Vermont-A Trip and a Half

This is Stella. She is a Vermont girl. She picks her own carrots. She can ride her bike, not only with no training wheels, but standing up. I saw it. She is three years old.

Being in Vermont for me was like being on another planet. Sure, I've been around frogs and flowers before, and I know what grass feels like. But I have never picked a carrot out of the ground before. I knew they grew in the ground, and I've seen the pretty ones they have at Whole Foods, with the green part at the end, but I have never seen the process up close. Listen, as I've said before, you can take the girl out of New York, but...

To me, long carrots come in a bag with no green part and a over-feminized rabbit on the bag that says, "Bunny Luv". As we were picking carrots and tomatoes and lettuce (what what what???) from the garden, Oscar, a boy with a shaved head, was catching a frog. I'm not kidding. It was as if a Norman Rockwell painting came to life in front of my eyes. I rubbed them. Was I in 1950? Or 2008? I looked at Oscar. 1950. I looked at Stella. 1975.
It was groovy and swell at the same time.

Wingspan

Michael Phelps just made history. I'd cry if I let myself. I have a lump in my throat.

Dara Torres won silver. She's so old, it's fantastic.

That's all I know about the Olympics right now, because that's all they cover on my TV.

I am very, very happy for Michael Phelps. Perhaps he'll be in my dreams tonight; wrap that wingspan 'round me, baby. I don't care if you have flipper feet.

(by the way, you've heard by now how the number 8 is a lucky number in China? That's why the opening ceremonies were on 8/8/08? Well, this picture of Michael Phelps on my computer was number 8888, I am not kidding. We were...uh, it was meant to be).

Vermont Graffiti

On the Road Again

I wrote the following while on the bus to my second vacation in Vermont this summer. Different family, different location. Same bus stop.

On the bus from Boston to Vermont. Takes as long as it does to get to NYC. We left at 8 am, due to arrive at 12:15. I'm meeting my friends for lunch.

I ate breakfast around 6:30, so I knew that six hours would be a long time to wait to eat again. I was so good. I packed a container of almonds and dried cranberries, planning to eat them at 10:00. Which I did. And drank water from my water bottle, such a health-conscious girl am I.

Around 10:45, the bus driver announced that we'd be taking a 15 minutes break. There was a McDonald's, a Subway sandwich shop, and a Chinese restaurant. I was so good. I decided I'd go to Subway and get a nice little container of yogurt for 99 cents. I like the yogurt at Subway, because it's not sweetened with that disgusting artificial sweetener crap.

I walked in the door and was greeted by a display of every Hostess and Little Debbie snack cake you could imagine. Turns out it was a convenience store. Tucked away in the corner was the Subway. I went to the bathroom, and when I came out, somehow yogurt was the furthest thing from my mind.

I looked left and right, and circled the snack cake display two times. God was testing me. What did I want? A donut? A pack of donuts? A Ho Ho? I saw my favorite dessert from another life, a Little Debbie oatmeal creme snack cake. It had gone up in price from 25 cents to 35 cents. I touched the package. I held it. I read the calorie amount. 330. NO ! I would not give the devil my soul. I would not give in. I moved away as if I had been burned by Little Debbie's evil smile.
My mind went blank. I had forgotten what I had gone in there for. Somehow I found myself in front of the coffee urns.

I don't drink coffee; I'm a tea aficionado. I'll drink coffee about once a year, if I'm at a conference or on a road trip. When I make coffee, it's like a dessert. Satan was not going to let me go easily. Almost as if I was having an out of body experience, I took a cup and filled it halfway with coffee. I like those little flavored creamers they have, so I put 2 hazelnut containers in. Then I saw they had hazelnut flavored coffee, so I put some of that in. Next, 2 sugar packets. And 2 more creamers. And 2 more sugar packets, because I remembered that coffee always tastes a little bitter to me so I like a lot of sugar. I mixed the delicious smelling concoction and paid for it.

When I got back on the bus there was still time before we had to leave. I drank my coffee and ate my remaining almonds. When I had drunk about half of the coffee, I started to feel sick. The coffee was so sweet, it was gross. And it did not go with almonds. Ick. I gathered up my strength, got off the bus, and threw that coffee away. HA HA, I won! I did not give in all the way, just part way, but in the end I came out ON TOP, yes I did!!! It took about an hour for my stomach to feel normal again. Just in time for my cheeseburger and fries lunch.

Back in New York...

I have so much to post, I can barely keep up. I'm going to try this weekend. As such, here's another vignette about New Yorkers that I wrote while sitting on the step of my brother's apartment building.

There's a woman, very well dressed, getting into her silver Acura. She has on a crisp white blouse and black cropped pants. She's an older woman, and has on a lot of makeup. She looks like Cruella de Ville of Disney's 101 Dalmations. She has a stern look on her face.

She has two bags from Zabar's, the famous Upper West Side gourmet food shop. Before she gets to put the bags in the car, a dog stops by and sniffs them. I silently warn the dog not to sniff the bags of Cruella de Ville; it's a trap!

Suddenly, the woman turns around and offers me a black and white cookie. "Want one?" Did she think I was homeless, sitting on top of my bag, at the door of the apartment building? See, that's the thing about NYC. A nice older rich woman will offer food to a homeless tattooed woman like myself. Or maybe she offers cookies to everyone. I politely decline, in case she had laced it with cyanide while crossing the street. New Yorkers are friendly, but you can never be too sure.

For that Toothy Smile!

Toothpaste has changed so much since when I was a kid. It's changed even in the past five years. Recently I went to the store to get some new toothpaste, and I saw this kind that had glitter in it, so help me god!

Well, Colgate didn't call it glitter. It said, "Max Fresh with Mini Breath Strips!" Breath strips, glitter, it just looked like New Year's Eve for your mouth. I quickly put it in my basket and waited for the party to begin.

Unfortunately, it took awhile for a breath strip to actually make it to my toothbrush. The first few times, all I got was blue gel. I thought maybe it was all a farce, but one day, I got a speck of glitter on my brush, and it's been a sensational soiree ever since.

Does it make my breath fresher? I dunno, but sparkly trumps fresh, in my book.

Olympiman

I love watching the Olympics. Maybe too much. Last night Michael Phelps, Olympic swimmer/hot boy/man, was in my dream. We were in a high school classroom, sitting next to each other in those awkward chairs with the desk attached to the arm. He held me. We weren't in high school, though. I was, and am, 40. He was , and is, 23.

I am fascinated by his extra long torso. So sue me.

NY, NY, cont.

