aka I've Been Tagged!
Oh this is so exciting! I love things like this, ever since I was 14 and I got my first email address and shortly thereafter recieved one of those chain surveys that circulated around and around where you were supposed to answer such deep questions as Lipstick or Chapstick? Chili's or TGIFridays? Joshua Jackson or James Van der Beek? (For the record, both, neither, and always, always, always Joshua Jackson. James Van der Beek has the largest forehead I've ever seen and it is not attractive.)
So, I've been tagged by my very awesome cousin, Nicole (but I'll always call her Nicki!) Here goes:
1. Link to your tagger and post these rules on your blog.
2. Share 7 facts about yourself on your blog, some random, some weird.
3. Tag 7 people at the end of your post by leaving their names as well as links to their blogs.
4. Let them know they are tagged by leaving a comment on their blog.
About me? Hmmm... my favorite topic!
1) I'm constantly experimenting with my handwriting. Although most would consider my natural penmanship just fine, I don't like it and I'm constantly trying to improve it by changing little things. The way I write one letter, whether I use capitals or lowercase, the size, slant, angle, etc. I'm always jealous of people whose wonderful handwriting seems so effortless.
2) I'm always reading something, and I have been since I learned the alphabet. Although I enjoy non-fiction, particularly biographies, current events, and analyses of pop culture, I hate cerebral fiction. If it smacks of pretentious intellectualism, I'm not reading it. What am I reading? Well... when asked, I wax poetic about Dickens and Austen and Eliot and Fitzgerald, and it's not a lie, I love all them. But teen fiction is my passion. I also love the Baby-sitters Club, Sweet Valley Twins (but not Sweet Valley High) and it's entirely possible that the book I have read and re-read most often is one that I got at a garage sale when I was about 10. It's called Malibu Summer and it's about a 15-year-old girl from Wisconsin named Amber who moves to Malibu to be a nanny for a rich family for the summer and falls in love with the handsome older son of the Hollywood producer she works for, whose name is Jason and who is in an advanced accelerated filmmaking program at UCLA. Only, see, Amber thinks she is in love with Brett, the producer's other older son by his first wife, but Brett is a little odd and emotionally stunted and it's not until the very, very end of the book when Amber is leaving Malibu the next day that she and Jason realize their love for each other, but Amber has to leave because she misses her family on the dairy farm in Wisconsin even though Madeleine, Brett and Jason's stepmother and the Hollywood producer's 4th wife, has already begged her to stay and help care for Kyle, the younger child of the producer's deceased 3rd wife for the whole year, going so far as to offer her tennis lessons and to fly her family out for the Rose Bowl. In the end, Amber leaves Malibu with the promise to return after graduation to go to college in LA because Madeleine and the producer have offered to pay for it, and because that way she and Jason can be together forever. Am I the only person to see the genius in this book? It's incredible! Go write something like that, Bret Easton Ellis, and then come back and I'll try reading your work again, you pretentious nitwit. Also, I wish I was Amber.
3) I absolutely cannot stand the sound of the hairdryer and the vaccuum cleaner. The person who invents a silent vacuum cleaner will have my undying gratitude. It's so loud! The only redeeming value to the ugly tile floors in my apartment is the fact that I no longer have to vacuum. As for the hairdryer, I solved the problem by getting one of those quiet dryers. Unfortunately, the quiet motor means it doesn't have much ooomph, which typically leaves my hair looking and feeling like limp macaroni, but that's a trade-off I've so far been willing to make.
4) I am obsessed with the modern Olympic games. Obsessed. It's almost frightening. For two weeks every two years, I sit glued to my television, deeply engrossed in events no one else has even heard of. (Men's Skeet Shooting? Watched it. Table tennis? Watched it. Luge, Rhythmic Gymnastics, Winter Biathlon? Once again, watched them all.) For two weeks I put my life on hold. I refuse to go out with my friends. I resent the fact that I have to go to work during the Judo finals. One year, I even briefly considered an attempt on a classmate's life after finding out that she had tickets to the opening ceremonies. I know. Sad but true. So, every two years, I get a real treat. The Olympics!!! There's nothing better than watching all the countries come together for good, friendly, quality competition...Yeah, RIGHT! But what is pretty sweet is making fun of the "cultural" aspects (anyone remember the "Child of Light" from Salt Lake City? or how about those creepy little oompah-loompah like creatures from Lillehammer?) Uh-huh, I thought so. And those great sappy biographies on the poor tortured athlete, usually from some dreadful communist country, forced to live and train solely for the glory of his/her country, and not even allowed to go home when his/her beloved mother/grandfather/significant other/pet turtle (take your pick) suffers a tragic and sudden death. Still though, there is something almost magical about gathering around the TV to watch the sparkle and fire of the opening ceremonies, to feel the awe at the lighting of the torch, to for just a few weeks forget our differences and enjoy the spirit of competition and camaraderie. Sure, we don't get the whole story. Tales of corruption and trouble spill out of Olympic Village at an alarming rate. But for some of us, the joy will always be there, the love, the excitement of children. That is perhaps the most important thing that the Olympic Games do for us. I know that it's cheesy, and there's performance art, and children singing, and obnoxious, arrogant athletes, and all sorts of things that I usually hate, but I can't help but love it. The Olympics- there's just nothing better.
5) I believe the world is split into two kinds of people: Condiment people, and no-condiment people. I am a no-condiment person. I tell people I'm allergic to mustard, but the reality is, I just think it tastes disgusting. I can only stomach mayo if it's in a salad (tuna salad, potato salad, etc) and sometimes not even then. I put salt and pepper on my green salad in place of any sort of dressing. The bigger issue, besides just condiment preference, is that I also prefer the world to be split in two. I like black and white, yes and no, right and wrong, 90 degree angles, compartmentalization, and never, ever chaos. As I get older, I see more and more how unrealistic this preference is, but nonetheless, I continue to chase the dream. Perfection is always, always the goal.
6) This is no surprise to anyone who knows me, but I love to travel. I love to experience other cultures. I loved my time as a student in London, my backpacking trips around Europe, and my summer service projects in Latin America. I believe that these experiences influenced my life in so many ways, introduced me to new people, cultures, and ways of life, gave me skills that have helped me in my professional life, and provided me with cherished memories. But every so often, especially now that I'm older, I start to crave a relaxing vacation rather than a non-stop action, always moving, as cheap as you can get it whirlwind tour. Rather than experience the true culture and people of the caribbean, would it really be so bad for me to just spend a week at an all-inclusive resort, sipping margs on the white-sand beach? No, it wouldn't be a real cultural experience, and I could never admit it to my adventurous and travel-snob friends, but can anything that involves free all-you-can-drink alcoholic beverages and non-motorized watersports really be so bad?
