Sabrina's 30th.

Pics from my sister's birthday. I don't know if it was because of her incredibly nice friends, the fact that my favorite person in the world flew in from Chicago, or just that Brina seriously knows how to throw a party, but the whole night was amazing.  

Get Off Me!

After what can only be described as the single greatest party I have ever attended, I woke up Sunday morning so incredibly thirsty that I could barely open my mouth to yawn.  I remember thinking, This is what sand must feel like all the time. But that thought was quickly interrupted by the intense pain in my legs.  

Despite my complete lack of dance skill, I've been known to take advantage of a dropped beat. So my initial thought concerning the leg pain was that it was related to a high heel/get low combo. Mystery solved. But geez, how much could I have danced? My legs were freaking killing me. Desperately in need of a glass of water, I tried to move off the couch in my sister's living room, but found that I could not actually move my legs. Now I was getting scared. With a mouth too dry to speak, I just said "ow" over and over to myself in my head as I tried to wiggle some life into my feet and did a slow oblique crunch upward to see what the hell the problem was. 

The good news first: My leg pain was not in any way related to dancing or shoes. I was immediately relieved that I wouldn't have to deal with any embarrassing aftermath concerning my attempts to glide. 

The bad news: My leg pain was related to me. Literally.  When I lifted my torso to look at my legs, I found that my little sister and her friend were BOTH laying on me. ON ME. Sound asleep. Two people, sleeping like babies, on top of my legs. 

I was so upset when I saw the two of them enjoying their rest that all I wanted to do was kick them. But having two people sleep on top of your legs all night causes that sleeping foot sensation for the entire lower half of your body. So instead, I just pinched Nessa's neck until she woke up and I was able to shimmy my way off the couch for some water.

Later that day, when I was recounting my wake-up call, Sabrina asked, "How did you guys fall asleep like that? Wasn't it uncomfortable?"

Dumbfounded by the question, I interjected, "Excuse me! I think you mean to ask, how did you fall asleep like that, morally?! Didn't it occur to you that, hey, maybe we shouldn't sleep on another human being?!"

Shaking their heads with a smile, both Nessa and her friend replied, "You're comfy."

Shopping list: Glasses, Flashlight, Cup of Coffee.

It can be pretty dark on my street when the other houses don't have their lights on at night. I'm prone to tripping or walking into things with even the best conditions, so when I'm tired and it's dark out, I really don't stand a chance.  

Just before reaching my apartment last night my foot hit something kind of light and soft. There are a lot of random cats around my neighborhood-- it really freaks me out--so I was pretty sure that I had just kicked a stray with my stride and was hoping to avoid stepping on it. After the initial kick, I jumped up and landed on something equally soft. This caused me to jump again, and once more, I stepped on something. A lot of jumping and a lot of swearing were involved, until I finally reached the back steps of my apartment and looked down at my feet. There seemed to be some sort of thick goo all over my sneakers so I ran to the grass to wipe them off thinking to myself, "What the hell was that?!"

By this morning, there was a fresh dusting of snow on the ground that made the entire street look impeccably clean. Walking down the driveway and onto the sidewalk, I saw splashes of red that stood out in such strong contrast to the white snow that I almost threw up. Slowly stepping closer, afraid of what I might find, I saw the squashed, ruined remains of three jelly doughnuts.    

Did You Know..

We could save 28 billion dollars in the national budget if administrative workers in government offices stopped stealing pens. 

That's true.

You Are Not The Father.

Egypt is set to announce the results of a DNA test conducted on King Tut, the Associated Press reports.  The test was run in order to learn more about the famous ancient king's lineage. The findings will be revealed on February 17 on Maury.

Book Update: And We're Off!

My agent* wrote me an email yesterday with the subject line, "And we're off!" letting me know that my manuscript has been sent out on its first round with publishers. It was a really exciting little moment for me to think that something I worked on will now be read by people who make books.  And I'd be lying if I said I didn't envision my manuscript wearing an oversized backpack, taking slow high steps to board a bus, as I stood back and waved, "Bye little guy! Have a great first day!" 

I basically did that every time I sent my manuscript anywhere. 

So in case you haven't been playing along at home, here's a breakdown of the events regarding the book:

1) Wrote a book

2) Googled "what to do after you write a book"

3) Bought a Guide To Literary Agents at the Union Square Borders in San Francisco. I distinctly remember this because at the time, I thought it was like buying a telephone book. Just find an agent I like and work with them. Easy!

4) Discovered that's not how that works.

5) Queried, queried, queried. 

6) Waited.

7) Heard a lot of "Thanks, but no thanks!"

8) Got an email from Penn Whaling asking to speak with me.

9) Had a "phone meeting" with Penn. Conveniently, she is hilarious, and agrees to represent me.

10) Danced around the apartment with my roommates' dog

11) Worked on the re-writes Penn suggested

12) Received "And we're off!" email. 

Stay tuned!

*It always feels slightly pretentious to say "my agent." So whenever I do, I say to myself in my head, "Your travel agent? Your insurance agent? Your secret agent?"

Who Are You Talking To?

I saw a makeover segment on the Today show this morning and with each reveal I said, "Oh, wow. She looks great."

Three different makeovers. Three times talking to myself. 

And it wasn't even that the makeovers were so unbelievable that I had to comment. They basically just got haircuts. But for some reason, whenever before and after pictures are involved I feel compelled to say, "Oh, wow. She looks great."

Watching sports or really bad reality television usually gives you a pass for talking to yourself in front of the TV. I'm definitely guilty of the solo "Did you see that?!" exclamation before hitting the 15-second rewind on the DVR. But this morning, after saying "Oh, wow. She looks great." out loud, three times in a row, really for no reason at all,  it occurred to me that I might be using television as an excuse to hear my own voice.

Missed That Preview.

Eat your heart out, Ebert and Roeper.

-Do you want to go see Crazy Face? 

-Hmmm. Crazy Face? Haven't heard about that one. 

-About the country music star.

-And his crazy messed up face?

-Crazy HEART. You know what I meant.

-No, I know about Crazy Heart. But now I really want to see Crazy Face. That sounds good.

-I'm going to hang up. 

-The one about the googly-eyed country singer whose tongue hangs out like a Chinese Crested? Let's see that. 

[Click.]

Seriously, though. I'd see that movie.

That Seems About Right.

A department store in the UK has started a new program that offers gift registry for divorce. Just like a wedding registry, customers are able to go around the store and pick out whatever they want, and then present the list to friends and family as a "Registry." Of course, the more obvious name for the list is, "Buy this shit for me." But department stores are very clever creatures when it comes to syntax.

The store behind the new registry says that couples going through a divorce will soon need life's essentials, because they could potentially lose half of what they own. So that amazing toaster you bought for your friends on their wedding day? Buy another one. That beautiful set of copper cookware? More, please. And if you gave cash? Well, lawyers aren't free you know. 

I have my rants about weddings in general, but this is ridiculous. How does your committed relationship translate to me buying you appliances? And furthermore, after you've taken the marriage for a test run and found that it's not for you, how does that translate to even more appliances?

You know who needs a gift registry? Unemployed people. They could use something nice. You know who else? People living with their parents. I've been there, and a flat screen in my room would have been more than appreciated if it meant I didn't have to watch House Hunters in the living room with Deb and Steve on a Saturday night. 

Mom: I like house #2. The neighborhood is great, and the kitchen is nice. What do you think?

Dad: House #3. The floors are beautiful and it's move-in ready.