I walked up Columbus Ave., looking at all the fancy storefronts. A guy passing by was staring at my arm so hard he actually turned around to keep looking at it. Just when I was about to tell him to take a picture ('cause I'm a New Yorker too, and I speak my mind), he said, "Nice! That's very nice!" We stopped, and he came over to get a closer look. He studied my arm, and was bold enough to lift up my sleeve to see the continuation of my tat, and you know what? I let him, because I could tell he appreciated the artwork. We told each other to take care, and went our separate ways.

Later, at the Duane Reade drugstore, the line was really long. I was third in line--it wound down the aisle so you couldn't see how long it was when you first came in. I got the brunt of the reactions to the line, being at the front of the aisle. People would come in, look past me, and say, "Oh, god!" One older white balding guy said, "Fuck it!" and put his stuff back. You don't hear that in Boston. It was refreshing. I said something about the length of the line to the woman behind me, and she replied, "I know. This place sucks."

There was a Jamaican woman in front of me who shouted out, "You want me to call for backup? We need backup at the register!" Her accent was so thick you could barely understand what she was saying. I, however, could understand her, being an expert in accented English deciphering. She turned around to me, and we laughed. She asked her friend what she thought about the little girl who was missing.

The friend didn't know the news story. She said, "Woman, don't you watch no news?!" She laughed again and turned around, and I told her that I knew the story she was talking about. We traded thoughts on it, and then it was her turn. She was waited on by a black woman with an Australian accent. I love New York.

New York, New York, it's a Helluva Town

It was a beautiful day. No thunderstorms, as had been predicted. I began the pleasant walk from 56th to 80th, knowing that I would soon find a Starbucks where I could use the restroom. It only took about two blocks.

New Yorkers talk to each other. There was a guy in front of me in the restroom line who looked like he was one sandwich short of a picnic, if you know what I mean. He looked at the stars tattooed on my arm. He said, "Do you have any stars of David?" I said no, just regular stars. He asked if I had any yellow stars. No.

He started mumbling different phrases with the word "star" in them. "Shooting star. Everybody wants to be a star..." Thankfully, it was his turn. When he came out, his parting words were, "When you wish upon a star..." He may have been a little eccentric, but at least he made standing in line more interesting.

The Bus Stopped Here

Yesterday I was on the Greyhound bus going from Boston to NYC. I was thinking about how I had forgotten my Metro card and how I'd have to get a new one at the subway station, then go through that long-ass tunnel to get on the subway, and how much I don't like that leg of the trip, but it's unavoidable. It sucks, because I have to go to 80th and Broadway, and the bus always goes right past my block, like it's teasing me. The bus terminal, Port Authority, is at 42nd and 9th.

Suddenly, at 56th and 9th, the bus stopped and the driver said, "For the woman who had to get to the hospital before visiting hours were over." A woman with crutches hobbled off. I yelled, "Can anyone get off?" He didn't stop me, so I grabbed my bags and jumped off. This never happens; they're not allowed to stop just anywhere.

I felt like I had won the lottery. I took it as a sign that this was going to be a good trip.

Holey Crap!

These are my favorite pants. I got them at J.Jill in 2000. I remember when I got them, because that was the year I went to Japan for the first time. They're cute. They're comfortable. They're linen. I've been wearing them for eight years. I like them so much I got another pair of them in black. They're sort of like my trademark in the summer.

Just this year I decided to demote them to working at preschool pants, because, let's face it, they're old and worn out. I recently discovered exactly how worn out they were. How can I put this delicately? I can't. My pants were pulled down in the ladies room, and this is what I saw:



Yes, I've been walking around with holes in my pants for who knows how long. I checked my black pair, and...yep, the black pants have 'em too. I guess the moral of the story is this: always check your pants when they're down. Or you might have a (w)hole different story to tell.

Wham! It's George Michael! Part 3

I forgot to tell you what GM was wearing. He wore a black suit with a black V-neck tee shirt underneath. I kept waiting for him to change into jeans, cowboy boots, and a white tee shirt, for his big "Faith" number, but he didn't, which was really disappointing. He only changed outfits once, and for one song. He came out wearing a state trooper outfit, and I couldn't really understand, but later I did some research. He did a song where he makes fun of the incident where he was busted in a public restroom by an undercover cop. I think that was why he did the whole cop getup, for that song. He looked hot. If I were a gay man, I'd be all over him like white on rice!

I'm telling everyone I know: take 3 minutes and 99 cents, and go to iTunes and download "The First Time Ever I Saw Your Face" by George Michael. Oh, and have a box of tissues handy. Oh my god, if I was the person he was singing that song to, I think I'd just melt into the floor. When they say on American Idol you have to "feel the song", this is what they are talking about. This man has the most beautiful tone to his voice.

I am obsessed with George Michael. Prince, there's room in my heart for many hot singer/songwriters, calm down.

Wham! It's George Michael! Part 2

The set of the GM concert was pretty simple. There was a screen going from the way top all the way down, all across the stage floor, and it curved down over the stage. There were huge rectangular screens on either side of the stage. The band was way in the back, on two levels. George (we call him by his first name, like we're pals, apparently) had three or four backup singers, but mostly it was just him doin' his thang onstage.

The screens lit up like a screensaver on a computer, with this cool graphic red line pulsating to the beat. When he came out, of course we all went crazy. I can't even remember what the first song was, but suddenly he busted out "Hard Day" from his Faith album. Oh my god, I had totally forgotten about that song, and it was one I love. I went crazy! "Bang, bang, you're dead, could we just make love instead...say yes, 'cause it's what we do best, and I've had such a hard day..." Oh man, it was great. The videos were so cool, all over the floor and up the back wall.

After a couple of songs, he said hello to Boston, and he apologized for being late. The screen showed him up close, and I noticed that George looked a little...thicker than he had in the past. Not fat, really, but I noticed his neck, in particular. He looked like a football player. Liz remarked, "Like Alec Baldwin." Exactly! He's older (though only 45), and methinks the cannabis problem he deals with has not been good to his physique. However...

He can shake that booty, and lordy, did he look good doing that! He gave us quite a show at various times. He's also comfortable with his sexuality, which was nice to see. He made a few references to being gay, including when he was singing "Everything She Wants". He sang, "Because I said you were the perfect girl for me..." and then he said, under his breath, "Yeah, right!" It was pretty funny.

He sang some songs I wasn't familiar with, but most of them I knew. He went all the way back from "Careless Whisper" and "Faith" to "Father Figure", to" Amazing" and "Flawless". He also did some covers that were surprising, but I guess were on one of his albums. He did slowed down versions of "Roxanne" and "The First Time Ever I Saw Your Face."

Although he started an hour late, he stayed for over two hours, and finished up by having us all sing "Happy Birthday" to his drummer, whose birthday had been forgotten the day before. His final song was "Freedom 90".

