Waiting

For the future president of the United States to come on t.v. and accept his nomination. I've found it hard to read the coverage this week without feeling teary and incredibly proud of this country. FWIW, I've always been a registered Independent and am a cynic, but I believe in this man and I believe we can change. Tonight is going to be awesome.

What I Wrote En Route to San Francisco

I haven't really felt like blogging lately for good and bad reasons. The bad is that I have been a bit "in the crazy" of late. I'm feeling pretty stuck career wise and "life plan" for lack of a better expression wise, and I have dealt with this by bitching, eating and shopping. Not cool. Although yellow patent leather flats and John Fleuvogs are never technically not cool.

The good news is that my writing classes started up again so I've been devoting most of my extra writing time to that. It's a humorous writing class so I'm having a lot of fun with it. Last week's assignment was to tell a funny anecdote about yourself in 450 words or less. I wrote about the time I got a pushpin stuck in my ass at work. This week's assignment was to write a letter too honest to send in 500 words and make it funny. I tried multiple different pieces. One to the people at church telling them why I didn't want to teach Sunday school this year, but I felt too guilty about it. The next one I tried was a letter to the MG honestly answering her question, "do you like my mom?" but again, bitter and not too funny. I finally settled on one to my ex-husband that I'll be reading tomorrow night.

Anyway, in lieu of having to think about what I want to say about the Convention and Michelle's speech and the fantastic book I'm reading, I'm just going to copy what I wrote on the plane to San Francisco.

************************************************************************************

En route to San Francisco and I can't sleep. I just finished reading Marisa de los Santos' Love Walked In. I expected it to be light and breezy and parts of it were, but I couldn't stop crying near the end. I guess "heartwarming" would be the word if you could stomach it. It made me feel happy. But also teary because there's just so much STUFF churning beneath the surface that is me -- family, the babies I'm not pregnant with, work, purpose -- that I generally like to keep neat and contained. But then I read a book or hear somebody's sad story or even happy story, and I'm bursting open.

I've been sobbing -- SOBBING! -- at the Olympics because all that winning or achievement and that culmination of the practice and hard work -- it's something to watch. Even if it's something as mundane (to me) as being the best badminton player in the world, hey, at least you're the best at something and you picked a path and you worked hard and you achieved. My path or path(s) are all over the place. And this is usually around the time in my life that I go back to school because I know how to achieve on that path and the recognition is quick and simple. Nobody gives me straight As for showing up and trying at the rest of my life, ya know?

All this would make you think that I'm unhappy. But I'm not. Really. Just sort of ...full. I start writing classes again next week so that should help. Of course, it's humorous writing so the timing's off. I've been writing all these funny vignettes for all my other classes this past year, and now I want to write about my grandparents' dying and my divorce and the addiction and the self-loathing and it just doesn't seem to lend itself well to humor.

And I know me. I am not one to talk about important things with people that matter. I've been going to shrinks for years and I still make them drag "what's wrong?" out of me, fighting tool and nail. These are people that I PAY to talk to about important things. So when I feel the churn and the need to tell YG that I love him so much that it makes me cry sometimes and that I miss living near my family and that I love my friends and my cats and that I want to be somebody important, I want to seize on it and capitalize on it before it goes away and regular me comes back.

A friend at work called me a "m&m" and I didn't really get it, but as he explained, "hard and crunch on the outside, soft of the inside," I think it's probably about as apt a description as you're going to get. It's because I cried a little when our boss moved back to England. Not because we were great friends and not because I really know him at all, but because we had a "normal" going in our little group, and as dysfunctional as we can be, normal is comfortable. And nice. And these were the first people I "knew" when I moved to Boston so they're different than other work colleagues. So I cried a little. And then m&m. Appropriate.

The always question is why I feel the need to maintain this image of myself as cool and removed and sometimes fiery, but also unemotional. It's not like I think those are great things to strive for. They just are. I can watch somebody else have a total meltdown and really feel for them, but if I display even one tear, people will wonder why I am such an unglued mess, or worse, they will want to TALK or HUG. Ick.

Minor example. I lent YG's sister my copy of Eat, Pray, Love. Their other sister is reading it and loves it, and I loved it, even though, as a writer, I found it a bit unfinished or premature. But I found it relatable for precisely the reason most other people do -- you're in the middle of some fucked up self loathing and self doubt and you don't know what's what and here's this book written by somebody your age and you relate. Pretty much everyone I've talked to, even if they hated that book, found something to relate to. But when I saw my book walking out the door with my multiple underlines and stars and "Yes!'s, what did I think? I thought, "oh my god, I seriously hope I didn't write something totally retarded in the margins." Because I have no feelings. Or problems. Obviously.

