I'm back.

Rejoice accordingly.

Apparently I have 88% of the world left to conquer:

I am battling what I fear might be a strain of Turkish Throat Death aka strep. Sucks. Me, not be able to talk? I'm sure Jessica enjoyed my relative silence in the car driving back from L.A. I've heard that some people only appreciate enthusiastic George Michael-harmonizing to a point.

Good to be home.

Read. Laugh. Love.

When was the last time you read a book that affected you in any way? Arguably my latest read, a Nick Hornby novel, fits the bill, if only because it keeps me on the cardio machines while I find out what happens to my wacky heroes.

But seriously. When was the last time you read a book that made you think you were ahead of Oprah's curve? A book that took you on a 'journey'? Tonight I went to see Elizabeth Gilbert speak about her memoir "Eat Pray Love". I should probably begin by saying that I'm generally not the memoir-y type. The memoirs I have liked have been about people who are so funny that I forget I'm reading about them and not me. Or, like Running With Scissors (which, for the record, I liked less round 2), a memoir that tells me "hey, my life is more f*ed up than yours could ever be. find solace in this." When I've represented memoirs (THE NON-RUNNER'S MARATHON GUIDE and THIRTY TO WIFE), even those have had this underdog angle where the protagonist fights the odds until the bitter, bitter end (couch potato-to-marathoner and bachelor-to-husband transitions, respectively).

To be honest, the reason I picked up this book was that I was at Costco, my dog had just died, and I needed to buy something. I tend to buy books the way a junkie buys drugs. If I'm having a great day, I buy. If I'm having a bad day, I head down to my local seedy corner (bookstore) and buy from my dealer (literary fiction if I"m having a particularly rough spot). Some people like crack, some people like pages. That's not the point here.

So I bought the book largely because it has a really purty cover (exhibit A, attached). Eyecatching. I didn't know much about it. In fact, much of me thought I'd buy it and leave it lying around just to know I owned it in case I ever needed to, well, own it. Like I said, I don't do memoirs. Everyone knows I love Madonna, but I can't even bear to get through a whole book about HER. As I tell my clients, readers love to read about themselves. But I was feeling particularly, I dunno, pretty-cover-ish, so I took it on a trip with me.

I read it pretty much in one shot. I found myself trying to end conversations quickly so I could get back to the scene I was reading. This worked with my mom as she and I flew away for the weekend but didn't work with a guy on my flight back (but he got my phone number, so it all comes out in the wash). I won't get too NY Times book reviewy on you (mostly because, well, I don't get paid to blog) but the book made me laugh and cry. Usually at the same time. Happy-cry, not Terms of Endearment cry.

Who ever thought reading about someone else's life would change mine? Usually I read about how messed up someone's life is (thank you US Magazine, with a shout out to Paris Hilton!) and become more grateful about my status quo. Now I got to read about someone's life and decide mine was fine but I could make it better. The cliffnotes version is that she has a bitter divorce and decides to spend a year traveling the world 4 mo in Italy to eat, 4 mo in India to pray on an ashram and 4 mo in Bali trying to find pleasure, to find a balance.

The point is the there's more to life than this, "this" being whatever it is you're obsessing about this week. And aren't we all obsessing about something?

Thing is, I had gotten really caught up in my life in the past few weeks. (start the string section) In little things that seemed so big. Ok, well, to be fair, some of them were big. But they weren't worth having a breakdown over and that crap quarterlife crisisy feeling that follows me around most of the time is an accessory, not a body part.

Point is, I went to her book signing and as I listened to her talk I thought, well, finally, someone with a message. Everything I love about this book and why it is important to me came flooding back. I guess part of me knows that I"ll get self-centered and obsessive and whatever other un-Buddha-y traits I've got up my sleeve now and then, but I'm feeling pretty high on life and I'm amazed at how one person can light the candle like that for everyone else. (did I just plagiarize a scene from Rent? i think i did)

Wishing you all books you love so much that you have to blog about them. Nitey night good readers of the world!

Things That Make You Go "Ha!"

1. Reading a book called "Are Men Necessary?" 360 pages (of nails-on-chalkboard irritating alliteration) later, I found out the question was rhetorical.

2. My brother told my friend and I that he went sailing the other day and ended up near a penguin reserve by Sea World. I'm not sure how this works, me being, well, over the age of 7 and all. He said that Sea World lets the penguins roam when they're not doing shows. Our minds immediately went to the scene. Penguins chilling in their own little utopia, then the boss calls. "Hey, Moe, we're on in 5. Get over here!"

3. My brother (same brother. he lives an adventurous life) asked me, completely straight-faced, if I've ever worn a diaper. As an adult. Apparently when you're 20 you'll really try anything once.

4. A Frenchman propositioned me. I think. (I wouldn't know. I don't generally get propositioned.) He asked me (in complete seriousness, I regret to inform you) if I wanted to be friends with benefits. Perhaps funnier is the fact that rather than freak out I pointed out that "um, don't you have to be friends first?" I blame it on his accent.

5. An email from one of my reporter (read: grammar-gifted) friends. It said: "Sounds like you’ve got a whirlwind of things going. I am impressed you’re dating like a maniac. Last time I talked to you you had discovered you were dating, like, a maniac. That’s a difference of only two commas, but a much more encouraging situation!"

It's the little things, people.

I'm Really 49, or, "I'm Just Saying!"

Picture this, Sicily, 1945:

Tonight I got home from work and I was starvation station. I wanted to eat something wholesome given that I had had a run-in with some sort of Green Tea Matcha White Chocolate bar in the afternoon (I was blindsided by its colorful appearance.) This dinner quickly revealed itself -- it involved a salad of fresh greens, sliced beets, jicama (do you even know what that is? I bet you don't unless you're Susie, who introduced me to it), and homemade vinaigrette. Then I wanted mac and cheese. You know how it is, sometimes you just need some of that good stuff. So I made some. California caveat: it was whole wheat with organic cheddar. And I mixed in broccoli. VOLUNTARILY.

I poured myself a glass of carefully selected wine and sat at what resembled an actual place setting (only vaguely recalling my usual stance, slackjawed, the frigid breeze of the open refridgerator dusting over me, spoon/spork in hand, eyeing an almost-finished tub of pepper hummus but actually unsure of what to attack next).

You see, I am not 29, I am apparently 49.

But wait, it gets better. I dined (party of one) to the sweet sounds of NPR's classical evening tunes while reading my latest book club selection. Move over Bridget Jones, I am working my way through NYTimes columnist Maureen Dowd's Are Men Necessary?

If you'll excuse me, it's time to take my dentures out.

Dreamgirls: A Review in Verse

O Dreamgirls, how I wanted to see thy movie.
Every moment a new exclamation.
"There is Beyonce with a wig!"
"There is Eddie Murphy with a wig!"
"There is Jamie Foxx with a baaaad wig!"

I wonder if this is really
just the
documentary
of
Destiny's Child.

But it is not.

I liked this movie better
when it was called
Ray.

This is the Evening of Our Discontent.

I just got back from watching LOST at a friend's house. Now, I'm honored to have been invited into the time-honored ritual of gathering around the tv to watch a show. I think the last time I "made plans" to watch tv with people was with my family, watching the Miss America pageant in 1988. For years I've heard of people gathering -- to watch Friends, to watch Sex in the City, to watch the first two seasons of LOST. Finally I like a show enough that I wanted to be part of the action (and the people I was watching with are very funny, so I figured it was well worth the 5 minute drive).

The evening began with the end of American Idol. Perhaps nothing makes me happier than the end credits of American Idol. Someone got voted off the island, someone else will get a record contract they only maybe kinda deserve. Before I know it they will be playing Viejas casino and the cycle will begin again.