What a show, what a night! I am now completely obsessed with George Michael. Buy his new CD, Twentyfive. You will not be disappointed.

My New Favorite Response to my Hair

My friend Paul: You got a haircut!

Me: Yep.

Paul: What's up with that?

Wham! It's George Michael! Part 1

I did something totally spontaneously last night. I went to see George Michael in concert. I know! What happened was, I saw my friend Liz on Saturday, because I had called her for support on my haircut. She said, just like Sophie did, "I'll come right over!" We ended up going to Whole Foods together, and right there, in the produce section, she told me that GM was performing at the Garden, and there were still tickets available for the next night, and would I like to go? I thought about it for about one second, and said, "Sure!" Oh my god, I felt so free and spontaneous!

So yesterday Liz went down to the Garden and got tickets, and we met up for dinner and then walked over. The show was supposed to start at 8:00, and we walked over around 7:30. We passed by a bar, and Liz said, "You wanna get a drink?" and then she saw my face and said, "Oh, you want to go right in, we'll go right in." So we went in and went to the bathroom. Liz says, "Wow, we have 20 minutes!" I realized that Liz had never been early to anything before, and she was surprised and sort of didn't know what to do. I showed her how we could sit down without having to rush, and look at all the people, and chat. She got a Guinness for $8.

We sat down and looked at all the people, and chatted, and waited. And waited. And at 8:30, an announcer came on and said that George's plane was delayed due to the rain, and he would be here soon, his plane had just landed. So we chatted some more, and round about 9:00, the announcer said, "George is in the building." And we all screamed. And waited some more, until he started.

Day Two of Haircut Newness. I'm learning some things.

I like my hair the day after I wash it. It falls flat, and it shrinks a little. When I had long hair, it wasn't that noticeable, but with this cut, it really is. It doesn't look so poofy.

My hair is flippy and flirty. And so light!

When I do wash it, I have to blow dry it a certain way, or the style looks all wrong in the back. It shouldn't really matter too much, though, because when someone is looking at you walking away, it's not your hair that they're looking at, if you catch my drift.

I don't hate my hair anymore. I can see myself like this for awhile.

Hair responses so far:

I love it!
I love it!
Nice hairdo!
Hey, Pageboy!
I llllllllllllove it!
It looks good, actually. (this from a friend who was against the haircut in the first place)
It looks better than what you had before!
[blank stare] (this from my cat)

Gone Today

Well, I did it. I showed Anthony a bunch of pictures, and he cut it like I said I wanted. But you know what? I don't want it anymore! I look like 1980's Vidal Sassoon! It's too preppy. It's not funky. It's not edgy. I don't like it.

I called up a bunch of friends, and Sophie was just in the neighborhood, so she came over and gave me her honest opinion. She loves it. She says it frames my face and makes me look brighter and not like a teenager, which is what I used to look like.

Now Liz is on her way over. I have great friends.

Okay. Liz loves it, and her daughter, who is 7 said, "Nice hairdo!" If my hair passes muster with a 7 year old, I think I'll be okay. It's been 4 hours. I'm getting used to it. I guess it's not so bad. Comments? Comments?

Tough Toy

At my school, we hardly ever buy toys or throw them away. People donate toys to us, and when they break, we fix them. Until the bitter end. I've learned to repair things after more than 10 years of watching my co-workers do it. Many toys have been kept for years after I would have thrown them away.

One toy that I have kept fixing year after year that really should be gotten rid of is a Fisher Price toy airplane. The door is gone, the tail is missing, there's no window. A few years ago I wrote on the plane as a joke, after applying more duct tape to it. I created an airline, complete with a tagline: "Risky Airlines--We'll get you there...maybe." It stays in the block room, and the kids continue to play with it. We keep putting duct tape on the sharp parts, and I rewrite the RA slogan in black Sharpie pen. We'll keep that plane until it has to be grounded, and then we'll turn it into a museum.

Small Town Graffiti

Remember a post a few days ago, when I was talking about my hometown and my current town? Turns out you can take the girl out of NYC, but NYC will never be far behind.

Backstory: In the 80's, I was in high school, my brother John was a graffiti artist. My dad's apartment was where all my brother's friends would come and get high and hang out before they all went out "bombing". John's closet door was covered with spray paint and tags (Graffiti names), as was his loft bed.

One of the names in John's room was by a guy who was famous in the graffiti world. His name was Jon, and his tag was JonOne. He ran with the 156 All Stars crew, of West 156th St. in Manhattan. I met him a couple of times. He didn't hang out too much; he was older than the rest of us, and seemed like he had a lot going on.

Fast forward to last week. I was at an apartment in Brookline, coincidentally across the street from my workplace. I was there to meet a cat who I would be cat sitting while his family went to Europe for a week.

The "dad" and I went through an alleyway so he could show me where to dispose of trash. The alleyway was covered with graffiti. It was remarkable, first because it was graffiti in Brookline, but also because it was good graffiti in Brookline. Being one who is interested in graffiti because of my brother, I stopped to look at it closely. What I saw made me stop in my tracks. After chuckling at the images of cartoon characters Ren and Stimpy, I saw 156 All Stars at the bottom of the mural. "No way!" I exclaimed. I looked to the right, and there it was, JonOne, the one and only.

What in the world was JonOne doing in Brookline, Mass., population 57,000? When had he been there? Where did he go? I may never find out, but I am somehow comforted by a piece of my past, here in my present.

Nighty-Nite

Have you ever crawled into your loft bed at night, when it's dark, and you can't see anything, and your foot suddenly mushes into a pile of something that used to be in your cat's stomach and is now on your bed? And on your foot. Don't you hate that?

Me too.

Hair Today, Gone Tomorrow

I have an appointment with my regular stylist, Anthony. Saturday, July 26. I will show him the pictures of the woman who never called me back, and Anthony will cut my hair and make me look beautiful. No cheating, no guilt.

I'll have to say goodbye to cute styles like braids, but at least I have a picture.

Cry Me a River

My mother, god rest her soul, used to cry at the drop of a hat. When I was little, I didn't understand it, and when I got older, I was embarrassed by it. I'll never forget her crying when she took me to see Bambi; she cried in the beginning when Bambi's mother died in the forest fire.

I have inherited her confusing and annoying trait. It doesn't take much. In particular, I'm a sucker for watching people win things on TV. It doesn't matter whether someone won a new car on Oprah, a surprise makeover, or an award.

Just today I flipped on the TV and saw five minutes of a show about drama programs at local high schools. They had an award night, and one high school kept winning all the awards. After they announced that Framingham High School had won a fourth award, I was laughing at crying at the same time. This, after watching five minutes. Lord help me.