So, we start our descent into the land of fruits and nuts, where everybody talks about their feelings. Seriously. There's something about this place. I talk to people here. On the street, in stores, in restaurants. OR they talk to me and I give something back in return, sometimes not grudgingly. I'm going to write out here, or at least be fully present with YG and MG. I am happy to be on my vacation.

And of course, San Francisco was wonderful. And of course, my verbal diarrhea disappeared in a few days and I'm back to being crotchety.

Note to Self

Next time you pack your gym bag for work, make sure you remember to pack your sports bra. You need it. You may think that you can go running in your regular bra and let it "air out" while you take a shower. You can't. It's hotter out than you think. You're going to sweat through the thing and can't put it back on. Plus, your boobs hurt. You're going to end up spending the rest of the day bra-less in a cable knit, v-neck sweater. At work. With a D Cup. Remember how comfortable that feeling was and pack the sports bra.

Back Again With Pictures

Remind me to never ever take the red eye and then attempt to work the next day. It's been hell. I am jumping from work computer to here and then back again trying to juggle work responsibilities and some other projects I'm working on since school started up again. I'm TIRED.

I wrote a lot in San Francisco, but I haven't had time to type all of that up. I write everything free hand first and then edit while typing. High tech, I know.

In the meantime: PICTURES!

Provincetown with the extended family

San Francisco with YG and MG

I think this might be my favorite:


And on my Flickr home page, there's some cute pics of the MG playing with some of my friends' kids.

Weekend Update Done in Letter Form Because I'm Experimentin'

Dear YG --
Tonight you asked how we could go from having such a weekend high to such a crap week. How does that happen in a mere 48 hours? I meant to write about the weekend because it seemed to come exactly when I needed it and it was one of those rare, do nothing, feel good, feel refreshed weekends. But we quickly got back into the swirl of chores and the day to day anxieties, and the general ennui that comes with two very smart people caught in jobs that they don't exactly love.

What happened? What was so special about the weekend?

On Saturday morning, I woke up and laced up my running shoes and quickly ran 5 miles down by the Charles River. It wasn't too warm or humid, and I like how it's quiet on Saturday mornings and I can be with the other runners. You stayed home and worked on schoolwork with the MG.

We drove the 45 minutes out to Harvard to meet her mother, and sat in the Dunkin Donuts air conditioning, eating munchkins and bagel sandwiches. The MG was clingy after a week with you, but chatty. As you walked them out to their car, I stopped to use the ATM which took my card and then promptly broke. I worried about this shitty start to the weekend. I asked for help, got nothing but a verbal altercation with the DD staff, and left in a huff and with a flip of the bird. I worried what you thought of me. We resolved the crisis, but still, I worried/worry that someday you'll figure out that I am too emotional and angry and off-kilter for you. You tell me not to worry.

We drove to Walden Pond. After two summers of complaining (me) about not enough swimming time, we finally pack up the bags and decide that we'll either go to Walden Pond or Revere Beach. Walden is on the way, and thanks to the unstable weather, relatively quiet. We set up our blanket and pull out our books and observe. You're reading Ethan Canin's, America America, and I'm reading Joan Didion's, The Year of Magical Thinking.

Multiple people told me how depressing and heartbreaking Magical Thinking was, but I couldn't believe them or even begin to understand that until I began reading it. The book is raw and honest and intense. As soon as I began reading it, the dream (nightmare?) that one of my parents die comes back. I have this dream a lot, more so recently, and am scared to the core of things left unsaid and how I wake up with wet pillows. It's almost always my father, and it almost always makes me want to pack up and run back to Whippany. A conversation with someone else from long past:
"But even if you were back there, you wouldn't talk."
"But I'd be there."
"You'd be there, but each of you -- your parents, your brother, your sister -- would be in different rooms. You wouldn't talk."
"But we'd be there."
"But so what?"
"It would be normal.That's my normal."
And then things become anything but normal, and I have no center of gravity anymore and no place to run back to.
These are the things I think about when I'm reading Joan Didion at Walden Pond and I can't breathe because it's so sad.

We decide to go in the water. It's not too cold and you can see the bottom, something that still endlessly pleases the New Jerseyan in me. We swim a few laps before we hear thunder and the lifeguards usher everyone out of the water. We read some more, and I watch the people and the light. I confess that I didn't like Thoreau's Walden that much and I really don't feel the need to reread it. I worry how this appears to you, as well. Crazy, angry, emotional and not a reader of fine books.

