bar, and then we ate ice cream. Sure I was way overdressed, but it was way more my speed. And way more fun.
The moral of the story is that the next time I feel like dressing up, I'm going to a sports bar instead.
Boy, was that prophetic. Being open-minded can come back to bite you in the ass.
You see, tonight I was convinced to go to some random nightclub in the middle of ghetto Arlington for salsa dancing lessons. Not only that, this was a nightclub with a dress code -- no jeans, no sneakers. So, I did what any girl would do -- I primped. I took my hair out of the ponytail. I put on eyeliner and mascara. I wore a dress. Heck, I even wore a push-up bra -- and trust me, the girls looked good.
Sadly, it was a waste of all of the effort. The nightclub, for lack of a better word, stunk. It was pretty much empty. And, to the extent that there were people there, there were way more women there than men -- which was not entirely unexpected -- but most of the men there were really old. Plus, despite the dress code, many of the people in attendance were, indeed, wearing jeans.
To add insult to injury, they played two Ricky Martin songs before the salsa lessons even started.
So, rather than dancing with an icky old random guy, with one of my female friends, or by myself, I opted to sit down and watch -- figuring that I could put the merengue knowledge to use once I had someone worth merengue-ing with. But within minutes, someone who is even less open-minded than I am convinced me to leave.
So we went to go hang out with another friend, who was watching football at a local sports bar, and then we ate ice cream. Sure I was way overdressed, but it was way more my speed. And way more fun.
The moral of the story is that the next time I feel like dressing up, I'm going to a sports bar instead.
Thursday, October 11, 2007
Regret
A couple months ago, I saw Ann Coulter sitting in the lobby of a hotel in downtown DC, right next to the entrance to the restaurant where my friends and I had gone to dinner.
She was talking on her cellphone, and, at the time, seemed just like any other generic little blond-haired bimbo. In fact, I probably wouldn't have even noticed her without someone pointing her out.
I think my first reaction was to be surprised that she was that little -- and that she looked way older in person. But I pretty much kept my observations to myself, since it's mean to call someone old.
What I should have been looking for was some kind of mark of the devil. Not only does that woman have a ridiculous political ideology, but now she's making anti-Semitic comments.
Someone needs to stop that woman. Seriously.
I should have punched her in the face when I had the chance.
She was talking on her cellphone, and, at the time, seemed just like any other generic little blond-haired bimbo. In fact, I probably wouldn't have even noticed her without someone pointing her out.
I think my first reaction was to be surprised that she was that little -- and that she looked way older in person. But I pretty much kept my observations to myself, since it's mean to call someone old.
What I should have been looking for was some kind of mark of the devil. Not only does that woman have a ridiculous political ideology, but now she's making anti-Semitic comments.
Someone needs to stop that woman. Seriously.
I should have punched her in the face when I had the chance.
History of Dara, part 7
Once upon a time, a long long time ago -- a little over thirteen years, to be exact -- I was eighteen years old and living in London for the summer. Well, not just living there -- studying abroad -- which basically constituted taking a bunch of art history classes and a playwriting class.
I lived in a flat -- with four other students -- in a historic building that -- according to rumor -- Shelley had lived in at one point in time. I drank beer, at pubs. I went to lots and lots of plays, and the opera, and the ballet. I shopped in the open air markets. I went to Paris. More than that, really -- I went to so many places, it would take more than a whole blog entry to catalogue the whole thing. But that's not what I wanted to write.
I was recently reminded that, in my playwriting class in London, I wrote a one-act play as an assignment. Actually, each and every member of the class wrote a play, and then, the class voted for the top three, and staged them. Mine was selected.
In retrospect, it's not exceptionally good -- but I was eighteen. And, at the time, my class compared it to Pretty in Pink, which is a compliment. (If it had been written after 1997, I would think that Dawson's Creek would have been more accurate, but whatever.)
Anyway, here's the play, such as it is.
I lived in a flat -- with four other students -- in a historic building that -- according to rumor -- Shelley had lived in at one point in time. I drank beer, at pubs. I went to lots and lots of plays, and the opera, and the ballet. I shopped in the open air markets. I went to Paris. More than that, really -- I went to so many places, it would take more than a whole blog entry to catalogue the whole thing. But that's not what I wanted to write.
I was recently reminded that, in my playwriting class in London, I wrote a one-act play as an assignment. Actually, each and every member of the class wrote a play, and then, the class voted for the top three, and staged them. Mine was selected.
In retrospect, it's not exceptionally good -- but I was eighteen. And, at the time, my class compared it to Pretty in Pink, which is a compliment. (If it had been written after 1997, I would think that Dawson's Creek would have been more accurate, but whatever.)
Anyway, here's the play, such as it is.
Wednesday, October 10, 2007
Connections
It's kind of a sweet idea, really -- posting your phone number on the internet, via PostSecret, in order to connect with people. And he was refreshingly honest about it: It was a way of curing his own loneliness by curing other people's loneliness.
It amazes me that anyone could actually go through with it, especially in light of the potential repercussions. People calling at all hours, from all over the place. The risk that the callers might not be entirely sane, and might need more help than he could give. The cell phone bill. The loss of anonymity. The callers' expectations of a connection -- a way to fill their own lonely voids.
It's an unusual leap of faith.
It amazes me that anyone could actually go through with it, especially in light of the potential repercussions. People calling at all hours, from all over the place. The risk that the callers might not be entirely sane, and might need more help than he could give. The cell phone bill. The loss of anonymity. The callers' expectations of a connection -- a way to fill their own lonely voids.
It's an unusual leap of faith.
Tuesday, October 09, 2007
Smoke detector
All of my fretting about my car was good in one respect: It got my mind off of the fact that, on Sunday morning while I was getting ready to go out, my smoke detector decided to start chirping at me every 90 seconds. I called it in to maintenance, who, apparently decided to do nothing about it -- which I didn't notice because it stopped on its own.
. . . Until 5 am Monday morning.
Needless to say, I was ready to kill someone by the time the maintenance guy showed up to fix it (at around 10:30 that morning). Nothing like five-plus hours of constant, shrill beeping to put a girl in a good mood. It's a good thing that I'm somewhat of an expert in sleeping through alarms. (And at least it wasn't building-wide this time. Actually, there hasn't been one of those in a while.)
Right after they finally quieted the damn thing -- which took all of five minutes -- I had a realization: I'd have been better off cooking something smoky enough to really set the thing off, and then waiting for the fire department to come and fix it for me.
. . . Until 5 am Monday morning.
Needless to say, I was ready to kill someone by the time the maintenance guy showed up to fix it (at around 10:30 that morning). Nothing like five-plus hours of constant, shrill beeping to put a girl in a good mood. It's a good thing that I'm somewhat of an expert in sleeping through alarms. (And at least it wasn't building-wide this time. Actually, there hasn't been one of those in a while.)
Right after they finally quieted the damn thing -- which took all of five minutes -- I had a realization: I'd have been better off cooking something smoky enough to really set the thing off, and then waiting for the fire department to come and fix it for me.
Monday, October 08, 2007
Auto Repair 101
Sure, I know things about sports and I work in a male-dominated field, but on many levels, I am still a very girly girl.
I admit, here and now, that I know next to nothing about cars. I haven't the foggiest idea how they work.* I mean, yeah, I know there's a gasoline-powered engine and wheels -- but after that, I'm clueless. So I do all recommended preventative maintenance -- no matter how ridiculous it is. But if something goes wrong, I am left with two options: (1) Asking for help; (2) Paying for services that I don't understand -- and potentially don't need.
Anyone who reads this blog should have deduced by now that I am probably not so good with option #1. And, in all honesty, the males with whom I would consult about an auto-related issue are probably as clueless as I am, but are even more loathe to admit it because of their intrinsic male-ness. But nevertheless, I occasionally take this approach -- usually as a precautionary step to determine whether I'm over- (or under-) reacting.
The car -- my cute little pride and joy -- is six years old, and was just on the threshold of 30,000 miles. Over the winter -- 2500 or so miles ago -- I started worrying about my tires because of the age of the car, but I took the car in for maintenance, they said that the tires were fine. So I stopped worrying.
A couple of weeks ago, when my sister was visiting, my front driver's side tire started to look a little flat. I checked the pressure, added some air, and all seemed fine. It was still fine when I drove to Harrisburg (which was also the day the car passed 30,000 miles). Last weekend, the tire looked a little flat again. I checked the pressure, and it was very low. So I put air in it and went to Target. By the time I got out of Target, it looked low again. I figured that I must have done something wrong, so I drove across the street to the nearest gas station, and repeated the process.