7) I have exactly 3 special talents. They are: parallel parking (really, I don't get why so many people think this is so hard), reciting the alphabet backwards (ZYXWVUTSRQPONMLKJIHGFEDCBA. I've no doubt that this talent will serve me well, should a cop ever question my sobriety), and remembering names and faces. I never forget a name or a face. You're a friend of a friend? We haven't seen each other in 17 years? We only met once, it was at a party, late at night, and I was both drunk and distracted at the time? Doesn't matter. I'll remember you. In fact, this is often embarrassing, and many times I just pretend that I don't remember someone, because it is clear that he or she does not remember me, and it spares us both embarrassment if I just go along with the charade. But in the back of my mind, as we shake hands, I'm thinking, "Of course you're Muffy Carrington. We met three years ago at Evelyn Rileys wedding shower, when you were sitting on that old green sofa and wearing purple leggings and we discussed the weather and the fact that we both like white cake better than chocolate." Do you see how the level of detail that I am able to instantly recall brings with it large potential for mortification? And furthermore, why is it that I can remember ridiculous amounts of detail like this at the drop of a hat, and yet I have been missing my left sneaker for the last two weeks?
Wow! Clearly I'm a narcissist! So much to say about me! Um, so I don't really know many other bloggers, and I don't really know who takes the time to read my drivel, so let's just say, if you're reading this, consider yourself tagged! I want to meet you/know who you are, so leave me a message and start writing your own novel-length introduction, just like me!
(So this is pretty long... it sort of makes up for 3 weeks of blog-silence, right? No? Well, don't worry, I've got lots of catching up to do!)
Saturday, October 25, 2008
Thursday, October 2, 2008
Along Came Me (and my Furniture)
Yes, I am aware that the title of this post points to a heinously awful movie, one that not even a rom-com junkie like me even likes. Oh Jennifer Aniston, please get a better agent. You're talented. But I digress. The only reason I even bring it up is to (what else?) draw a comparison to my life. There's a scene in Jennifer Aniston's apartment where Ben Stiller looks around at the mess and the boxes and the general disarray and asks if she just moved in. She replies that she's been there for 2 years. And that is the situation I find myself in today.
Now granted, I've only been here 2 months. But the feeling is the same. I probably should have unpacked those boxes that have been sitting in the corner by now. I probably should not be sitting in a folding pink $8.99 Target camping chair watching a DVD on my laptop propped up on an upturned box while balancing a grilled cheese sandwich on a saucer (not even a full size plate) on my lap. I probably should arrange things in a nice order in the closet and buy some of those nice collapsible fabric boxes to hold things on the top shelves. I should actually put my shoes on the shoe rack that I randomly put together one Saturday afternoon, but then got bored with the project before actually putting the shoes on it. And I should probably do all this before I start having visitors next week.
Apparently, my life is all about the panic. I've always been a deadline person. While I might have started a paper 3 weeks in advance, I inevitably finished it around 4 am the night before it was due in a nauseated haze of Diet Coke and Wheat Thins. Last time I was in the midwest, I nearly missed the bus to the airport because I was running through my parents' house throwing last-minute items into a half-empty suitcase 10 minutes before I needed to be boarding the bus. I've got to have that pressure.
I'm not really proud of that fact, and I'd like to change. I'd like to be the sort of person who does things in advance and then feels smug and superior watching other run around at the last minute like chickens without heads (what disturbing imagery. How did this become so ingrained in the American lexicon that we use it without thinking? Gross.) But when push comes to shove, I'm still the girl who only ordered a table, chairs, sofa, armchair, and TV this week so that when my visitors show up, they don't think I live in utter squalor. Beyond that, what's the point of having this nice apartment all to myself if I won't spend the money to make it comfortable? Ahh, money, my old nemesis. Your scarcity makes you always the root of my troubles. And the root of most of my neuroses, as well, come to think of it.
It's tough to shell out an entire paycheck on furniture when there is simply no convenient way to buy cheap furniture in this city. You could wander all day, from the Bronx to Brooklyn, and at the end of the day you'd be confused and angry and have aching feet.and still have barely been able to see anything in the few furniture showrooms that exist, still not be sure of what you want, still pay exorbitant prices, and still have to figure out how on earth to get it delivered. Almost everyone I've asked says that if you're looking for cheap, you're better off just picking something online based on the price and hoping for the best. And for me, even having done the research and decided what I'd like, there's this sinking feeling as soon as I click "purchase" that says "Are you even going to be living here that long? What if you move next year? Now you have all this furniture and extra stuff that you'll have to either sell (and deal with the hassle), dump (and feel like you just lost a ton of money) or move (and add to the nearly unbearable stress of the experience, especially in the city.)
Paralyzed by indecision and nagging doubts (two things that have not really been a problem for me in the past), it takes other people to make me move. So once the furniture arrives, we'll see whether I'll love it all and want to thank my visitors for forcing me to take the plunge, or curse them for sticking me with some ugly crap that looks nothing like what I saw online. I guess if worst comes to worst, I can always sell it on Craigslist... those weirdos will buy anything.
Now granted, I've only been here 2 months. But the feeling is the same. I probably should have unpacked those boxes that have been sitting in the corner by now. I probably should not be sitting in a folding pink $8.99 Target camping chair watching a DVD on my laptop propped up on an upturned box while balancing a grilled cheese sandwich on a saucer (not even a full size plate) on my lap. I probably should arrange things in a nice order in the closet and buy some of those nice collapsible fabric boxes to hold things on the top shelves. I should actually put my shoes on the shoe rack that I randomly put together one Saturday afternoon, but then got bored with the project before actually putting the shoes on it. And I should probably do all this before I start having visitors next week.
Apparently, my life is all about the panic. I've always been a deadline person. While I might have started a paper 3 weeks in advance, I inevitably finished it around 4 am the night before it was due in a nauseated haze of Diet Coke and Wheat Thins. Last time I was in the midwest, I nearly missed the bus to the airport because I was running through my parents' house throwing last-minute items into a half-empty suitcase 10 minutes before I needed to be boarding the bus. I've got to have that pressure.
I'm not really proud of that fact, and I'd like to change. I'd like to be the sort of person who does things in advance and then feels smug and superior watching other run around at the last minute like chickens without heads (what disturbing imagery. How did this become so ingrained in the American lexicon that we use it without thinking? Gross.) But when push comes to shove, I'm still the girl who only ordered a table, chairs, sofa, armchair, and TV this week so that when my visitors show up, they don't think I live in utter squalor. Beyond that, what's the point of having this nice apartment all to myself if I won't spend the money to make it comfortable? Ahh, money, my old nemesis. Your scarcity makes you always the root of my troubles. And the root of most of my neuroses, as well, come to think of it.
It's tough to shell out an entire paycheck on furniture when there is simply no convenient way to buy cheap furniture in this city. You could wander all day, from the Bronx to Brooklyn, and at the end of the day you'd be confused and angry and have aching feet.and still have barely been able to see anything in the few furniture showrooms that exist, still not be sure of what you want, still pay exorbitant prices, and still have to figure out how on earth to get it delivered. Almost everyone I've asked says that if you're looking for cheap, you're better off just picking something online based on the price and hoping for the best. And for me, even having done the research and decided what I'd like, there's this sinking feeling as soon as I click "purchase" that says "Are you even going to be living here that long? What if you move next year? Now you have all this furniture and extra stuff that you'll have to either sell (and deal with the hassle), dump (and feel like you just lost a ton of money) or move (and add to the nearly unbearable stress of the experience, especially in the city.)