It clears up, but we're tired and slightly damp. You ask if I want to dry off and leave and I wonder about going in the water again. I ask you to promise me that we'll come back again this summer. We both mentally calculate the dates and realize that summer is halfway through. "Let's go in the water," you say. We head in again and swim laps. I stay underwater and we float. We're at Walden Pond, a place that before only existed in books for me.

After drying off, we decide to go on an adventure and explore a neighborhood that we've never been to. I conveniently forget to bring underwear or a bra, so I consider venturing through Boston with just a beach coverup and no bathing suit underneath a true undertaking. We take the GPS system and head to Brookline. We walk around Coolidge Corner, poking our heads into shops, giggling at Good Vibrations, and sharing crusty thin slices at Upper Crust with the pizza plates on the ceiling. The weather holds up and it doesn't start to rain until we're back in our car heading back to Cambridge.

We shower, pay some bills and then head out to Kendall Square. The Red Line cooperates and we get to The Blue Room early enough to have drinks in the bar. Prosecco for you, a ginger tequila drink for me. Jason Bay hits a home run while we're there watching on t.v. We get good seats and enjoy our one perfect cheese. My ravioli is heavenly. Your fish is interesting. We share desserts and many more drinks. We walk arm and arm back to the T. My high heels don't even hurt.

On Sunday, we play hooky from church and ride the whole rail trail. You speed ahead, but I always manage to catch up. It's again sunny, but not too hot. I always wish that I had a camera because the purple flowers are beautiful and the sun peeks through the trees in a way that I don't ever fully enjoy when I'm not on my bike. We share water and Nutri Grain bars in Bedford and ride back. It's 22 miles overall.

We take your laptop up to Diesel for lunch, and three months later, pick out the wedding photos we like. We don't argue and we tackle this task efficiently and quietly. We remember the wedding. You decide to head home and I get a pedicure and read about the new Jolie Pitt babies. Later, you watch one of your shows on the Military Channel and I go grocery shopping. Whole Foods is remarkably sane for a Sunday afertoon, and I enjoy the free cheese.

We cook chicken on the grill and make up some brown rice. You listen to The Cowboy Junkies on the iPod in the kitchen and I make my lunch. We open up a bottle of Prosecco and eat on the porch outside, barefoot. We talk about how much we love this weekend.

I love this weekend. I don't love that the weekend disappears, but on the whole, most of our time together feels like a long weekend.

Love,
SG

The Maternal Instinct

The MG and her friend are having a sleepover. MG's friend is dressed up as "Lola" while the MG's costume is "mini Jenn."



We pointed out that she was too happy and smiley and jolly looking to be mini Jenn, and she responded, "I know, but I didn't want to hurt your feelings." If I had any kind of "normal" (quotes because who the hell knows what normal is) maternal instinct, I am assuming I would feel:
* Afraid and thinking I should get to the shrink pronto so that I could examine where my generally surly disposition comes from
* Afraid and thinking that I need to change so that I don't harm this precious flower, this child of God, this mere wisp of a being
* Offended
* Hurt

But my first reaction was to burst out laughing and think, good lord, that is fucking funny.

I give you the MG doing the REAL mini Jenn.

Weekends and LOLcats

This is kind of how I feel after spending an awesomely fun/chillaxin weekend with friends.


more cat pictures

Things I Am Thinking About

It's been pretty hectic at work lately so I haven't had time to update. I've also been spending some time on other writing projects and a comms project that I'm doing for the church, so I'm doing my best to prioritize. As much as the 2.5 people who actually read this blog miss me when I'm gone, I tend to push this project toward the bottom of the list.

But for tonight, all work projects are done and I've finished a run and YG is in, of all places, Whippany for the night, so I've got some free time.

Watching:
I've been watching Tell Me You Love Me. It is so, so good and really well acted, but also terrifying at the same time. It should be included on some large "Things Not to Watch in Your First Year of Marriage" list.

We put Freaks and Geeks on our Netflix list. YG had never seen it, so we watched the first three episodes together. Again, so well done, but really, really uncomfortable. I never, ever want to relive high school.

Dr. Horrible's Sing-Along Blog. It's not free anymore, but worth the download. And how cute is Doogie?

Listening:
Nothing. Seriously folks, what should I be listening to? My music is still stuck in 1994.

Reading:
I finally finished Suite Francaise and get what my brother wrote about the appendix breaking your heart. I hate to say that I didn't love the book, but that it did get me thinking about all the ways war could influence every day living, a luxury that we Americans have and don't often have to think about.