Then we watched America's Top Model. Or, as my sister likes to call it, America's Next Tyra. Tonight's episode was Punk'd meets ATM because there is NO WAY it was serious. They took the girls into the woods and had them hang out with Aborigines. They put these 5'11 90 lb American girls next to these 4'8 200 lb confused and dirty looking Aborigine girls (Susie: "they're the winners of Australia's Next Top Model") and then asked them to dance around like butterflies. I shit you not. This was *before* the models were asked to each perform an interpretive dance about their lives. Which is good, because, I mean, I like my models to have skills, don't you?

Curtain time (or tree time, as the case may be). Three of them danced about modeling (a dance which I expected to mime opening the fridge, sighing, and closing it again) while rambling incoherently and one 'danced' about childhood abuse. And the sad thing is that the show is so competitive that while I loved her for not doing the predictable thing, a dark dark (and very wise to reality tv) part of me wondered if she'd fabricated the abuse story to win (for the record, everyone in the room agreed with me).

Only one girl refused to genuinely participate (ie. she did her face paint, but not with gusto), but it wasn't even abstention on the basis of cultural humiliation. It was the black girl and you *know* she could have brought home the crown if she'd just shaken the booty! That's like if they had an eating contest. I'm the Persian girl, we would just WIN that shit. She stood there just talking. No dancing. At all. And in front of the Seventeen editor, no less! Her life fell apart in front of my eyes, slow motion. I mean, NO one messes with the Seventeen editor. And if you don't know it already, guess who didn't get a rose at the end of the night?

Finally LOST came on. The show we've all been waiting for. A show that I've never actually seen broadcast at its normal hour. It is official, I have arrived! I have caught up with popular culture! All I'm going to say here, lest there be someone who is reading my blog instead of watching tv like a good kid, is that the episode harkened to the dead-mother-in-the-chair scene from Psycho. Only it wasn't as good. Yikes. Fortunately I was in a room full of people who agreed. My enjoyment of the show might also be correlated to the weak Sawyer ratio, but that's ok, absence makes the heart grow fonder.

And my disappointment about tonight's LOST only tells me that I am WAY too invested in this show. I'm like an alkie who has woken up with bottles all around me. What-the-huh? I can't believe I care that the episode was sucky. A year ago I had to stop myself from canceling my cable bill and now I"m paying extra for digital recording. Go figure. I'd like to say that I went tonight for the company, but let's be honest, Dorito buffet aside -- if they had been watching West Wing or whatever else gathers the folks around the boob tube, I would have stayed home! And I am not just a LOST junkie. I am apparently also just a leeeeetle bit of a hypocrite because even though I laughed at the 'scary' scene... I did kinda ask Susie and Michael to walk me to my car.

Let's Poll the Audience

Author's Note: I am PMSing, so I reserve the right to let my writing be slightly more emotional than the usual fare.

This weekend I was in a parking lot and a lady drove by with her windows down. A tiny dog peeked out of the passenger window and a golden retriever stuck his little head out of the backseat. I have seen a good number of golden retrievers since Pele passed away, but this was unbelievable. This was IDENTICAL. Susie told me a few weeks back that her friend's family had a dog just like Pele and it had shaken her up. I stood frozen in the sidewalk (every passing moment upping the chances that I'd be mowed down and finish my life in in the parking lot of a Subway. eek). The dog grimaced, made this face of displeasure that Pele used to make when you did something that pissed him off (took away a toy while you were playing, etc.).

A feeling washed over me. I can't quite name it. Deep grief mixed with a huge dose of hope. I saw that dog and it felt like suddenly I knew that Pele wasn't "over". I had to check myself, run through my head and double check that he had actually died, that he hadn't been stolen. As much as I convinced myself (enough to continue the walk to my car), I felt like it was meant to be some sort of a sign to me that he continues to exist somewhere.

Needless to say, I haven't been able to get my mind off of him since. I scrolled down on my blog today to see if the post with his picture had been archived because I"m not sure I can stand to see it every time I open the site. Should I take down his picture on my fireplace mantel (a picture I placed there no more than a week before he died?)? I'm not sure. Part of me thinks it's good to remember him and part of me thinks maybe not just yet.

It's gotten past the point where I can really talk about it with people. Few of my close friends realize how hard his death hit me, that I think about it every single day, that I still cry when I write about it. In a world where things don't feel at all certain, I had just taken it for granted that he'd just BE there. I mean, where do dogs go? People go, but dogs? And people's deaths throw you for a loop, but a dog? And yet I find myself obsessing over this more than I have with most people who have passed away-- I'm having a hard time filing it away in my ever shifting concept of 'what happens next'. And simply put, I really miss him. I miss the safety I felt around him. I miss his innocence. I miss how when I'd play with his ears and pet his stomach I could forget just how fucked up the rest of the world is. I would tell my dad how Pele "is love". He just seemed like love embodied to me. So do I have to get another dog to feel that sort of love again?

And how disturbing is it that I got that love from a dog and not from a proper adult relationship?

Ok, glad I posted b/c now I got the tears out of my system. They've been aching to come out and now they did. Relief.

What I was polling the audience about what you do when you're sad. My personal quick fixes are:

-take a trip to my Top Secret Frozen Yogurt Location. Did this. I even mixed fruit punch and peanut butter yogurts for maximum effect. Nothing.

-listen to 80s music (be afraid that "you can call me Al" is blasting as I type this. Normally I hate this song but something about it feels very cheery to me, perhaps the horn section or a vague recollection of a Chevy Chase cameo in the music video?). Nada.

-read trash websites. I start with UsMagazine's blog and work my way (that's like the AP Wire), then you go to Mollygood, TMZ, etc. Usually reading about other people's dysfunctional lives will cheer me up even the slightest bit. But I don't even have it in me to rejoice at Paris Hilton finally being nailed for endangering the lives of anyone driving anywhere in LA (and oh how many lives that could be)

I even declined a wedding invitation, a law school reunion invitation, AND skipped working out. Sheesh. Apparently there just isn't always a cure for the blues.

Cupid, You're Such a Jokester!

There is perhaps no better people watching than online dating. A bunch of girlfriends and I decided to try it (haphazardly, much as we've tried bar crawls, riding the bull at Saddle Ranch, and squid sushi - with varying rates of success). So I pretty much cut and pasted my myspace profile (which most of you know) to try my luck with cybercupid. I always forget I have an account, but once in awhile I'll check in and see that I have some mail. Now, if you've visited Myspace or my closet you may be familiar with my "Stop Bush" t shirt. (If you're my friend and reading this, there's a 90% chance you own one too). I wore it at the Red Dress Run years ago and the pic is up in my profile. So imagine my surprise when I received this "fan letter" in my inbox last week:


****
Subject: Too Bad U R Clueless

Nice shirt...save it for the trash man.....

What books do you read about the government that make you laugh? Ever remember the word BIAS from school? Name 3 people in the Democratic Party that you can actually look up to and respect? Yeah, one can't...which is sad, 'cus this country needs at least 2 strong/seperate parties in order for it to survive. Dumbacrats have let their party down and have weakened our country...the Clintons, Pelosi, Kennedy, Mike Moore, Al Fraken, Streisand, George Soros, Gloria Steinem, Norm Chomsky, Cornel West, Howard Dean...race baiting freeloaders Sharpton and Jesse Jackson...all LOSERS and HYPOCRITS...

Good Luck In Your Search To Find MR. RIGHT
****

I know, I know. Where to even BEGIN with this one? Of course I immediately forwarded it to the aformentioned group of online girls. Who had a field day with it and insist that I write back. Lemme tell ya, it's taking every ounce of willpower in me to resist.

Perhaps I should start by pointing out that for someone who doesn't like him, it's impressive that he's on a first-name basis with Michael "Mike" Moore. Or that I've never heard of Al Fraken or Norm Chomsky, but it sounds like they might be related to Al FRANKEN and NOAM Chomsky. I hesitate to point out that neither Gloria Steinem nor "Streisand" are considered leaders of the Democratic party, but hey.