And don't even get me started on reunions. If I flip on a show where a brother and sister haven't seen each other in 30 years because of war, adoption, or some other circumstance, you better get your own box of tissues, 'cause I'll need a whole one for myself.

Fruit Flies, Be Gone!

I have fruit flies in my kitchen. This phenomenon is my least favorite part of summer. Fruit flies make my skin crawl.

Today I Googled "Fruit Fly Removal", and got a tip. You get a glass jar, put some vinegar and a couple of drops of dish washing liquid in it, and cover the jar tightly with plastic wrap. Tape the plastic wrap around the bottle for security, then poke a few holes in the top. Supposedly, the flies go in, but they don't come out.

I set it up, and after only a few minutes, the flies were swarming! A couple of slick flies went in and out, hmm...but we'll see what it looks like in the morning. When you get a bunch, you're supposed to either clean out the jar outside and do it all over, or else put the jar in the freezer. Wish me luck.

A Tale of Two Cities

Lazy Saturday. Just came in from the porch, where I was reading a book whilst gliding back and forth on the porch glider. My next door neighbors were in the communal yard, gardening. My across the street neighbor passed by and we commented on the lovely weather. A police car came by and stopped across the street, but it looked as though it was just passing through; maybe someone would offer the patrolman a nice glass of lemonade.

Where I live now sure is different from where I grew up. I was raised in New York City (photo, left). Back then, the population was just under 8 million people. Here in my town (photo, right), we have just over 57,000.

When I was a kid, pimps and prostitutes hung out on the corner of my street. I was exposed to some really nasty people. I'm sure we have serial killers and other undesirables where I live now, but you can also leave your backpack at the playground by mistake and find it 3 hours later, untouched. I know my neighbors, most of them well, many of them by sight.

Feels nice to let my guard down as an adult when I was always on the alert as a child.

Fat Stanley

I've been working out with my personal trainer, Steve, for 9 months now. Up to now, I never actually had a membership; I always just went to the gym, did my workout with Steve, then left.

About a week ago, I joined the gym. Every month, $48 will be automatically deducted from my bank account so that I can go to the gym and do my workouts myself, in addition to continuing work with Steve when needed. He thought I was ready for this months ago, but I wasn't ready to cut ties, and with my knee issue, my progress was put back a few steps.

Today was my first day of going by myself. I was so nervous, like the first day I ever went. I took a deep breath, got my mat, and did my routine. It was pretty crowded today, so there was a guy right next to me. He looked like the actor Stanley Tucci. Unfortunately, my peripheral vision was working really well, so I got a slight view of what he was doing. He kept grunting, and so help me god, he looked like he was in the middle of a sexual act! He was going up and down. I couldn't see exactly what he was doing, but I saw enough. I had to really focus so I wouldn't burst out laughing.

I did my usual thing, then added whatever I remembered, and finished with the bike. The first time I ever did the bike I did it for 5 minutes. I quickly moved up to 10 minutes, and I felt like that was a pretty good workout, got my heart pumping enough. I've done 10 minutes about 5 times.

Today, by myself, I did 15 minutes, moving the level from 6 to 7, thank you very much. My face was very hot and red, and sweat was actually dripping down my face, which was a totally new experience for me. When I got off the bike, I found that the entire gym was tilted a little and pulled toward the right. I told Steve, and he told me to sit down. Then he said, "You did great, Alex." Sigh. He knows I still need praise for the littlest thing. I'm like a 3 year-old.

I'm proud of myself for taking this first independent step at the gym. I'm going back tomorrow; I hope Stanley won't be there.

p.s. That hairstylist I met on the street yesterday hasn't called me back yet.

Thinking About an Impulse

Recently someone asked if I was a risk taker. I said no, unless it has to do with my appearance. I'll change my look drastically at the drop of a hat. Well, that's not entirely true. I'll think about the change for months before actually doing it. I don't tell anyone, so when I do it, it looks like an impulse when it's really not. That's how it was when I got my eyebrow pierced, when I got my first huge tattoo, and now, when I believe I'm on the brink of another change.

I've been thinking about cutting my hair for a long time. My original goal was to have hair like a mermaid, all the way down my back, but it's taken me years, and I still haven't fulfilled that dream. It's hard to take care of all that hair, and it's getting so grey in the front that when I put it up I feel like a granny. I like the grey, but I need a new style. This goes along with my "Self What Not To Wear" makeover. I want a funky cut.

I've seen a few women who have the look I want, and have taken a picture or two, but just a few hours ago, I saw exactly what I wanted. This woman was walking down Newbury Street with two friends, and she had "The Hair." I stopped her and asked her if I could take a picture of her hair because I was thinking about cutting mine. What a coincidence! Turns out, she's a stylist and she's looking for hair models. She works at Vidal Sassoon. I can get her exact cut for $20.

I took her card and took a picture, just in case I decide to go my stylist to get it done. But he won't know exactly how it is, even from the picture, which wasn't that great. Thing is, I've been with my stylist, Anthony, for 15 years. I've cheated on him twice, and I always feel awful afterwards. He always takes me back.

I want to go to that woman, but I am wracked with guilt. It's not like she would be giving me a trim. This is a major cut, just past my chin. I'll send him flowers. I'll tell him what I did. I'll beg him to understand.

As soon as I got home, I called this woman, Jessie, and asked if she was available tomorrow. If I'm going to take the plunge, I'm going to do it immediately. She hasn't called back yet. Let's hope she takes me. Let's hope I like it. Let's hope Anthony has forgiveness in his heart, yet again.

Catalog Touch

I am obsessed with sporty Mary Jane style shoes. I pore over my athletic catalogs and play "Catalog Touch". Ever play it? That's when you go through a catalog and touch everything you want, whether or not you can afford it. Variations include "Catalog Fold", where you fold down a page, and "Catalog Circle", where you circle everything you want. I play these games all week long, and rarely order anything. Recently I even played "Catalog Circle/Ask Friend", where I circled everything, then had a friend go through and tell me if it would be a good purchase for me or not. Her notes were helpful ("Don't you own enough cropped pants already?").

Anyway, sporty Mary Janes are my latest desire. One day I might actually buy a pair. Till then, I've got a stack of five catalogs to go through. And ooh! My neighbor is on vacation for three weeks, and I'm picking up her mail...

Locker Room Lady

I went to the gym today and had a good workout. Afterwards, in the locker room, there was a woman who was red in the face and sweaty. She peeled off her workout clothes and wiped herself down with a hand towel. She didn't even take a shower! She just got dressed in a new outfit and put her sweaty hair into a ponytail. Gross! Who does something like that?