I also started Maybe Baby: 28 Writers Tell the Truth About Skepticism, Infertility, Baby Lust, Childlessness, Ambivalence, and How They Made the Biggest Decision of Their Lives and so far, it's decent. I don't remember when or why I bought it. I think maybe because it was edited by Lori who I "knew" from Indiebride. Either way, it seems relevant now as we try and work out our baby-making schedule. I've wanted to have kids for a long time, and a lot of the issues in my first marriage stemmed from my seething resentment over that not really being a viable option. Now that I'm thinking and talking about it for reals, I am suddenly overwhelmed by terror and this idea that I am the ONLY person in the entire universe absolutely not qualified for the job. I hear this is normal. * roll eyes*

Off to:
Illinois this weekend to hang out with friends.

Currently Obsessed With

1. The All Star Game. A fitting farewell to the Stadium. George's return. All the young players. Good stuff.

2. Like all other white people, I heart Wes Anderson. Rushmore is my favorite movie, and I loved The Royal Tenenbaums. We finally got around to renting The Darjeeling Limited on Sunday and it was a lovely, make me smile, make me happy kind of movie. Not perfect, but just right. And as with all of his movies, I loved the soundtrack, immediately downloaded it and have listened to it about 13 times in the last two days. I like all the instrumentals, and how like the Rushmore soundtrack, you get some good Kinks songs. I especially like the lyrics to Strangers.

Where are you going I don't mind
I've killed my world and I've killed my time
So where do I go what do I see
I see many people coming after me
So where are you going to I don't mind
If I live too long I'm afraid I'll die
So I will follow you wherever you go
If your offered hand is still open to me
Strangers on this road we are on
We are not two we are one
So you've been where I've just come
From the land that brings losers on
So we will share this road we walk
And mind our mouths and beware our talk
'Till peace we find tell you what I'll do
All the things I own I will share with you
If I feel tomorrow like I feel today
We'll take what we want and give the rest away
Strangers on this road we are on
We are not two we are one
Holy man and holy priest
This love of life makes me weak at my knees
And when we get there make your play
'Cos soon I feel you're gonna carry us away
In a promised lie you made us believe
For many men there is so much grief
And my mind is proud but it aches with rage
And if I live too long I'm afraid I'll die
Strangers on this road we are on
We are not two we are one
Strangers on this road we are on
We are not two we are one

3. I've only watched a few episodes of Flight of the Conchords, but nearly peed my pants laughing. My current obsession is watching their "music videos" on YouTube. Business Time is particularly awesome. I laughed out loud at "Tuesday is the night we usually go over to your mother's and I show her how to use the video machine again" as YG, when we are visiting, has become my parents' IT guy/contractor/physician catch all. Enjoy!

Cool Things (Or Why I Love Living in Cambridge)

Tonight YG and I went to see Salman Rushdie read at Memorial Church. To quote Ricky Bobby, yes, that just happened. And it was awesome.

He read from his latest novel, The Enchantress of Florence. The church felt like a furnace, it was hard to hear and we were tired and sticky, but the passage itself was beautiful, like a poem. And he was funny and charming.

The highlight of the evening was the last question he answered. A student (I believe) asked about what advice he might have for aspiring writers, and I'm paraphrasing here, but he said something along the lines of 'if you don't have that burning need to say something, to write something, don't write."

And I felt reassured, because I have never doubted that I am supposed to be a writer. It's what I am. It's who I am. I've never developed any alternative life plan. I have a career and for the most part, I enjoy it and it pays the bills. But it's not what I'm supposed to be doing. I have it -- that burning need to say something. And I'm going to figure out what that is.

After the reading, YG and I walked to Border Cafe and had margaritas (on a Monday. How decadent) and one of those talks that you love having but leaves you teary and drained. We talked about how our collective baggage (old and most heart-breakingly recent) makes life difficult for us and how it's sometimes just hard to even breathe. But we also talked about how greatful we are for the people we have met in passing in all the different arenas of our lives. He met a woman on the plane from San Francisco that he was able to talk to for hours, and I told him a story that I'd never mentioned before. About an old man that we met at Dunkin Donuts about a year ago. We sat down and talked to him for a while. He was in his 80s and owned his own store in the area and had a bunch of daughters and was talking about what a great life he had. The timing of this conversation was right after my grandfather had died, and I was feeling homesick. When I listened to the man in the Dunkin Donuts talk about his wife and his daughters, I had this feeling that it was my grandfather speaking through him. It's hard to explain. It doesn't make any sense, but I just felt it. Like a presence. And of course I didn't tell anyone, because hello? Freak. But tonight seemed the right time. I also remembered a short essay I wrote in college about "the angel Aurora," about a woman that Naomi, Josh, Erik and I met on the overnight train through Spain. It's been 12 years since that trip and I still feel like I met that woman for a reason and that I was meant to stay up all night talking to her about where I might end up.