When I went to go take the car out on Friday night, the stupid tire was low again. I emailed a friend to ask how I would know whether I needed new tires. He told me that I should check to see if there was a slow leak by inflating the tire to the right pressure, and then checking it again in a day or two.** I told him that I'd probably wind up taking it to a shop, out of laziness -- but with the knowledge that they would probably try to sell me tires even if I really didn't need them.
So, Saturday, around lunchtime, I took the car to put more air in the tire. It didn't seem to help, so I drove the car to the first tire place I came upon after leaving my house. But to be honest, I made this decision not just because of proximity, but because the place at issue had the word "Tire" in its name. I figured that, like with Dunkin' Donuts, if you advertise something in your title, it should be safe to assume that you're an expert at it.
Anyway, I told the guy at the desk what was wrong, and he went out to take a look at it. He agreed with me, that it looked flat, and that he could have it taken back into the repair bay, where they would charge me $30 to fix the tire, or, in the alternative, would let me know that it was irreparable, and that all of this would take approximately one half-hour. I agreed with this treatment strategy, signed the estimate, and waited in the lobby, where they had Star Wars Episode III playing in the background -- you know, the one where Hayden Christiansen goes from whiny and annoying Anakin Skywalker to crazy Darth Vader.
My car is ready about 45 minutes later -- just as Darth Vader takes his first awkward steps in the big black costume. The tire place goes to charge me the $30, but as I am fumbling around in my bag for my credit card, I ask a dangerous question: "What was wrong with it?"
"Nothing. We couldn't find anything wrong with it. There is no leak."
"Then why does it keep getting flat?"
Instead of answering, the guy starts printing out a new invoice. I have somewhere to be, so I annoyedly thrust out my credit card. He tells me not to worry about it, and he hands me a key, and an invoice that says "No Charge."
I walk out to my car, and the tire looks okay. I drive the mile back to my apartment, park in the garage, and look at the tire. It looks flat again. I am pissed. That afternoon, after various events, I have a friend look at the tire. She concurs, it looks flat. I tell my friend that I emailed earlier the story, and he tells me "You brought it to the wrong tire place."
I am even more pissed.
But, lucky for me, I have Monday off from work, which means one more day I can devote to car care. So, I went downstairs this morning to check the tire. It still looks flat. But according to my tire pressure gauge, the tire is fine.
So what do I do now?
*I do, however, know how to drive a stick shift, since I actually learned how to drive on one. I was never great at it, and I am probably way out of practice -- since the last time I drove one was back in the mid-'90s -- but I'm sure I could figure it out again.
**He also told me that after 30,000 or 40,000 miles I might notice that I'm not braking as well or taking wider turns, which would mean that the tread has worn down. But honestly, I wasn't so concerned about this, given the flatness of the tire. Not to mention that I don't think I could even begin to notice a subjective difference in braking or my turning radius.
I admit, here and now, that I know next to nothing about cars. I haven't the foggiest idea how they work.* I mean, yeah, I know there's a gasoline-powered engine and wheels -- but after that, I'm clueless. So I do all recommended preventative maintenance -- no matter how ridiculous it is. But if something goes wrong, I am left with two options: (1) Asking for help; (2) Paying for services that I don't understand -- and potentially don't need.
Anyone who reads this blog should have deduced by now that I am probably not so good with option #1. And, in all honesty, the males with whom I would consult about an auto-related issue are probably as clueless as I am, but are even more loathe to admit it because of their intrinsic male-ness. But nevertheless, I occasionally take this approach -- usually as a precautionary step to determine whether I'm over- (or under-) reacting.
The car -- my cute little pride and joy -- is six years old, and was just on the threshold of 30,000 miles. Over the winter -- 2500 or so miles ago -- I started worrying about my tires because of the age of the car, but I took the car in for maintenance, they said that the tires were fine. So I stopped worrying.
A couple of weeks ago, when my sister was visiting, my front driver's side tire started to look a little flat. I checked the pressure, added some air, and all seemed fine. It was still fine when I drove to Harrisburg (which was also the day the car passed 30,000 miles). Last weekend, the tire looked a little flat again. I checked the pressure, and it was very low. So I put air in it and went to Target. By the time I got out of Target, it looked low again. I figured that I must have done something wrong, so I drove across the street to the nearest gas station, and repeated the process.
When I went to go take the car out on Friday night, the stupid tire was low again. I emailed a friend to ask how I would know whether I needed new tires. He told me that I should check to see if there was a slow leak by inflating the tire to the right pressure, and then checking it again in a day or two.** I told him that I'd probably wind up taking it to a shop, out of laziness -- but with the knowledge that they would probably try to sell me tires even if I really didn't need them.
So, Saturday, around lunchtime, I took the car to put more air in the tire. It didn't seem to help, so I drove the car to the first tire place I came upon after leaving my house. But to be honest, I made this decision not just because of proximity, but because the place at issue had the word "Tire" in its name. I figured that, like with Dunkin' Donuts, if you advertise something in your title, it should be safe to assume that you're an expert at it.
Anyway, I told the guy at the desk what was wrong, and he went out to take a look at it. He agreed with me, that it looked flat, and that he could have it taken back into the repair bay, where they would charge me $30 to fix the tire, or, in the alternative, would let me know that it was irreparable, and that all of this would take approximately one half-hour. I agreed with this treatment strategy, signed the estimate, and waited in the lobby, where they had Star Wars Episode III playing in the background -- you know, the one where Hayden Christiansen goes from whiny and annoying Anakin Skywalker to crazy Darth Vader.
My car is ready about 45 minutes later -- just as Darth Vader takes his first awkward steps in the big black costume. The tire place goes to charge me the $30, but as I am fumbling around in my bag for my credit card, I ask a dangerous question: "What was wrong with it?"
"Nothing. We couldn't find anything wrong with it. There is no leak."
"Then why does it keep getting flat?"
Instead of answering, the guy starts printing out a new invoice. I have somewhere to be, so I annoyedly thrust out my credit card. He tells me not to worry about it, and he hands me a key, and an invoice that says "No Charge."
I walk out to my car, and the tire looks okay. I drive the mile back to my apartment, park in the garage, and look at the tire. It looks flat again. I am pissed. That afternoon, after various events, I have a friend look at the tire. She concurs, it looks flat. I tell my friend that I emailed earlier the story, and he tells me "You brought it to the wrong tire place."
I am even more pissed.
But, lucky for me, I have Monday off from work, which means one more day I can devote to car care. So, I went downstairs this morning to check the tire. It still looks flat. But according to my tire pressure gauge, the tire is fine.
So what do I do now?
*I do, however, know how to drive a stick shift, since I actually learned how to drive on one. I was never great at it, and I am probably way out of practice -- since the last time I drove one was back in the mid-'90s -- but I'm sure I could figure it out again.
**He also told me that after 30,000 or 40,000 miles I might notice that I'm not braking as well or taking wider turns, which would mean that the tread has worn down. But honestly, I wasn't so concerned about this, given the flatness of the tire. Not to mention that I don't think I could even begin to notice a subjective difference in braking or my turning radius.
Thursday, October 04, 2007
Hold On, Hold On
Maybe it's the time of year -- the darkness starts to creep in earlier and earlier, the leaves start to fall. Maybe it's the end result of the Jewish holidays, and the taking stock of my life that inevitably ensues. But whatever it is, I always find myself getting a little more pensive than usual around this time.
It's somewhat worse than usual this year -- maybe because of my grandfather, or maybe because I'm not dwelling on the big-picture career issues that I had to distract myself with for the two prior years. But whatever the cause, I'm spending way too much time in my own headspace -- and even for me, it's mildly disturbing.
For the past couple of nights, right around bedtime, I've been listening to Neko Case. I'm pretty sure it's complicating the matter. I'm drifting off into sleep, trying to unravel my own muddled thoughts, listening to certain words:
The most tender place in my heart is for strangers
I know it's unkind but my own blood is much too dangerous
Lying in bed at night, I'm starting to think I understand this. At least to me, it's about the wall. You know the one -- the wall we all put up, protecting our hearts from others, protecting others from us, protecting ourselves from ourselves. It's easier to be kind when others have no expectations of you and you have no expectations of them.