This is the part when I will now critique his spelling. Not just the "U R" that was until now exclusively reserved to his Purpleness, but the fact that he can't spell 'separate' or 'hypocrite'. I normally wouldn't expect better, except, get this:


(wait for it)



He's 42.

I know! You'd expect this hate mail to come from a hormone driven 13 year old in the backwoods. But this guy is local. He's a father to some kids who are probably already sporting Bush Farm & Ranch team shirts. Why do I know this? Well, a girl's gotta read about her fans, doesn't she?

I won't paste the whole profile because, frankly, you literate minds don't need such suffering, but here's a favorite passage:

I'm looking for the "girl" next door type...one with good values, morals and one who has a positve outlook on life. One who only has baggage when she travels and realizes "drama" was an optional course in High School! I'm "young at heart" and prefer someone to be younger than me. My "ex" was 10 years younger and we got along great until she betrayed our bond.

The sporadic use of quotation marks regrettably continues through his profile. Such as his photo disclaimer:

The "suit shot" is a recent photo...and I've been told I look younger than my age?! So if you are looking for a Calvin Klein underwear model...I'm no longer "him"(but I'm still in great shape). I'm older...but my close friends would say that "I'm a beautiful person"...

And there you have it- it's possible to type like a valley girl. Do the photos include a sweater tied around his neck? Oh yes they do. I can't get enough of this. If he hadn't emailed me directly I would think it was a parody profile made up exclusively for my amusement.

Reading the profile I forwarded more carefully than I had, one of my smarty lawyer friends quickly did the math. And apparently the long winded passage about his cheating wife provides the variables for an equation computing that she was 18 and he was 28 when they married. But rest assured- he's a mature one, as evidenced by a joke provided for his mature audience. When prompted to write about his heritage Mr. Wonderful elaborates that:

My dad was "all Irish", my mom had a little Irish in her (that's why I'm here)...

Ew.

I didn't even "get" that "comment" until my friends pointed it "out". Blech. I "feel" like I "need" a "shower".

Boy oh boy. Honey, you messed with the wrong girl. You made this Dumbacrat's day.

Call 1-900-Miss-Lilly because I"m psychic.

Ask anyone who knows me, and even a lot of people who don't know me, and they'll tell you that there are two musicians I don't shut up about. One is Madonna, ok, we've covered that. But the other one is Lewis Taylor. His are the albums I'd take if I got stuck on a desert island, his are the albums I put on when I"m not sure what I want to listen to next, his are the albums I rattle off as the most interesting recommendations I can make, his are the albums that inevitably put me in a good mood no matter how I was feeling before. His long Lovelight is one of my absolute favorites ever ever ever. Even a ridiculous cover of it by Robbie "Take That" Williams couldn't hold me down. I have been listening to Lewis Taylor since I listened to tapes. Which, granted, is ongoing, but you get what I mean. My first copy of his first album was from my cousin's cd onto a tape. DUBBED.

Well apparently I'm a psychic and the LA Weekly owes me $3.99 per minute.

http://www.laweekly.com/music/music/lets-get-lost/15854/

Sheesh. Give it 5 years. When you're all drooling over him at the Grammy's acting like he's the new Justin Timberlake, I'll be sitting back saying that phrase I love oh so much: I told you so.

This is your life. A soundtrack.

This is the soundtrack of my life.

SIDE A:

Everything's Alright (Jesus Christ Superstar sdtk)-- When I am but a wee little baby, my mom sings this to me as a lullaby. Interesting choice for a recent immigrant, but my mom is always up on things.

Angel of the Morning (Juice Newton) -- I am being driven to the YMCA for swim lessons. The back seat of my mom's car is plush and velvety. To this day, this song brings to mind the feeling of chlorine snorted in my nose.

Karma Chameleon (Culture Club) -- my first love affair. Me and the library. I find out I can rent this record and play it incessantly. I will continue this habit (of playing music incessantly) to date, although my predilection for Boy George's work will wane with time.

Material Girl (Madonna) -- Abby and I attend the fun fair at school and they have Star Studio, a prehistoric karaoke machine. We record this. It will be one of my favorite life moments ever. I will reconnect with the fun of that day when Gene brings me into the studio more than 20 years later. However I will rabidly avoid karaoke bars for some unknown reason.

Beat It (Michael Jackson) -- I have an 8th birthday party. The theme is punk. The cake is Cabbage Patch. My tights are hot pink, my hair is in a side ponytail, and Dana is there, despite my dislike for her, because my mom said so. We climb on the jungle gym and sing acapella for my dad's camera. A star is born.

I Want Your Sex (George Michael) -- I experience my first run-in with censorship. I am on a road trip with my family and I am belting this out "sex is best when it's (lower voice) one-on-one..." in the back seat. My mom gives me the business. I will avoid this song until I move out of my parents' house then will reclaim it after the millenium as the fabulous tune it is, horn section and all.

Over and Over (Madonna) -- I am 9. My father buys me a ghettoblaster (I've blogged about that. It was momentous.) Armed with dubbing capabilities and a translucent orange tape, I acquire Madonna's "Like A Virgin" album. It's not the most popular song on the album, but I like it. And I'm a 9 year old Persian girl, so I'm not about to walk around my house singing Like a Virgin (I don't even know what a virgin is). I distinctly recall being at a dinner party hanging out with the other kids (the boys) in the basement and walking around with my headphones on singing this song at the top of my lungs (the 1986 version of playing it cool). For years Madonna will accompany and empower me as I deal with nonchalant men in my life.

Never Say Goodbye (Bon Jovi) -- My mom's brother visits the United States and somehow this translates into me being gifted a copy of the freshly-released Slippery When Wet. I am addicted to purchasing music and Sam Goody becomes my second home. Despite the many hits on this album, something about this ("you and me and my old friends/hoping this will never end") ballad interests me.

Bad (Michael Jackson) -- Susie takes over liking MJ at this point in time. My last memory of my adoration of Mike has to do with a poster of him lying on his side. I had a guitar sticker and I place it on his weiner. I am unable to remove the sticker and, with the Catholic guilt I have been saddled with in this unCatholic life of mine, confess to my father. He laughs.

Didn't I Blow Your Mind (New Kids On the Block) -- Fever takes hold. My friends and I finally have music interests in common. We will fight over which New Kid each of us gets. Freshly introduced to the cultural phenomenon of the rat tail (courtesy of my draft "pick", Jordan Knight) my mother will grow a rat tail curl on the back of my brother's hair. He will never forgive me.
My first concert ensues and I feel the desperation of having New Kids dangled from cranes above me, but being unable to reach them. I am a distraught teenage Sisyphus.

Funky Funky Christmas (New Kids On The Block) -- I adore this song and the album, even "Little Drummer Boy" the barumpabumbum of which has always irritated me otherwise. This demonstrates my ability to love my musical idols through thick and thin. This will be a theme in my life.

Nothing Compares 2U (Sinead O'Connor) -- 7th grade. I am 12 and this becomes my first slow dance with a boy. I regret to inform you that I was wearing tie-dye. I compromised cool (tie dye and skort) for my mom's controlling fashion sense (in deep red and forest green). Approximately 6 years later this same boy will come out. I will take it slightly personally.

I'm Going Bananas (Madonna/Dick Tracy sdtk) -- In what will probably prove to be the supreme demonstration of patriarchal patience in his life, my father sits through one half of my choreography to this album. Susie and I agree that I'm Going Bananas is a great song. We don't agree on much music for the next 10 years, but those hours of dancing in the basement are important to us.

I Remember You (Skid Row) -- I enter high school. I am a disgruntled teenager. I find the hard rock station and will spend every quarter I have playing songs like this on the juke box of our vacation hotels. I will make mixes that years later I will still listen to. I will be disturbed to cross paths again with Sebastian Bach in 2006 when he cameos on Gilmore Girls.

I Still Haven't Found What I'm Looking For (U2) -- My mom is becoming more serious about her personal pledge to use music to stay close with her kids. She scams us awesome tickets to see U2 during the Zoo TV tour. I am appreciative but for the first time realize just how wonderful and resourceful my mom is! We love the show, we feel grown up going alone. Years later when we lose the friend that Susie and I went with I will still smile when I think of this night.

