Courtesy of Oob.
1) Where did you begin 2007?
Some of the guys had a party at their house in Boston. I don’t actually remember what I was doing at midnight because I was already blackout by that point. But at some point I texted my boss, and my then-boyfriend, (I’ll call him Runner) who I was (not surprisingly) fighting with at the time, and asked him if we were allowed to hook up with other people. Bitch.
2) What was your status by Valentine’s Day?
Living in London.
3) Were you in school (anytime this year)?
Mhm.
4) How did you earn your money?
No comment.
5) Did you have to go to the hospital?
Good question. I think this was the first year in a while that I didn’t. But I did go for other people, once to visit, twice to the ER. And we shot most of the film in a hospital, but I don’t think that counts.
6) Did you have any encounters with the police?
Oh, sure. Nothing too serious though.
7) Where did you travel this year?
London, all around Europe, I don’t think going back and forth between Boston and New York really counts, and I guess neither does going to Westchester or Connecticut. But I did finally go visit Ashley in her hometown.
8) What did you purchase that was over $1,000?
Mac laptop! I think that’s it. Though also my rent every month.
9) Did you know anybody who got married?
Jesus, yes. Too many, for that matter. It’s freaking me out.
10) Did you know anybody who passed away?
Unfortunately. Jill’s mom, my uncle Tom, my cousin Aaron’s dad.
11) Biggest surprise?
I’m starting to realize that after always being the one to worry about my friends growing apart, I’m actually the first one to begin to distance myself. Sometimes I feel like I’ve outgrown them…and yet I could never, ever live without them. Also, finding out that my great-uncle was a spy for the CIA.
12) Did you move anywhere?
Moved to London, moved home from London, moved back to New York into one apartment over the summer, into a new apartment in August.
13) What concerts/shows did you go to?
Not enough concerts…Dispatch @ MSG, Cat Power, Mika, Dirty Pretty Things, Shoot the Messenger (Dan’s band). As for shows, I saw one in London every week, but the only one I saw in New York was opening night of Adam Pascal and Anthony Rapp’s return to RENT, which was pretty sweet. The last time I saw them in those roles was 10 years ago.
14) Are you registered to vote?
Fuck yes!
15) Who did you want to win Dancing with the Stars?
Never watched it. My parents enjoy it though.
16) Where do you live now?
Manhattan.
17) Describe your birthday?
In one word—awesome.
18) What's one thing you thought you'd never do but did in 2007?
-Travel around Europe by myself on a few occasions and actually put my Spanish and Italian to good (and extremely necessary) use.
-Break it off—for good this time—with Runner and actually make it out alive. Which I did, but barely.
-Try to get my health in order. It’s a long, ongoing process.
19) What has been your favorite moment?
Far too many. Probably one of the best ones was when Andi, one of my best friends in London, purposely missed his flight home to come back and surprise me. Taking my parents to a pub on St. Patrick’s day. Wrapping the film. Watching the sunset on the beach in Sardinia. Finding out that Aaron was home from Iraq. Hanging out with Clive Owen. Any of the nights in London when we would stay out all night before going to the airport to travel and still be drunk on the plane and wake up not knowing what country we were in. Hearing Ethan dedicate a song to me on his radio show. Getting hired by my current employer. Hearing my screenplay being performed and getting praised for it. Playing soccer in the park. Any morning getting breakfast at the Curved Angel. End of the year party at Vie. Crossing the Waterloo bridge at dawn. Breaking into the private gardens. Meeting Sam Rockwell. Seeing Carl before he moved to Hawaii. Sox winning the Series again. Beth’s wedding in general. Hamptons over Labor Day weekend in general. My birthday in general. Damn, looking back, I’m pretty lucky.
20) What's something you learned about yourself?
A lot. London was one big learning experience. Also: semi-figuring out what I want to do for the rest of my life, discovering that I can produce a film, realizing I’m not going to end up with Runner and being okay with it.
21) Any new additions to your family?
Do weddings count?
22) What was your best month?
Too hard to decide. Any of the months I was in London, probably.
23) What music will you remember 2007 by?
I am the wrong person to ask this question. I could go on for hours. Let’s just say that I literally have a playlist for every month.
24) Who has been your best drinking buddy?
All my friends from home, hands down.
25) Favorite night out?
Tooooooo many.
I’m realizing that most of my answers to these questions center around London, but I was there for almost half of the year, and it was one of the best experiences I’ve had, other than living in Africa last summer. And despite some of the tragedies, and my health problems, it’s been a pretty damn good year. I really can’t complain.
I’ve been trying to figure out in the past few days if 2007 was better than 2006. It’s hard to say. In ’06, I spent time in Mexico and the summer in Africa; in ’07 I lived in London and traveled all around Europe. In ’06, I moved into an unbelievable apartment; in ’07 I moved into another fabulous apartment. (I still can’t get over how lucky I’ve been in terms of housing) We had a wedding in both years. On paper, both years seem kind of similar, but I feel like I’ve changed so, so, much in the last year.