In the end I was the mean girl
Or somebody's in-between girl
This is the line that kills me, the one I relate to. This makes the whole song make sense to me: The story of the girl taking stock of her poor romantic choices in, of all places, the middle of a wedding -- and resorting to self-medication as the way to get through it all.
In any event, the song just fits. It fits with the somewhat-serious conversation I had with my mother the other day, where somehow, in response to something, I explained to her that, on the inside, I'm still the same scared little kid I've always been, but that from the outside it's hard to see -- or for me to let anyone see it -- because of all of the layers and layers of scar tissue that have accumulated over the years. My mother sort-of chuckled, and asked me why I thought it was any different for her at 60.
The thing is, it's different for her -- she's adept at letting people in. I'm just not built that way.
The funny thing is that I don't want to be this way -- I want to change, to be open and to tell others how I feel, even with the possibility of rejection. But at this point, my behavior is reflexive, a habit. Or maybe it's more than that: It's who I am.
It's somewhat worse than usual this year -- maybe because of my grandfather, or maybe because I'm not dwelling on the big-picture career issues that I had to distract myself with for the two prior years. But whatever the cause, I'm spending way too much time in my own headspace -- and even for me, it's mildly disturbing.
For the past couple of nights, right around bedtime, I've been listening to Neko Case. I'm pretty sure it's complicating the matter. I'm drifting off into sleep, trying to unravel my own muddled thoughts, listening to certain words:
I know it's unkind but my own blood is much too dangerous
Lying in bed at night, I'm starting to think I understand this. At least to me, it's about the wall. You know the one -- the wall we all put up, protecting our hearts from others, protecting others from us, protecting ourselves from ourselves. It's easier to be kind when others have no expectations of you and you have no expectations of them.
Or somebody's in-between girl
This is the line that kills me, the one I relate to. This makes the whole song make sense to me: The story of the girl taking stock of her poor romantic choices in, of all places, the middle of a wedding -- and resorting to self-medication as the way to get through it all.
In any event, the song just fits. It fits with the somewhat-serious conversation I had with my mother the other day, where somehow, in response to something, I explained to her that, on the inside, I'm still the same scared little kid I've always been, but that from the outside it's hard to see -- or for me to let anyone see it -- because of all of the layers and layers of scar tissue that have accumulated over the years. My mother sort-of chuckled, and asked me why I thought it was any different for her at 60.
The thing is, it's different for her -- she's adept at letting people in. I'm just not built that way.
The funny thing is that I don't want to be this way -- I want to change, to be open and to tell others how I feel, even with the possibility of rejection. But at this point, my behavior is reflexive, a habit. Or maybe it's more than that: It's who I am.
Wednesday, October 03, 2007
Banned Books Week
It's Banned Books Week. To celebrate -- or, more accurately, to protest -- I'm taking a break from my usual list and reading something from the list of the top 100 "offensive" books.
Conveniently enough, I just bought a copy of The Handmaid's Tale
. But it would also be a perfect excuse to re-read A Wrinkle in Time
.
I don't understand banning books. Granted, not all of these books are appropriate for children. But still, what does banning books really accomplish? It's ineffective, and it's intellectually lazy. If a book is considered racist or sexist or class-ist or anti-Semitic or anti-God or just plain scary, maybe the key isn't to ban it or ignore it, but to teach kids about the what the book represents, the time and the history and the context in which it was written, and -- hopefully -- how we've grown as a society since then. Or if the book contains -- egads!-- sex, well, maybe we should just finally admit that kids are already learning about it from television and movies and pop culture in general, get over ourselves, and teach them about it in classrooms -- rather than waiting for them to figure it out for themselves in the backseats of cars and on prom night.
Besides, there's an element of reverse psychology at play. If you tell a high school kid not to read Catcher in the Rye or Harry Potter or The Anarchist's Cookbook or whatever, guess what their favorite book is going to wind up being?
Conveniently enough, I just bought a copy of The Handmaid's Tale
. But it would also be a perfect excuse to re-read A Wrinkle in Time. I don't understand banning books. Granted, not all of these books are appropriate for children. But still, what does banning books really accomplish? It's ineffective, and it's intellectually lazy. If a book is considered racist or sexist or class-ist or anti-Semitic or anti-God or just plain scary, maybe the key isn't to ban it or ignore it, but to teach kids about the what the book represents, the time and the history and the context in which it was written, and -- hopefully -- how we've grown as a society since then. Or if the book contains -- egads!-- sex, well, maybe we should just finally admit that kids are already learning about it from television and movies and pop culture in general, get over ourselves, and teach them about it in classrooms -- rather than waiting for them to figure it out for themselves in the backseats of cars and on prom night.
Besides, there's an element of reverse psychology at play. If you tell a high school kid not to read Catcher in the Rye or Harry Potter or The Anarchist's Cookbook or whatever, guess what their favorite book is going to wind up being?
Tuesday, October 02, 2007
What's My Karaoke Theme Song?
This was eerily prescient:
| Your Karaoke Theme Song is "Livin' On a Prayer" |
 You believe the best things in life are mostly forgotten, and you're definitely more than a little nostalgic . You're likely to still like the same foods, fashions, and music as you did when you were a teenager. You have a knack for knowing what elements of pop culture people have missed, without them even realizing it. It's great to remember the past, but don't forget that not everyone is as stuck in it as you are. You might also sing: "Pour Some Sugar on Me," "Rapper's Delight," and "Cherry Pie" Stay away from people who sing: "Toxic" |
My parents' anniversary
My parents' anniversary was this past weekend. They've been married for thirty-three years.
It's hard to find a card for that. So this is what I sent:
I wrote my parents one of of my typical silly notes on the inside.
At least I make them laugh.
It's hard to find a card for that. So this is what I sent:
I wrote my parents one of of my typical silly notes on the inside.
At least I make them laugh.
Monday, October 01, 2007
More new fall tv
I just finished watching Moonlight on the DVR.
Similarities to Veronica Mars:
Similarities to Angel:
Similarities to Alias:
By all rights, I should love this show -- but I'm not sure if I do. The pacing's a little too slow. And it takes itself a little too seriously -- almost like a routine police procedural show, just with vampires. Oh, plus the background music is horrible (it featured a Celine Dion song) and it airs on -- gulp! -- CBS -- the network for old people -- which co-owns the CW, which I am still boycotting. Still, it's got so much going for it (see above).
I'll give it another shot, I guess.
Similarities to Veronica Mars:
- Nouveau noir style with over-the-top narration
- Private investigators
- Jason Dohring
- Hearst College
- Flashbacks as storytelling device
Similarities to Angel:
- Hunky vampire private investigator
- Flashbacks as storytelling device
- Executive producer
Similarities to Alias:
- Kevin Weisman -- as a tech guy
By all rights, I should love this show -- but I'm not sure if I do. The pacing's a little too slow. And it takes itself a little too seriously -- almost like a routine police procedural show, just with vampires. Oh, plus the background music is horrible (it featured a Celine Dion song) and it airs on -- gulp! -- CBS -- the network for old people -- which co-owns the CW, which I am still boycotting. Still, it's got so much going for it (see above).
I'll give it another shot, I guess.
Friday, September 28, 2007
Just because the actors are hot doesn't mean that the show is good
I am so disappointed. I thought that if you mixed the very hot Michael Vartan with Dylan McDermott, and threw in some Joshua Malina (from one of my favorite shows ever), it would create instant awesome.
Sadly, the show sucked. It might have been the worst thing ever. Well, no -- clearly that's an overstatement. Besides, I can imagine worse.
And ABC, what's with you and the tranny hookers in your 10pm shows? Hmmm? Something you want to talk about?
Sadly, the show sucked. It might have been the worst thing ever. Well, no -- clearly that's an overstatement. Besides, I can imagine worse.
And ABC, what's with you and the tranny hookers in your 10pm shows? Hmmm? Something you want to talk about?
Thursday, September 27, 2007
Not enough hours in the day
For the record, I eat relatively healthily. Sure, every once in a while I have ice cream and hamburgers, but more often than not, I have salads. I've pretty much given up "white foods" -- pasta, sugar, bread, and rice. And I exercise -- not as much as I would like, but I generally go to the gym a couple of times a week, I walk outside, and I occasionally take the stairs instead of the elevator.
But apparently, it's not enough. In order to lose weight, the contestants on shows like The Biggest Loser exercise four to six hours per day.
Yeah, you read that right -- four to six hours each and every day.