I'm straddling the line between greatful and meloncholy tonight. I'm thankful for where I live and my friends and YG and to all the people who have seemingly just passed by for visits, and I'm sad that I don't know how to say it all. But at the same time, KNOW that I have figure out how to say it all.

One is the Lonliest Number. Or Maybe Not.

How long does it take to slip back into old habits? I'm sure there's some scientific study that explains this, but for me, it's about one day, maybe two. YG is off traveling and I am on my third day of being during exhausted during the daylight hours and reading like a fiend and trolling around on the Internets into the wee hours of the night. Also, not a vegetable in sight.

So let us take a minute to praise the YG. He's off in San Francisco doing this: Presidio School of Management's Executive Program in Sustainable Management . He *never* does anything for himself, so while I'm proud of him for getting into an exclusive program, I'm almost more proud of him for putting the effort into something that HE (not me, not the MG, not the ECT)loves. He deserves it.

He'll be away in SF for two days during each of the next few months, and I figured I'd use my time alone to work on my writing projects -- editing some of the pieces I prepared for last year's classes, getting prepped for my new class, and working on some of the items in the Exercises for Writers book that's been collecting dust on my desk.

I underestimated how much of a good influence YG is on my motivation and my general habits, though. He makes me bring my A game and with him 2000 miles away, I have been pretty much the sloth I was before I met him. Things I've done sans YG (none of which include writing):

* Discovered Brick Breaker game on my phone. Played until thumb cramped.
* Ran 8 miles in two days.
* Stayed late at work. Not actually working the whole time. More like the work/gossip action combo.
* Consumed three grilled vegetable burritos with guacamole.
* Roamed Davis. Roamed Davis again. Read books and people watched.
* Stayed up until 1 a.m. reading Suite Francaise.
* Ended up having my first caffeine in months to get through the next day.
* Vowed not to do that again but stayed up until 1:30 the next night reading as well.
* Had iPhone envy. Spent ridiculous amount of time watching SKB download new applications. Favorites include iSaber and this crazy song recognition application that allows you to sing parts of a song, recognizes said song and tells you where you can get it. From this we learned that The Golden Girls theme song was originally sung by Andrew Gold. Who knew?
* Facebook. Enough said.
* Blog stalked.
* Ignored my pile of mail.
* Ignored the wedding photos that need to be cataloged.
* Ignored the last three remaining thank you notes that need to be sent out.
* Completely avoided the cat tumbleweeds.

Tomorrow, I'll be bringing the MG back to her mom's house and depending on the weather, I'm either going to ride the rail trail or go to the beach and read. Maybe tomorrow night I will write, but that's looking doubtful at this point. I will most likely use that time to try and get back to "normal," or even more likely, do any of the things on the list above.

I Didn't Stab Anyone on Vacation

Given the mood I was in when I left last week, vacation was everything I needed.

Will write more later, but highlights included:
* Beach every day
* A visit with NN and KL and Wy
* Outlet shopping
* Yankees/Red Sox at the Stadium with Arthur Avenue Italian before
* Mom's 60th birthday party
* The Water Club
* NYC Fourth of July fireworks

Some pics to hold you over.


The beauty of Long Island.


Our beach.


East River fireworks seen from The Water Club.

More pics here.

Raging Against the MBTA

Alternate titles for this post:
1. Fuck you motherfucker
2. Why I can't shop at the Shaws in Porter Square anymore
3. Need more pills
4. Pyschotic Episode: the 95-degree Red Line addition

As I mentioned last night, the Red Line has been sucking of late. Always slow, always hot, always annoying. But I hate driving in the city and I'm trying to be greener and I am a big believer in public transporation, so I take the T.

I had an appointment in Boston at 6 p.m. tonight. I left our house around 5, took the stroll down to Davis and gave myself a mental high five when I realized that the train was sitting in the station waiting for me. I found myself a seat, whipped out my copy of Sisterhood Interrupted like the wannabe college student I am (see: feminist literature, glasses, oh-so-cynical disposition) and settled in.

5:20: Train is still not moving, and getting rather crowded. People are getting antsy. A woman that was born around the same time as John the Baptist is getting extremely vocal about the hold up. "Young man, young man. Go ask what the delay is." A young dude obliges. "Traffic" is the answer we get back.

5:22: Still sitting in the station. No AC. More people crowding on and much more bitching. John the Baptist Lady still annoyed. She has an appointment she needs to get to. The rest of us are apparently just hanging out.

5:25: Doors close and we finally start moving, if you can call it that. The train lurches pitifully out of the station and we start inching toward Porter. I relearn Valerie Solanas.

5:30: We arrive at Porter Square. Doors open and stay open. Again, no AC. I should mention here that it is about 95 degrees out and humid. People are now visibly and vocally agitated.