Mom: But they want to start a family. #2 is better for them.

Dad: But as an investment, #2 doesn't make any sense. They''ll go #3. Although #1 is nice too. What do you think, Jess?

Me: I'm pretty sure I want to die. 

A divorce registry is completely awkward and I don't even want to think about what the thank you cards for those gifts might look like. Plus, years from now, who's going to want to look at their limited edition KitchenAid mixer on the counter and think, oh, that reminds me of my divorce.  

Aw, Man.

A few years ago in New York, after enjoying one too many adult beverages, I gave my phone away to someone. I vaguely remember saying, "Call me" but I certainly don't remember handing them my phone. That part was retold to me the next day.  Anyway, when I called the cellphone company to explain the situation, they informed me that there were about 40 calls to the Bronx on my bill. 

While annoying and expensive, that little situation had a very Eastern influence on my thoughts about possessions. Things come, things go. You buy things, you give them away to strangers when you're drunk and confused about the number exchange process. And for the most part, that's been my mindset about personal belongings. A lot of shoulder shrugs are involved.

Although apparently, my Buddhist thoughts concerning tangible items do not apply to frequent buyer cards.  I've been eating sandwiches at a great place in my neighborhood since I moved here and just recently realized they have a buy 10 get one free card. These tasty little numbers aren't cheap, so I was amped to get in on a freebie. I got my 10th punch yesterday and happily shoved the card into my back pocket, thinking about what free sandwich I would get next time. 

Cut to this morning, those pants and my fully punched card are spinning around the dryer. I only discovered this while cleaning out the lint trap, after the load of laundry was totally done. Seeing tiny bits of my sandwich card mixed in with that soft blue peel of lint that you can always lift off like a pudding skin wasn't the greatest way to start my day. I wonder if the people at my sandwich shop will be more understanding than my wireless provider.  

??Mystery Post??: Up Top!

The votes for the first ever interactive poll are in. That was exciting. [cough].

We're going with the Mystery Post this first time around, and ironically, what I'm about to tell you is no great mystery: I love a good high five. Love it. I can't help myself. 

Lately, I've had the uncontrollable urge to give everyone I pass a high five, encouraging them to go along with it by instructing, "Up top!" It almost never works. And then I'm stuck with my arm in the air. But I have this visual of walking down the street and getting a high five from everyone and I can't shake it. I mean, seriously--how cool would that be? 

I don't know why people are so anti-high five. It's fun, it makes you feel like you've done a good job with something, even if you haven't, and, well, I guess that's it. So I'm taking the Up Top! Revolution to the next level by inviting you to give somebody an "Up Top!" high five. Let me know how it goes. 

Team Coco.

Love it.

4 SALE: BARELY-USED LATE NIGHT TALK SHOW - MAKE ME AN OFFER!!! (UNIVERSAL STUDIOS)

---

Date: 2010-01-15, 12:55AM PST
Reply to: see below 

---

This is the chance of a lifetime to own your very own late night talk show -- guaranteed to last for up to seven months! Really must see to appreciate. 

Information for potential buyers: 

- Measures 100' x 100' x 32' -- plenty of room for a futon! 

- Designed for 11:35 but can be easily moved 

- Band can be sold separately 

- Buyer must honor Barry Manilow booking next Thursday 


MAKE ME YOUR BEST OFFER! (Also willing to trade for Coldplay tickets.) 

• Location: UNIVERSAL STUDIOS
• it's NOT ok to contact this poster with services or other commercial interests

PostingID: 1553543187

And I have to say, Andy Richter had a great line last night. Believing that he finally had a gig that would be safe for years to come, he admitted that he has spent a little cash in the last seven months. 

"I dropped 400 grand on a Bar Mitzvah for my son. He's nine! And we're Lutherans!"  

Choose Your Own Adventure: OES Edition

Hello and welcome to what I believe is the first ever interactive post for this blog. 

Here's how it works: I'll give you the title and brief synopsis for a post, and then, based on your votes, I'll write that post and put it up here. It's just like all those reality shows you adore, except I won't be standing in front of a camera with a high-five and peace sign whispering, "SEVEN. Please call. SEVEN." 

Right. Well, we'll see how this goes. 

1) Hair Don't.

-While getting my hair cut, I discover that I have recently avoided a potentially embarrassing and awkward situation, only to have a different one quite literally shoved in my face. 

2) Sorry, We're Closed.

- I pass a styrofoam cup on the sidewalk attached with string to a cart of belongings, accompanied by a sign that says, "Back In Five Minutes." It reminds me of a story.  

3) Do You Have This In a Size Drunk?

-I randomly walk into Banana Republic on a night they happen to be serving wine and cheese. Awesome.

4) ???Mystery Post??? 

-This is like a "Chance" card. Who knows what it could end up being about! Exciting, right?

Unrelated note: Thanks very much to everyone who voted in the 2003, "Should I sell my kidney?" Poll. And many thanks to all the volunteers on the subsequent, "Who Needs Two?" Tour.

Appropriate Use of Unlimited Texts.

"I'm renting the complete first season of The Commish."

I Just Work Here.

Saw a girl working at a Rosetta Stone kiosk who looked so bored I thought she might tip over. Staring out at the feet of the people passing her by, she rested her head in her hand and her arm on a box of Level 1 Farsi. 

I don't know if I've ever seen a person less interested in anything. Don't you think she might want to learn one sentence in every language possible instead of falling asleep on a DVD tutorial? What sentence, though? Hmm. I don't know. Maybe she ran into the same problem. 

But as I watched her sink lower onto the counter, I was totally kicking myself for not knowing how to say "Timber!" in Farsi. 

And Don't Forget Your Booties.

"'Cause it's coooold out there today!"

"It's coooold out there everyday. What is this, Miami Beach?"

"Not hardly."

When my alarm went off at 5:30 in the morning the other day, I had already been awake for 2 hours listening to the wind.  Actually, to call it "wind" is a gross understatement.  It sounded like Mother Nature, Old Man Winter, and Death had all gathered right outside my window to blow out the trick candles on their joint birthday cake. It was loud, and scary, and just sounded cold. Can something sound cold? Yes. It can. If bitterly cold had an album, the sound of the wind that morning would be the bonus track.  

So the 5:30 alarm was by no means a wake-up. It just signaled that I had to leave my ridiculously comfortable bed and get ready for work. But on cold mornings, anything you do besides staying in bed seems asinine.

[Throw back blanket and comforter].

Mind: Why are you doing that?

[Sit up].

Mind: Well this seems silly.

[Get out of bed].

Mind: I sincerely hope you're just going to the bathroom and then getting right back in here.

[Take shower].

Mind: Do you have any idea how cold you're going to be when you get out of this shower?!

[Get dressed].

Mind: Don't do it you idiot! 

It's this duality of "I have to go to work" involuntary actions and "But it's really effing cold out" mindset that causes me to whimper throughout my morning routine. It's not until I walk out the door and that first burst of cold air hits me that my mind and body can agree on one cohesive thought. Namely, "Fuck."

I have a friend that says, "I LOVE the cold!" whenever someone mentions the cold, and I've tried to take this on as a mantra of sorts. So let me set the scene for you:

Still in the darkness of the early morning, I left my apartment to face the wind and snow--so much snow in fact, that I had no choice but to walk in the middle of the road like a crazy person.  Screaming, "I LOVE the cold!" over and over to myself as the freezing winter pounded my face, I hustled past the snow plows nearly running me over as I used the urban glide.