Three Little Birds (Bob Marley) -- I am introduced to Bob Marley by a local Michigan neighbor. I have never heard reggae before. I am amazed.

Deadbeat Club (B52s) -- I spend summers perfecting the art of being imperfect on rollerblades. This is the sound of South Haven to me.

Would (Alice in Chains) -- I attend my first Battle of the Bands. A cute guy is playing bass to this song, I am wearing my courderoy jacket and all is well in my life. Until my friend tells me later that night that the cute guy used to be her boyfriend. And that he raped her. I will always like Alice in Chains but will usually skip this track. On a lighter note, same ex-friend stole my Spin Doctors CD. It was a weird music year. In high school music begins to define you as it never did before. Laced up in combat boots (only 8 hole because I have short legs) I naturally gravitate to the darker stuff, listening to Madonna on my own clock.

Hard to Handle (Black Crowes) -- I will teach my brother to sing the chorus of this song. He is 4 years old. We work on choreography. He will never admit that between this and his Michael Jackson DANGEROUS album (a gift) I shaped his music career.

Coma (Guns n Roses) -- Guns n Roses emerges as my favorite hard rock group. Back in South Haven, two girls and two boys go into one boy's room and close the door. It is completely dark. I am sitting with the boy I have had a crush on all summer - if not longer. We listen to Coma over and over again. When we emerge into the blinding light girl #2 whispers to me me that she and boy #2 were making out the whole time. I missed that cue apparently.

Come Baby Come (K7) -- I make the hip hop dance group. I am thrilled and I work my ass off at it. I invite my parents to my first performance, and with pride they bring my visiting Grandma. I only realize this is a bad decision when I am humping the ground in front of their bleacher.

True Colors (Cyndi Lauper) -- I know, you think I slipped up on the chronology. But I didn't. Back around 1986 my mom decided that Cyndi Lauper sounded like a singer she used to love (Melanie). Mom buys this tape and I am stunned, never having seen her take such an interest to music before. A few years after that I sing over/with the track as a gift to my best friend Stacy. I decide it would be a nice gift for mom too, so I put it on a mix for her. This heartfelt gift is unfortunately revealed at my Sweet 16 where my mom has had a video montage of moi put together -- set to the sound of myself singing. I experience wanting death more than life, however briefly. I retain the reflex of cringing when the song is heard. Phil Collins' cover does nothing to lessen my symptoms.

These Are the Days (10,000 Maniacs) -- This tape will play as I take my first drive as a free (drivers licensed) woman. Halfway to school I realize I left my license at home.

Brass Monkey (Beastie Boys) -- I am in college. This tune hitting the stereo meant the party was going well.

Shock Dat Monkey (TLC) -- This is the cd on as I drive to Madison (U of WI) to visit one of my friends for a party Halloween weekend. I am in my little silver bullet Honda Prelude (aka "Pia") listening to this cd on full blast. I slam on the brakes and am rear-ended by a cadillac. My first (and hopefully last) major accident. Whoops. I proceed to Madison and party like it never happened.

Brown Sugar (D'Angelo) -- I am introduced to soul music. Enough said.

Wannabe (Spice Girls) -- Discovered while in Greece with one of my best friends. "What the hell is this?" We laugh. We buy a Euromix and bring it back to the United States. Little did we know. It becomes the sorority preparty anthem the year I'm living in the house.

Let Me Clear My Throat (DJ Kool) -- The bass of this song will launch me to any dancefloor anytime throughout college. "If you got hair from your head to your sleeve, even if you got a weave, can I get an uh uh"

Bittersweet (Lewis Taylor) -- My cousin gives me the first Lewis Taylor album. I am stunned and will proceed to gift myself his cds every year for my birthday.

No Scrubs (TLC) -- Prepartying with the Divas (Jessica and Pavna) for nights out dancing at Rick's. I played this cd all day every day. It's also the background music as I sit in my room doing work but really waiting for a certain guy to call on the 'batphone'. And later the music I will seethe to.

Something About You (Level 42) -- The first time a guy tells me that a song reminds him of me. Years later this same guy will choose the emotionally void method of emailing me the news of his engagement weeks after it happens.

Stealing My Sunshine (Len) -- My boyfriend makes me a mix. This song is on it. Holy red flag. Years later I will mark this as the first confirmation that you can judge a person (especially a partner) by their musical taste. I will never make that mistake again.

Ojos Asi (Shakira) -- Shakira is all the rage when I go to Argentina to study abroad. I have one of the most exciting summers of my life- I spend 6 weeks in a country I adore with friends I love, I speak Spanish, I do no homework, my mom beats cancer and my family moves the home base to San Diego. Her unplugged album is incredible and is the soundtrack of me sitting in a cafe taking it all in.

Ascension (Maxwell) -- Jessica and I obsess over Maxwell. We attend his concert at the Shrine Auditorium and I feel it is a religious experience as I'll ever have- perhaps the most I've ever been affected by a live performance. The fact that it was unexpected makes it even better.

Hands (Jewel) -- I hear this song before Christmas and listen to the words (not something I'm known for). I tear up behind the wheel. I am appalled and amazed all at once at the ability of a song to touch me so. I will later hear Bob Carlisle's Butterfly Kisses and have a similar reaction. I will forcibly stop listening to the pillow talk station for a period of time.

Dear Mr. Man (Prince) -- Prince makes a comeback and I complete my triumverate of pop reunion tours. (Madonna, Cyndi Lauper, and Prince). I can die a happy woman. I don't expect much from the show but it's electrifying and he commands the crowd despite the crappy acoustics. I grin, I blog, I enjoy how far we've both come as well as our shared taste in platform heels.

Delicate (Dave's Son) -- I move to San Diego. I have no friends. Amit from college comes to visit (hi amit!) and hooks me up with his friends. (The same people who got me a-blogging). Days, nights, and months go by having the time of my life doing everything and, really, nothing. Gene (aka Dave's Son) works on material at my house and comes up with a few songs I'm particularly fond of. Despite Treehouse being written at my house this one hits home and is on every mix I can squeeze it into for a very long time. Gene takes me with him to the studio. Heaven. Peanut peanut.

My Baby (Janet Jackson ft Kanye West) -- Dancing becomes a staple of San Diego life. Before I know it we're packing in a hip hop class before Sushi Wednesdays. This is the warmup song and also the album in Hong's SUV every time I climb in.

I Don't Feel Like Dancin' (Scissor Sisters) -- I up and move to San Francisco. I've always wanted to try it, so I do. Why the hell not? This becomes our theme song during my three month stay. Despite its distinctly country roots, I play it all hours for everyone around me until we're all dancing. It is also my lead-off track when I program my ipod to run a half-marathon completely untrained, just because I want to know what it's like to run across the Golden Gate Bridge.

**

I'm sure there's much more I'm forgetting but these are the songs that stick out. As for Side B, we're not even there yet!

By the time I'm done on this Earth, I want my own box set.



Thanks to Taiga for the idea! And to create your own cassette magic go to: http://www.says-it.com/cassette/index.php

Careerfinders.

There's a great song my sister put on a mix for me called Careerfinders. I'm in Colorado spending yet another weekend toiling away. I know, I complain about it all the time, but while I"m working I"m also fortunate to have my bills paid, myself put up in a comfy plush hotel room, my food prepared, and receive a fair amount of adoration and attention from (at least at this conference!) really kind and talented writers and colleagues.