Paralyzed by indecision and nagging doubts (two things that have not really been a problem for me in the past), it takes other people to make me move. So once the furniture arrives, we'll see whether I'll love it all and want to thank my visitors for forcing me to take the plunge, or curse them for sticking me with some ugly crap that looks nothing like what I saw online. I guess if worst comes to worst, I can always sell it on Craigslist... those weirdos will buy anything.
Monday, September 29, 2008
Someone Hit the Panic Button
I shall now proceed to transcribe for you the actual conversation I had with a dear old friend last week.
Me: I have to talk to you.
Her: Oh, geez, are you pregnant?
Me: No! Geez, why do you always have to assume the worst? We just need to discuss what I did this weekend. I need perspective.
Her: Oh, geez, is X. back in town? Did you hook up with him again?
Me: No! Geez, you really do think highly of me, don't you? Besides, X. is still in Singapore. Anyway, it does have to do with dating.
Her: Oh, geez, did you--
Me: NO! Whatever you were going to say, NO! You will not guess it! Let me talk and then we can do the psychoanalysis part.
Her: OK, OK, calm down, psychofreak. What did you do this weekend?
Me: I read a book.
Her: You called me in the middle of the night to tell me you read a book this weekend?
Me: It's 10 pm! What are you, 85?
Her: Says the girl who's been shopping at Ann Taylor since she was 10.
Me: They have high-quality, classic tailored pieces! You're all just jealous that you didn't discover it sooner!
Her: OK, Betty Sue. Tell me that part about Talbot's again?
Me: We are so far off topic here. You are distracting me.
Her: Fine. I will humor you. You read a book.
Me: Yes. It was a dating book.
Her: You read a dating book?! Desperate city!
Me: It gets worse.
Her: Oh, geez, what have I told you about these self-help books?
Me: Hey, Dr. Kevin Leman helped me learn alot about my tormented soul! Someday, I will actually be able to afford therapy with him. Of course, he will probably be dead by then. Or at least in a nursing home.
Her: At risk of regressing to eighth grade, you are a FREAK.
Me: But you know you love me. XOXO.
Her: OK, Gossip Girl, finish your story. Just give me the bad news straight up.
Me: It was a Christian dating book.
Her: (snorting) Crap! You owe me a new sweater and another bottle of $6 wine! A Christian dating book? Was it like "I Kissed Dating Goodbye" or "Let Jesus write your Love Story" or geez, what else did the youth group kids read?
Me: First of all, what is this $6 wine and is it tasty? I'll buy you a box of Franzia if you ever come visit me! Second of all, no, it was not one of the youth group books. Geez, I've not completely lost my mind.
Her: So, what was it?
Me: It was a humorous look at dating by a 20-something Christian woman.
Her: (snorting) Geez, again with the wine! Did you read that off the back cover of the book?
Me: No, I made it up! That was my personal synopsis.
Her: So what on earth made you decide to pick up this book, out of everything in Barnes and Noble?
Me: Well you know, I'm well into my quarter-life crisis, and I just read "The Panic Years" and--
Her: You read "The Panic Years"? Do you not listen to me at all? What have I told you about these literary choices? Can you not just read a Jane Austen novel for dating perspective like the rest of us?
Me: I read all of Jane Austen's novels by sophomore year of high school! I am well beyond Jane's help at this point!
Her: You're barely halfway through your twenties! Calm down!
Me: But see, that's the point! Why am I like this? I don't want to get married! I don't need a man in my life to be fulfilled! I'm a feminist, damn it!
Her: Roar, woman! So, what's the problem?
Me: Well, the book kind of... made sense.
Her: If you utter the word "courtship," I am hanging up the phone right now.
Me: No! That's just it! The girl who wrote this book even said she thought the whole "dating/courtship" debate was ludicrous. I was like "Yeah! Where were you when I was getting shunned by the youth group for that perspective!"
Her: So, really, why this book? Why did you pick it up?
Me: Well, I guess I was just looking for a different perspective. At risk of being lame, a moral perspective? I mean, I love my SATC lifestyle as much as the next girl, but it's not going to last forever. In fact, if it lasts forever, I'll shoot myself. If I'm still single when I'm Carrie Bradshaw's age, I'm joining a convent. After all, I do look good in black. Although I'd have to see if there's a way around the wimple thing, because I don't do hats without brims.
Her: True, hats without brims are not a good look on you. Remember the backwards baseball cap debacle of 1998?
Me: Must you kick me when I am down? And since we're speaking of awful trends of the past, you took down that picture of us in your apartment, right, the one where we are on the beach and I am wearing those ridiculous overall shorts over a bathing suit and looking truly heinous?
Her: (shiftily) Yeah sure, I took it down.
Me: I don't believe you.
Her: Moral perspective, remember? Why the sudden interest?
Me: I don't know! I was hoping you could shed some light on it!
Her: It's not that out of the realm of possibility, Miss I attend Mass every week and recently signed up to be a Eucharistic Minister. You are a moral person. You're way more Charlotte than Samantha.
Me: OK, can we please not compare me to any of them at this point? And I did the Eucharistic Minister thing as a way to meet men! Add that to my credit towards my one-way ticket on a freight train to hell! So, anyway, then, not long ago I was talking to a friend and she said something about a friend of hers who married a youth minister, and I was like "awww, I would marry a youth minister!" I mean, where did that come from? I'm supposed to marry an investment banker! Or a hedge-fund manager! Or a jet-setting CEO of a multinational corporation!
Her: Man, you really don't dream small do you?
Me: No! I don't dream small! So why am I now so desperate to settle that I'm reading ridiculous dating books, Christian or otherwise, and planning my life as Mrs. Youth Pastor of Bumbleton, Iowa?
Her: Are you really doing that?
Me: Well, not quite. I'm totally not resigned to the Bumbleton, Iowa part yet.
Her: But it's OK to change your mind. It's OK to decide that would be OK. Or to open your mind to other possibilities than being a hard-nosed New Yorker for the next 3/4 of your life. Even if that means a youth minister. Even if it means a convent.
Me: I was kidding about the convent.
Her: I know. But you need to calm down. Stop freaking out. Open yourself to the possibilities. You are a Christian. And need I remind you that all of the guys you've seriously dated have been church-goers? I know you're running away and this whole "Christian dating book" thing seems like a blast from a past you're trying to forget, but it's not that bad. You don't have to be wacko about it, just like the girl in the book wasn't wacko about it. Just open your mind.
Me: Thanks, Oprah. I knew I could count on you.
Her: OK, Gayle. If I may continue on my soapbox for one more minute, it's just to remind you that you took a personality test in 12th grade that was supposed to tell you when you'd be ready to get married--
Me: Oh, yeah, I remember that! It sounds like something out of Cosmo, but it was totally a graded thing for religion class.
Her: Oh, 12th grade. Yes, and do you remember what your test said?
Me: Something like "28 and 6 months."
Her: It was "28 and 9 months."
Me: Why on earth do you remember that? Are you stalking me? Creepster...
Her: Oh please! You were like the only person in the class whose answer was above 24. And the teacher used you as a case study and warning against women who were too involved in their careers, and you told him where to shove it.
Me: Oh yeah. I forgot about that. Then he tried to give me detention for my language, but the disciplinarian thought it was a joke.
Her: Exactly!