I think I probably get about six hours of exercise in an entire week -- when I'm being diligent. For me to get four to six hours of exercise every day, I would have to give up sleep. Or work. Maybe both.
But apparently, it's not enough. In order to lose weight, the contestants on shows like The Biggest Loser exercise four to six hours per day.
Yeah, you read that right -- four to six hours each and every day.
I think I probably get about six hours of exercise in an entire week -- when I'm being diligent. For me to get four to six hours of exercise every day, I would have to give up sleep. Or work. Maybe both.
Wednesday, September 26, 2007
The one where the dental hygienist was mean to me
I went to the dentist this morning, for a routine cleaning. Big fat yawn, right?
While there the hygienist said two things that I was not expecting. First of all, she told me that, contrary to years and years of conventional wisdom -- not to mention my mother's nagging -- chewing gum is good for me, and I should do it for 30 minutes after each meal.
An AP article confirms this. So I just went out and bought a new pack of Trident Watermelon Twist.
And second -- most disturbingly -- in relation to the fact that I burned the roof of my mouth on a croqueta de pollo at Jaleo over a week ago, and it still hasn't healed, she told me that "As we get older, our gums take longer to heal."
I was in total shock. First I wanted to hit her in the mouth while shouting "Shut up, beyotch, I'm 31, not 50!" I should have done it too, since old people don't start fistfights with their dental hygienist.
Then I just wanted to cry.
Now, I'm just confused. If I'm so friggin' old, why does she insist on giving me the fake watermelon-flavored fluoride treatment? Blech.
While there the hygienist said two things that I was not expecting. First of all, she told me that, contrary to years and years of conventional wisdom -- not to mention my mother's nagging -- chewing gum is good for me, and I should do it for 30 minutes after each meal.
An AP article confirms this. So I just went out and bought a new pack of Trident Watermelon Twist.
And second -- most disturbingly -- in relation to the fact that I burned the roof of my mouth on a croqueta de pollo at Jaleo over a week ago, and it still hasn't healed, she told me that "As we get older, our gums take longer to heal."
I was in total shock. First I wanted to hit her in the mouth while shouting "Shut up, beyotch, I'm 31, not 50!" I should have done it too, since old people don't start fistfights with their dental hygienist.
Then I just wanted to cry.
Now, I'm just confused. If I'm so friggin' old, why does she insist on giving me the fake watermelon-flavored fluoride treatment? Blech.
Ozzy Osbourne would be proud.
I may travel a lot for work, but I've never done this:
Then again, I'm not an auditor. Guy's gotta find something interesting to do, right?
Update: At least the duck guy doesn't go around biting three-year-olds.
The Rocky Mountain News reports that Scott D. Clark, an auditor with the Denver office of the Health and Human Services Department's inspector general office, is facing a felony animal cruelty charge related to an incident at an Embassy Suites hotel in St. Paul, Minn., where he had traveled for work.
According to witnesses, Scott cornered a duck near an atrium pond at the hotel and ripped its head off. Announcing, "I'm hungry. I'm gonna eat it," Clark got on an elevator with the headless bird and took it up to the fifth floor.
On top of that, the Minneapolis Star Tribune reports, local law enforcement officials said in an official complaint filed against Clark that after police arrived on the scene, Clark said "that he worked for the federal government and when this was over he would have the officers' jobs."
When told that he was in trouble for killing the duck, Clark told officers, "Why, because I killed it out of season? Big deal, it's just a [expletive] duck."
Then again, I'm not an auditor. Guy's gotta find something interesting to do, right?
Update: At least the duck guy doesn't go around biting three-year-olds.
A laboratory technician has been fired after the parents of a 3-year-old boy claimed she bit his shoulder while drawing blood from his arm, a hospital spokesman said.
Faith Buntin took her son Victor to St. Vincent Hospital on Friday for a blood test because of recent recalls of toys involving lead. She said she saw the worker put her mouth on Victor's shoulder.
"I looked at her like that was the craziest thing that I'd ever seen," Faith Buntin told television station WRTV. "She looked at me and smiled and said, 'Oh, it was just a play bite. He's not hurt.'"
After they returned home, the boy's mother said, she saw teeth marks on his left shoulder, and her husband drove the child back to the hospital, where he was prescribed antibiotics.
"Taking a bite out of him like he's an apple, this is heinous," said James Buntin, the boy's father.
St. Vincent fired the technician after the incident was reported and is "reviewing the capabilities" of the employees of the subcontractor that does blood work for the hospital, spokesman Johnny Smith said.
Tuesday, September 25, 2007
A (long) day in the life
Today was a really long, tiring day. Fourteen hours from the time I left my apartment in the morning until I got back this evening.
It probably started at 5:00 when my first alarm went off, but what I really remember is the emergency back-up alarm going off at 5:15. (At least I knew I'd need a backup.) Then it was eat, shower, dress in fancy-yet-comfortable-enough-to-drive-in suit, do hair and make up, put on sneakers, grab heels, bag, cellphone, BlackBerry, and Diet Coke and head down to the garage.
At 6:05 -- five minutes behind schedule -- the little blue car and I were on our way. Five minutes later, I realized that I was heading in the wrong direction, out of habit.
Forty-five or so minutes later, I was heading west on I-270, watching the backed-up traffic in the other direction. Man, it must suck to live all the way out in Damascus.
In the midst of this, I'm listening to the traffic reports and thinking that there must be some kind of correlation between people being tired and people being in car accidents. And how the world would be better if we could just schedule things according to our own circadian rhythms. Friggin' genius, right? I should get some kind of grant or something to study it further.
Anyway, once the DC radio signals and their traffic reports started getting weak, I put in some CDs, and raced along my merry way. I was in Pennsylvania before 7:30. I barely saw any other cars until I was basically at my destination -- Harrisburg. Man, it must be nice to live in a place where the ten cars that are waiting for the light count as "traffic."
I got to my final destination by 8:45. In and of itself, that's noteworthy because there are a heck of a lot of days when I don't even manage to leave for work that early. Anyway, while at my destination, I got to see a former co-worker, educate his interns, and -- while waiting in the appropriately-named waiting room -- read a five-year-old Sports Illustrated with Jason Giambi on the cover, proclaiming him "the perfect modern hitter."
No, really:
And yes, I did feel slightly suspicious taking this picture with my cellphone in a Federal building.
Shortly thereafter, I did my lawyer-y work, which involved going to court and winning a case. All that, and it wasn't even 11:30. So, I got in the car to head back.
I even took a picture out the car window. You can almost make out the Harrisburg skyline in the distance.
I meant to get on the highway and get off on Route 15, to go back home through Gettysburg and Frederick -- I would have stopped for lunch somewhere along the way -- but somehow, I wound up on the real highway instead, heading towards York and Baltimore. Later, I'd find out that this miscalculation was a good thing, based on my former coworker's email to our other coworkers describing some kind of accident involving a horse. Forget about my earlier comment about the ten cars constituting traffic -- it's even better if you imagine nine cars and a horse and buggy. Livestock rules!
I got stuck in a little bit of traffic in Baltimore -- there was an accident -- so I read my BlackBerry emails. And when I got to my office around 1:15, there was no parking available in the garage. So I drove home. And changed out of my suit, checked my email, Twittered, grabbed lunch, and metroed into the office.
I got home just after 8 -- which was fourteen hours, almost to the minute. And now, I'm eating dinner. If I'm not too exhausted, I'll probably watch last night's Heroes when I'm finished.
It probably started at 5:00 when my first alarm went off, but what I really remember is the emergency back-up alarm going off at 5:15. (At least I knew I'd need a backup.) Then it was eat, shower, dress in fancy-yet-comfortable-enough-to-drive-in suit, do hair and make up, put on sneakers, grab heels, bag, cellphone, BlackBerry, and Diet Coke and head down to the garage.
At 6:05 -- five minutes behind schedule -- the little blue car and I were on our way. Five minutes later, I realized that I was heading in the wrong direction, out of habit.
Forty-five or so minutes later, I was heading west on I-270, watching the backed-up traffic in the other direction. Man, it must suck to live all the way out in Damascus.
In the midst of this, I'm listening to the traffic reports and thinking that there must be some kind of correlation between people being tired and people being in car accidents. And how the world would be better if we could just schedule things according to our own circadian rhythms. Friggin' genius, right? I should get some kind of grant or something to study it further.