Me. Yes, I was the woman with the perspiring ponytail. I bust my ass to get to the gym at 7:30 AM as it is, and I'd have to wake up that much earlier to have enough time to take a shower before heading off to work. I've decided to take my showers at night on workout days. I'm sweaty, so what. I burn 50 calories every time I get on the bike.

Now excuse me while I eat my dessert before my evening shower.

Happy Cat

Happy Birthday, Shelby! She's 12 years old today, and looks just like a kitten. Must be the catnip. A few weeks ago, I was at Mike and Lisa's house. Lisa was showing me the garden, and picked off some kind of plant. She said she thought it was catnip. I put it in my pocket to give to Shelby later.

I gave it to her when I got home, and sure enough, she started writhing on the floor in ecstasy (see photo, right).

Later on, I went up to the loft to take a nap. Shelby followed, and got into nap position, under the covers. We settled down. Suddenly, I felt a scratching and biting at my jeans. Shelby, mild-mannered slug-feline, was attacking me! She would not stop. It finally dawned on me that there was catnip residue in my pocket. I replaced my jeans with something less trippy, and we resumed our nap.

Here's to Shelby, my happy catnappy pappy. Happy Birthday!

Local Graffiti

Shorts and Socks

I have so many photos I've wanted to post, but many of them go by the wayside. This summer, I'm going to try and post all those photos I've taken. Here's a recent one. I was at some friends' for dinner. M and D were talking in the kitchen, and I noticed their shorts and socks. So cute.

Ticket, please!

Saw this sign at a parking garage where you're supposed to get a ticket to pick up your car. That's one big ass ticket.

Post #400--Batman's Lair?

This is the door to a house in my neighborhood. Isn't it the coolest? It looks like Batman lives here, with those lights. And see how there's no number? Batman's house doesn't need a number.

Shady with the Shades

I have never been a sunglass wearer. That is, until now. As I am obsessed with taking care of myself in my fourth decade of life, I figured it was a good time to pay attention to my eyes. In Vermont, I bought a pair of Very Expensive Oakley sunglasses. They look cool. They look athletic. I am a bad ass.

Too bad I keep forgetting to take them with me. I'll find myself standing at a corner, waiting to cross the street, thinking, "God, that sun is bright!" and then remembering that this was the reason I bought those dang sunglasses in the first place.

I remembered them today. I wore them to the apartment where I gave an English lesson, then I put them in my bag. I had forgotten to bring the hard case the sales guy gave me for free because I had spent So Much Money, but I still had the soft sleeve they had come with. I put them in my bag, had the lesson, and then didn't put them back on because I was only going to walk a few blocks and then go into the supermarket.

I used the self-checkout and saved some bags by throwing most of the stuff in my backpack. Unfortunately, I realized when I got outside, that stuff was mostly canned goods. Dumped on top of my new sunglasses, not in the hard case.

I dug around and prayed, and I was rewarded with my sunglasses intact. Put 'em on, was protected all the way home, and decided that maybe dress pants were not the best look for my sporty shades. Perhaps I'll have to get another pair.

Vermont

I'm Baaaaack!

I was in Vermont for four days with friends. You remember the famous Marco, who has had a few posts written about him on this blog? I went with his family. Had a great time. More on that later.

I got home Tuesday night,checked email (after four days, I had a lot), unpacked a little, plugged in the A/C that my landlord had thoughtfully put in for me, and went to bed early.

On Wednesday night I couldn't for the life of me connect to the internet. On Thursday morning when I went to call Verizon about my DSL, I discovered that my land line was dead. Goddammit. I used my cell phone and had to go through all kinds of changes to make an appointment for someone to come and check my line on the next day. Had to go to a friend's house to do some important emailng. I do not like not being online!

This was the third time my phone has had a problem within a year. It's never my fault, and they always come out and fix it right away. I had to go through the questions: "Did you check everything?" Yes, I checked everything. I hadn't, really, but it had happened twice before, I was not about to go buy a test phone again, have it not work, and then bring it back to the store. Let them come and look at it and fix it.

Finally got the appointment for today and had to be home between 9 and 2. Why is it that I can stay home all day on a Saturday and park myself in front of the TV, no problem, but when I'm required to stay home to wait for a service person, I'm so frustrated, like I have things to do?

Anyway, the Verizon truck pulled up at 1:15 and a woman who looked like a grandmother got out and said she just wanted to check the line from inside. She tried it from my phone, but then had to go directly to the jack. She bent down to look at the jack and said, "Oh, it's loose." Click. And that was it. I had a flash in fast motion, like in the movies, of me plugging in the A/C and loosening the phone plug in the jack.

Oh my god, I had never been so embarassed in my entire life, and told Grandma Verizon so. She was so sweet, she immediately told me she wasn't going to charge me for it. She stayed to make sure I got online, then left.

Note to self: check everything when they say to check everything. As my friend Hiro said, that's Troubleshooting 101. Got it. Glad to be back online.

1 Year

Today marked one year since my dad died. Here's a picture of us when I got my Master's. My dad was not the most present father, but I must say, he went to all three of my graduations. He was proud of my success in education.

I remember my dad's love of opera. He went to the opera almost every day during the opera season. A bartender gave him the nickname, "Johnny Opera". It stuck. I now have Johnny Opera tattooed on my arm, underneath my "Mom" heart.

Dad, and Mom, may you rest in peace. I hope right now you're yukking it up over there on the other side.

Weight Watcher Wonderings

My friend M is on Weight Watchers, where all the food you eat is on a point system, and you're allotted a certain number of points per day.

M is Jewish, and her partner T was raised Catholic. They had a bris, and they're having their son baptized next weekend. M told me that she told T ain't no way she was gonna say anything about Jesus or eat one of them wafers. We wondered, "How many points are in the body of Christ?"

Small town Charm, Beware!

I just walked into the house of a serial killer. Well, he could be a serial killer. I escaped.

It's hard to live in a nice and friendly neighborhood, because you find yourself doing nice and friendly things. You let your guard down.

Just now, coming home, I came upon a man who was trying to lift a TV across the street by himself. It looked really heavy, so I asked him if he needed help. He said he didn't want me to hurt myself, and I just said, "Well, two's better than one, it's no problem." We got it across, and as we were going up the stairs, it occurred to me that the serial killer Ted Bundy got his victims by feigning a fake broken arm. He'd lure girls into his waiting van, and then torture and murder them. This is the thought that came upon me, and I knew I had to get out of there, fast.

As soon as we got into the foyer, I put that TV down as fast as I could and said, "Well, that's it!" The guy said, "Can I offer you a drink or something?" Nope, no, I'm fine, gotta go...and I was outta there like a bolt of lightning.

Whew! I will live to see another day. Guard up.