Me: That's all well and good, but if I'm supposed to be married by the time I'm 28 and 9 months, and I have to be engaged for at least 9 months so I can get the pretty church and also so they can be certain I'm not knocked up, and I want to date for at least a year before getting engaged and preferably more like two years because we all know that it takes me a while to achieve a functional relationship, that means I need to meet and begin to date the person I will eventually marry, like, right now.
Her: But that's not the point! Remember that girl who spent the entire class period arguing with the teacher so the rest of us could study for the trig test the next period! The take no prisoners, kick butt, I will marry my CEO when I'm good and ready and whether I'm 28 or 38 or 88, it will be when the time is right for me and I will not live in a trailer and work for my dad and never get out of this two bit town girl. You're out! You're living the dream!
Me: But now I don't know if it is the dream. Maybe this book is a way of showing me that the dream is actually a nice church-going guy and a picket-fenced house in the suburbs.
Her: Maybe it is. That's what I told you. It's OK to change your mind. You've tried one dream. If it's not right, try another.
Me: I suppose you could be right. You're good at this. Almost as good as Dr. Kevin Leman.
Her: I know. It's why they pay me the big bucks.
Me: Believe me, if my insurance would pay for therapy, I would designate you as my mental health professional.
Her: Gee, that means a lot. By the way, don't think I'm forgetting about the box of Franzia you promised me.
Me: Don't think that I'm forgetting about the visit you promised me!
Her: Oh yeah, since we're on the topic of men and Christian dating, how's that guy you liked from your church?
Me: Do you mean "Cute Joe?"
Her: Yeah, have you talked to him yet?
Me: Um, yeah. Turns out we now have to refer to him as "Cute, Gay Joe."
Her: Oh, bummer. Not quite the dream, huh?
Me: Guess I keep looking. And reading.
Conclusion: I am insane. And in need of therapy. And lucky to have a dear old friend and a cell phone plan that offers unlimited nights and weekends.
Me: I have to talk to you.
Her: Oh, geez, are you pregnant?
Me: No! Geez, why do you always have to assume the worst? We just need to discuss what I did this weekend. I need perspective.
Her: Oh, geez, is X. back in town? Did you hook up with him again?
Me: No! Geez, you really do think highly of me, don't you? Besides, X. is still in Singapore. Anyway, it does have to do with dating.
Her: Oh, geez, did you--
Me: NO! Whatever you were going to say, NO! You will not guess it! Let me talk and then we can do the psychoanalysis part.
Her: OK, OK, calm down, psychofreak. What did you do this weekend?
Me: I read a book.
Her: You called me in the middle of the night to tell me you read a book this weekend?
Me: It's 10 pm! What are you, 85?
Her: Says the girl who's been shopping at Ann Taylor since she was 10.
Me: They have high-quality, classic tailored pieces! You're all just jealous that you didn't discover it sooner!
Her: OK, Betty Sue. Tell me that part about Talbot's again?
Me: We are so far off topic here. You are distracting me.
Her: Fine. I will humor you. You read a book.
Me: Yes. It was a dating book.
Her: You read a dating book?! Desperate city!
Me: It gets worse.
Her: Oh, geez, what have I told you about these self-help books?
Me: Hey, Dr. Kevin Leman helped me learn alot about my tormented soul! Someday, I will actually be able to afford therapy with him. Of course, he will probably be dead by then. Or at least in a nursing home.
Her: At risk of regressing to eighth grade, you are a FREAK.
Me: But you know you love me. XOXO.
Her: OK, Gossip Girl, finish your story. Just give me the bad news straight up.
Me: It was a Christian dating book.
Her: (snorting) Crap! You owe me a new sweater and another bottle of $6 wine! A Christian dating book? Was it like "I Kissed Dating Goodbye" or "Let Jesus write your Love Story" or geez, what else did the youth group kids read?
Me: First of all, what is this $6 wine and is it tasty? I'll buy you a box of Franzia if you ever come visit me! Second of all, no, it was not one of the youth group books. Geez, I've not completely lost my mind.
Her: So, what was it?
Me: It was a humorous look at dating by a 20-something Christian woman.
Her: (snorting) Geez, again with the wine! Did you read that off the back cover of the book?
Me: No, I made it up! That was my personal synopsis.
Her: So what on earth made you decide to pick up this book, out of everything in Barnes and Noble?
Me: Well you know, I'm well into my quarter-life crisis, and I just read "The Panic Years" and--
Her: You read "The Panic Years"? Do you not listen to me at all? What have I told you about these literary choices? Can you not just read a Jane Austen novel for dating perspective like the rest of us?
Me: I read all of Jane Austen's novels by sophomore year of high school! I am well beyond Jane's help at this point!
Her: You're barely halfway through your twenties! Calm down!
Me: But see, that's the point! Why am I like this? I don't want to get married! I don't need a man in my life to be fulfilled! I'm a feminist, damn it!
Her: Roar, woman! So, what's the problem?
Me: Well, the book kind of... made sense.
Her: If you utter the word "courtship," I am hanging up the phone right now.
Me: No! That's just it! The girl who wrote this book even said she thought the whole "dating/courtship" debate was ludicrous. I was like "Yeah! Where were you when I was getting shunned by the youth group for that perspective!"
Her: So, really, why this book? Why did you pick it up?
Me: Well, I guess I was just looking for a different perspective. At risk of being lame, a moral perspective? I mean, I love my SATC lifestyle as much as the next girl, but it's not going to last forever. In fact, if it lasts forever, I'll shoot myself. If I'm still single when I'm Carrie Bradshaw's age, I'm joining a convent. After all, I do look good in black. Although I'd have to see if there's a way around the wimple thing, because I don't do hats without brims.
Her: True, hats without brims are not a good look on you. Remember the backwards baseball cap debacle of 1998?
Me: Must you kick me when I am down? And since we're speaking of awful trends of the past, you took down that picture of us in your apartment, right, the one where we are on the beach and I am wearing those ridiculous overall shorts over a bathing suit and looking truly heinous?
Her: (shiftily) Yeah sure, I took it down.
Me: I don't believe you.
Her: Moral perspective, remember? Why the sudden interest?
Me: I don't know! I was hoping you could shed some light on it!
Her: It's not that out of the realm of possibility, Miss I attend Mass every week and recently signed up to be a Eucharistic Minister. You are a moral person. You're way more Charlotte than Samantha.
Me: OK, can we please not compare me to any of them at this point? And I did the Eucharistic Minister thing as a way to meet men! Add that to my credit towards my one-way ticket on a freight train to hell! So, anyway, then, not long ago I was talking to a friend and she said something about a friend of hers who married a youth minister, and I was like "awww, I would marry a youth minister!" I mean, where did that come from? I'm supposed to marry an investment banker! Or a hedge-fund manager! Or a jet-setting CEO of a multinational corporation!
Her: Man, you really don't dream small do you?
Me: No! I don't dream small! So why am I now so desperate to settle that I'm reading ridiculous dating books, Christian or otherwise, and planning my life as Mrs. Youth Pastor of Bumbleton, Iowa?
Her: Are you really doing that?
Me: Well, not quite. I'm totally not resigned to the Bumbleton, Iowa part yet.
Her: But it's OK to change your mind. It's OK to decide that would be OK. Or to open your mind to other possibilities than being a hard-nosed New Yorker for the next 3/4 of your life. Even if that means a youth minister. Even if it means a convent.