5:32: John the Baptist's sister gets off the train and starts yelling at the conductor the way only an old lady can. "You are a very stupid driver. You are a very stupid driver of this train, young lady."

5:33: More grumbling. It starts to smell like B.O. Probably mine.

5:34: We're still at the station. I put the book away and ask the conductor if we're going to have delays at every station. She says yes, so I decide to cut my losses.

5:35: I head over to the Porter Square plaza because there are always cabs picking and dropping off at Shaw's and I figure I can grab one. I call my appointment and confirm that I can come in late -- that 6:30 is okay.

5:40: No cabs at Porter. I start a line and am immediately joined by a few others who left the subway. It is beyond hellish hot.

5:45: Give up and call a cab. They tell me 20 minutes and I say I can't wait that long. I call another cab company. They tell me someone is coming right away. Wussy looking guy next to me does the same.

5:50: No cab.

5:55: Still no cab. Call YG and vent, giving him reaon to remember that the crazy is always lurking somewhere within me.

5:56: Wussy guy and I chat about how much this very much fucking blows.

5:57: My cab is still not here, but a Green Cab pulls up. Because I am first in line, I open the door and hop in. The driver tells me that I cannot have this cab because it is not MY cab. I ask if he is there for a pick up specifically and he says no. So I tell him that I need him to take me to Boston. He again says he's not picking up, that I need to take the cab that's coming for me. I tell him that I'm tired of waiting, can he take me? He orders me out of the cab and tells me that I need to wait. All of this is done with an accent I can't really understand so there's a lot of "huh? what? I don't understand" too.

5:58: As I'm getting out of the cab, sweaty and angry, I shout, "Are you fucking kidding me with this shit?" The driver starts swearing back, and as we're arguing, Wussy Guy gets in the backseat and tells the guy he wants to go to South Station. I shout, "Wait a minute! He's waiting for another cab too. HE NEEDS TO WAIT TOO!" and start grabbing at the door handle. The driver starts to pull away with a final "Bitch, you crazy."

5:59: I do not take the high road. I take the very low road. I start pounding on the window, screaming, "Fuck you, motherfucker" and to the Wussy Guy that stole the cab, "I hope I don't find you, Fuckface, because I'll fucking stab you, fucker."
The two of them actually LAUGH.

6:00: I stomp back to the sidewalk, kick some bottles that are lying around and SHAKE. I am too in my fit of rage to be fucking mortified, but there are people watching me. People shopping, people trying to enjoy their coffees outside the bookstore...people.

6:03: My cab finally shows up. The driver must sense that I am a mess because he asks me to "tell me everything." I give him the whole story, tell him that I need to get to Boston by 6:30. He tells me not to worry, that he'll get me there. He also has AC so I am in love with him.

6:04: We hit Somerville Ave and it's a traffic nightmare. He asks me to trust him and not to judge his route. I tell him I won't.

6:24: We pull up at my appointment. I tip big and tell the driver that he is awesome.

6:25: Appointment. Re-tell story. Receptionist calls a bunch of friends who are also bitching about the suckage of the Red Line. I decide that I'm going to pollute the environment AND waste money and cab it back.

7:00: Hail another cab. This time the driver is a really friendly singer who sings the whole way back to Cambridge and tells me that I look like a professor. He adds, "a smart professor."

7:25: Back at Davis. Buy burrito.

7:35: Home. Eat burrito, drink champagne. Chase with fro yo.

Now: Totally in my head, reliving the crazy. WTF? I am not a rager, but I sometimes end up in these situations where I totally and completely enter a fit of rage and go off the deep end. Where the crazy is way beyond the suckage of the situation. I told some guy I was going to STAB him. I am beyond mortified. And I'm so afraid that there's going to be "Wanted" pictures of me in the Porter Square parking lot.
My God.

And, oh, the appointment? Was a wax appointment. Apparently, a neatly-groomed vagina and smooth legs are important enough to me that I'm willing to risk possibly landing in jail to get them.

:-(

And You Should Check This Out

The Fat Experience Project is really pretty awesome and a brilliant idea.

From the site:

"The Fat Experience Project® is an oral, visual and written history project which seeks to be a humanizing force in body image activism.

By collecting and sharing the many and varied stories of individuals of size, the Fat Experience Project® seeks to engage with, educate, empower and enrich the lives of people of size, our allies and the world at large."

This one was my favorite, but all the stories resonate. I'm thinking of sending something in.

The Corporate Challenge Sucked

I ran the JP Morgan Chase Corporate Challenge last night and it was the first race I ran where I didn't really have much fun. It was rainy and humid all day and I was already thirsty by the time I got downtown, but I couldn't get any water because it was all reserved for "after." I also managed to remember to bring my iPod, but forgot to bring my ear plugs. Grumble, grumble.