After about 3-minutes of this, I crossed paths with a woman doing exactly the same thing.  She didn't have a mantra, she was just screaming, "GAH!" (also a go-to classic) and she was running more than sliding, but same basic idea. With the snow and wind blowing all around us, we looked up for a second to catch the situation and both keeled over laughing in the middle of the road. Really. It was one of those What are we doing? moments that leaves you no option other than: Laugh with stranger.

I love the cold.

 

Is It Spicy?

New Years isn't really New Years for me without Chinese food. Up until I was 18, we spent every New Years Eve at my Great Grandmother's house and really good Chinese food was always a part of that tradition.  So even in years past, when I've tried to put an effort into making exciting plans for New Years Eve, I've always found myself out at a crowded bar asking everyone,"Do you want to go get an egg roll?"

Totally thought of a co-worker while planning my Chinese take-out order for this New Years Eve because of something that happened at the company holiday party last month. It should be noted that this girl has a fantastic sense of humor. She just also happens to believe anything you say.

At the party, a dance remix of The Black Eyed Peas Boom Boom Pow was playing for about six minutes straight. Unable not to comment on the ridiculous version of the song, I yelled over the dance track, "Whenever I order Chinese, I get a quart of Boom Boom Pow."

Nodding like it wasn't random at all to bring up Chinese food orders out of nowhere, she yelled back, "Oh, that sounds good." 

A New Decade: A Time To Reflect.

So my father called me yesterday to wax poetic about the changing of the decade.  Namely, he kept saying, "10 years, Jess! 10 years!" 

The thing is, after hearing it 15 times in a 15-minute conversation, it sort of became a good point. 

So eventually, this was my response: 

"You're right, dad. A lot happened in the last 10 years. You saw all your daughters graduate from college, travelled thousands and thousands of miles for visits and to help us move to different cities around the country, wrote so many great letters as the world's best pen-pal, started the business venture with the squash and saw that take off, had a lot of great laughs, and a lot of great meals, and you bought a different car, which is definitely something you don't do very often. It was a busy little decade."

To which he replied:

"You said it. A lot of change. So much is changing. Brockport is even getting a Metro Mattress." 

As I sat quietly on the other end of the line staring blankly at the wall, I was glad to know that even in 2010, not everything changes. 

I've Been Doing A Lot Of Thinking.

And the thing is, I love you.

"What's so bad about this? You've got Dick Clark, that's tradition. You've got Mallomars, the greatest cookie of all time. And you're about to give the Knicks their first championship since 1973."

Happy New Year! May 2010 be the year that you realize you want the rest of your life to start as soon as possible.  

At Citibank We Will Meet Accidentally.

I don't know why banks give out lollipops, but I enjoy it. Whenever I see a grown-up walking down the street with a sucker, I know they've just come from the bank-- because where else would an adult get such a sad looking lollipop? Actually, walking down the street with that cheap lollipop stick hanging out of your mouth is is like wearing a t-shirt that says, "Yes, Robber. I have cash." 

I've never really thought about that before. Maybe I should stop taking them. 

Anyway, I was at the bank filling something out at the counter and started sorting through the basket looking for a red.  Putting it in my pocket, I started to sort through again before taking another one. Looking over to the girl standing next to me, I smiled meekly, saying, "I'm that girl."

Shrugging her shoulders before grabbing a handful of suckers, she replied, "It's OK. I don't even bank here."

And Mall Parking Lots On Holidays.

My sisters and I went shopping on Christmas Eve because we love crowds, and angry salespeople, and waiting in ridiculous lines. If you go into these situations knowing how terrible they are, they actually become amazing. Playing games like, "Who hates the holidays more?" where you compare the miserable faces of shoppers, or creating the voice-overs for people screaming in their cars while trying to find a parking spot, is a guaranteed way to make the whole outing more enjoyable. 

You should really just go for the parking lot people-watching alone. It's classic. Watching people try to find a parking spot on days like Christmas Eve allows one to witness the entire spectrum of human emotion. Eventually, they just start trailing people with bags and the whole, "I'm not leaving!" thing starts.  But all the exaggerated pointing, and waving, and over-emphasized speech as people try to talk to other people through their cars with the windows rolled up-- it's funny. 

While circling around for our own space, Nessa came up with a brilliant idea for a video art piece where you just back in and out of a parking spot for a few hours on a busy shopping day to see how people react. 

I'd watch it.  

You're Welcome.

I debated not posting this, but 'tis the season for giving. Happy Christmas.

The 1950's Called.

They want their game show answers back.

This post could also be called, "These idiots will clap for anything."

The last time I watched The Family Feud was a few years ago and the survey question asked to 100 people was, "As good as?" 

When a member of one of the families answered, "Pie!" I told myself that I was no longer allowed to watch the show.

But when I had time to kill in front of the television yesterday, I thought I'd check in for 5-minutes to see if things have improved.

This is basically a transcript from the show because I ended up recording it and playing it back in complete disbelief.  

Host: We surveyed 100 married women and asked, when your husband is ignoring you, name something you can do that will certainly get his attention.

Dan: Not do his laundry!

[X]

Graceila: Wear something sexy!

[Ding]

Graceila: We're going to play!

Host: OK, according to 100 married women, when your husband is ignoring you, name something you can do to get his attention.

Graceila's daughter: Stop cooking dinner!

Family: Good answer! Good answer!

[X]

Graceila's other daughter: Start nagging!

Host: When in doubt, start nagging!

[X]

-Throw something at him!

[Ding]

-Cry!

Host: Show me, Cry!

[X]

So three x's, they switch to the other family.

Host: Dan, give me one good answer.  When your husband is ignoring you, name something you can do to get his attention.

Dan: Spend his money!

Family: Good answer!!!!

[X]

Host: Let's reveal the #1 answer. According to 100 married women, something you can do when your husband is ignoring you?

Note: This is where both families and the entire audience repeat whatever they see on the answer board in unison like it was the most obvious answer in the world. It's the collective Duh! moment. As good as pie? No, moron. As good as IT GETS. (in unison, followed by applause sign.)

Host: Survey says...

Entire audience: 'GET NAKED!' (palm to forehead. Of course! But what about when you're being ignored in public? Oh, no matter. Good answer!).

Host: And the other answer?

Entire Audience: FLIRT/GET IT ON! 

Obviously. Because nothing sets the mood quite like being ignored and throwing shit at people.

Every Christmas Song Should Be This Good.

If you've never played this game with someone, where you try to create and sing a song together at the same time, you've never really taken full advantage of the following:

-Long road trips 

-Short road trips

-Being drunk

-Being bored

It's instant fun and instant hilarious and my father kind of invented it. 

Happy Holidays, From The MBTA.

I realized a little too late last night on the train ride home that I had inadvertently sat across from a crazy person. I've built up quite a tolerance to this so I'm never really bothered by anything anyone says anymore, but this guy had me seriously concerned for about 6 stops.

Guy: It's all about child support and credit cards, Teddy. Child support and credit cards.

Me: [Close eyes.]

Guy: And somebody thinks they wanna control the taste? I don't think so! Hey, Teddy!

Me: [Thinking] Am I Teddy?

Guy: That's when I say to them, pow! pow! pow! I'll rip your face off.

Me: Oh, shit.

Guy: So if your face gets ripped, come see me.

Me: [Thinking] I should probably get off the train now.

Guy: Credit cards! Pow Pow Pow!