Me: I was kidding about the convent.
Her: I know. But you need to calm down. Stop freaking out. Open yourself to the possibilities. You are a Christian. And need I remind you that all of the guys you've seriously dated have been church-goers? I know you're running away and this whole "Christian dating book" thing seems like a blast from a past you're trying to forget, but it's not that bad. You don't have to be wacko about it, just like the girl in the book wasn't wacko about it. Just open your mind.
Me: Thanks, Oprah. I knew I could count on you.
Her: OK, Gayle. If I may continue on my soapbox for one more minute, it's just to remind you that you took a personality test in 12th grade that was supposed to tell you when you'd be ready to get married--
Me: Oh, yeah, I remember that! It sounds like something out of Cosmo, but it was totally a graded thing for religion class.
Her: Oh, 12th grade. Yes, and do you remember what your test said?
Me: Something like "28 and 6 months."
Her: It was "28 and 9 months."
Me: Why on earth do you remember that? Are you stalking me? Creepster...
Her: Oh please! You were like the only person in the class whose answer was above 24. And the teacher used you as a case study and warning against women who were too involved in their careers, and you told him where to shove it.
Me: Oh yeah. I forgot about that. Then he tried to give me detention for my language, but the disciplinarian thought it was a joke.
Her: Exactly!
Me: That's all well and good, but if I'm supposed to be married by the time I'm 28 and 9 months, and I have to be engaged for at least 9 months so I can get the pretty church and also so they can be certain I'm not knocked up, and I want to date for at least a year before getting engaged and preferably more like two years because we all know that it takes me a while to achieve a functional relationship, that means I need to meet and begin to date the person I will eventually marry, like, right now.
Her: But that's not the point! Remember that girl who spent the entire class period arguing with the teacher so the rest of us could study for the trig test the next period! The take no prisoners, kick butt, I will marry my CEO when I'm good and ready and whether I'm 28 or 38 or 88, it will be when the time is right for me and I will not live in a trailer and work for my dad and never get out of this two bit town girl. You're out! You're living the dream!
Me: But now I don't know if it is the dream. Maybe this book is a way of showing me that the dream is actually a nice church-going guy and a picket-fenced house in the suburbs.
Her: Maybe it is. That's what I told you. It's OK to change your mind. You've tried one dream. If it's not right, try another.
Me: I suppose you could be right. You're good at this. Almost as good as Dr. Kevin Leman.
Her: I know. It's why they pay me the big bucks.
Me: Believe me, if my insurance would pay for therapy, I would designate you as my mental health professional.
Her: Gee, that means a lot. By the way, don't think I'm forgetting about the box of Franzia you promised me.
Me: Don't think that I'm forgetting about the visit you promised me!
Her: Oh yeah, since we're on the topic of men and Christian dating, how's that guy you liked from your church?
Me: Do you mean "Cute Joe?"
Her: Yeah, have you talked to him yet?
Me: Um, yeah. Turns out we now have to refer to him as "Cute, Gay Joe."
Her: Oh, bummer. Not quite the dream, huh?
Me: Guess I keep looking. And reading.
Conclusion: I am insane. And in need of therapy. And lucky to have a dear old friend and a cell phone plan that offers unlimited nights and weekends.
Monday, September 22, 2008
And the Emmy goes to...
So, in honor of last night's "excitement" (or blatant lack there-of) in Hollywood, I offer the Emmy's of my last year of life.
Most Exciting but Probably Not Real Celebrity Subway Sighting: I am telling you people, I sat across from Jake Gyllenhaal on the subway. I know that it is highly, highly unlikely that he was taking the A train from JFK airport at 10:30 pm on a Sunday evening, but I know what I saw... Also, a few weeks later I rode the Q train from Brooklyn with a guy who was a dead ringer for Barack Obama. However, I'm willing to believe that it was not really him, mainly because there was no security around him, and because Barack doesn't really seem like a Q train type of guy. B train, maybe...
Most Atrocious but Definitely Legit "Celebrity" Sighting: Newman from Seinfeld outside an adult bookstore on 8th Avenue around 11:30 pm. For the record, all I was doing was walking home from work. I was not loitering on 8th Avenue, as I am neither a hooker nor a tourist.
Most Dramatic Near-Miss: I am walking down the street. Like a true New Yorker, I am texting someone, listening to my Ipod, thinking about what to order for dinner, looking for my Metrocard, and trying to blow the hair out of my eyes. I am also walking in the direct path of a Big Yellow Taxi (tm Joni Mitchell.) Kind, cute young doctor grabs my arm and pulls me back onto the sidewalk. I immediately assume he is attempting to steal my purse and hit him. We share a laugh. Light turns green. I never see kind, cute young doctor again. Life is so tragically unfair.
Store that Inevitably Makes Me Want to Hurt Myself, yet I Continue to Shop There Because I'm Too Lazy to Find Somewhere Better: Toss up between Duane Reade on 34th and 8th and the Kmart Penn Plaza. Duane Reade: Surliest employees in town, $1.79 plus deposit for a 20 oz Diet Coke, worst selection of greeting cards ever, they advertise the Visa Quickpass or whatever it's called where you just touch your card to the reader instead of swipe it and then they yell at you when you try to use it. Kmart: Always full of tourists (seriously, you came all this way to shop at Kmart?) and/or children, have to show your receipt on the way out the door, no matter how inconvenient it is (Do I really look like the type of person who steals from Kmart?), escalators are NEVER working, check-out takes at least 20 minutes, even if I am the only person on line.
First Place I Ever Had a "Usual": Oh, that sounds like a really dirty euphemism. Get your minds out of the gutter people, and get me to the red awninged Halal Pizza place, where $2 buys me a huge slice of greasy cheese pizza, a can of Diet Coke, and a flirtatious wink from the guy behind the counter (Hey, cut me a break... I worked 80 hours a week in an office full of women. Come-ons from the pizza guy were about the extent of my contact with the opposite sex.) About a month before I left my job, they upped the price to $2.25. I raised a stink and they stopped charging me the extra quarter. Considering I ate there at least 2 or 3 times a week, this could have been significant savings, if I hadn't quit my job and gotten the hell out of Midtown.
Biggest "Hell-yeah, I'm a Real Adult" Moment: Signing my own lease, no roommates, no parents. Just me, my landlord, and 3 month's rent upfront. Totally worth it. (Please excuse me while I now hum Beyonce's "Independent Woman" song, complete with illustrative dance moves.)
Biggest "WTF?" Moment: Sitting on A train on my way back to Brooklyn recently next to large, somewhat scary-looking man wearing what I am pretty sure is gang insignia, the kind of person I wouldn't normally sit next to (Good evening, racists and bigots, welcome to the First-class train to hell. My name is Sarah and I'll be your conductor this evening.) Anyway, all stereotyping is quickly proved incorrect when I realize that someone's Ipod is playing "Goodbye Until Tomorrow" from the Off-Broadway production of "The Last Five Years," which is the girliest, whiniest, most (amazingly) ridiculously belt-able ballad ever. Personally, I like to sing it while alone in the car using a Diet Coke bottle for a microphone (it really is amazing that I never get traffic tickets.) Anyway, I'm trying to figure out whose Ipod is treating us all to this lovely sound, when I turn around and realize not only is it the big scary gang member sitting next to me, but he is also mouthing the words along with the kind of emotion that normally causes me to get honked at by the 8 cars behind me because I'm so into chronicling the death of a relationship in ballad form that I haven't realized the light has been green for a full 30 seconds. I stare slack-jawed for a moment before I realize that even a big scary gang member with a penchant for off-Broadway classics is still a big scary gang member who I probably don't want to catch me staring. So I go back to my book and enjoy the music.