So I'm not in one of those moods where I"m banging my head on my keyboard going "whywhywhy?" I'm feeling pretty good about my job. But I also am in procrastination mode, so I'm going to blog about something I'm fascinated by- awesome jobs and shitty jobs. Better known as "Jobs I Would Want" vs. "Sucks to Be You." My friend and I used to play this game when we were upset. Now I realize that we were setting ourselves up to be screwed by karma for even thinking like that, but we'd play a game where we'd just list off people whose situations are just shittier than ours. Not just jobs, but say I came home and I had a ton of reading to do and I wasn't feeling like it. M and I would remind me that at least I wasn't stuck in a broken elevator with a full bladder and a guy slipping a slurpee. And so on.

MY JOB LIST: Version 1.0

Job I would want: soundtrack advisor for a film
Why: free music, connections, money, free music. comparisons to Heart's Ann Wilson, who is now married to Cameron Crowe and rocks his soundtrack world.

Job I wouldn't want: bathroom cleaner.
Why: Because even grown women pee on seats and that is grody. Or seriously ladies, how hard is it to flush? I should mention that while i don't want this job I have more respect for bathroom cleaners than most lawyers :)

Job I would want: translator
Why: Ability to understand all types of people, world travel, talent that makes for great conversation, feeling that you're being useful in some way. Language classes as tax deductions. Increased ability to meet hot foreign men.

Job I wouldn't want: parking meter maid
Why: Do I really need to tell you? It's just another functional job in society, one that brings in revenue, punishes people who have done things they shouldn't have, etc., *but* they are perhaps among the most hated people on earth, or perhaps the entire universe. I think the only people who are probably hated more for their jobs are morticians, but at least morticians have some Six Feet Under momentum and their biggest detractors are, well, unable to speak up at the moment.

Job I would want: space consultant/organizer
Why: Because, as my friends and family know, I already do this- I might as well get paid. It makes me NUTS when I go into someone's messy, cramped house. I literally can't focus. Clutter is my kryptonite. Is that weird? That i'd want to be paid to come clean your shit up and get your life back on track?

Job I wouldn't want: bus driver for junior high kids
Why: Take a moment and think back to what a pain in the ass you were, riding in the back of the bus in junior high. You're why.

Job I would want: pop star.
Why: Minimal artistic pressure (they take you into the studio and it's pretty much Karaoke from there on in), maximum performance time and airbrushing.

Job I wouldn't want: anything engineeringy
Why: Do you really want someone who sits with a blank face when the bill arrives and she needs to calculate tip to be the one constructing your buildings? I think not.

Job I would want: Yoga instructor
Why: Right now I'm obsessed with yoga. So this is a "job of the week". The idea of helping people get their lives healthier would be fun, and there's both a physical and in many ways spiritual/psychological element to it. Work virtually in your pjs. Plus I could professionally address the farting epidemic occurring in yoga studios nationwide. That alone could make me a Nobel contender.

Job I wouldn't want: litigator
Why: Had it. Hated it. Paperwork paperwork paperwork. Boring colleagues, boring colorless courthouses. The sinking feeling that no one really 'wins'. Wearing a suit.

Job I would want: working in a bookstore
Why: I could push bookbuying on people and they'd be grateful for it. They'd even ask for it! They'd beg for my recommendations, bow before my enlightening literary suggestions, and come back for more. Plus it would take a lot of pressure off my friends!

Job I wouldn't want: chef
Why: Sheer difficulty. Pressure for presentation and taste. When I (rarely) serve food to people right now it's quickly followed by "I never cook so if you say something shitty about my food right now I hope you starve and I'm never cooking for you again." Something makes me feel that wouldn't go over well at Chez Panisse.

I've been trying to think back to what job assessments always said about me. I think I got "parole officer" more times than is probably normal. And I had lawyer on one that my parents took me to (a professional career assessment) but, in retrospect, I remember that, well, my parents PAID for it :) I don't think Johnson Co in Chicago had the nerve to tell them parole officer for the millionth time. Although they may have been thinking it...

But for now things on the job front are good. I have a few ideas about new types of books I want to take on and what directions I want to take my list in. And I'm on my seasonal hunt for America's Next Top Intern (stay tuned ye Craigslist readers!). Every single day, no matter how crappy my work day is lately (and lately there have been a few) I am grateful to feel so in control of my days and where they're going. I have finally (this had never happened before) experienced the joy of sleeping in til 8:30 a.m. "because I'm the boss of me!". That time spent on GoodReads.com or at Borders is technically "work-related". I'm grateful that my industry (books) gets my heart racing as much now as it did when I was 8 and the bane of the short-red-curly-haired meanie librarian's existence in Highland Park (Seriously, who gives the stink eye to a kid for signing out too many books?!)

And yet it's good to know that I have other ideas in my back pocket, you know, just in case.

Baby I Got Your Money, or Eloquent Slogans for Your Entertainment

"Should five per cent appear too small,
Be thankful I don't take it all.
'Cause I’m the taxman,
Yeah, I’m the taxman.

(if you drive a car, car;) - I’ll tax the street;
(if you try to sit, sit;) - I’ll tax your seat;
(if you get too cold, cold;) - I’ll tax the heat;
(if you take a walk, walk;) - I'll tax your feet."

You know another song I love? Whatever that one is that goes "money money money mooooonaaaaay MONEY!" That's a great song. It's a happy song. The one they play when you win bingo on a cruise ship. I sing it to myself when I win a scratch-off ticket. I sing it at the ATM. You know what I *don't* have right now? Money money money moooooooonaaaaaaaay. That's right. I just did my taxes. I heard you sigh. I actually heard your sympathy. Lemme tell you folks, paying your taxes after a year of toiling for your self-owned small artistic business is enough to make even the most liberal girl want to go straight to Uncle Halliburton for a job. Sheesh. In one quick signing of a check (or three, yes, I had to pay three checks) I could feel my morals just dangling in the wind like Britney Spears' offspring.

I went to the library to remind myself to stop spending so much money on books. "Stop spending money!" I said to myself in between parroting the Turkish 101 cd in my stereo (so it sounded more like "Stop spending money! Afedarsunuz! Stop spending money! Engeeleezjeh bilyarum. Stop spending monoey! Tashakorehdurum.)

"Drink tea at home!" I went to Starbucks. "Don't eat out!" I went straight to Jyoti for a slice of Neatloaf (thinking that a cleansed body counts for something). Basically I stopped short of buying a new outfit in which to practice my new thriftiness. What can I say? Old habits die hard.

The only good thing I see coming out of tax season is that everyone hates it in the same way. My dad, who, while hating taxes, is inwardly smiling at how savvy and valuable he is, hates it. My friends hate it. For some reason taxes never bothered me before, probably because I was so poor that I wasn't paying much. But this year we bond. It's like the new "Lost" for me- I have something to talk (bitch/analyze) with everyone I meet. We "get" each other. It suddenly feels like the only reason we make money is to be able to pay our taxes. Everyone loses. No one brings up that taxes fill potholes (which I don't even believe b/c that's how I got a flat tire this year. I want my taxes back!) or pay for education or safety. Because no one cares. Stuff your silver lining. We're in bitch mode. Hello April!

Maybe tax season should be like the lotto. Every year a handful of people nationwide would get picked NOT to pay taxes. "Congratulations Marvin Durfelhammer, you do NOT have to pay the government this year. Heeeere's your money back. Just because!" It brings me joy, and dare I say hope? just thinking of it. I bet more people (we're a competitive country) would pay taxes just to take the chance they'd be forgiven. I could be on to something here. Political bloggers, are you listening?!

But the tax system is what it is for April 15, 2007. It is a pile, a machine, a vat of suckage. I join my fellow Americans in saying words that may touch our hearts more than Oprah. Words that bring tears to our eyes -- even more than when some poor sap tries to hit the high notes on the American anthem. I think I speak for all of us when I say: "Fuck you Uncle Sam, fuck you and the three legged goat* you rode in on."




* imagery by Jessica

You are what you Read.