It’s been a good year. But I think the next year is going to be even better, if not even more eventful. Bring on 2008!
Monday, December 31, 2007
Thursday, December 27, 2007
Christmas In Review
With the holidays and all, I know many of you in the blogosphere are taking some time off, not updating as often, etc. Never fear! Such is not the case here. I am already significantly bored at home. And after New Year's I'm having oral surgery and will be completely beached on the couch, not to mention on all sorts of drugs, which should make the posting a little more interesting.
Now that you all know what I was doing on my holidays, I can give a little review. For the record: it all went pretty much according to plan, more or less. The curling was especially entertaining, and was actually kind of fun for a little while. It actually wasn't too hard once I got the hang of it. But I see why it's referred to as a "gentleman's game"--there is little to no aerobic activity involved. Pictures will be following in due time.
In other news, I, completely unexpectedly, really cleaned up on Christmas this year. My mother forced a wishlist out of me because I'm apparently impossible to shop for (I disagree) and all my relatives were asking for one back in November, so I sent her a list with a bunch of things of which I expected to get one, maybe two. Basically all stuff that I didn't want to pay for myself. Nope! I got almost all of them. Among other things:
An iPod Touch
Canon PowerShot
Tory Burch flats
New brown riding boots
Gawker Guide to Conquering All Media (a joke from Adam...but I love it)
More of my favorite perfume...Ralph Lauren Blue
Along with a bunch of other books, CDs, gift certificates, $$$, etc. I was blown away. I wasn't expecting anything, and I felt like a kid getting all this stuff. Getting the camera AND the iPod AND the TB flats was far too much. But yay! Sometimes it's great having so many relatives.
So here's the question: now that I have a functioning, quality camera, as opposed to my shitty old one or the two shittier ones before it, I intend to use it as much as possible. And I can only have so many Facebook albums before I feel like a loser. So, I need a place to put them all...do I jump on the Flickr bandwagon? Or is there something better out there? Joining Flickr feels like such a cliche, but I hate how places like Kodak or Shutterfly require other people to sign in to view your photos. Suggestions?
Update: Approximate time at home that the Broseph and I actually got along <24 hours. Better than usual!
Now that you all know what I was doing on my holidays, I can give a little review. For the record: it all went pretty much according to plan, more or less. The curling was especially entertaining, and was actually kind of fun for a little while. It actually wasn't too hard once I got the hang of it. But I see why it's referred to as a "gentleman's game"--there is little to no aerobic activity involved. Pictures will be following in due time.
In other news, I, completely unexpectedly, really cleaned up on Christmas this year. My mother forced a wishlist out of me because I'm apparently impossible to shop for (I disagree) and all my relatives were asking for one back in November, so I sent her a list with a bunch of things of which I expected to get one, maybe two. Basically all stuff that I didn't want to pay for myself. Nope! I got almost all of them. Among other things:
Along with a bunch of other books, CDs, gift certificates, $$$, etc. I was blown away. I wasn't expecting anything, and I felt like a kid getting all this stuff. Getting the camera AND the iPod AND the TB flats was far too much. But yay! Sometimes it's great having so many relatives.
So here's the question: now that I have a functioning, quality camera, as opposed to my shitty old one or the two shittier ones before it, I intend to use it as much as possible. And I can only have so many Facebook albums before I feel like a loser. So, I need a place to put them all...do I jump on the Flickr bandwagon? Or is there something better out there? Joining Flickr feels like such a cliche, but I hate how places like Kodak or Shutterfly require other people to sign in to view your photos. Suggestions?
Update: Approximate time at home that the Broseph and I actually got along <24 hours. Better than usual!
Sunday, December 23, 2007
Ho, Ho, Ho: A Preview, Part III
Christmas Day is not nearly as eventful as Christmas Eve, unfortunately. In the morning, we exchange presents with my grandmother when we wake up and then get dressed and go to my aunt Lynne and uncle Larry's house, also in Fairfield. My aunt makes punch every year, which is everyone's favorite mostly because of the large quantities of alcohol in it. We have the standard hour or two of cocktails and hors d'oeuvres, most of which is spent keeping Larry's dog, Toby, from jumping on the coffee table to eat everything.
Once dinner rolls around and everyone is finally seated, every year we do Christmas Crackers. I'm pretty sure this is a British tradition, and I don't know where one would buy them, but every year somehow they end up on the table. In case you're not familiar, they look like this:
To crack them, you reach inside both ends, and yank on a string inside. In my family, we like to make things difficult. Everyone crosses their arms at the elbow and pulls one side of their own cracker and one side of the person next to them. If this sounds like it doesn't make any sense, it's because it doesn't. And usually there's about half that don't even make a good cracking sound, but just come apart with a pathetic little ripping sound. Inside, there is some kind of cheap plastic toy meant for a five year old but not safe for a five year old because it usually involves small parts. There also might be a little slip of paper with some nonsensical joke or riddle on it, which will then be debated over for the rest of the meal. And, of course, there are the tissue-paper crowns:
Notice how happy everyone looks.