Most Common Saturday Afternoon Errand: The library. Too cheap for either cable or Netflix, the public library is this girls best friend. Not only can they entertain me with books, but they can provide me with hours of early 90's TV on DVD. However, Mr. Creepy Old Guy who Works at the Desk and Likes to Comment on my Choice of Entertainment, yes I do like Melrose Place, but no, it is not the "Gossip Girl" of our generation. Gossip Girl is the Gossip Girl of my generation. I don't know what the Gossip Girl of your generation was, but you clearly have a good 17 years on me, so I'm pretty sure we are not in the same generation. I might be slightly too old to enjoy Gossip Girl as much as I do, but you are definitely too old to be hitting on me. As a side note, same goes for Mr. Creepy Old Guy who Rides the Escalators at Target Alot. What part of this face (Just imagine my face here, I am not posting angry face pictures), what part of this face screams "I would be amenable to romantic overtures at the juncture"?
Most Exciting but Probably Not Real Celebrity Subway Sighting: I am telling you people, I sat across from Jake Gyllenhaal on the subway. I know that it is highly, highly unlikely that he was taking the A train from JFK airport at 10:30 pm on a Sunday evening, but I know what I saw... Also, a few weeks later I rode the Q train from Brooklyn with a guy who was a dead ringer for Barack Obama. However, I'm willing to believe that it was not really him, mainly because there was no security around him, and because Barack doesn't really seem like a Q train type of guy. B train, maybe...
Most Atrocious but Definitely Legit "Celebrity" Sighting: Newman from Seinfeld outside an adult bookstore on 8th Avenue around 11:30 pm. For the record, all I was doing was walking home from work. I was not loitering on 8th Avenue, as I am neither a hooker nor a tourist.
Most Dramatic Near-Miss: I am walking down the street. Like a true New Yorker, I am texting someone, listening to my Ipod, thinking about what to order for dinner, looking for my Metrocard, and trying to blow the hair out of my eyes. I am also walking in the direct path of a Big Yellow Taxi (tm Joni Mitchell.) Kind, cute young doctor grabs my arm and pulls me back onto the sidewalk. I immediately assume he is attempting to steal my purse and hit him. We share a laugh. Light turns green. I never see kind, cute young doctor again. Life is so tragically unfair.
Store that Inevitably Makes Me Want to Hurt Myself, yet I Continue to Shop There Because I'm Too Lazy to Find Somewhere Better: Toss up between Duane Reade on 34th and 8th and the Kmart Penn Plaza. Duane Reade: Surliest employees in town, $1.79 plus deposit for a 20 oz Diet Coke, worst selection of greeting cards ever, they advertise the Visa Quickpass or whatever it's called where you just touch your card to the reader instead of swipe it and then they yell at you when you try to use it. Kmart: Always full of tourists (seriously, you came all this way to shop at Kmart?) and/or children, have to show your receipt on the way out the door, no matter how inconvenient it is (Do I really look like the type of person who steals from Kmart?), escalators are NEVER working, check-out takes at least 20 minutes, even if I am the only person on line.
First Place I Ever Had a "Usual": Oh, that sounds like a really dirty euphemism. Get your minds out of the gutter people, and get me to the red awninged Halal Pizza place, where $2 buys me a huge slice of greasy cheese pizza, a can of Diet Coke, and a flirtatious wink from the guy behind the counter (Hey, cut me a break... I worked 80 hours a week in an office full of women. Come-ons from the pizza guy were about the extent of my contact with the opposite sex.) About a month before I left my job, they upped the price to $2.25. I raised a stink and they stopped charging me the extra quarter. Considering I ate there at least 2 or 3 times a week, this could have been significant savings, if I hadn't quit my job and gotten the hell out of Midtown.
Biggest "Hell-yeah, I'm a Real Adult" Moment: Signing my own lease, no roommates, no parents. Just me, my landlord, and 3 month's rent upfront. Totally worth it. (Please excuse me while I now hum Beyonce's "Independent Woman" song, complete with illustrative dance moves.)
Biggest "WTF?" Moment: Sitting on A train on my way back to Brooklyn recently next to large, somewhat scary-looking man wearing what I am pretty sure is gang insignia, the kind of person I wouldn't normally sit next to (Good evening, racists and bigots, welcome to the First-class train to hell. My name is Sarah and I'll be your conductor this evening.) Anyway, all stereotyping is quickly proved incorrect when I realize that someone's Ipod is playing "Goodbye Until Tomorrow" from the Off-Broadway production of "The Last Five Years," which is the girliest, whiniest, most (amazingly) ridiculously belt-able ballad ever. Personally, I like to sing it while alone in the car using a Diet Coke bottle for a microphone (it really is amazing that I never get traffic tickets.) Anyway, I'm trying to figure out whose Ipod is treating us all to this lovely sound, when I turn around and realize not only is it the big scary gang member sitting next to me, but he is also mouthing the words along with the kind of emotion that normally causes me to get honked at by the 8 cars behind me because I'm so into chronicling the death of a relationship in ballad form that I haven't realized the light has been green for a full 30 seconds. I stare slack-jawed for a moment before I realize that even a big scary gang member with a penchant for off-Broadway classics is still a big scary gang member who I probably don't want to catch me staring. So I go back to my book and enjoy the music.
Most Common Saturday Afternoon Errand: The library. Too cheap for either cable or Netflix, the public library is this girls best friend. Not only can they entertain me with books, but they can provide me with hours of early 90's TV on DVD. However, Mr. Creepy Old Guy who Works at the Desk and Likes to Comment on my Choice of Entertainment, yes I do like Melrose Place, but no, it is not the "Gossip Girl" of our generation. Gossip Girl is the Gossip Girl of my generation. I don't know what the Gossip Girl of your generation was, but you clearly have a good 17 years on me, so I'm pretty sure we are not in the same generation. I might be slightly too old to enjoy Gossip Girl as much as I do, but you are definitely too old to be hitting on me. As a side note, same goes for Mr. Creepy Old Guy who Rides the Escalators at Target Alot. What part of this face (Just imagine my face here, I am not posting angry face pictures), what part of this face screams "I would be amenable to romantic overtures at the juncture"?
Monday, September 15, 2008
xoxo You Know You Love Me
Is there anything better than meeting your idol? I mean, when one reads the amount of teen fiction that I read and aspires to someday author a series of modern classics of teen fiction, is there anything quite so awesome as a conversation with Cecily von Ziegesar? I can think of only one thing that would be awesome to a corresponding degree, and that is a conversation with Meg Cabot (Ms. Cabot, if you're out there, call me! I just know that we could be the best of friends!)