I WANT to write you about how I was going to meet a guy for drinks other night and, on a second check in the rearview, realized my lipstick was uneven. I pulled over and quickly did my lipstick over. Nope, not quite right. Did it, wiped it, redid it, until I realized (with horror, being that I was already 5 minutes late) that I had no boundaries to my lips. Smeared, reddish, and puffy, my appearance now suggested to my date that I had just exited a hot (and apparently sloppy) make out session with someone else. Awesome first impression, I'm sure. Ooops. I mean, that would technically be the interesting stuff to write about. But there are other things on the agenda today kids...

I don't think I've been this excited since my mom got me my first Cabbage Patch Kid (oh, Connie Lucille!).

You might *think* I've been off daydreaming about hot hot Sawyer, but in truth I've been being cerebral, okay?

Check it out: www.Goodreads.com

It's like MySpace, only not cool.

Sign up here to post reviews of your favorite books, steer your friends away from books you hated, get final revenge by posting a scathing review of that book you detested back in high school, tell people how you secretly loved The DaVinci Code (I'll find out, and yes, I will judge you), and basically just chip away at days you might have mistakenly spent actually being productive.

This public service announcement has been brought to you by THE PROCRASTINATION STATION.

Life goes on.

Despite my upset, life appears to be darned committed to moving on. I've had that phrase "Life goes on" in my head today. And allow me to set the tone for this post by saying that immediately after that philosophical thought my next thought keeps being "and what a great song by Poison it is."
Let's think about some other things today. Happier and weirder things. Weird is always good and distracting. I will provide my random thoughts in outline form, giving them a semblance of order.

I. Tonight I started watching Matchstick Men with my parents.
A. "Started" because I only watched the first 40 minutes or so. Then I left although I didn't get anything I was trying to get accomplished accomplished and the friends who were going to stop by didn't end up making it.
i. If you got credit for watching half of a movie then I've seen a lot more movies in my lifetime.
B. Nicolas Cage is a good actor.
i. When people ask me who is a good actor, I tend to say actors who are both excellent and hot. Example: Johnny Depp. I forget people like Nicolas Cage, who is more about the craft and the performance than the star value. Then he pops up in a movie like Lord of War (or tonight's flick) and I'm reminded that he should be on my list of favorites, because his movies are always solid.
a. Face/Off is an underrated flick.
C. There is a thin line between being clean and being OCD. Or so I'm told.
i. In one scene they pan out to show his cleaning supplies and they're all organized by color. As my parents exclaimed how weird it was, I had noticed myself admiring it. I get my nervous energy out by cleaning. Since when is this wrong? I'm bettering the world one stack of papers at a time!

II. Willow has come up in conversation a lot recently.
A. While selecting movies at the public library, my sister joked about renting it.
B. My brother brought up that Willow was on the show Extras.
C. I saw a man today with an uncanny resemblance to...

III. Susie and I are having a contest (per my suggestion) to come up with a daily insult.
A. It started when I told her that my annoying neighbor is "the human equivalent of The Song That Never Ends"
i. For those of you who didn't have a 45 minute ride to daycamp for years on end, it goes like this "This is the song that never ends, yes it goes on and on my friend, somebody started singing it not knowing what it was, and they'll continue singing it forever just because...This is the song that never ends, yes it goes on and on my friend, somebody started singing it not knowing what it was, and they'll continue singing it forever just because...This is the song that never ends, yes it goes on and on my friend, somebody started singing it not knowing what it was, and they'll continue singing it forever just because...This is the song that never ends, yes it goes on and on my friend, somebody started singing it not knowing what it was, and they'll continue singing it forever just because..." You get the point.
ii. I'm not sure I can do better than that. But I will try.

IV. Confessions.
A. Sometimes when I'm having a bad day I'll check the USWeekly blog. Misery loves company and I can usually find my friend Britney there having a worse day than me.
B. I have been eating raw cookie dough every night for the past few days.
i. Despite the health implications I find it to be totally worth it.
a. Yes, I realize tapeworms are a hazard.
b. We'll cross that bridge when we come to it.
1. My dad once had a patient who had a tapeworm. She was overweight
(woman, not tapeworm) and insisted that they leave it in there
until she lost more weight from it (it was eating her intestines).
Then when they removed it she kept it in a jar and named it Sam.
2. True story.
C. The word stinky makes me laugh. I think I confessed this earlier, so here it
is again. It's in a manuscript I'm representing (granted, a picturebook for
4-8 year olds). Every time I read it (it appears twice) I laugh out loud.
i. I hate the phrase "LOL"
a. Other hated phrases:
1. "Cheers!"

V. Conclusion.
A. In conclusion, I just want to say "don't be stinky. life goes on."

Imagine this.

I can't bring myself to put a picture of Pele here. At least not as I start this post. It'll actually be a miracle if I can type it without dissolving into tears or the hysterical crying that has become my own personal soundtrack these past three days.

I went up to SF for a week of work. When Valentine's Day went by without incident (I was in the best mood ever, notable for a single girl in these here United States of Hallmark), I should have known something was up.

On Friday morning my parents called me to tell me that Pele had had an accident - he broke his leash and dashed at a moving car. I dared to hope that he would recover. I promised myself and God (again, Persian superstition) that I would volunteer with him, that I'd spend more time with him, anything. But it quickly became apparent that I needed to buy a ticket home. I was too much of a mess to do it, so Helen got one for me. How I got myself back home is a blur, even now.

I have never cried so much in public. There is something refreshing about not filtering yourself for other people. We spend so much time censoring ourselves lest we do something unappealing to random strangers on the street. Fuck it. Let them see me be raw and miserable. Let them see someone sobbing so hard she can't breathe and she can't talk and she can't see out of her puffy eyes. Let them see that she is drunk with agony and can't even see them, even if they're standing in front of her. I sobbed the entire way home, in the cab, on BART, on the shuttle, sitting in the boarding area, and during my one hour flight. But tears don't change the course of fate I suppose.

They promise me he died peacefully (now I'm crying. Told you so). I walked into the hospital to see my dog-- our dog -- lying in what looked like a deep sleep. I blocked out the tubes and pet him for a moment, selfishly enjoying the sensation of his false breathing and his heartbeat. But he was asleep and he would never wake up. They told me then that they'd just kept him alive so I could come back and say goodbye.

I miss him so much. A part of me feels dead inside right now. Just numb. Having been through tragedy before, I have hope somewhere far away in myself that it will get better, that time will ease the sadness. That when I think of him it will be with a smile, not with a wave of nausea and tears. That I'll be able to remember him bouncing around, tongue wagging, smiling up at me or yowling a high-pitched yawn of excitement for a silly walk around the block. The way he deserves to be remembered.

Like shock therapy, I'm reminded of how precious life is. As much as I try not to take things for granted, I did. I must have. I will have to live with the fact that I could have shown him my love in more little ways. There will always be walks I should have taken him on or games I should have played with him. I'm really good at the guilt game, in case you hadn't guessed. I guess it's a control freak thing. Feeling guilty is a hell of a lot easier than feeling helpless and sad, isn't it?

The only thing keeping me sane is the way he bounded for the door every time I came over. Sliding to a stop (yes, just like the cartoons) and pressing his back into my leg to encourage me to pet him a hello. His running greetings were his way of showing that, faulty as I was, he loved me anyway. I can't say it enough- he was just a furry ball of love. All he did was love us. What could hurt more than losing someone who loved you unconditionally?

As my family huddled around each other this weekend breaking down on each other's shoulders I'm bewildered by how lucky I am to have each and every one of them. The hugs are extra tight and we're freer with our emotions - especially affection -- than we have ever been before. Pele brought this out in us.

But right now, make no mistake, there's a big fucking crater taken out of my heart. I have promised myself to remember him in good ways and to stop being sad. Soon. But maybe just not yet.

If you have a dog, give it an extra big hug tonight.

Pele (2002-2007), you were an absolute gift and I will always love you.

Up yours.

Dear readers, find solace in the fact that I"m watching something new today. You know when something is so good that you're already recommending it before you've even finished it? Yeah, that kind of good.