That picture is from a few years ago, and I just realized that there are a lot of people missing from the table, but I don't know why. Anyway, we're required to wear the crowns for the entire meal. Yes, wearing these ridiculous tissue contraptions is mandatory. For what purpose? Your guess is as good as mine.
After another evening of copious amounts of food, we all retire back to the living room for a little while. My mom and aunts' cousins and their father will usually stop by for dessert, and after dessert we always play some sort of game like Catch Phrase, Pictionary, Cranium, etc. We split into two teams, and every year claim it will just be some friendly holiday competition, and every year it takes about five rounds until everyone is yelling at each other, throwing things across the room, and accusing everyone of cheating. Needless to say, the game ends pretty quickly, and usually my cousins, Broseph and I will escape to the den:
Which is usually where we remain in hiding until it's time to leave and go back to my grandmother's for the night, happy to have survived another year.
This past fall, my cousin (on my Dad's side) married her long-time boyfriend and moved into his house in Connecticut, which just so happens to be a town away from Fairfield. So, this year we're completing the Christmas Marathon by celebrating with my Dad's side of the family on the 26th, which consists of my cousin and her husband and my aunt and her husband, who are coming down from Newport, Rhode Island. I'm assuming this will become a tradition, since it kills two birds with one stone. In past years, there's always been a battle over when we celebrate with them, and sometimes it doesn't happen until mid-January. It's convenient that now we can get it out of the way (which is a horrible way of putting it) on the way home back to Boston. It's also a lot better than what we did last year, which was to go straight to Newport on the way home on the 26th and do it there. And maybe I shouldn't be complaining about having Christmas and getting presents for three straight days, but it is EXHAUSTING.
This year, not only are we simply exchanging gifts and eating a meal, but we're adding a little something more into the mix, which I fear will also become a tradition: the sport of curling.
I have never played this sport, never even watched it in the Olympics, have no idea what on earth I am getting myself into. My father was trying to explain it to me over dinner last night, but instead went off on a tangent reminiscing about playing it years ago at The Country Club*. I still have no idea what to expect, but I do know that I was wrong when I thought my family could not get any more WASPy.
So, stay tuned for what's sure to be some lovely stories from that holiday experience.
*The Country Club is actually the name of a club here in Massachusetts, which happens to be the oldest country club in the US. It is not, in fact, the club that family belongs to (we belong to Brae Burn Country Club), but is the one my grandparents belonged to. And in case you were wondering, yes, all the stereotypes are true. I.E, Caddyshack.
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In other news: yes, I am home. I have spent my first full day here decorating the tree, driving around mall parking lots aimlessly, and hacking ice out of the gutters on the roof with my father. Woo suburbia! Also: the Broseph and I are getting along. A Christmas miracle!
Also--has anyone seen the Ciroc vodka commercial with P Diddy in it? Two things: first of all, the song that's playing in the video is Kanye West, which I find odd slash funny. Second, how the fuck does Ciroc become "the official vodka of New Year's Eve"? How does this get decided? Is there a vote? Does this mean if I make a commercial saying that Milwaukee's Best is the official beer of New Year's Eve, people will automatically drink it in large quantities despite the fact that it tastes like urine?
These are things that occupy my time when I don't have to go to work.
Form your own opinions:
Merry Christmas everyone! I hope you think of me in the next few days and get a little chuckle knowing you're in a better place.
Once dinner rolls around and everyone is finally seated, every year we do Christmas Crackers. I'm pretty sure this is a British tradition, and I don't know where one would buy them, but every year somehow they end up on the table. In case you're not familiar, they look like this:
To crack them, you reach inside both ends, and yank on a string inside. In my family, we like to make things difficult. Everyone crosses their arms at the elbow and pulls one side of their own cracker and one side of the person next to them. If this sounds like it doesn't make any sense, it's because it doesn't. And usually there's about half that don't even make a good cracking sound, but just come apart with a pathetic little ripping sound. Inside, there is some kind of cheap plastic toy meant for a five year old but not safe for a five year old because it usually involves small parts. There also might be a little slip of paper with some nonsensical joke or riddle on it, which will then be debated over for the rest of the meal. And, of course, there are the tissue-paper crowns:
Notice how happy everyone looks.
That picture is from a few years ago, and I just realized that there are a lot of people missing from the table, but I don't know why. Anyway, we're required to wear the crowns for the entire meal. Yes, wearing these ridiculous tissue contraptions is mandatory. For what purpose? Your guess is as good as mine.