This is where a nice little internal debate began. Clearly, this man was not well, and had some ideas about faces, but if I got off the train before my stop I'd have to wait for another one and who knows how long that might take. So, do I risk him getting upset that Teddy isn't responding, and possibly have my face ripped off (pow pow), or get off the train and freeze while waiting for another one? Either way, the options for my face weren't looking good. 

I stayed on the train without incident.  Everyone's face was ok. 

Just Looking.

A Relax The Back store, which appears to deal exclusively in massage chair sales, has opened near work.  Without seeing the business plan for this company, and without any actual knowledge of massage furniture sales, let me tell you why this business will fail:  People who test out massage chairs are not looking to buy a massage chair.  They're looking for a free massage and 15-minutes of doing that weird vibrating "ahhhhhhhahhh" noise.

How many times a day do you think a Relax The Back salesman hears, "Just looking"? If they made the career move over from Brookstone, they're probably used to it by now. 

Everybody knows this is how a typical sales conversation at Brookstone goes:

Salesperson: Can I help you find anything?

Customer: Oh no, I don't think so. I'm just gonna play with this robot dog for a little bit, fuck around with the indoor helicopter, and then probably fall asleep in the massage chair until somebody asks me to leave.  Thanks though.

The Truth.

Sometimes rinsing out an empty peanut butter jar seems like the hardest thing you'll do all day. I bet even the staunchest environmentalists grimace a little when the peanut butter runs out. No one likes to rinse that jar.

I Don't Get Sick. (cough cough... puke).

In spite of my self-diagnosed hypochondria, I've been fortunate enough to avoid a string of colds, coughs, flu viruses, fevers, and becoming pregnant without knowing it before giving birth in the toilet. Have people seen the show about that one? Every episode ends the same way: "And then, looking back at her from the toilet..." It's really horrible.

Anyway, I was enjoying a fantastic weekend in NY up until Sunday night when V and I became violently ill at around the same time. Technically, she became sick a few hours before me, and I remember saying, "I feel fine! I'm having more pizza!" I later paid for that.

People, this wasn't your average bout with food poisoning or a little upset tumtum. We're talking cartoon-like illness here.  The kind that has you pleading to a higher power in the bathroom of your sister's apartment.  About three hours in, I even lacked the good sense to sing "There's the girl that I like..." to myself before getting sick. It was bad.

Luckily, Brina was there.  The girl has the bedside manner of a drill sergeant, but the needs-anticipation skills of, well, say, an event planner.  As Nessa and I ran back and forth to the bathroom all night, all we heard from Brina's room was, "AGAIN?!" But miraculously by morning, everything we needed was within arms reach of our sofas.

Brina: I did some research and you're most likely dehydrated. Drink this, and this, and this. Take this now, and this in 6 hours. Eat this banana, and these saltines, and there's organic applesauce and peanut butter if you're up to it.  I'll make orzo soup when I come home from work.  Here's your phone, which is charging over here. Here's the computer, fully charged. All of the remotes, space heater on, extra blankets, Christmas lights on or off? I'll wait here while you drink that and refill. OK, I'm late. I'll call this afternoon.

It was as well-planned as being sick could be. And just one mention of, "It smells disgusting in here."

Later that night, desperately craving our soup, we called her and she said, "OK, I'm just going to run into the first half of this concert I have tickets for, but I'll probably leave during intermission.  I'll make your soup when I get home."

Too weak to argue, I slowly hung up and ate another sleeve of saltines. Under my breath and under my blankets I softly said in a whine, "I want my fucking soup."  

When I woke up again at 1:00 in the morning, the cold bowl of orzo was by the rest of my Grandpa Joe setup by the sofa. Girl of her word. 

Bri just called me to say she was home sick.  Wish I could repay the favor.

Note: Instant rad if you get the grandpa joe reference.  

If You Were A Tree...

I've experienced comments and questions about my height since I was a little kid.  Once when I was like nine, a toddler came up and held my hand thinking I was his mother.  

I was nine.

So it's never anything new when someone asks me to reach for something, or stand back to back with their tallest friend. But this was an exchange I had with a coworker yesterday about the tree she bought for Christmas: 

Coworker: And we got such a great deal on it. It was only like $22!

Me: Oh wow, that's crazy.  But is it like a Charlie Brown Tree?

Coworker: No, it's big! It's like your size.

Right.

Around the holiday season, it's not uncommon to have someone hold a sweater or a shirt up to your body and say, "That looks like your size." But I think I'm the first to have that done with a Christmas tree.

Good One.

I love that this story is getting national attention for three reasons:

1) That picture is awesome and reminds me of a story. (To follow.)

2) Local news is pathetic, but dedicating 2-minutes to a high school yearbook story might be a new low. That's what high school news shows are for.

3) Wearing a t-shirt with her own face on it kind of makes me think we're on the verge of a whole new generation of message tees. "I'm With Her." "She's With Me" "Can I help you?" 

Arrows will be involved.

Note: My boss was saying that she doesn't like when pregnant women wear message t-shirts about their babies. I have to agree, except I wouldn't mind seeing a maternity shirt that says, "There's somebody in here!"

Anyway, about that yearbook photo story. 

One year in band (no comments, please) everyone dressed in uniform and went to the front of the school for group shots for the yearbook.  The photographer was standing on the roof of the school and it was sort of a big production to get everyone organized.  Bored out of our minds, my buddy Matt thought it would be a good idea to horn pop drastically every time the photographer took a picture. I agreed. So picture after picture, Matt and I would lean back as far as possible, shooting our saxophones into the air, while everyone else just stayed standing still.  It gave us a good laugh, photo shoot ended, class dismissed.

About three weeks later, the two of us were asked to meet with our band director in his office. Closing his door, and asking us if we knew why we were there, we both shook our heads.  I honestly had no idea. Opening up a large envelope, our teacher pulled out the pictures and slowly lined his desk with them.  

They. Were. HILARIOUS.

  

Even though these were large group shots, we totally stuck out and our faces were eerily similar to the girl in the news story. In many of the shots, Matt had taken his saxophone apart and was just holding a mouthpiece in the air. In others, we were basically on the ground in limbo-like stance. 

I have never wanted to burst out laughing so badly in all of my life. But standing in the band director's office listening to him yell at us, I figured my timing might be off.  When I'm not able to laugh, my eyes water. A lot. So he probably thought I was pretty upset about the whole thing as I stood there crying. When we were finally dismissed, we basically rolled into the hall laughing.

Just like the girl in the news story, none of our pictures made the yearbook either. 

Matt was later arrested for gang-related activities. 

I like reminiscing. 

Can't Wait Three Minutes?

While waiting for my popcorn to pop last night, I finished half a box of crackers. I remember reasoning to myself, "Well, I've got a few minutes to kill. Might as well have a snack." 

Ironically enough, that's how the first buffet started. 

Clearly, I've never done this before.

This is my bio for the agency website.  I didn't understand the assignment.

Jessica Martin grew up on her family’s farm in Brockport, New York.  She spent her formative years talking to herself in the mirror and memorizing lines from Full House episodes. She graduated from Syracuse University with a degree in Television, Radio and Film and that proved to be worthwhile in that she still enjoys all of those things.  After living in San Francisco, New York, and Boston, Jessica has learned the importance of light layers, irony, and remembering how people take their coffee.  