Kitty Trouble

This is Noah. Cute, isn't he? But cute little Noah can unknowingly get you into trouble.

Rule #1: Never refer to a cat as a pussycat or pussy around kids, even if you think it's funny. That's what my friends L and J did, with their daughters S, age 6, and V, age 2. Next thing you know, S says, "There's pussy hairs all over the bed!" and even worse, possibly after playing on the bed, "There's pussy hairs in my mouth!" Do not utter these words at school, dear children, or mommy will answer the door to a lady with a big DSS badge on her jacket and take you away from your family. C-A-T spells CAT, not pussy!

Skeletons in my Closet

I did a little What Not to Wear / Mission: Organization on my closet today. I went through and tried everything on. I got rid of two bags of clothing. Here's what I learned:

I am not a size 0 anymore.

I am not a size 1.

I am not a size 2.

I am a size 4. I am a size 4. I am a size 4. I might be a size 4 1/2, but let's not go there right now.

I had a lot of pants I didn't even know I had.

What was I thinking with that little black beaded tanktop?

I have a lot of hangers that are unused.

I have 4 little black dresses.

There were several outfits I could have worn to Caterina's party that would have been better than the one I did wear, had I really looked in my closet.

It makes me very very sad, but it is finally time to throw away my most favorite jeans that I bought in 2000. The knees are both worn out, and that is why I have femoral patella syndrome today. Plus, I will never fit into them again. Never.

I know elastic waistbands are not the sexiest, but they make things still fit, unlike some other waistbands.

My friends are so sweet to give me their size 4 pants.

I should be grateful I am a size 4. Many people would kill to be a size 4.

It's all relative.

Small Town Charm?

One great thing about living in a small town is that you see people you know every day, and it really feels like a neighborhood. I'm constantly running into kids and parents from my preschool, those who attend now, or those who went ten years ago.

One not so great thing about living in a small town is that when you're at an arts festival you might run into guys you've gone on one or two awkward dates with. I managed to elude them yesterday, but I know I'll see them at Starbucks this summer. I'll just grin and bear it.

Happy Birthday, Prince!

Prince is 50 years old today. I changed the song a little.

Happy Birthday to you
It's a Catch-22
I'd so like to meet you
But I don't know what I'd do!

Maybe he'd show me, heh heh. Happy Birthday. Age ain't nothin' but a number.

Fresh Firefighters

I just got a second call from local firefighters, asking for money. Seems I had donated something back in December, when I used part of my annual bonus to give to various charities. It felt really good.

Of course, now those various charities are contacting me regularly, thinking that I am able to donate all the time, which I am not. I get a weekly letter from Planned Parenthood, and now, instead of feeling good, I am getting annoyed.

The organization that takes the cake, however, is these firefighters. The first time they called, I said, "I'm sorry, but I have no money right now, and I'm about to walk out the door." The caller replied, "That's not what I was calling for, and you enjoy that meal in front of you."

They just called again, and I listened to their schpiel this time. Actually, they were asking for money. I told the man that I had donated before because I had had money at that time, but I couldn't donate now, and that the next time I had money, I would donate again. The caller answered me by saying, "Okay, take care of yourself first, thank you." and he hung up.

You know what? Now they don't get any money from me, with that attitude! If telemarketers and local charities ask for money without any 'tude, they just might get it. For now, yes, I'll take care of myself and enjoy any meals that are in front of me. Thank YOU.

Sugar Fix

Number of days of Alex's Sugar-Free Summer:

2

What happened:

Okay, here's the confession. Wanna know why I wasn't going to have sugar in my house for the whole summer? Oprah. I was watching her show the other day; they had all these obese people who weighed 500 lbs. and had lost 300 lbs. with no surgery.

Oprah went on and on about how, if you're trying to lose that last 10 lbs., if they can do it, you can do it. I figured, "hey, I want to lose 10 lbs. I'm feeling a little thicker around the middle than I did 10 years ago...sugar's bad for you, how hard can it be?"

On day 2, today, I was a monster. 2 days of no tea. I had a headache, I was very cranky, parents were rubbing my back at work today, clucking their tongues.

Percentage of people who thought that me giving up sugar in my house was a bad idea:

100

Guess what? Premenstrual + no caffine and sugar for 2 days = crazy person!!!

After my therapist confirmed that you only live once, and I needed to have my tea back in my life, I went to Starbucks and grabbed 6 packets of Sugar in the Raw like I was some kind of junkie. Had my cup of tea in my house tonight...

AHHHHH...feels good to be back.

Sugar-free Summer

I've decided to not have sugar in my house for the entire summer. I want to see what happens. Will I lose weight? Will I have more energy? Will I lose my sugar addiction? I dumped out what I had in my sugar jar and sugar bowl and gave it to my neighbors.

I already stopped drinking tea (read: I stopped consuming two teaspoons of sugar) at work. It was pretty easy. At work there's tea that I don't like and half and half, which I don't like, so I don't want it. I drink water.

The biggest difference at home will be that I won't have my morning and evening cup of tea, which I quite like. It's comforting. It's also full of sugar. And caffeine. I'll drink water.

This is not to say that I'm giving up on sugar altogether. If I want a Starbucks, I'll get a Starbucks. Tea and muffin. I'll keep eating all the natural sugar found in fruit, cake, cookies, etc. It's just I won't have it in the house. If it's not in the house, I won't eat it. Like snacks. What I do for a treat if I don't have sweets in the house is eat a piece of whole wheat bread with olive oil-based spread or its equivalent. And now, water.

Wish me luck. I won't go thirsty, that's for sure.

Beware Birthday Speeches

Recently I've attended two adult birthday parties, a 40th and a 50th. Big celebrations, with lots of family and friends around, toasts, and speeches by family members, namely parents.

At the first party for my friend C, her dad started to give this speech about her birth. How, when she was born, she was the most beautiful baby,(awww) and she cried so loudly, (oh!) but then she turned out okay (aww) even though she cried so much (oh!), etc. Okay. Then Dad said, "And then her brother S was born. And when he came out, whoa! Was he funny looking! He had this big red mark, and his head was pointy. He looked like a mushroom!" All the guests had frozen smiles on their faces. We were scared to death. He went on and on, and somehow he finished, and we said Happy Birthday to C.

Later on, I went up to the brother and told him that he was a good-looking man. He laughed and said thank you. At the end of the night I went up to his wife and said the same thing. She looked at me blankly and suspiciously. Oh my god, she thought I was hitting on her husband right to her face! I said, "I'm referring to the speech." "Oh", she said, "I've heard that story so many times..." Oh my god, that wasn't some tipsy dad speech?? He's said that before? Poor guy.