I lined up with the rest of the people in my time (10 minute mile). Well, I cheated a little. I moved up to the 9 minute mark. Over 12,000 people ran so it was crowded -- it took 4 minutes from the race start just to move across the start line. And then the rest was just packed and sweaty and gross. It got so crowded again near the turn that I had to walk because I couldn't get through. Grumble more. After about 20 minutes, I finally broke free and thanks to a nice homeowner spraying runners down with his garden hose, I felt okay and finished. My time was 36:52 which was not great.

Afterwards, I reported my time to our team captain and found the nearest Porta Potty to change out of my sweaty shirt and sports bra. I LOATHE porta potties. It's a feat of gymnastics to try and manuever out of sweaty clothes and not touch anything, but I did only to discover I forgot another bra. So my big nipples and I made our way to 7-11 and then the T stop in a white t-shirt. Brilliant.

Other discoveries:
* Cliff bars are nasty
* Even if the food you find is nasty, you should ALWAYS eat it after a race instead of throwing it out, figuring that you'll be home soon and that all that stuff they tell you about replenishing is only for real athletes and not you
* People will stare and point if you walk around with D tits and a white t-shirt and no bra
* 7-11s always attract the crazy

The T sucked ass. We sat at Park for about 20 minutes while it kept getting more and more packed. The girl sitting next to me had a take out box of Dominos pizza and I would have killed her for it, if she had not gotten into loud, threatening bitch fight with a hozzle who wanted her to move said pizza box so she could sit down. Actually, that was kind of awesome. The T finally got moving, although I could have taken vacation in the time it took to cross the Longfellow Bridge, but then we had to get off at Harvard because it was an express train, wait another eternity for a new train, and then get on again. Grumble.

All did not suck, though. My disgusting sweaty, large nippled self got off at Davis, met SKB and then snarfed down the biggest, most delicious hot fudge sundae with walnuts.

And that my friends is a rather boring recap of the corporate challenge. I'm off on vacation for a week!

Monday Night Recaps

I am exhausted and eating Thin Mints (read: not really in the mood for the ol' blog tonight). That sounds more depressing than it really is. Actually, I left work early (if 5:30 is to be considered early) so I could come eat dinner with YG and then get back to my deliciously good book. I'm reading Bridge of Sighs by Richard Russo. It's pure Russo, with lots of wonderfully drawn small-town characters. Not nearly as good as Empire Falls, but totally engaging anyway. In reading through the reviews, a lot of people didn't like it, but I disagree. I LOVE it when I get into a book like this.

Two movies:
* YG and I watched Recount on HBO last week. A bad idea. If you want to feel sad and depressed about the state of the country, watch it. We were feeling really maudlin and "what might have been." Eight years have, but I still have this rage about how those motherfuckers actually STOLE an election. Unbelievable. He stole it the first time, and then the people actually elected him a second time. I'm a registered Independent, and I'm certainly not in the I-Hate-All-Republicans camp, but what does it say about your party is George W. Bush is the best you can do? Not much.

* I'm almost done watching the documentary, Jesus Camp. Almost done because I can't allow myself to watch it in more than small snippets at a time. It's about a Pentecostal summer camp for children and is probably one of the most disturbing films that I've seen in a really long time. I feel remarkably lucky to have had a rather "normal" religious upbringing, and am really digging our new church. I feel extremely sorry for these kids because they're being raised in a culture of a fear and hatred.

Other:
* Continuing the theme of "things I find unbelievably sad,"The Gloucester pregnancy pact keeps making headlines. I understand that teenage girls get pregnant all the time by accident, but if you're 15 years old and making a pact with your friends to get pregnant on purpose and raise your kids together, what does that say about how you view your future? Who are these girls and what were they thinking? I don't mean that in a judgey way, but more in a "don't you think that there might be something out there that's bigger and better for you" sort of way.

* George Carlin died. Kevin Smith remembers.

* Last week, I ran 11 miles and biked 30, including some monster hills. My god, I love this warm weather.

* I am still in the midst of career woes. It was a gray day today and nothing went seriously wrong at work, but I spent some hard core time wondering what the fuck I was doing there. I mean, I know what I'm doing there. I'm all about politicking and saving money and making the relationships now because I'll need them later in my life, when I want to either shift to a part-time or contractor schedule so that I can write, but some days, I feel the full weight of "what's the point?" I KNOW the point, but I hate that it has to be so hard. So I make up lists of alternate careers that I would like. They include my usuals (consignment shop owner, personal shopper for plus-sized women) and some new ones like food psychologist (I probably mentioned this before, but that is a REAL job. Seriously.), personal trainer, trainer for plus-sized people, freelance writer, etc.