A fortune cookie once told her that she finds beauty in ordinary things, and she liked this.  But then another fortune cookie told her that she liked horse racing and gambling, but not to excess, so she’s not entirely sure what to believe.  She sort of thinks fortune cookies should stop pretending they know her so well. 

Open-Eyed Sneeze is her first book. 

j mo.

Notice: J Lo's new song Louboutins has been remixed for the sensible lesbian. 

The hook is now, "I'm putting my black Converse on."

Thank You.

Your Phone's Ringing.

After spending the weekend with my family, I'm convinced that it is actually impossible for my mother to reach her phone while it's ringing. Part of the problem lies in the fact that she never hears her ringtone, so every time she receives a call, the ringing is accompanied by everyone saying, "Your phone is ringing." Which is followed by my mother saying "Damn it!" and fake running to her purse. She employs the same run people use when a car stops and lets them cross the street.  It's basically just walking, but pumping your arms more than usual, to give the illusion of moving in a hurry. She uses this same "Damn it!"/fake run combo every time because she knows she's going to miss the call.  Hearing her phone ring isn't a reminder to answer her phone, it's a reminder to check her voicemail in seven minutes when she finds her phone.

Conveniently located at the bottom of her Mary Poppins bag, my mother is more likely to pull a floor lamp out of her purse than to find and answer her phone before the call goes to voicemail.  If she happens to have her purse on her while the cellphone is ringing, it's 30 seconds of ringtone, 15 reminders that her phone is ringing, numerous Damn its!, and the complete removal of everything in her bag, which results in the most random combination of items you've ever seen, particularly when traveling. Dog bowl, toothpaste, Big Mirror (which is a big 5x magnification mirror my mother always carries around and has so cleverly named "Big Mirror") and a shoe. 

-Where's the other shoe?

-It's in the back of the car.

So it was an interesting weekend of observing the various ways my mother missed incoming call after incoming call. My younger sister on the other hand, prefers that no one she knows ever hears her voice again, and texts almost exclusively. She left yesterday but I've been hearing phantom text message buzz's from her blackberry all morning. 

Anyway, when we were going around the table on Thanksgiving saying what we're thankful for, Bri said she was grateful to have four people in her life that she could always call.  To which Nessa appropriately replied, "Yeah, and at least two of them will pick up."

A Picture Paints 1,000 Words.

This pic was sent from Nessa's phone at the airport with this message:

Yet again, the difference bt sabrina and vanessa

Happy Thanksgiving.

I heart Thanksgiving.  Easily my favorite holiday. What's not to love?

-Food. Good.

-Football. Good.

-Naps. Effing awesome.

-Food again. Good.

Thanksgiving is basically just like every other day for me, except that the entire nation is in on it. So I kind of feel like I'm on to something with my life plan when I hear how much everyone else enjoys the holiday. "It's just eating, and drinking, and laying around! It's great!"

Yes. And if you plan accordingly, every day can be like that.

My family is rolling into town today and I'm stoked! This will be the first official family Thanksgiving that I've hosted.  Wine will help.  

We have a tradition every year of naming the turkey and then talking to it throughout the morning as it cooks. It's pretty messed up if you think about it. But we've been doing it since I was a little kid, so there's no turning back now.  We've never really come up with anything better than "Kimmy Gobbler" but because it's Thanksgiving at my place, I feel it's my duty to give the bird a new name.  No ideas yet, but I still have a day to think about it. 

Enjoy the holiday.

Just Me, Then?

I'm pretty sure I heard church bells playing "I've Been Working On The Railroad" this morning. Specifically, the "Dinah won't you blow your horn" section.  Is today some sort of sacred railroad holiday that I don't know about? 

Semi-related note: Once at a friend's wedding, the band played Greensleeves-- (I forget why)-- and my old roommie Jackie turned to me with an exaggerated look of confusion and asked, "What Child Is This?!" 

Skip You, Back To Me.

Heading back to my apartment last night, the sidewalk on my street was covered with a fallen deck of Uno cards.  If Hansel and Gretel's ill-fated walk through the woods had been sponsored by Mattel, this definitely would have been their trail. Every three steps, a 9, a Wild Card, Uno logo, a 2, Uno logo, Uno logo. 

It's lucky that so many of them were face down.  Had I come across any Reverse cards, I probably wouldn't have made it home.    

That's Not A Real Sentence.

Warning: Shameless praise for family member follows.

Congrats to my sister for working on the most successful fundraising gala in City Opera history! It's sort of a huge deal. For the last 3 months, whenever I've called Bri, I've been rushed off the phone by an ice-cold, "I'm extremely busy." 

Really? Because you had enough time to pick up the phone to say that.  

I always countered with an equally important, "Me too. I just called to tell you that I'm wearing a ball gown right now. And I'm talking to a Countess. And the mayor's on hold. So I have to go."

But she worked incredibly hard and the event was a smash hit, so good on ya, sister! I can't imagine planning anything bigger than a birthday party-- and even that would just be 15 minutes of staring at a list that looked something like this:

-Cake

-Dance mix

-Streamers?

I finally got to talk to her for more than five minutes over the weekend and I heard all about it. However, it's obvious that there's a certain disconnection from reality when you allow your mind to focus on a gala for months at a time. While describing the auction, this was an actual sentence she said without even the slightest hint of irony or sarcasm:

"And the wild boar hunting in Friedrichsruh, Germany with the von Bismark Family followed by a black-tie ball went for $30,000."

ACTUAL SENTENCE.

What's an appropriate response to a sentence like that? Really, I'd like to know. 

All I could think to do was laugh my ass off, which I did. 

I was so intrigued by this auction lot though, that I googled it and read the terms for the winning bid: Terms: Valid for two guns, Four persons for October 2010. Does not include accommodations; recommendations will be provided. A valid hunting license for Germany is required.

What?! So not only did the winning bidder have to have 30 g's to drop on The Sound of Music version of Duck Hunt, they also had to have a valid German hunting license. Which, I don't know, maybe all rich people have. 

-Is there a problem, officer?

-License and registration, please.

-My valid German hunting license? 

And what the hell?! Does not include accommodations but recommendations will be provided? 

"The von Bismark family would like to thank you for shooting boar with us. There's a lovely Holiday Inn Express about 350 miles from here."

How's Everything Going Out There?

I really hate when you're trying on clothes in a dressing room and the salespeople come to check on you a million times. 

-How are we doing in there?

-Everything OK?

-How's everything working out?

-Do you know how to put pants on?

I never know if they're talking to me, so my initial response is to say nothing. But then they knock, just to make sure I haven't died in there. "Hon, how we doing?" My reaction on the other side of the dressing room door is always an exaggerated eye roll. "I'm good, thanks!"

So I was trying on some jeans yesterday and all of a sudden, a ridiculously futuristic sounding alarm went off.  It was a cross between a submarine alarm and a space station alarm. Not that I have any firsthand knowledge of either type of alarm, but it sounded like something from a movie.  Fake enough to be laughable, unique enough for me to be like, "Um, did someone sink our battleship?"

The alarm was followed by an announcement, alerting shoppers of an emergency, and instructing them to leave the floor. I should mention that at the time, I was one leg into a pair of skinny jeans--probably the worst clothing choice for an emergency situation.  I froze for a second thinking, should I put these jeans on and leave? Or take them off, put my own pants on and leave? Wait for further instructions?

I felt like leaving the store in their jeans would be too close to stealing so I quickly tried to pull my leg out of the skinny cut, which was basically impossible. I started to speak to the salesgirl I assumed was waiting on the other side of my dressing room door.