And that is why I love the city! When I can enjoy a Sunday afternoon book reading in the park by the author of Gossip Girl, get my copy of GG signed with a personal xoxo from the woman who made the xoxo what it is today, and be encouraged in my writing career, that's a fabulous good time. What can you do on a Sunday afternoon in the midwest? Shuck some corn and attend the local spelling bee? (I should be nicer to local spellers... I won the local spelling bee several years in a row. I still have the enormous red hardcover Webster's Dictionary that I won when I was 12 (what a prize!) and I use to reduce my sister to tears every time we play Scrabble (I wonder if this is why she now refuses to play?))
But can you meet a best-selling author? Can you chat at the book-signing table? Can you make everyone at work jealous because they did not meet the creator of Gossip Girl (well, I suppose that depends on what your co-workers are like. I happen to work with people who share my affinity for low-brow popular culture... we have recently discussed starting a book club, with the first book being Tori Spelling's autobiography, Stori Telling, which a) I have already read, and b) is that not the most clever name ever? I can only hope to come up with something equally fabulous when the Lifetime Original Movie of my life (starring Tori Spelling as me, if I can get my way) is ready to be filmed!)
So thank you Brooklyn Book Festival, for reminding me why I moved to this city. Thank you Ms. von Ziegesar, for writing your wonderful books and coming to talk about them. Thank you Mrs. Campbell, my first grade teacher, for encouraging a love of reading and writing that to this day draws me to places like Borough Hall on a humid Sunday afternoon to rediscover why I love words, pictures, and the New York Dream.
And that is why I love the city! When I can enjoy a Sunday afternoon book reading in the park by the author of Gossip Girl, get my copy of GG signed with a personal xoxo from the woman who made the xoxo what it is today, and be encouraged in my writing career, that's a fabulous good time. What can you do on a Sunday afternoon in the midwest? Shuck some corn and attend the local spelling bee? (I should be nicer to local spellers... I won the local spelling bee several years in a row. I still have the enormous red hardcover Webster's Dictionary that I won when I was 12 (what a prize!) and I use to reduce my sister to tears every time we play Scrabble (I wonder if this is why she now refuses to play?))
But can you meet a best-selling author? Can you chat at the book-signing table? Can you make everyone at work jealous because they did not meet the creator of Gossip Girl (well, I suppose that depends on what your co-workers are like. I happen to work with people who share my affinity for low-brow popular culture... we have recently discussed starting a book club, with the first book being Tori Spelling's autobiography, Stori Telling, which a) I have already read, and b) is that not the most clever name ever? I can only hope to come up with something equally fabulous when the Lifetime Original Movie of my life (starring Tori Spelling as me, if I can get my way) is ready to be filmed!)
So thank you Brooklyn Book Festival, for reminding me why I moved to this city. Thank you Ms. von Ziegesar, for writing your wonderful books and coming to talk about them. Thank you Mrs. Campbell, my first grade teacher, for encouraging a love of reading and writing that to this day draws me to places like Borough Hall on a humid Sunday afternoon to rediscover why I love words, pictures, and the New York Dream.
Thursday, August 28, 2008
Jersey Girl
I think I could be a Jersey Girl. A girl could get used to this life.
I spent the weekend in the Dirty Jerz with an old college flatmate. She grew up on the shore and moved back there after college in the midwest. I can definitely see why.
I'd heard all kinds of things about the Jersey Shore. Big hair, Guidos, mallrats, all those 80's stereotypes swirled in my head as I boarded my train in Penn Station (having missed the original train I should have taken because I was still drunk from a work happy hour Friday night that somehow turned into about 6 happy hours and at one point included me doing an impression of Bill Clinton during the Monica scandal and laughing my head off, as though this were still an amusing and timely cultural reference. But I maintain that missing the train the next morning was less my fault than the fault of the damn G train, which functions about as well as a lab rat that has had carcinogenic age-defying makeup tested on it.)
So I was an hour late when J. picked me up at the station, anxious to hit the beach. A quick stop at her house to drop off my stuff, then a short drive, and there it was. The Atlantic Ocean. A confession: I'd never seen the true Atlantic from America before. I've seen the Caribbean and the Gulf of Mexico, and while I was living in England I saw the Atlantic from the other side. I've seen Long Island Sound and the East River but never the wide open expanse of sparkling blue ocean stretching clear over to my old home across the pond. It was beautiful, just like I always dreamed it would be all those years ago when I first read about the Baby-Sitters' Club vacationing there and imagined that someday, I, like Stacey McGill, would fall in love with a cute older lifeguard and then have my heart broken at the end of my two week summer vacation and it would be terribly tragic and romantic, as eighth grade romances tend to be (for the record, Stacey McGill also inspired me to move to this city in the first place, but that's a story for another day.)
I was not disappointed all weekend, by the beach, the sun, the sand, the surf, the seaside outdoor restaurant we had crab cakes at, the boardwalk we wandered and bars we visited after sunset, the reunion with an old friend, meeting new people, and visiting a full service gas station for the second time in my life (it's the law in Jersey... how bizarre. I can pump my own gas, thanks very much.) It was a wonderful break from the city. I definitely understand why people get summer houses! Someday, I intend to be one of them.
I spent the weekend in the Dirty Jerz with an old college flatmate. She grew up on the shore and moved back there after college in the midwest. I can definitely see why.
I'd heard all kinds of things about the Jersey Shore. Big hair, Guidos, mallrats, all those 80's stereotypes swirled in my head as I boarded my train in Penn Station (having missed the original train I should have taken because I was still drunk from a work happy hour Friday night that somehow turned into about 6 happy hours and at one point included me doing an impression of Bill Clinton during the Monica scandal and laughing my head off, as though this were still an amusing and timely cultural reference. But I maintain that missing the train the next morning was less my fault than the fault of the damn G train, which functions about as well as a lab rat that has had carcinogenic age-defying makeup tested on it.)
So I was an hour late when J. picked me up at the station, anxious to hit the beach. A quick stop at her house to drop off my stuff, then a short drive, and there it was. The Atlantic Ocean. A confession: I'd never seen the true Atlantic from America before. I've seen the Caribbean and the Gulf of Mexico, and while I was living in England I saw the Atlantic from the other side. I've seen Long Island Sound and the East River but never the wide open expanse of sparkling blue ocean stretching clear over to my old home across the pond. It was beautiful, just like I always dreamed it would be all those years ago when I first read about the Baby-Sitters' Club vacationing there and imagined that someday, I, like Stacey McGill, would fall in love with a cute older lifeguard and then have my heart broken at the end of my two week summer vacation and it would be terribly tragic and romantic, as eighth grade romances tend to be (for the record, Stacey McGill also inspired me to move to this city in the first place, but that's a story for another day.)
I was not disappointed all weekend, by the beach, the sun, the sand, the surf, the seaside outdoor restaurant we had crab cakes at, the boardwalk we wandered and bars we visited after sunset, the reunion with an old friend, meeting new people, and visiting a full service gas station for the second time in my life (it's the law in Jersey... how bizarre. I can pump my own gas, thanks very much.) It was a wonderful break from the city. I definitely understand why people get summer houses! Someday, I intend to be one of them.