Anyway, once the DC radio signals and their traffic reports started getting weak, I put in some CDs, and raced along my merry way. I was in Pennsylvania before 7:30. I barely saw any other cars until I was basically at my destination -- Harrisburg. Man, it must be nice to live in a place where the ten cars that are waiting for the light count as "traffic."
I got to my final destination by 8:45. In and of itself, that's noteworthy because there are a heck of a lot of days when I don't even manage to leave for work that early. Anyway, while at my destination, I got to see a former co-worker, educate his interns, and -- while waiting in the appropriately-named waiting room -- read a five-year-old Sports Illustrated with Jason Giambi on the cover, proclaiming him "the perfect modern hitter."
No, really:
And yes, I did feel slightly suspicious taking this picture with my cellphone in a Federal building.
Shortly thereafter, I did my lawyer-y work, which involved going to court and winning a case. All that, and it wasn't even 11:30. So, I got in the car to head back.
I even took a picture out the car window. You can almost make out the Harrisburg skyline in the distance.
I meant to get on the highway and get off on Route 15, to go back home through Gettysburg and Frederick -- I would have stopped for lunch somewhere along the way -- but somehow, I wound up on the real highway instead, heading towards York and Baltimore. Later, I'd find out that this miscalculation was a good thing, based on my former coworker's email to our other coworkers describing some kind of accident involving a horse. Forget about my earlier comment about the ten cars constituting traffic -- it's even better if you imagine nine cars and a horse and buggy. Livestock rules!
I got stuck in a little bit of traffic in Baltimore -- there was an accident -- so I read my BlackBerry emails. And when I got to my office around 1:15, there was no parking available in the garage. So I drove home. And changed out of my suit, checked my email, Twittered, grabbed lunch, and metroed into the office.
I got home just after 8 -- which was fourteen hours, almost to the minute. And now, I'm eating dinner. If I'm not too exhausted, I'll probably watch last night's Heroes when I'm finished.
Monday, September 24, 2007
Revenge of the Pool Boy
On first read, I thought this article about the Bush family pool boy must have been a joke. I mean, what kind of self-respecting pool boy speaks English?
Then I remembered that this was taking place in Maine, not Palm Beach.
Cheap jokes aside, I find certain parts of the article hard to believe. Like how a 23-year old pool boy engages in offhand discussions of Bush 41's policies. Or how his friend happened to set up a web site to help raise money for his dental work. Or how he just happened to go to a war protest down the road from the Bush compound and wound up talking to their cousins at a lemonade stand, and that those same cousins indicated disagreement with the administration's policy. These coincidences strain credulity, but they make for an excellent feature.
But I wholeheartedly agree with this sentiment:
I mean, how do you burn down the master's house when that master is the President of the United States -- or, for that matter, his father?
Duh. You tell your story. And hope that people listen.
Then I remembered that this was taking place in Maine, not Palm Beach.
Cheap jokes aside, I find certain parts of the article hard to believe. Like how a 23-year old pool boy engages in offhand discussions of Bush 41's policies. Or how his friend happened to set up a web site to help raise money for his dental work. Or how he just happened to go to a war protest down the road from the Bush compound and wound up talking to their cousins at a lemonade stand, and that those same cousins indicated disagreement with the administration's policy. These coincidences strain credulity, but they make for an excellent feature.
But I wholeheartedly agree with this sentiment:
For Razsa, his job -- the only one he could find -- put him directly in touch with the very sort of power he holds partly responsible for his, and other people's, hard times.
"I look at the biggest middle finger in the world all day," is his more succinct explanation.
I ask Razsa if he has a monologue loaded up, in the event that his next encounter was at closer range. To my surprise, the idea doesn't appeal.
"What do you say? 'Thanks for School of the Americas, and Iran-Contra, and NAFTA, and shipping all those jobs overseas, and arming Saddam, and funding the Taliban?' What do you say -- 'You're a jerk?' There's nothing that can be put into a sentence that would capture the lives these people have taken, and the way of life that's been taken."
I mean, how do you burn down the master's house when that master is the President of the United States -- or, for that matter, his father?
Duh. You tell your story. And hope that people listen.
Friday, September 21, 2007
My version of atonement
Slate had an interesting article on Yom Kippur.
Here's what we're supposed to have done or be doing:
Versus what people actually do:
Not me. I don't call anyone -- let alone everyone -- to ask for forgiveness. Maybe I should, but whatever. What's done is done, and all I can try to do is fix whatever problems my behavior wrought.
So, instead, beginning around Rosh Hashanah, I tend to contemplate the year gone by. (Probably more because it's fall, and less because of the holiday -- but the reason seems less important than the action.) I think about the things I could have handled better, and eventually, I get to a point where I promise myself, and whatever deity may or may not exist, that I will try harder. This is my version of atoning for my sins.
And, then, more often than not, I go to synagogue and fast. My personal 24-hour atone-a-thon begins in roughly two hours.
Here's what we're supposed to have done or be doing:
According to Jewish law, there's a five-step program for sin eradication during the Days of Awe, the weeklong period beginning with Rosh Hashanah and ending with Yom Kippur, when God's judgments of each man's righteousness (or lack thereof) over the past year gets indelibly inked in the Book of Life. The first is mere recognition of the sin, followed by remorse for having committed it. Next comes the physical cessation of the sin, the act of restitution toward the sinned against, and, finally, confession before the Almighty, which includes vowing never to do it again.
Versus what people actually do:
Plenty of High Holy Day Jews cut corners on the sacred practice by resorting to what Rabbi Yehuda Sarna at NYU's Bronfman Center calls the "spray-fire" method of atonement. Instead of humbly approaching those you know you've wronged over the past year, you dial up everyone in your Rolodex or e-mail everyone in your address book, and seek a pardon for any offenses you might have given—a hollow gesture if ever there was one. Operating on the Don Corleone-ish principle that a request can't be refused during a blessed event, these Jews literally phone in their apologies and expect forgiveness for all sorts of trespasses, be it a missed birthday, an unpaid loan, or nasty gossip.
Not me. I don't call anyone -- let alone everyone -- to ask for forgiveness. Maybe I should, but whatever. What's done is done, and all I can try to do is fix whatever problems my behavior wrought.
So, instead, beginning around Rosh Hashanah, I tend to contemplate the year gone by. (Probably more because it's fall, and less because of the holiday -- but the reason seems less important than the action.) I think about the things I could have handled better, and eventually, I get to a point where I promise myself, and whatever deity may or may not exist, that I will try harder. This is my version of atoning for my sins.
And, then, more often than not, I go to synagogue and fast. My personal 24-hour atone-a-thon begins in roughly two hours.
Thursday, September 20, 2007
TV character blogs: Good or Bad?
Slate has an interesting article about blogs written by tv characters. They conclude that "most of these blogs kind of stink."
I don't know if I agree. In fact, browsing through my archives, I saw that I mentioned two that I like before: Barney from How I Met Your Mother and Dwight from The Office (Creed's blog is kind of creepy, though).
I think that, to a very large extent, whether you like the blog is going to depend on whether you like the show and the character. I think Barney and Dwight are hilariously entertaining fictional characters, therefore it's likely that I would be entertained by fictional blogs written from their fictional perspectives.
But I agree that blogs written from the perspective of a tv character don't always work. Even though I watch Grey's Anatomy, I think the nurse's blog is a waste of time - it's not from the perspective of a main character, and all it seems to do is recap the episodes. It doesn't add anything.
Now that I think about it, I think that's the difference between any promotional website for a show or a movie or whatever -- does it capture my attention, and does it add to my enjoyment of whatever it's promoting? Like when I first started watching Lost, I would go to the various websites to try to figure out what stuff meant, which added to my enjoyment of the show. Or maybe added to my confusion and frustration. Bad example. Whatever.
I don't know if I agree. In fact, browsing through my archives, I saw that I mentioned two that I like before: Barney from How I Met Your Mother and Dwight from The Office (Creed's blog is kind of creepy, though).
I think that, to a very large extent, whether you like the blog is going to depend on whether you like the show and the character. I think Barney and Dwight are hilariously entertaining fictional characters, therefore it's likely that I would be entertained by fictional blogs written from their fictional perspectives.
But I agree that blogs written from the perspective of a tv character don't always work. Even though I watch Grey's Anatomy, I think the nurse's blog is a waste of time - it's not from the perspective of a main character, and all it seems to do is recap the episodes. It doesn't add anything.