"Hello? Is anyone there? Are people leaving the store? Hello?!"

Nothing.

Now I started to panic a little bit. Still unable to rip the pant leg off my ankle-- why so tight with the taper?!-- and not wanting to open the dressing room door without pants on, I started to speak louder. "Are people leaving the store?!"

Eventually, a voice came from the other side. "Do you need another size?"

That's honestly what she said to me. 

After asking about the alarm, she said she it was probably a smoke warning.

"Are people leaving?"

"No. I want to, but I'm here until nine."

I basically love this.

Miranda July would be the best person in the world to kill some time with.

And Leaf.

I think the original ice-breaking exercise took place on a late night train on Halloween. It involved costumes, beverages, partially nude college students, and trust falls. (They've been trying to sell the trust fall thing as a good way to introduce yourself to strangers since forever). It was just like a bar on Halloween, except that the lighting was brighter, and the constant stops encouraged people to push up against each other in a less obvious way than usual.

If you have trouble meeting people, you should really be riding late night trains on Halloween. It's a no-shame holiday, so basically any line you use is going to be OK. Examples include:

-"So, are you a sexy mouse in real life?"

-"So, are you a sexy dinosaur in real life?"

-"So, do you know if I can transfer to the Red Line here?" 

The particularly chatty girl next to us on the train Saturday night had leaves all in her hair and Super Mario standing behind her figured that was his in.

Mario: So, are you like Mother Nature or something?

Leaf-Hair Girl: I'm a tree. I had more leaves, but they fell out.

Mario: Well, 'tis the season.

(Note: I have to say, that was pretty good.)

Tree: It's funny that they fell out because it's Fall.

(Yeah, Tree Girl, Mario just said that.)

Mario: Did you get them to change colors throughout the night?

This is where I had to zone out. I'll admit I was semi-curious to see what sort of tree banter the brain trust could keep up, but Mario's fake moustache was a little crooked, and he was carrying a toilet plunger, and as mentioned, Tree just had leaves all in her hair, so I was a little embarrassed for the two of them.  There's a reason these meetings made the switch from trains to darker, louder bars. 

No One I Know Would Call At This Hour.

My dad called me at 7 o'clock this morning. It's Saturday. When I answered the phone with my groggy hello, he responded with the most affected Halloween accent ever, saying, "Good morning gouls and goblins! Wondering if you have a special brew... brewing... this fine Halloween morn!" 

I've spent my lifetime trying to figure out an appropriate response to things like this. 

I haven't come up with anything yet. 

Ironically, No Guests On The Groom's Side.

A Somali man who claims to be 112 years old has married a 17-year-old girl, according to the Associated Press.

The couple was registered at Bed, Bath, & What The Fuck?!

Writer's Bio Block.

I have to submit a short bio for the agency website but I think I've hit a wall. Here's what I have so far:

"Jessica Martin was born Oprah Gail Winfrey on January 29, 1954. Open-Eyed Sneeze is her first book."

I lifted that first part from the Oprah Wikipedia page. She won't mind. 

What's A Cut Cost In Kronor These Days?

I need a haircut like whoa, but because I'm relatively new to Boston, I'm hesitant to just randomly sit down anywhere and let them have at it. I LOVE Micah (hi Micah!) but to get back to New York in the near future doesn't look good. So I've been keeping my eyes peeled for haircuts, hoping to find a place here. 

Tonight I saw a girl with a fantastic style so I basically chased her down and was like, "Sorry, where did you get your hair cut?"

She looked at me flatly for about five seconds before slowly replying in a thick accent, "Sweden."

Right. 

Maybe I can wait another week. 

Scared Yet?

I heard an ad on the radio for some sort of Halloween thing. I wasn't paying attention. It might have been for a haunted house or haunted hayride, but the announcer was using that traditional Halloween radio voice: 2 parts Crypt Keeper, one part Count from Sesame Street, one part Billy Fuccillo.

It's a really annoying voice.

The ad ended with the creepy voice slowly saying, "Discount coupons available at Dunkin' Donuts."  

The voice guy refused to break character for the Dunkin' Donuts tie-in despite the fact that it's basically impossible to instill fear when the word coupon is involved.  Try saying "coupons" using your scariest voice. "Boo!" is decidedly scarier. 

Note: 1,000 instant points of rad to those readers who actually tried saying coupons with a scary voice.

Brother?

New research has found that plants can recognize their siblings. LiveScience reports that while plants can't see or hear (or can they??), they can tell what other plants are around them through chemicals secreted from their roots.  

The findings are the exact opposite of sibling rivalry. When plants are around sibling plants, nutrients are shared, and all are able to grow equally. But when a plant senses a "stranger," it grows more roots and competes for water with that unknown plant.  It also refuses to take candy from the stranger plant or to get in its car. 

The fact that plants can recognize family isn't so crazy, is it? What will really blow my mind is if the research continues and finds that during the holiday season, plants sharing space near family drink more and focus almost exclusively on personal breathing exercises.  

Art, Imitating Life, Imitating Wife Swap.

Artist E.V. Day has an installation of opera costumes suspended in midair at New York City Opera's brand new theatre. Full disclosure, my sister works for City Opera. But this isn't a plug. The story is newsworthy because tragically, Balloon Boy is stuck high above the ground in a little red dress from La Bohème. 

For The Kids.

I'm scheduled to work on Halloween so I hope they don't mind when I show up wearing this.

 

Here's To Waiting.

So as some of you might know (some of you being my Grandma, MFB, and guy from London), I wrote a book awhile ago. Since then, I've been querying literary agents, which is basically just like sending out cover letters for your book. Here's a sample of the query letter I sent to agents:

Dear (Agent's name),

Freud thought that to examine the soul, you had to examine a person on the edge of insanity.  I wonder if Freud ever had to move back in with his parents.

I am writing to introduce you to Open-Eyed Sneeze, my personal account of life after college. 

Realizing that a film major/philosophy minor is a cosmic joke in the working world, I am forced to return to my childhood home after graduation to begin my job search.  Moving home after college plays out much like the five stages of grief — sans acceptance.  Listening to the random suggestions of my parents (“Would you ever consider getting involved with Riverdance?”), darting across grocery store aisles to avoid the inquiring minds of my small town, and attempting to keep depression at bay, Open-Eyed Sneeze explores why home proves to be a prime place for soul examination.  Highlighted with observations about uncertainty in the everyday, I come to realizations about life, family, work, and the thread of absurdity that weaves them all together.

Thousands of students leaving college this spring will experience difficulties for which their undergraduate career centers offered no flyer.  Serving as an Oh, The Places You’ll Go! for a more cynical generation of graduates, Open-Eyed Sneeze exposes the agony of the job hunt, the bizarre search for meaning, and the pang of guilt associated with napping four times a day.

I’ve included a sample of Open-Eyed Sneeze for your review.  I look forward to the opportunity to share the completed manuscript with you. 

Thank you very much for your generous time and consideration. 

Sincerely,

Jessica Martin

And then I waited. 

I started sending out these queries when I was living in San Francisco, so I've been doing a lot of sending, and a lot of waiting. And I've been hearing a lot of "No." Querying a book as a first-time author is the best lesson in rejection a person can get. Many literary agencies have gone green meaning they only take queries by email. That was a nice change because I think my local postal employee was beginning to think I was one sad excuse for a writer. "Are you sending out more of these?"