I thought that was an isolated incident, but apparently this kind of thing happens. Yesterday I was at my friend T's 50th. His mother got up and told the story of Mrs. So-and-So, who had all those cats, and when T was a little boy, he and his friends were playing Cowboys and Indians, and they were practicing the lasso. They lassoed one of the cats and hung it on a tree. T thought that by pulling on the lasso, it would make the loop looser, so they kept pulling and pulling, and finally T went into the house to tell his mom, because the cat didn't look right.

At this point, I almost shouted out, "Happy Birthday, T!", but I didn't dare interrupt the story. The audience was waiting for a happy ending. Well, along came these Boy Scouts, just then, and...they rescued the cat! NO, that's not what T's mom said! She said that they thought T and his friends had a problem and they should be committed. The End, Happy Birthday, T.

And then T's father got up and said that when T was born, he (the dad) was in the bushes, throwing up. The End.

Oh man, ain't nothing like some birthday speeches to make one proud to be alive. Next time you're celebrating a big one, just hold your breath while the parents are talking, so you'll have a lot of air saved up to blow out the candles.

Morphed into a Rooster

Oh god. Oh god. Oh god. This cat's gonna be the death of me.

Shelby and I have a routine. Every morning, around 6:30, she either comes up her steps of the loft bed and softly taps me, or meows to wake me up. Sometimes she lets me sleep. Sometimes she stays downstairs and just meows annoyingly until I get up.

In any case, I get up, we go to the bathroom, and then I let her out into the hallway to see what's what. She's there for maybe 30 seconds, and I let her back in. She takes her pill, and I start my morning; check email, turn on the news, etc. She goes into the bathroom and goes to sleep. This is what we do.

Shelby's not too intuitive on what's a weekend day and what's a weekday. Usually, I don't mind, because I get up at the same time every day. Today, however, she had a bee in her bonnet and was meowing to beat the band (I have suddenly transformed into the writing of 1950, apparently). She meowed, she pawed me, she wouldn't let up. I looked at the clock. 5:00 AM. On Sunday. This was not okay.

We fought back and forth. She went and coughed up a hairball. She came back. I thought maybe there was a fire. She's not a rooster, she's Lassie. She'll save my life. "What is it, girl?" I finally went down the ladder at 6:00. What was the emergency? She wanted to see what was what in the hallway. For 10 seconds. She wanted me to stay in the kitchen with her while she ate her breakfast and didn't take her pill. She is now resting comfortably on the floor, staring at me. "What?" she says.

I could kill her, but she is so freaking cute. I'm gonna try to go back to bed. Wish me luck.

Two Views

I was in NYC last weekend; the top pic is a view from my lawyer's office. I made it sepia for that old-fashioned look. The bottom pic is another view of NYC. Tough guy who's not afraid to show his gentle side, with a teddy bear in his backpack. Awww.

Score One More, for K

Backstory: Like any normal married couple, my brother J and sister-in-law K occasionally get into little "discussions", and one person is usually "right"; not that they keep score or anything.

The other day, J bought a kazoo. K asked if it was a bubble wand. He told her it wasn't, it was a musical instrument. He demonstrated how to use it.

K wouldn't let it go. "Isn't that for bubbles?" she kept asking. J and I just laughed, and he buzzed the kazoo again. K made a face and said, "It's for bubbles."

The next day, J and I were at the 99 cent store, and I came upon the toy in the picture on the left. Look at the pink object to the right of the bubbles. Kazoo, or bubble maker? I took the picture to show K.

"Look", I said, "A bubble maker. See what it looks like?" It took her a couple of seconds for it to register. Then she said, "You mean I was right?? YEAH!!!" and she did the famous K is right pose. Try it when you really want to make a point. One arm straight in the air, other hand clenched in a fist, eyes closed, and shout, "YEAH!"

Gloating never looked so cute.

Today at School

Today at the playground, as we were lining up to go back to school, Marco announced that his other sandal was in the sandbox. Buried. I told Rosie to go on and take the other kids back, and I'd stay with Marco to find it.

Marco didn't remember where exactly he had buried it, and you couldn't tell that anything was buried; it all looked just like regular untouched sand. I felt like an archaeologist, and wanted to divide the sandbox into quadrants. I just kept digging in one spot after another until finally, I hit pay dirt (as it were), and unearthed the sandal. I told his mother to stop being so creative with him.

Later on, a bunch of us were out in the school's courtyard. I brought out the sidewalk chalk, and they drew all over the back of the door and the walls. One kid asked, "Can we draw on the sandbox covers?" I was in a good mood. "Sure!" "On the fence?" "Yeah!" "On the boat?" "Why not? Go crazy!" I said. With a gleeful expression, Matthew piped, "This is the biggest day of our life!"

Results

The results of my MRI are in. I have...dun dun DUN...

CHONDROMALACIA PATELLA!

Which means the cartilage in my kneecap has thinned. What to do? Keep doing what I've been doing in PT. Stretching, exercising, and yoga. And not walking on my knees at work, which I've been doing for the past 20 years. And not curling up in my chair. And no squats at the gym. When I go back to the gym. Which I plan to, next month.

At least I don't need surgery.

4 year-old graffiti

Unprompted, Owen asked me how to spell "I love Alex". I wrote it down so he could copy it.

The next day, I came across the piece of paper. Seems someone loves Alexa, too!

MRI Fun, part two

...and then the fun began.

Somewhere in the background there was this swishing noise. I imagined a gigantic washing machine. It went swish, swish, swish, very rhythmically. It was sort of comforting.

Unlike the actual sounds of the MRI machine. First it was as if OL was in the back pressing a really big doorbell from the 1950's. It buzzed: ENH, ENH, ENH! Then came the jackhammer, a little faster: gsh gsh gsh gsh gsh! Then silence. Then the doorbell again, then a new sound. It went like this over and over for about 30 minutes, I'd say. I wasn't watching the countdown clock. I went into daydream mode, and since that's my favorite pastime, I found that the minutes flew by.

Then they were done. I contemplated asking the assistant if she would push me all the way into the machine so I could see what it felt like, but she seemed to be in a hurry to get me out of there so she could claim her next victim, I mean, patient. I walked out as a man walked in.

I went to the locker to retrieve my bag, and noticed that they forgot to give me the key. I had to go back and inturrupt them to ask for it. The assistant said, "Oh, which one is yours?" I didn't know, I wasn't the one who had the key; OL was. She just gave me one, and I tried it, but it didn't work. Then I looked at the tag, which said, M, and #2. I went back and told the assistant I thought the M stood for Male, locker 2. I was W #1. "Oh, she flustered, "I didn't even look at that, ha ha!"

Great. I had just trusted these two women to look into the recesses of my knee and who knows what else, and they couldn't even figure out one key out of two. Did they do the MRI correctly, or were all those different sounds their trial and error session?