Now that I think about it, I think that's the difference between any promotional website for a show or a movie or whatever -- does it capture my attention, and does it add to my enjoyment of whatever it's promoting? Like when I first started watching Lost, I would go to the various websites to try to figure out what stuff meant, which added to my enjoyment of the show. Or maybe added to my confusion and frustration. Bad example. Whatever.
Wednesday, September 19, 2007
Dorm room beds
Growing up, I always had a twin bed. And no tv, but that's a story for another day.
Sometime around my senior year of high school, my parents got my sister and my brother -- both younger -- queen size waterbeds. Their purported justification was that I was going to be moving out soon. I was annoyed, but even at 17, I would have understood that buying me a new bed was probably a waste of money (that might have been better spent on clothes and shoes).
When I moved into my first dorm room, I looked at the stained little twin mattress in horror. Not because it was so small, but because it was not particularly clean. And it was ancient. But you know what? It was comfortable, and I somehow managed to live with it for the entire year.
My second year, I moved into a historic dorm that had just completed renovations. My dorm room had a new twin sized mattress. Unfortunately, it was covered in vinyl, which made it exceptionally uncomfortable. Still, I lived with it.
I bought a full-sized bed when I graduated and went to law school. But that's not the point.
One of the things I learned in college was that it is possible for two people to fit on a twin-sized bed, even if one of them is over 6 feet tall. It might not be perfect, but it works. Heck, it's a right of passage. And people have survived worse. (Sleeping on the bathroom floor comes to mind, but I'm sure there are worse things than that, too.)
So it really annoys me to read in The Washington Post that whiny, spoiled college students are now getting larger dorm mattresses because twin mattresses are too small.
Maid service too? Sheesh. What's next, wash-dry-fold?
Still, I had to laugh about how the students all basically said the same thing:
I'm sure their parents are all so proud.
Sometime around my senior year of high school, my parents got my sister and my brother -- both younger -- queen size waterbeds. Their purported justification was that I was going to be moving out soon. I was annoyed, but even at 17, I would have understood that buying me a new bed was probably a waste of money (that might have been better spent on clothes and shoes).
When I moved into my first dorm room, I looked at the stained little twin mattress in horror. Not because it was so small, but because it was not particularly clean. And it was ancient. But you know what? It was comfortable, and I somehow managed to live with it for the entire year.
My second year, I moved into a historic dorm that had just completed renovations. My dorm room had a new twin sized mattress. Unfortunately, it was covered in vinyl, which made it exceptionally uncomfortable. Still, I lived with it.
I bought a full-sized bed when I graduated and went to law school. But that's not the point.
One of the things I learned in college was that it is possible for two people to fit on a twin-sized bed, even if one of them is over 6 feet tall. It might not be perfect, but it works. Heck, it's a right of passage. And people have survived worse. (Sleeping on the bathroom floor comes to mind, but I'm sure there are worse things than that, too.)
So it really annoys me to read in The Washington Post that whiny, spoiled college students are now getting larger dorm mattresses because twin mattresses are too small.
University officials hoping to keep students on campus and compete with off-campus housing are trying new room designs and all manner of amenities to appeal to the millennial generation, especially those seeking the comforts of home while in school. Some have given single rooms to students not used to sharing. Others have offered maid service and microwaves. Now they're giving them a larger space on which to lay their heads.
Maid service too? Sheesh. What's next, wash-dry-fold?
Still, I had to laugh about how the students all basically said the same thing:
" . . . And it is easier to fit multiple people."
". . . students also indicated 'that sometimes they are not in the bed alone.'"
". . . And it's definitely much easier to have another person in the bed if the occasion arises."
I'm sure their parents are all so proud.
Tuesday, September 18, 2007
Ba-dum-chhh
I left work early this afternoon to drive my sister to the airport. After I dropped her off, I drove back to work.
Sadly, her flight just took off 5 minutes ago. But at least we got to send somewhat amusing texts back and forth the entire time. Here's the best one:
At least she kept her sense of humor about it.
Sadly, her flight just took off 5 minutes ago. But at least we got to send somewhat amusing texts back and forth the entire time. Here's the best one:
Sister (9:13 pm): I'm still here. Maintenance issues on the plane. They don't expect us to take off until at least 9:30.
Me: I'm so sorry. Would it make you feel better to hear that I just got home from work and was stuck behind a marching band on the way?
Sister: Depending on what they were playing.
At least she kept her sense of humor about it.
A challenge, or maybe not
I had a comment posted in Gene Weingarten's chat today. If you can correctly identify it, perhaps we can discuss it.
Monday, September 17, 2007
Guest photo blog
I tried to get my sister to write something while she was in town this weekend, but she doesn't like to share her thoughts with people. So instead, here are her pictures from this weekend:
Friday:
Saturday:
Sunday:
And here are her favorite cheers that she learned from the annoying kids sitting near us at the ballpark:
(1) "In your face!"
(2) "That's what I'm talking about!"
Friday:
Saturday:
Sunday:
And here are her favorite cheers that she learned from the annoying kids sitting near us at the ballpark:
(1) "In your face!"
(2) "That's what I'm talking about!"
Thursday, September 13, 2007
Concert meme
HoneyKBee posted this meme, and I thought I would play along.
Here's how it works: Copy this list, leave in the bands you've seen perform live, delete the ones you haven't, and add new ones that you have seen until you reach 25. An asterisk means the previous person had it on their list. Two asterisks means the last two people who did this before you had that band on their list.
1. Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers*
2. Dave Matthews Band*
3. Bob Dylan*
4. Counting Crows*
5. Bon Jovi
6. Goo Goo Dolls
7. U2
8. The Police
9. Fleetwood Mac
10. Matchbox Twenty
11. Willie Nelson
12. Queensryche
13. They Might Be Giants
14. Sister Hazel
15. Eric Clapton
16. Everclear
17. Beastie Boys
18. Nirvana
19. The Breeders
20. Cheap Trick
21. Dixie Chicks
22. Gin Blossoms
23. Sugar Ray
24. Velvet Revolver
25. Smashing Pumpkins
I'm not tagging anyone. But it's a fun exercise, so you should totally do it.
Here's how it works: Copy this list, leave in the bands you've seen perform live, delete the ones you haven't, and add new ones that you have seen until you reach 25. An asterisk means the previous person had it on their list. Two asterisks means the last two people who did this before you had that band on their list.
1. Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers*
2. Dave Matthews Band*
3. Bob Dylan*
4. Counting Crows*
5. Bon Jovi
6. Goo Goo Dolls
7. U2
8. The Police
9. Fleetwood Mac
10. Matchbox Twenty
11. Willie Nelson
12. Queensryche
13. They Might Be Giants
14. Sister Hazel
15. Eric Clapton
16. Everclear
17. Beastie Boys
18. Nirvana
19. The Breeders
20. Cheap Trick
21. Dixie Chicks
22. Gin Blossoms
23. Sugar Ray
24. Velvet Revolver
25. Smashing Pumpkins
I'm not tagging anyone. But it's a fun exercise, so you should totally do it.
Five Guys, the cure for all ills
I've been feeling kind of sick all week. Kind of headachy, really fatigued -- more than usual -- and dizzy when I stood up. First I thought it was a prolonged hangover from this weekend, but it kept on lasting. Then I thought I was dehydrated, but I've been drinking enough water -- at least 64 ounces each day. So then, after talking to my mom (who's diabetic), I thought my blood sugar must be too low. So last night, after services, I ate a really big meal, and went to sleep kind of early.
When I woke up this morning, I felt worse than ever. I could hardly drive to synagogue.
In the middle of services, I realized what it was: my iron was low. I thought about it, and I couldn't remember the last time I had red meat -- it had to be over a month ago. And I'm covered in bruises -- my elbows, my knees, even one giant one on my upper arm. So, when I left services, I headed straight to Five Guys and bought myself a burger. Mmmm, burger.
I'm feeling better already. Maybe I'll have steak this weekend.
When I woke up this morning, I felt worse than ever. I could hardly drive to synagogue.
In the middle of services, I realized what it was: my iron was low. I thought about it, and I couldn't remember the last time I had red meat -- it had to be over a month ago. And I'm covered in bruises -- my elbows, my knees, even one giant one on my upper arm. So, when I left services, I headed straight to Five Guys and bought myself a burger. Mmmm, burger.
I'm feeling better already. Maybe I'll have steak this weekend.