Susie recommended a British documentary series to me -- the "Up Series". The first film is 7Up and then it keeps going (7 plus 7). The filmmaker interviewed a random assortment of British kids back in '64, when they were 7 years old. My observations are as follows:

*It is possible for a 7 year old girl to sound like Queen Elizabeth when speaking. (this observation was enhanced by her placement amidst an offensively ugly -- even in black and white -- chintz armchair) Likewise the little boy in the sweater and tie will sound like Henry Higgins.
*It is also possible for a 7 year old British kid to be more eloquent on national welfare than the current sitting President. (I know, low standard. Just go with it.)
*I heard what might be the best reason against marriage, one boy stating "well, what if she cooks something i don't want to eat? I don't like greens. but what if she cooks greens and wants me to eat them?" so simple, so true. ah, recognizing the difficulties of compromise. don't eat greens for anyone, kid. i can't wait to see 49, where he's probably miserable and married. This is going to be a riot.
*Not all British kids liked the Beatles. For an engaging critique of how their haircuts suck and they could make better music, one need only watch the first 5 minutes. These kids get right to the point!

I wanted to see the movie because Susie told me it was good, but now it has me thinking. I know, God forbid. About how people will turn out to be like based on their childhood interests or comments. Or are the seeds of their personality in there already? How much can people change? How much do we grow up past the stupid things we did? Or the open-minded things we felt or said? Needless to say, I'm spending part of the evening very, very glad that there wasn't a camera around when I was 7!


Disclaimer: watching this documentary will make you speak with an affected British accent. no, not "make you want to". You will. Cheerio!

Help me, I'm Lost.

Dear Friends,

I'm concerned about my viewing of LOST. It has gotten to the point where I think about the show when it's not on. This is just not something that happens with me and tv. But it's happening. For starters, "How can I go to sleep now...What will happen next?" and "Hm, who can lend me Season 2?". And of course now I've got the "I wonder if my plane crashed what people would find useful in my luggage?" ( answer: an assortment of cute black shirts and comfy socks. a reject-able manuscript or two. yes, this answer troubles me. now when i travel, i know i'll find myself packing for the future of humanity. "what do you mean i don't need a transceiver to go to San Francisco?")

I wonder if I was on LOST if I'd be in the cool clique or if I'd be one of the other 35 people hanging out in the background. (Seriously, what are they doing the whole time?) I wonder if I'd have the guts to go into the jungle given my aforementioned fear of the dark. I wonder if I'd eat boar, because the thought kinda disgusts me. And I wonder what my troublesome back story would be.

and of course there's the all-important

"So if i was on the island would I like Jack or Sawyer?"

I know... not easy, right? Sawyer is the front-runner right now (bad boy renegade cowboy with the great dimples, verbal sparring technique and the ability to horde supplies while keeping an incredible calm in the chaos) when I know I should like Jack (the savior and Alpha male, not to mention the stable doctor, with notably questionable taste in tattoos).

So torn. Jack is establishing a commune and selflessly gives of himself all day every day (to the point of exhaustion, dear readers, does he not?). But then again Sawyer looks so cute in his new glasses. I mean, the man stole "Watership Down" from Boone's luggage to read in his recliner while everyone else is putzing around the island collecting firewood and water and that other useless shit, you know? A man after my own heart.

See what I mean? So. not. normal.

Thanks for your attention to this matter,
-the management

ps. Only on Season One. I plan to watch Season 2 within the next week. Don't call me, I'll call you.

Sheesh. I thought you knew me.

Five things you didn't know about me:

1) I am scared of the dark. This has come to be highlighted by my recent viewings of LOST, three to four episodes at a time. For the first time I'm really feeling like "Hey, maybe I need a man around the house!" I have to do this bizarre Tarzan-y like swinging through the house, going forward and turning on a light, then going back and shutting the last one off. And I've taken to sleeping in my office because it's less creepy than my bedroom. I know, being scared of the dark is something you're supposed to outgrow and I never did. And yes, singing to myself makes it better. And yes, I do. There must be therapy for this.

2) I have a little dent on the top of my left ear where it just kinda flattens out. I thought this was pretty cool, but that was back in my teen years, when being weird was a badge of honor. I got an ear piercing up there that kinda swings over it, so no one notices. Fun fact: my cousin who just visited from Paris has the same one. Apparently ear oddities run in the Khazai family. You figure I'd get the family green eyes or the amazing high cheekbones. Can you say "short end of the stick"?

3) I've never seen Braveheart. Or Gladiator. Or anything in the Star Wars series except the first one. Nor do I want to. I went through life thinking I'd seen Star Wars, but really all I'd seen was a promo filmstrip my dad had. I didn't figure this out until recently. I should point out that it doesn't have the same appeal when your first time watching the whole thing is when you're 28 (which I was when I finally realized this gaping hole in my pop culture education and sat to watch it). Stop booing me or I won't continue.

4) I am extremely superstitious. I knock on wood (even though I heard it's a Christian thing to do so). I bite my hand when someone says something you hope would never happen (Persian thing). There is a HUGE evil eye hanging by my front door and another little one in my bedroom (note to self: get bigger evil eye for bedroom). I burn Persian incense whenever someone says many good things about me or someone else, or I even think them. I don't vacuum at night (even though I can't remember who told me it was bad luck). Yes, I even adopt superstitions I can't trace. So screw you people who send me forwarded chain letters! I read my horoscope religiously. As in, I wait up late the last night of the month to see what astrologyzone.com says is coming up for me. I go to a sidewalk psychic and think about it for years to come (can you say "self-fulfilling prophecy"?). I water the money tree in my 'career center' of my house religiously. Even though it's in the bathroom. It seems like I'd be this big old atheist, but I'm both superstitious and, get this... very very spiritual. (And not just in the "dear God, please give me a blackjack!" way. But that too.)

5) I don't want to be taller. I know, it seems inconceivable that someone 5'1 (for the record, I was 5'2" before I went to law school and carried books that proceeded to dwarf me) wouldn't want to be taller. But after I got through my childhood and adolescence I never for a single day wished to be even an inch taller. It's like I had my time battling the mean tall kids (that Andy Sternberg! (shaking fist)) I still kinda have an aversion to shrimp due to it being my unwanted nickname for so long. But I'm over it. Haven't wanted to be taller for like 10 years. Not even for a second. Thinner? Hell yeah (mostly because I could wear really cute flats all the time). But taller? Nope. I like that I fit in small spaces. I like that a 5'9 guy feels like a big giant in my world. And I will especially like it tomorrow when I fly freakin' Southwest and have to sit in row 35, you know, the one that doesn't recline.

Speaking of which, off to Phoenix tomorrow. Tune in next week for : Tales from the Desert, a Middle Eastern Memoir...

ps. I just went to check my blog and realized I'd posted this... on my company blog! AWKWARD. So for like 2 seconds the gory details of my weirdo life were dangling in front of writers everywhere. A day of that and I'd be the neurotic character in a novel!!!

The Portrait of Lilly Gray...

I am aging right before my very own eyes. How do I know? Well, because I keep saying I"ll be done working at 6 but then I sit here for hours more. Sometimes I will entertain myself by flipping through the tv on my desk (lack of storage space). For some reason having the television on makes me feel like I"m being social. You know, like when Susie called me to tell me the Real World was on (yes, this is what people working at home converse about. but the point is, we DO work!) But I'm not being social. I'm just working.

Tonight it got to the point that I started watching Scrubs, then Wicked Wicked Games, then Scrubs again, and finally (drumroll) -- Becker. Lacking my parents' enthusiasm for the show, I shut it off. And looked at the clock. And realized it was past 10.

Disgusting.

Youth is wasted on the ... not the young, just me. I was lecturing my friend about how we work too much. So tonight (let's assume causation rather than correlation) she's out grabbing drinks. What did I do? Oh, cleaned out my inbox and my desk. LOSER. Maybe I should just open a bar and kill two birds with one stone. The workaholic bartender. I could make a killing.