EHN, EHN, EHN!
OL: No, that's not right. Try that button.
gsh, gsh, gsh, gsh!
Assistant: That sounds better. Right? Right? Priscilla, wake up!
OL: What? Oh, right, where were we? EHN, EHN, EHN...

I got no information about how I was supposed to find out my results. Guess I'll put a call into my doctor. And hope it wasn't all a bad dream.

My my my...MRI

I finally went and got my MRI. My friend Leslie had told me not to wear any jewelry because the magnets were so strong they might get ripped out. In preparation, I wore yoga pants, a tee shirt, no watch, and I cut my nails, just to be extra safe.

The MRI was last Sunday, which I thought was pretty weird in the first place. When I arrived, it looked like a ghost town. I had to ring security to let me in, and when I went to the desk, there weren't any other patients waiting. I had to fill out this two-sided form that asked yes or no questions, such as:

Do you have a pacemaker? NO
Do you have internal shrapnel? NO
Do you have a penile implant? NO

I am not making this up, those were some of the questions. Then I came to:

Do you have tattoos?

YES! Finally, I got to answer yes to a question! I asked the woman why that question was asked, and she said in case there was part of a needle in you, they need to know. Oh god.

I finished the form and waited to be taken to the machine. After a few minutes, a woman came out to take me. She was a petite older woman with short hair, and she walked with a limp, as if one leg was shorter than the other. She also had an accent; almost British, but softer. I decided she was from South Africa.

She put my purse in a locker and brought me over to the machine, aided by a younger woman. I took off my shoes and lay down, with the knee being MRI-ed in a sort of brace. Older lady gave me ear plugs, because it was going to be loud. She pressed a button that made me slide forward...not quite all the way in, whew! I went in up to my chest. OL gave me a pump to squeeze in case I "didn't want to continue", and told me I could see the countdown numbers on the machine. I could also see a sign that said something about a beam, and don't stare into the beam. I decided to close my eyes to be safe. OL said I'd be in there for 20-30 minutes.

And then the fun began...

Sleepy in Brookline

I finally figured out why it is that I've been napping so much!

I haven't worked out since the end of April, and I think that's what's done it. They say that working out gives you more energy, and I never understood that, but now I do. I do one or two activities and am ready to lay down. Steve and I haven't been able to work out a schedule this month, and with my bum knee, we were taking it easy anyway. I'll save some dough, find out the results of my MRI (that's another post in itself), and start up again next month.

And then zip around and leave the napping for Saturdays!
I'm looking forward to having more spring in my step. Till then, enjoy the tee shirt one of my kids was wearing the other day. It's from Japan. Want to see more amusing examples of English? Check out Engrish.com.

Tip of the Day

Dear Readers,

The advice I am about to give you may change your life. Here goes.

Say there's a stomach virus going around, and you happen to get it. Say you stay home for a day, alternating sleeping and visiting the porcelain throne.

Say you're really good, avoid food for awhile, and then only eat bananas, bread, and applesauce for two whole days.

Here comes the advice: DO NOT, I repeat, DO NOT make your first real meal a sausage, egg, and cheese breakfast sandwich from Starbucks. Even if you're really craving it. Your ass will explode.

If this does happen to you, remedy it by immediately taking a nap with your cat.

Follow these words of wisdom, and your sphincter will thank you.
Have a nice day.

40 and Fabu...zzzzzzzzz

Since I turned 40 I've been sleeping a lot. Not to escape, necessarily, but I think this is what happens when one gets older. I'm not kidding. In the past six days, I have taken a nap every single day, something I used to reserve only for weekends. I'm not too worried about it. It sure beats a spare tire around the waist or aches and pains. Cuts down on blogging time, however.

I've decided to make a list of highlights of my birthday bash, for easy reading for you, and easy writing for me. If you didn't make it to the soiree, here's what you missed:

* Me, wearing a dress, high heels, and makeup, hair in an updo, greeting my guests Grace Kelly style, in a faux fur wrap I got at the Gap a couple of years ago.

* A yoga studio transformed into a glittering dance club, complete with disco ball hanging from an industrial chain.

* Heather, disco dancing diva on the dance floor. Heather was the talk of the party, because she got right on the dance floor and dirty danced with me and whoever came into her line of fire. The best part about Heather was that I didn't even know her; she was a college friend of some friends of mine, and tagged along with some others to the party. Heather, you were a hit!

* Dancing, dancing, dancing! There were a core of about four people, including myself, who were on the dance floor section of the room the entire night. Others came and went, and everyone boogied when I hit them with the "dance scepter". iPod playlist + stereo = instant club!!

* A speech session, which brought everyone to tears.

* Delicious food, which I didn't eat enough of. Amazing cupcakes and cookies, which I did eat enough of.

* The party favor--a custom made CD of the nights' selected hits.

Thanks to everyone who helped make my 40th my best birthday ever!!!

Mascara Mayhem

It's been a week since my birthday bash and I'm just now catching up on my sleep. I took a nap when I got home from work yesterday and I took a nap today. I have so much to do: write thank you notes, blog, continue cleaning the place...

I'll start with my eyes.

I had my hair done, dress on, lipstick done...all I had to do was the mascara. Oy, the mascara. I hadn't put mascara on my eyelashes in probably 20 years. I stood in CVS looking at all the different types; who knew there were hundreds to choose from? I could go for the standard pink and green package that had remained the same for decades. I tried to remember the catch phrases from recent commercials: what did they say about "easy, breezy, Covergirl"? Should I get lengthening, volumizing, strengthening (???). What color? Very black, brown, violet???

I decided to get the one with the rubberized lash brush, because I had seen on TV somewhere that women got clumpy eyelashes not because of the formula, but because of the brush. After debating back and forth on how stupid it seemed to get one, I also got an eyelash curler. I have never worn mascara without curling my eyelashes first. It sounds soooo ridiculous, but I did it.

I was in a rush to get ready. I carefully curled my lashes, then took out the mascara. I put the brush to my eyelash, and...

(insert sound of scratching record needle here)

the fucking brush was so rubbery that it bent and I mascara-ed by face and hand! Nice work, birthday girl. I had to be really really careful with my application, something they don't tell you on TV. As a result, I didn't put on as much mascara as I could have, but it definitely made a difference. Like heels, mascara is a stupid invention, but looks good on. I also listened to my friend Patricia, who told me to get foundation. I powdered my face a little. Okay, it looked good. Damn it!

As I was applying the greasy eye makeup remover that night, I wondered how women wore makeup every single day. NO THANK YOU! But I might bust out the mascara and red lipstick next time I go out to dinner.