Wednesday, September 12, 2007
Random thoughts at inappropriate times
At Rosh Hashanah services this evening, something -- I'm not sure what -- caused me to think about whether a native Hebrew speaker reads the prayers in Hebrew or English. Lucky for me, I was sitting next to such a person, and I got to ask. This progressed to me asking whether she translated from one to the other in her head, which language she thinks in, which language she dreams in, and whether she feels herself shifting between languages.
It was an interesting conversation, although maybe we should have been concentrating on the praying, all things considered.
It was an interesting conversation, although maybe we should have been concentrating on the praying, all things considered.
Rumination on why I need to go grocery shopping more often
Because I'm going to be out of the office this afternoon and tomorrow for Rosh Hashanah, I worked late last night -- until 9 pm. Which put me at the Pentagon City metro stop at 9:22, before the mall closed. So I thought I'd grab a quick food court dinner before rushing home to try to catch the end of the Nationals game (ugh, what a disaster) and my normal routine of responding to emails and paying my bills.
Lately, for me, "food court" translates into a salad at Subway. But I wasn't in the mood, and the line was very long -- unusually long, especially since there was no line at McDonald's, which is usually insanely busy. So, with that in mind, I decided that I would try some of the new fancy chicken strips at McDonald's.
As an aside, I almost never eat at McDonald's. Every once in a while, I crave their fries or their ice cream sundae, but the feeling usually passes quite quickly. It's not that the food doesn't taste good -- it does -- but it tastes good in the same way that Kraft dinner tastes good. It's for kids. Real mac and cheese tastes better, as does a real hamburger or thick cut steak fries. Or a bison burger. Mmmm. But I digress . . . .
Anyway, I walked up to the cash register and the cashier mumbled something about not having cheeseburgers. Or fries. Or some other things. I didn't really understand much of what he was saying because (1) he had a thick accent, (2) he mumbled, and (3) he spoke waaaaaaay too fast.
At this point, I realized that this scenario explained why the line was at Subway. The McDonald's was out of food. So I said, "I don't want a cheeseburger. Or fries. Does that help?"
He looked at me like I was crazy.
So I said, "How about telling me what you are not out of?"
Same reaction. Clearly it's me. I mean, I definitely should have anticipated that the McDonald's in the food court of one of the busiest malls in the region would be completely and totally out of food. No chicken strips, not even chicken nuggets.
I wound up with one of the new chicken snack wrappy things. It was okay -- not quite low carb, but only 32 grams, and 330 calories. Still, it was an awful lot of effort for something ultimately neither healthy nor satisfying.
Lately, for me, "food court" translates into a salad at Subway. But I wasn't in the mood, and the line was very long -- unusually long, especially since there was no line at McDonald's, which is usually insanely busy. So, with that in mind, I decided that I would try some of the new fancy chicken strips at McDonald's.
As an aside, I almost never eat at McDonald's. Every once in a while, I crave their fries or their ice cream sundae, but the feeling usually passes quite quickly. It's not that the food doesn't taste good -- it does -- but it tastes good in the same way that Kraft dinner tastes good. It's for kids. Real mac and cheese tastes better, as does a real hamburger or thick cut steak fries. Or a bison burger. Mmmm. But I digress . . . .
Anyway, I walked up to the cash register and the cashier mumbled something about not having cheeseburgers. Or fries. Or some other things. I didn't really understand much of what he was saying because (1) he had a thick accent, (2) he mumbled, and (3) he spoke waaaaaaay too fast.
At this point, I realized that this scenario explained why the line was at Subway. The McDonald's was out of food. So I said, "I don't want a cheeseburger. Or fries. Does that help?"
He looked at me like I was crazy.
So I said, "How about telling me what you are not out of?"
Same reaction. Clearly it's me. I mean, I definitely should have anticipated that the McDonald's in the food court of one of the busiest malls in the region would be completely and totally out of food. No chicken strips, not even chicken nuggets.
I wound up with one of the new chicken snack wrappy things. It was okay -- not quite low carb, but only 32 grams, and 330 calories. Still, it was an awful lot of effort for something ultimately neither healthy nor satisfying.
Tuesday, September 11, 2007
Postscript
Last year, I blogged about my journal entry from 9/11, and my memories of that crazy, crazy day. But two weeks ago, I was reminded of a funny thing that I left out of my account.
I had forgotten that when we were all huddled up in my friend's apartment in Cleveland Park, watching CNN, her toilet was not functioning properly. The maintenance guy came up to fix it, but told her there was nothing wrong. My friend got annoyed and started arguing with him, while the rest of us sat around looking very uncomfortable. Eventually, she threatened to have us all pee in the toilet then and there. Another friend broke the stunned silence by loudly protesting "But I don't have to pee."
Despite everything, we laughed about it that day, and we continue to laugh about it now -- at least when we remember. When it happened, it was a respite from unthinkable tragedy. Today, it's just better than thinking about Bin Laden tapes, the war in Iraq, or even the offensive truck I saw driving around my office today with a picture of the twin towers in flames, a comment about god hating homosexuals, and a warning of how, if we're not careful, he'll let similar tragedy strike again.
A little humor never hurt anyone. Or, as Gene Weingarten said six years ago, and reiterated today, "When people are filled with grief, they need to cry. When people are filled with fear, they need to laugh."
I had forgotten that when we were all huddled up in my friend's apartment in Cleveland Park, watching CNN, her toilet was not functioning properly. The maintenance guy came up to fix it, but told her there was nothing wrong. My friend got annoyed and started arguing with him, while the rest of us sat around looking very uncomfortable. Eventually, she threatened to have us all pee in the toilet then and there. Another friend broke the stunned silence by loudly protesting "But I don't have to pee."
Despite everything, we laughed about it that day, and we continue to laugh about it now -- at least when we remember. When it happened, it was a respite from unthinkable tragedy. Today, it's just better than thinking about Bin Laden tapes, the war in Iraq, or even the offensive truck I saw driving around my office today with a picture of the twin towers in flames, a comment about god hating homosexuals, and a warning of how, if we're not careful, he'll let similar tragedy strike again.
A little humor never hurt anyone. Or, as Gene Weingarten said six years ago, and reiterated today, "When people are filled with grief, they need to cry. When people are filled with fear, they need to laugh."
Monday, September 10, 2007
Sometimes the industry gets it right
It makes me giggle that this (NSFW) won an Emmy:
I mean, the Scrubs musical was good, but Dick in a Box is riveting. I'd go as far to say that it was the best thing SNL did all season long.
Of course, it's an extra added bonus when all the news outlets have to edit the title of the song out of the story.
I mean, the Scrubs musical was good, but Dick in a Box is riveting. I'd go as far to say that it was the best thing SNL did all season long.
Of course, it's an extra added bonus when all the news outlets have to edit the title of the song out of the story.
Thursday, September 06, 2007
Nihil declarandum
I have developed a horrible habit of bookmarking things that I want to blog about, and then completely forgetting about them when something else catches my eye.
So, since I have nothing of importance to say today, here's my overly-organized version of a linkdump. It is, admittedly, ginormous. Feel free to read any or all -- or none -- of these things, and comment accordingly.
Language:
Fun with latin.
The overuse of exclamation points.
Compendium of lost words.
Rules of language, via the Columbia Journalism Review.
How to speak Yiddish.
Reading:
On The Road is 50 years old.
The greatest fictional travelers.
Children's Book: Why Mommy Is A Democrat.
Social Studies:
The most interesting scam. Ever.
Even lottery winners get the blues.
Sad story of Theresa Duncan and Jeremy Blake.
Congressional Food Stamp Challenge.
Fat Like Mommy.
Why we love dogs.
The Maiden Name Debate.
Music Appreciation:
Rock stars die young.
The A.V. Club's Guide to Festival Survival.
The A.V. Club's review of Lollapalooza '07.
Top 10 karaoke songs to avoid.
Name that Boy Band & Name that Hair Band Quizzes.
100 Worst Cover Songs.
The Archive of Misheard Lyrics.
Mass Media:
Median age of TV shows (and related graphic).
My So-Called Life finally on DVD.
Top Cult Shows.
TV Guilty Pleasures.
Donnie Darko, explained.
50 best high school movies.
20 Best/Worst Celebrity Blogs.
List of celebrity Scientologists.
Top 10 secret celebrity Scientologists.
Home Ec:
Guide to sweet tea.
What your drink says about you.
What your drink really says about you.
Arts & Crafts:
Subversive cross-stitch.
How to knit Space Invaders socks.
Have fun. This might take a while.