But, the point of this post is to let you know that I finally have a literary agent! I'll be working with Penn Whaling of Ann Rittenberg Literary Agency and I'm beyond thrilled. So stay tuned for more info about the book! 

But First, Let's Make Tiny Pigs.

With all of the research that is needed to face global health issues and to help advance medicine in general, I'm happy to see that someone spent their lab time wisely-- by making teacup pigs. Vaccines and cures can wait. What people actually need right now is little pig to carry around. 

Well done, modern science. 

And For Her Next Trick.

When my roommates are in the kitchen making something to eat, their dog Kallie sits on a blanket. All you have to say is "Blanket!" and she'll scoot backwards to sit on it. It's actually pretty awesome.

Apparently they forgot the blanket while away for the weekend, but it turns out that what appears to be a face cloth was a suitable substitution. I'm sorry, but Kallie is giving Snuggles the fabric softener bear a real run for his money in this picture. 

Now that I know she can do this, I'm wondering if anything will work as a blanket. I kind of like the idea of saying, "Cocktail napkin!" and having her sit on that. Or, "Post-It Note!" Or maybe I could somehow get her to sit inside a cupcake wrapper. That'd be cute.    

Yeah? Still With The Scale?

For some reason that is completely lost on me, people love random world records. I remember looking at the Guinness Book of World Records as a kid and seeing a picture of the woman with the world's longest fingernails. Besides wanting to throw up, my initial response was to ask, why? Sure, she did get a picture of her gross monster claw printed in a book, but she also couldn't use her hand for about 5 years.

Do you think 100 years from now they'll still be breaking world records? Or by then will people just agree that you shouldn't win anything for eating 200 hot dogs? I'm afraid it will most likely be the former, and here's why: Pumpkins. More specifically, giant pumpkins.

I like to think that humanity will eventually reach a level of sophistication that will deter them from growing their nails out, or sitting in an ice bath for 3 days. But 100 years from now, someone is going to have a giant pumpkin in their field and the first thing they're going to say is, "Hey, can we weigh this?"

And I'm glad to see all those giant pumpkin enthusiasts got the memo about reducing their carbon footprint. This year's winner drove 2,000 miles with a 1,658-pound pumpkin on the back of his truck. Smart Car owners will never be giant pumpkin champions.

The AP video didn't mention it, but on top of winning the $10,000 pumpkin prize, Don Young also won an award from the DMV for "Most Unnecessary Vanity Plate."

Congrats.

I Think It's For You.

This was a phone conversation I had with someone yesterday at work: 

 

Me: Hello?

Caller: Bologna?

Me: Can I help you with something, sir?

Caller: Pastrami?

Me: Sir?

Caller: Roast Beef?

I hung up. 

But I have to say, if my boss wasn't standing right next to me, I probably would have stayed on the line for a few more minutes.  

Top Secret.

Wired Magazine revealed the most common Hotmail account password to be 123456.  

People who use this password to protect their internet information are the same folks who put their hide-a-key rocks on top of outdoor lighting on the front porch.

Is one of us supposed to be a dog in this scenario?

I try to never talk about my personal life at work for 2 reasons:

1) I can talk about it on the internet.

2) When the guys at my old job heard I was gay I started to get a lot of dog-eared magazines left in my office whenever Ellen Degeneres was interviewed for an article.

So unless I'm asked, I usually never bring it up. But this was an exchange I had with a coworker I just met for the first time yesterday:

Coworker: So you're gay, right?

Me: Sorry?

Coworker: You're a lesbian?

Me: Oh. Yeah. 

Coworker: Thought so. A dog can smell another dog. 

Then she punched my arm before walking away.

I'm pretty sure my life is being filmed for the purposes of a hidden camera show.

No, I'm Good.

Drunk trauma patients admitted to the ER fare better than non-intoxicated patients, according to a new study.  The LA Times reports that patients with high blood alcohol levels have a mortality rate that is 6% lower than those patients who had not been drinking. 

 

The published study concludes that more study is needed to determine what the protective mechanism might be. 

Right. More study... I have a guess.

I won't pretend to have any exact research, but last Friday night we saw a guy holding the train door open for his friend using his face. The door closed on his face three times.  I'm guessing about 13 pints of protective mechanism were involved with that chivalrous move. 

And it's not really fair to include drunk people who leave the hospital alive as part of the data. You know months from now research will show a spike in mortality rates at Taco Bells within walking distance of Emergency Rooms.  But more study will be needed to determine why.

Smarty Pants.

Three Americans won the 2009 Nobel Prize in medicine for figuring out how chromosomes protect themselves from degrading when cells divide.  

According to the AP, the laureates discovered the enzyme that builds features known as telomeres, which are at the ends of chromosomes and "often compared to the plastic tips at the end of shoelaces that keep those laces from unraveling."

Their research might help explain why cancer cells are able to keep up their uncontrolled growth, and if drugs can be used to block the enzyme from building these "plastic tips," perhaps this could help fight the disease. 

When I read about people like this, I'm always amazed. Could you imagine having such a powerful mind?! Without exaggeration, it takes me about five hesitated starts before I can jump into a revolving door. That's the kind of brain I'm working with. 

Semi-related note: I saw something on the local news about a fetching competition for dogs and in the required post-segment banter the anchor said, "Those dogs are smarter than some people! Goodnight everybody!"

And that's how the news ended. 

China Celebrates 60 Years of Communism.

All 1.3 billion people have chipped in for a cake, which will be served in the break room. 

Seat's Taken.

Today on the crowded morning train I happened to overhear a girl tell her friend that she spilled Pepsi all over the seat next to her. This is something I've been fearing for awhile.  

In most other cities this soda seat wouldn't have been a problem. Plastic seats make spills and goo completely visible--it's the very least public transportation can do for its riders.  But in Boston, the T seats are covered in this hideous fabric that could basically hide anything.  Every time I sit down, I'm sure I'm about to have wet pants. 

When the girl and her friend got off the train a few stops after I'd learned the news about the soaking wet seat, I took it as my personal responsibility to inform every new passenger on my train car about it. I stood by the train doors and kept repeating, "Don't sit there, it's wet." "Don't sit there, it's wet." "That seat's wet, don't sit there." "That's a wet seat, don't sit in it." as I pointed to the accident seat and started to feel good about my random act of kindness.

The doors closed and I thought to myself, hey, nice work, J. You just saved a person's morning from being ruined!

But as the train rolled on it occurred to me that everyone I just talked to was probably thinking to themselves, How does she know? 

Then I started to get paranoid thinking about what they might be thinking. I debated making a general announcement, something along the lines of, "Hi everybody. I didn't pee on that seat. If that's what you were thinking, you're wrong."  

But I didn't.

Goal Setting.

I heard a story the other night about a person named... wait for it... Pooty McBurger.

Say it out loud please.

Pooty McBurger. That's the man's name. Pooty. McBurger.

The storyteller swears that the name is true. Apparently his parents were from Nigeria and wanted the most American name possible. Hence, Pooty. Obviously. 

I share this only because since hearing the name, it's been impossible for me to say "Pooty McBurger" with a straight face. To be honest, I can't even think about it without smiling. I've decided that when I can casually mention Pooty McBurger in conversation without my eyes watering, I'll be a grown up. It'd be nice to reach that marker by the end of the year. 

I'll keep you posted.  

So Why Not Just Say That?

Saw an ad for a place called The Garment District that read as follows:

The Garment District.

It's Not A District. It's a store.

I want to meet the person who wrote that slogan and flick them on the forehead.