Anyway, I realized I"m working too much and blogging not enough, so here I am.

**Things I Did Recently That You Need To Know About**
(the following may prove to be slightly more interesting than my workday complaints. But only slightly.)

1) I read Blind Submission. It's a novel about another (cough cough) literary agent in San Diego. Yup, I read a novel about working in a literary agency. It was a thinly-veiled send-up of this particular person. But forget about her. The point is that I read a novel about my day job. So sad on so many levels.

2) Started watching LOST. A big thanks for nothing to whoever told me to do it, because...

3) Got hooked on LOST. I can't stop - I needed a fix so badly that I didn't wait for Netflix- I went and got the next discs from the library. Then I made plans with Eric and Chris with the clear understanding that they'd bring me the rest of Season One. When that dinner fell through I was more distressed than is normal for a cancelled dinner plan. Plus I think Jack is raising my already-high bar for guys.

4) Started knitting again. Yay for resolutions. Mine are written on a pink piece of construction paper on my fridge. I have a long list and taped it up after there was no room left. My resolutions range from the aforementioned knitting to "drink less diet coke, more water and wine" to "go to yoga, especially when you don't want to go" to "be nice to people". (hey, gotta cover all the bases.)

5) I've been sleeping too much. It's making me crabby. I have the best of intentions - I've been setting my alarm super early, but then I listen to an entire cd of dance songs play while I snooze. Who knew that Johnny Kemps' "We Don't Have to Take Our Clothes Off (To Have A Good Time)" is a lullaby?

Observation:I think there might be a correlation between oversleeping and crabbiness, which really would explain teenagers.

6) Going to Bikram Yoga. It's pretty much my social outlet these days. Who doesn't like going into 110 degrees of pure stink for a good 90 minute stretch? I hate wearing shorts so I'm the only (when I say only, I don't exaggerate) person in pants. Which allows the teacher to then call out "hey, girl in the pants, stretch, further, back, more, back, go, back, flower petal blooming..." Yup. Meanwhile I'm surrounded by vanity personified. My favorite is the early-morning lady who shows up at this 6:30 class but then keeps missing the poses because she's literally staring at herself so intensely. When I sleep through the early class and arrive for 9am, she's still there beautifying herself. Ridiculous. And don't even get me started on the people who stay after class to do sit-ups . They should be shot. I think even Bikram would agree with me on this.

Bonus features: the people who fart and think they don't have to apologize because they're in a yoga studio. Ew, what's that about?

On the upside, even though I've been working too much, it's helpful to know that not everyone else's life is booming. Misery loveth the company. Tonight a girlfriend mentioned to me that the only action she gets is when she runs into guys in her building, "that's pretty much a date for me!"

Um, that's my line. I didn't have the heart to tell her about my apartment elevator boyfriend (who was never seen again). We're estranged.

And so the portrait melts...

The Holiday. And The Holiday.

I'm back from vay-cay-shun. Woo hoo. Yay for the high seas. I love boats, so I was quite content just to ride around (or sway side-to-side, as we did for 7 days and I continue to do even now). Unfortunately my travel compadre found herself seasick from the get-go. By sheer power of suggestion, me, Miss NeverGetsSeasick was barfing up a storm on my last night.
I saw gorgeous spots in Mexico that made me never want to come back and I read good books and I ate way too much (how much buffet is too much buffet? I have the answer...) and I got better at blackjack, so I think I fulfilled the cruise checklist.

That's the short of it. The long of it is that, due to weather conditions, I played much more bingo than I'd like to admit. On one particularly cloudy day I ordered a Bloody Mary to fuel my "game". Which resulted in me heckling the bingo caller. I booed his jokes. But trust me, he deserved it. (Examples available upon request)

So due to my inherited seasickness I missed the last dinner and final photos with our Vietnamese dining partners (who the photographer was convinced were our husbands. We gave up explaining to her, and as a result there were a nice set of awkwardly posed photos taken.) Photos aside, I return as single as I left.

But you know who is *not* single? My ex. The one guy I called the b word (not to be confused with bastard. use that one all the time!) He's freakin' engaged.

My mom tried to break it to me all nonchalantly in the car. Picture it: we're driving to the movies, my best friend, my parents, and I. My dad is fumbling with the heat controls. My mom is -- ahem -- gently asking him to shut off the radio "Don't you get enough of these Christmas songs when you go shopping?! Enough! Shut it off!" La la la and out of nowhere, mom lobs it over the net:

her: blahblahblahohSusan'ssonjustgotengaged
me: what?
her: oh, you know, her son. he got engaged.
me: her son, as in XXX??? (names blacked out to protect men who drink diet pepsi)

It was too cute, her effort to play it off (did I mention it's her close friend's son?), so I couldn't even call her out on it. She put the information before me and waited to see how I'd react. I brought the subject up later just to find out if it was who I thought it might be (the girl, not him. Despite my mom's clever ruse, ye faithful readers will know that I had figured out that it was Mr. X) It wasn't. It was someone new. So now, not only do I have to deal with the fact that he is engaged but that not one, but at least TWO girls after me actually wanted to date him! Harrumph or whatever the Archie comic reaction to that would be.

And of course then we go to the movies and what is the plotline? Oh yes, ten movies at the cineplex and which do we see? But of course the one where the heroine's ex boyfriend gets engaged. I shit you not. Story of my life people! Fortunately the film was a romantic comedy so now I"m sure this is the comedy portion of my life film. This is when I have the endearing meltdown, right? The crazy crying fit that makes the audience laugh and smile, knowing that I will triumph. Or do we cut straight to the part when Jack Black waltzes into my life? (Please note that in the movie, at first Jack Black isn't really into her. Ouch!)

So much of me wants to do Hollywood justice and wants to care, just so I can have a good cry and feel like someone affected me that much. But I'm more surprised than anything. Somewhat surprised that he beat me to it. Compound this with the fact that one of my frenemies (my only one I think?) is also engaged. author's note: I have never used that word before, but now it strikes me as perfect, so let's go with it.

Don't you get like that when certain people have good things happen to them? I mean, I'm the first person to be happy for people, but I have my limits. Some people are universally recognized as annoying/sucky/assholey, and so when good things happen to these people, we all just look around at each other and shrug and go "huh!". It's that sort of thing.

Is it me or is there a theme here? People who suck are finding true love (which notably involves being loved), or at least love that makes them not prefer to be at home blogging at 1:30 am on a Saturday. Me? Not so much progress on that front, dear readers!

Hold on, I"m still trying to cough up the emotions I "should" be feeling.

It reminds me of a scene in The Holiday, our film tonight (which I recommend to you, despite the fact that Jude Law prominently stars in it. For my previous opinion of his work, please search "Alfie" and read my post on it. I never thought I'd sit through another of his films again. Glad I did.) Anyway, in the scene, Cameron Diaz tries to make herself cry. All sorts of face contortions, or making the sound and hoping the tears will come. But. Nothing. Tonight I want to do that. I'm sitting here waiting for the Big Breakdown. How to coax it out of myself? I must breakdown or they'll revoke my Girl Club membership card, no? Should I put on some sad music? Throw pillows? Longingly look at old pictures of him? (Oh wait, already drew him horns and boobs on those. No good.) I really don't have the slightest idea what to do, failing to play the role of Melodramatic Female yet again. Why am I wired like this?

I'm a list person and it feels like I should have some sort of list of what to do next. I'm all about the action plans. First will be to find another boyfriend and propertly title him and throw the word around just so I can dilute that silly word (boyfriend. there, i said it. boyfriendboyfriendboyfriend). I guess the main problem is that I don't want XXX back, so the standard plotlines as seen on film ("have fabulous and unexpected makeover! lose 100 pounds! win him back! make him sorry!") fail me.

Last blog I sang the praises of Grand National. Their other track I obsess over is called "Drink To Moving On". On that note, I think I will continue enjoying this glass of wine and drink to being single.

Here's to close calls and absolute freedom.
*clink*