So, since I have nothing of importance to say today, here's my overly-organized version of a linkdump. It is, admittedly, ginormous. Feel free to read any or all -- or none -- of these things, and comment accordingly.
Language:
Fun with latin.
The overuse of exclamation points.
Compendium of lost words.
Rules of language, via the Columbia Journalism Review.
How to speak Yiddish.
Reading:
On The Road is 50 years old.
The greatest fictional travelers.
Children's Book: Why Mommy Is A Democrat.
Social Studies:
The most interesting scam. Ever.
Even lottery winners get the blues.
Sad story of Theresa Duncan and Jeremy Blake.
Congressional Food Stamp Challenge.
Fat Like Mommy.
Why we love dogs.
The Maiden Name Debate.
Music Appreciation:
Rock stars die young.
The A.V. Club's Guide to Festival Survival.
The A.V. Club's review of Lollapalooza '07.
Top 10 karaoke songs to avoid.
Name that Boy Band & Name that Hair Band Quizzes.
100 Worst Cover Songs.
The Archive of Misheard Lyrics.
Mass Media:
Median age of TV shows (and related graphic).
My So-Called Life finally on DVD.
Top Cult Shows.
TV Guilty Pleasures.
Donnie Darko, explained.
50 best high school movies.
20 Best/Worst Celebrity Blogs.
List of celebrity Scientologists.
Top 10 secret celebrity Scientologists.
Home Ec:
Guide to sweet tea.
What your drink says about you.
What your drink really says about you.
Arts & Crafts:
Subversive cross-stitch.
How to knit Space Invaders socks.
Have fun. This might take a while.
Wednesday, September 05, 2007
Religious intolerance and its effect on art and history
Several years ago, before September 11th put Afghanistan on the map and introduced the Taliban into our collective American consciousness, artists and historians and anthropologists and the like were all up in arms about the Taliban's destruction of ancient sculptures -- particularly Buddhas -- because they were contrary to Islam.
I vaguely remember signing some sort of petition that went nowhere. Go figure. I mean, it's not like the government really cared all that much about art or the destruction thereof. But then Al Qaeda and Osama bin Laden attacked, and we fought back. And people started talking about the destruction of the art as one of a laundry list of sins committed by the Taliban.
Why am I thinking of this now? Because I was reminded of this not-too-distant history while reading this article. It describes the destruction of native religious artifacts in Nigeria by fundamentalist Christian evangelists who believe that the native traditions are linked to the devil and therefore urge their destruction:
According to the article, the lack of tolerance is comparatively new:
So let's get this straight: The native religious customs survived for hundreds of years and were, at a minimum, tolerated by Catholics and Muslims -- but can't survive the Pentecostals?
I vaguely remember signing some sort of petition that went nowhere. Go figure. I mean, it's not like the government really cared all that much about art or the destruction thereof. But then Al Qaeda and Osama bin Laden attacked, and we fought back. And people started talking about the destruction of the art as one of a laundry list of sins committed by the Taliban.
Why am I thinking of this now? Because I was reminded of this not-too-distant history while reading this article. It describes the destruction of native religious artifacts in Nigeria by fundamentalist Christian evangelists who believe that the native traditions are linked to the devil and therefore urge their destruction:
Born to a family of traditional priests, Ibe Nwigwe converted to Christianity as a boy. Under the sway of born-again fervor as a man, he gathered the paraphernalia of ancestral worship _ a centuries-old stool, a metal staff with a wooden handle and the carved figure of a god _ and burned them as his pastor watched.
"I had experienced a series of misfortunes and my pastor told me it was because I had not completely broken the covenant with my ancestral idols," the 52-year-old Nwigwe said of the bonfire three years ago. "Now that I have done that, I hope I will be truly liberated."
Generations ago, European colonists and Christian missionaries looted Africa's ancient treasures. Now, Pentecostal Christian evangelists _ most of them Africans _ are helping wipe out remaining traces of how Africans once worked, played and prayed.
***
Ikechukwu Nzekwe, a 48-year-old farmer who belongs to a traditional masquerade cult, rues the action of his younger brother, a born-again Christian who destroyed the family's masquerade costume, including pieces dating back seven generations.
The masquerade cult was once part theater, appearing at festivals to perform songs and dances, and part traditional police _ its members helped enforce mores and customs. Now its role is largely restricted to theater, including performances and races by men in costumes depicting ancestral spirits.
Ukpai, the evangelist, tells followers the artifacts bear "curses and covenants" linked to the gods they represent.
According to the article, the lack of tolerance is comparatively new:
Early missionaries to Nigeria condemned most traditional practices as pagan. Roman Catholics and Anglicans later came to terms with most practices, even incorporating some traditional dances into church liturgy. But there was no room for local gods once their erstwhile worshippers became Christians.
Similarly, Muslim preachers in Nigeria's predominantly Islamic north forbade interaction with figures dedicated to local idols, although many cultural dances featuring traditional masks are still tolerated.
So let's get this straight: The native religious customs survived for hundreds of years and were, at a minimum, tolerated by Catholics and Muslims -- but can't survive the Pentecostals?
Tuesday, September 04, 2007
Money may not buy happiness, but at least it can get you really fancy accessories
Over the long weekend, the Post had an interesting article about Coach handbags. (Disclaimer: I have at least six. And a wallet. And two wristlets. And now I'm reminded that I never did follow-up on my promise to blog about my handbag collection. But I digress.)
The point of the article -- I think -- is that the Coach brand has come to represent an affordable luxury item. Which is an oxymoron, right? But at any rate, it's a category separate and distinct from higher-end brands like, for example, Louis Vuitton -- and their $52,500 handbag.
Which brings me to my real point: $52,000 for a purse? And it's not even all that cute?*
$52,000 is more than my car cost-- almost double. And I have a pretty nice car. Even if I had that kind of disposable income I don't know that I could pull the trigger on such a ridiculous purchase. I mean, think of all the shoes $52,500 could buy.
The world is a crazy, crazy place.
*The Post's Ruth Marcus described it as "[N]ot the world's priciest handbag . . . but it may be the ugliest. The Empress's New Purse is -- shh! -- a hideous hodgepodge of 14 recycled Louis Vuitton bags cut up, stitched back together and festooned with gold chains. If Frankenstein's monster carried a purse, this is what it would look like." Ouch.
The point of the article -- I think -- is that the Coach brand has come to represent an affordable luxury item. Which is an oxymoron, right? But at any rate, it's a category separate and distinct from higher-end brands like, for example, Louis Vuitton -- and their $52,500 handbag.
Which brings me to my real point: $52,000 for a purse? And it's not even all that cute?*
$52,000 is more than my car cost-- almost double. And I have a pretty nice car. Even if I had that kind of disposable income I don't know that I could pull the trigger on such a ridiculous purchase. I mean, think of all the shoes $52,500 could buy.
The world is a crazy, crazy place.
*The Post's Ruth Marcus described it as "[N]ot the world's priciest handbag . . . but it may be the ugliest. The Empress's New Purse is -- shh! -- a hideous hodgepodge of 14 recycled Louis Vuitton bags cut up, stitched back together and festooned with gold chains. If Frankenstein's monster carried a purse, this is what it would look like." Ouch.
Monday, September 03, 2007
The Bowden Bowl
Florida State plays Clemson in less than two hours, and I can already feel my heart pounding in my chest as if the game is tied with seconds left in the fourth quarter and FSU is attempting to win by kicking a field goal.
I don't know why I'm so nervous. I mean, it's Clemson, for crying out loud. They're not even ranked this year. It's nothing like last year when my 'Noles started the year against Miami and I had to turn off the tv and have a friend call me to tell me that it was okay to turn the game back on.
Still, I take the whole thing so damn seriously. Too damn seriously. I think this is why people drink when watching football.
I agree with Bobby Bowden: The Bowden Bowl is just not fun anymore. Plus, if Florida State loses, my whole fall is going to be shot, and it hasn't even started yet.
I don't know why I'm so nervous. I mean, it's Clemson, for crying out loud. They're not even ranked this year. It's nothing like last year when my 'Noles started the year against Miami and I had to turn off the tv and have a friend call me to tell me that it was okay to turn the game back on.
Still, I take the whole thing so damn seriously. Too damn seriously. I think this is why people drink when watching football.
I agree with Bobby Bowden: The Bowden Bowl is just not fun anymore. Plus, if Florida State loses, my whole fall is going to be shot, and it hasn't even started yet.
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