My classes start again in August and that usually helps offset some of this career crap. I haven't written anything since the last class ended and that was before I went to San Francisco for work. That makes me sad. :-)

So back to the book. If I could be a professional student and constant reader of books, I'd choose that in a heartbeat.

New Fat Rant!

I love these and am always excited to see a new one by my Internet girl crush, Joy Nash.



Check out Fat Rant 2 and the orignal too.

Good Party

The mark of a good party.



Seven bottles of champagne, one bottle of white, and about 86,000 empanadas. All gone. Good times, good times.

ABBA is Gay!

Tonight, YG, the MG, SKB and I are going to this.

From the website:

extrABBAganza!The Boston Gay Men’s Chorus sings the ultimate tribute show to ABBA, the top selling musical act of the 70s. With over 370 million albums sold worldwide, ABBA’s hits embody the decade with some of the catchiest pop tunes ever written including Fernando, Take A Chance on Me, Mamma Mia, Waterloo, Voulez Vous, Thank You for the Music and many more! Their irresistible music is both a time machine back to the glitter and glam of the 70s and a jukebox bursting with today’s retro-chic classics. And only a gay chorus can unlock the secrets of some of ABBA’s greatest hits: Does Your Mother Know, Gimme! Gimme! Gimme! (A Man After Midnight), and of course, Dancing Queen.

OMG! I can't wait.

Am I Seriously Defending Carnie Wilson? Maybe A Little.

There's been a lot of posting on sites I read about Carnie Wilson's appearance on the Tyra Banks show, discussing how people focus too much on her weight. For those living under a rock, Carnie Wilson was the "fat chick" in terrible early 90s group Wilson Phillips who later broadcast her gastric bypass surgery on the Internet. She got lots of praise for this from serious magazines like People and US Weekly and then did a spread in Playboy. And now she's gaining it back and NOW, she's pissed that people are paying attention to her weight. [But she wasn't pissed during the broadcasting part or the magazine spreads part or the centerfold part.]

My intial reaction, right after "who gives a fuck about Carnie Wilson" was to say, "you decided to be very public about your decision to lose weight. Of course Hollywood is going to pay attention. Hollywood, duh, pays attention to EVERYBODY'S WEIGHT." And then I thought about it and was able to muster up some symphathy for her, because it has to suck to deal with that noise so publicly.

When you're fat (or even mildly overweight), you spend a lot of time thinking that losing weight is the magic bullet -- once you accomplish it, everyone is going to love you and magically, all your problems will just melt away. And when you actually lose the weight and everyone compliments you, it's this crazy high. You've just discovered the SECRET TO HAPPINESS. By yourself. You get cocky. You evangelize. You scoff at people that don't get it.

And then it starts coming back. First one pound. And then another. And then some more. You pray that people don't notice, but you know they do. They noticed when you lost the weight -- of course, they'd notice it coming back. The shame is unbearable. The failure is overwhelming. Made more so by the fact that you don't talk about this with anyone. Because to talk about it would be to acknowledge your failure, to make it public. And you're still secretly hoping that nobody notices. Or better, that nobody cares.

That was my experience, anyway. I was never that heavy (even though, in my head, I've always assumed that I was enormous and that people don't see me, just "plump person."). But I was always dieting. Always. I started restricting my food in middle school and I kept that up until last October. That's 21 years, people. Twenty one fucking years. I lost a large amount of weight about 6 years ago, getting ready for my first wedding. I started Weight Watchers at 180lbs and set a goal weight of 140 lbs. Twice, I got to 143. Twice, within 3 pounds. And then I'd gain it back. Always. It was unbearable. Until last year when I just decided to fuck it. I stopped dieting. I haven't lost any weight. I haven't gained any weight. I'm just kind of the same.

I'm still trying to get used to that. Just being here. I am insanely greatful to not be dieting. But I'm still not entirely comfortable looking the way I do. Progress, not perfection, right? I'll get there. I run, I bike, I eat REAL FOOD. I'll get there.

So what the hell does this have to do with Carnie Wilson? Not much, I guess. I feel sorry for her. She's famous, and she's right -- people are paying attention to her weight. It was hard enough for me to go through the ups and downs as a nobody. I'm sure that many people, not even my closest friends, knew how shitty I felt. She has to deal with that and she has to do it in the public eye. That blows. Yeah, she brought a lot of it on herself by broadcasting that surgery on the web, but at a base level, I do understand why she did it.

The Shapely Prose folks had something brilliant to say about this as well.