Something With A View.

Lately I've been seeing a lot of kids sitting in strollers that look like this:

It looks fine when there are no babies in it, but when you actually see it with passengers, it's quite obvious one of the children is getting a raw deal. While the baby up top has access to street views, interaction with people, enough room to kick if so inclined, the bottom baby is simply staring at the mesh padding of the seat in front of it. I even saw one mother toss her purse in with the bottom baby. That's not storage, ma'am.  You have a baby in there. Years from now, studies will show that the child sitting in the bottom seat is someone who prefers to stare at walls.

But things could be worse.  The other day in the park I noticed a child too scared to approach a group of dogs that were playing together. The boy took a few steps in the direction of the dogs, and then ran back to his mother.  This continued until finally, the mother picked him up, put him into her granny cart, and wheeled him into the circle of dogs. This is a granny cart if unfamiliar:

    It was like a shark tank cage for a puppy play date.  The little kid stuck his fingers out of the cart to pet some of the dogs, and when he started to get scared again, the mother would wheel him out backwards.  

As I watched this, I felt like I was witnessing the reason why therapy exists. 

Sadly, this was not the first time I've seen a granny cart used as a stroller.  One time in Queens Brina pointed out a woman pushing her two kids down the street in a granny cart. The kids were standing upright and secured in the cart with what appeared to be some sort of luggage strap. Obviously there were some safety issues there, but at least both kids had the same view.

"But Where Does The Meat Go?"

Found this job posting on Craigslist:

"Line Cook- Raw Vegan Cafe."

According to the ad, the position requires at least two years of kitchen experience.

Right. Two years kitchen experience for a raw food cook. Raw food. Cook. And do you think it's actual kitchen experience, or two years experience in a raw food kitchen? And what does a raw food kitchen even look like? It's just a knife and a salad spinner, right?

Anyway, I thought the title of line cook was funny. Aren't vegan raw food cooks usually called vegetable trays?

Heart of Stone.

I'm used to hearing and seeing the worst performers ever on public transportation.  There was a woman in NY who played a Fisher-Price piano type thing that she could also blow into, so you can imagine how well that went.  The music was never the main part of her act though.  It was the fact that she stood with one leg on the train floor, one leg leaning up against a pole, and 2 hands on the piano horn.  At every stop she would struggle to keep from flying to the ground. 

It was actually pretty sad.

That's why last night's train ride home was such a pleasant surprise.  When I entered the station I was welcomed by what can only be described as the best Doo-Wop group I've ever heard. I'm a sucker for a good Doo-Wop group.  And when they broke out into a crazy rendition of The Tymes' So Much In Love I thought to myself, "Take note, piano horn lady." 

When the train rolled up I was disappointed that I'd have to leave the music, but awesomely, all of the guys got on my train car. So for my entire ride home, non-stop insanely good Doo-Wop. I once had a Mariachi Band ride on my train car from Queensboro to Shea, but after about 4 subway stops of Mariachi, you tend to get the gist.  

During a cover of We Are The World--the Doo-Wop cover, not the Mariachi--the entire train car started clapping in unison. People were swaying back and forth, singing along, smiling. It was a total goose bump moment without even the slightest hint of cheesiness. I was looking around the train car, amazed by how quickly a group of strangers can connect, when I saw a girl sitting across from me, hunched over a huge text book, basically frowning, using her hands to cover her ears in such an exaggerated fashion it looked like she was holding a basketball instead of her head.  It killed me. What kind of igneous rock does your heart have to be made of to get so mad during free train ride Doo-Wop?

Qualifications.

Frankly, I wouldn't want to work for a company that refused to accept this link in lieu of my resume. 

That Reminds Me.

My father interrupted Nessa mid-sentence yesterday by saying, "OH! That reminds me!"

I don't actually remember what she was talking about, but I know for a fact it was nothing that could have possibly reminded him of the story he told. 

Dad: So I was driving one of the old Oliver tractors back to the farm last week and a bee flew right against my teeth and the impact killed it. A bee! Right into my teeth! It died! Can you believe it?    

We all stared at each other in silence for about 30 seconds.

Me: Dad, you just interrupted Nessa to tell a story about killing a bee with your teeth.  

Dad: Oh, sorry. I just thought about it.

Ness: I don't get it. Your teeth were exposed while you were driving a tractor down the road?

Exposing all her teeth into a freakishly giant smile she added, "Who drives like that?" 

My dad started smiling thinking about it and he goes, "You know, out there with nature. It's nice."

I don't want to know how my father's mind works, but I've really learned to appreciate it. 

Good Read.

Sorting through a box of old stuff, I found a collection of short stories my little sister wrote in elementary school.  While movies are usually remembered for their last line, they say that the most memorable line in a book is the opening. In the case of Vanessa's work, I'd have to say that's true.

Here are how three of her different short stories started:

"Vanessa, Caitlin, TiTi, Brynne, and Yonghee were all going to Florida together."

-From The Search

"One day Caitlin, Brynne, Yonghee, TiTi, and Vanessa were on the school playground talking."

From The Christmas I'd Never Forget

And my personal favorite, 

"'I can't wait until we go to India.' announced TiTi. Vanessa and Caitlin were busy packing while Yonghee and Brynne were playing Sega."

From Our Dangerous Adventure

Talk about setting the scene! 

I also found a very long piece written by Sabrina entitled, Fight Once, Fight Again. 

I didn't read the entire thing but I'm guessing it was not about conflict resolution.

Treppenwitz.

I've been a lifelong sufferer of Treppenwitz, or "L'esprit de l'escalier" (staircase wit). The phrase comes from walking down a staircase to leave a place and suddenly thinking of the perfect thing to say. "Yeah? Well the jerk store called..." That sort of thing. 

I'm always thinking of the perfect thing to say days after the opportunity to use it has passed. But there's no chic-sounding french phrase that roughly translates to, "A week after missing a great chance to say something witty, you come up with a clever retort while watching House Hunters, slightly drunk, in your pajamas."

Anyway, when I asked a salesman the price of something the other day, instead of just telling me, he said, "I can be flexible on the price. What are you looking to spend?"

Note: I hate haggling. I'm terrible at it, I don't enjoy it on any level, and i would prefer things to simply have a set price. 

"Um, well how much does it cost? Then I'll see if that's what I want to spend."

So he goes, "This is the price I can do." And he slid the number over to me.

It was a scene straight out of a bad TV show where negotiations are made by writing down a figure and passing it back and forth to each other to work out a price. Only, I didn't want to do this. And, instead of like in those TV shows where the numbers are written down on paper, folded in half and passed across the table, this number exchange happened on, wait for it, a calculator.  

A calculator! Who has ever heard of a calculator haggle?! There was no one around us, there was no reason to be secretive, and it was totally pointless to not just say the number. Did he expect me to type a number back to him? Fighting an eye-roll with every bit of my being, I thanked him and started to walk away.

"Wait, what number were you thinking?" (This guy would make a terrible magician.) 

I was tempted to play along because I thought it might be fun to say something like, "I'm thinking of something closer to... this." But I wasn't sure how calculator haggling worked so I just said, "It's OK, thanks anyway."

But of course, today, in true staircase fashion, I thought of how funny it would have been to take the calculator, squint like I was thinking of a fair price, clear his number away, and type BOOB, before passing it back to him.  It was probably the only real opportunity I will ever have to type BOOB on a calculator and I missed it. Sorry, third grade version of me. I let you down.