Thursday, August 21, 2008
Revenge of the Target Cashiers
I did the single-girl’s-grocery-shop yesterday. It was one of those moments when you stop, look at your life, and realize that that particular moment would have been more at home as the opening line of a bad romantic comedy (probably starring Meg Ryan and written by Nora Ephron… not that I have anything against either of these amazing women or the movies they have made together. Although it must be said, I don’t really get what people love so much about Sleepless in Seattle. It just didn’t do anything for me. But I digress…) than in the often boring, sometimes difficult, where’s-my-happy-ending-and-would-Prince-Charming-hurry-up-already-endless cycle of real life.
One of the delights of my recent move and job change is my new proximity to Target. Why there is no target on the island is one of life’s mysteries right up there with “Where do all the socks go?” and “If Mike Brady was such a great architect, why’d he have six kids and one bathroom?” But venture just a few minutes outside, and suddenly behold that mecca of my suburban upbringing, the Tar-jay. Classier than Kmart, less politically incorrect than Wal-mart, and smartly lacking that beacon of lower-class consumerism, the world “mart” anywhere in the name, Target draws us like moths to flames. I spent countless hours of my adolescence roaming the aisles, purchasing everything from butterfly hairclips and bottled Starbucks Frappucino to cat toys and greeting cards. We debated for hours about whether the guys from Savage Garden were really gay and whether or not it was okay to open bottles of Wet and Wild nail polish and try it out on one fingernail to see if the color was really what it looked like in the bottle. We drove cashiers crazy, buying bridal magazines and pretending we were engaged, pretending to be foreign by talking jibberish to each other, and once, staging an elaborate love-triangle/break-up scene in the middle of the shampoo aisle, just to see how people would react. (Hey, Midwestern adolescents have to entertain ourselves, okay? Don’t judge.)
But it was just yesterday that I realized how far my shopping habits have come (or fallen, as the case may be.) I made my way to Target after work, which I normally avoid because of the crowd, but today I thought I’d just run in and out. I was after only one thing: the studio apartment dweller’s best friend: the Lean Pocket. Normally outrageously priced (what isn’t, in this city? Even at Target) but on sale for 5 for $9, I needed to stock up. I zipped through the rest of the store, but there wasn’t much that I needed, nor that I was willing to schlep the mile back to my apartment while wearing work clothes. So I ended up at the checkout counter with nothing in my basket but 8 boxes of Lean Pockets.
Now, I can cook. In fact, much to the shock of many who knew me in my old life, I’ve turned out to be a pretty good cook. Much to my own shock, I actually kind of enjoy it. But sometimes, cooking for one gets old. Sometimes, there’s no milk or butter or salad dressing, and I just really don’t want to go back out to the store to haul home one thing that will probably go bad before I use it all. Now, this is when the normal person orders Chinese takeout and calls it a night, but I never pretended to be normal. Nor do I, as I believe I have made clear many times, have an unlimited income. So for less than a buck, the Lean Pocket seems like a marginal step up from a college existence based on ramen noodles and stolen dining hall cereal.
But it was at the checkout that I realized how far I’d fallen. I stood in line, I smiled at the toddler in front of me (see, I am a good person after all), I wished death upon the person behind me nattering into a cell phone in Korean at the top of her voice, I idly flipped through US Weekly with no intention of buying it but every desire to stay updated on the exploits of Lindsay Lohan. Then I got to the front, unloaded my basket, and when nothing happened, looked up into the eyes of the sassy older black lady working the checkout lane. She looked at me, looked at my basket, looked back at me, shook her head sadly, and said, in a booming voice that even temporarily drowned out the Korean nitwit behind me, while everyone in the store stopped and stared, “Honey, you gotta find yourself a man!”
Well, no shit, Sherlock. I’m doing my best. So, as I did my walk of shame out the door of Target with my two bags full of Lean Pockets, I couldn’t help but wonder if this is some kind of cosmic payback for the torture I inflicted on Target employees throughout my youth. If so, well played, Janet T. You are a worthy opponent.
One of the delights of my recent move and job change is my new proximity to Target. Why there is no target on the island is one of life’s mysteries right up there with “Where do all the socks go?” and “If Mike Brady was such a great architect, why’d he have six kids and one bathroom?” But venture just a few minutes outside, and suddenly behold that mecca of my suburban upbringing, the Tar-jay. Classier than Kmart, less politically incorrect than Wal-mart, and smartly lacking that beacon of lower-class consumerism, the world “mart” anywhere in the name, Target draws us like moths to flames. I spent countless hours of my adolescence roaming the aisles, purchasing everything from butterfly hairclips and bottled Starbucks Frappucino to cat toys and greeting cards. We debated for hours about whether the guys from Savage Garden were really gay and whether or not it was okay to open bottles of Wet and Wild nail polish and try it out on one fingernail to see if the color was really what it looked like in the bottle. We drove cashiers crazy, buying bridal magazines and pretending we were engaged, pretending to be foreign by talking jibberish to each other, and once, staging an elaborate love-triangle/break-up scene in the middle of the shampoo aisle, just to see how people would react. (Hey, Midwestern adolescents have to entertain ourselves, okay? Don’t judge.)
But it was just yesterday that I realized how far my shopping habits have come (or fallen, as the case may be.) I made my way to Target after work, which I normally avoid because of the crowd, but today I thought I’d just run in and out. I was after only one thing: the studio apartment dweller’s best friend: the Lean Pocket. Normally outrageously priced (what isn’t, in this city? Even at Target) but on sale for 5 for $9, I needed to stock up. I zipped through the rest of the store, but there wasn’t much that I needed, nor that I was willing to schlep the mile back to my apartment while wearing work clothes. So I ended up at the checkout counter with nothing in my basket but 8 boxes of Lean Pockets.
Now, I can cook. In fact, much to the shock of many who knew me in my old life, I’ve turned out to be a pretty good cook. Much to my own shock, I actually kind of enjoy it. But sometimes, cooking for one gets old. Sometimes, there’s no milk or butter or salad dressing, and I just really don’t want to go back out to the store to haul home one thing that will probably go bad before I use it all. Now, this is when the normal person orders Chinese takeout and calls it a night, but I never pretended to be normal. Nor do I, as I believe I have made clear many times, have an unlimited income. So for less than a buck, the Lean Pocket seems like a marginal step up from a college existence based on ramen noodles and stolen dining hall cereal.
But it was at the checkout that I realized how far I’d fallen. I stood in line, I smiled at the toddler in front of me (see, I am a good person after all), I wished death upon the person behind me nattering into a cell phone in Korean at the top of her voice, I idly flipped through US Weekly with no intention of buying it but every desire to stay updated on the exploits of Lindsay Lohan. Then I got to the front, unloaded my basket, and when nothing happened, looked up into the eyes of the sassy older black lady working the checkout lane. She looked at me, looked at my basket, looked back at me, shook her head sadly, and said, in a booming voice that even temporarily drowned out the Korean nitwit behind me, while everyone in the store stopped and stared, “Honey, you gotta find yourself a man!”
Well, no shit, Sherlock. I’m doing my best. So, as I did my walk of shame out the door of Target with my two bags full of Lean Pockets, I couldn’t help but wonder if this is some kind of cosmic payback for the torture I inflicted on Target employees throughout my youth. If so, well played, Janet T. You are a worthy opponent.
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