After another evening of copious amounts of food, we all retire back to the living room for a little while. My mom and aunts' cousins and their father will usually stop by for dessert, and after dessert we always play some sort of game like Catch Phrase, Pictionary, Cranium, etc. We split into two teams, and every year claim it will just be some friendly holiday competition, and every year it takes about five rounds until everyone is yelling at each other, throwing things across the room, and accusing everyone of cheating. Needless to say, the game ends pretty quickly, and usually my cousins, Broseph and I will escape to the den:
Which is usually where we remain in hiding until it's time to leave and go back to my grandmother's for the night, happy to have survived another year.
This past fall, my cousin (on my Dad's side) married her long-time boyfriend and moved into his house in Connecticut, which just so happens to be a town away from Fairfield. So, this year we're completing the Christmas Marathon by celebrating with my Dad's side of the family on the 26th, which consists of my cousin and her husband and my aunt and her husband, who are coming down from Newport, Rhode Island. I'm assuming this will become a tradition, since it kills two birds with one stone. In past years, there's always been a battle over when we celebrate with them, and sometimes it doesn't happen until mid-January. It's convenient that now we can get it out of the way (which is a horrible way of putting it) on the way home back to Boston. It's also a lot better than what we did last year, which was to go straight to Newport on the way home on the 26th and do it there. And maybe I shouldn't be complaining about having Christmas and getting presents for three straight days, but it is EXHAUSTING.
This year, not only are we simply exchanging gifts and eating a meal, but we're adding a little something more into the mix, which I fear will also become a tradition: the sport of curling.
I have never played this sport, never even watched it in the Olympics, have no idea what on earth I am getting myself into. My father was trying to explain it to me over dinner last night, but instead went off on a tangent reminiscing about playing it years ago at The Country Club*. I still have no idea what to expect, but I do know that I was wrong when I thought my family could not get any more WASPy.
So, stay tuned for what's sure to be some lovely stories from that holiday experience.
*The Country Club is actually the name of a club here in Massachusetts, which happens to be the oldest country club in the US. It is not, in fact, the club that family belongs to (we belong to Brae Burn Country Club), but is the one my grandparents belonged to. And in case you were wondering, yes, all the stereotypes are true. I.E, Caddyshack.
***************************
In other news: yes, I am home. I have spent my first full day here decorating the tree, driving around mall parking lots aimlessly, and hacking ice out of the gutters on the roof with my father. Woo suburbia! Also: the Broseph and I are getting along. A Christmas miracle!
Also--has anyone seen the Ciroc vodka commercial with P Diddy in it? Two things: first of all, the song that's playing in the video is Kanye West, which I find odd slash funny. Second, how the fuck does Ciroc become "the official vodka of New Year's Eve"? How does this get decided? Is there a vote? Does this mean if I make a commercial saying that Milwaukee's Best is the official beer of New Year's Eve, people will automatically drink it in large quantities despite the fact that it tastes like urine?
These are things that occupy my time when I don't have to go to work.
Form your own opinions:
Merry Christmas everyone! I hope you think of me in the next few days and get a little chuckle knowing you're in a better place.
Friday, December 21, 2007
If You Don't Have Anything Better To Do Tonight...
I know this is kind of late notice, but if you don't have any plans tonight, it's my roommate Tali's birthday and we'll be celebrating at China 1, on 4th and B, anytime after midnight. She's got some ridiculous amount of bottles of Stoli on reserve, so feel free to come and get your drink on! The more the merrier.
This Week's Rants and Raves
Instead of packing for a month at home, where I am going tomorrow, I've decided to do a post of some of the things I'm loving and hating currently. First and foremost: the events of Tuesday night. I was supposed to go to the party that Model Behavior was hosting in Soho, and I invited my friend Shel to come with me. Shel's sister was in town visiting her, who I am not a huge fan of. She's two years younger than us, incredibly self centered, and an all-around ditz. Not to mention, sin of all sins, she can not handle her liquor. Shel also really wanted to go to this bar in the East Village called Angels and Kings that she and my other friend (and Shel's roommate) Julia frequent pretty often, mostly because it's owned by Pete Wentz, the "frontman" of a band I hate, Fall Out Boy. I know. They're really into that whole "emo" band scene, and I, clearly, am not. Apparently, Pete was supposed to be DJing on Tuesday night. So I agreed to go with the two of them to the bar for a little while before we went to the party. They came over to my apartment to have some drinks before we went, and by the time we got to the bar, it was about 12:15. Pete wasn't there, and ended up not even showing up, which was completely insignificant to me, but Shel and her sister were disappointed. Apparently there were also a bunch of other guys from other semi-famous bands that Shel is obsessed with. For example, some guy named Gabe from some band called Cobra Starship. Shel was practically having a panic attack, but was too shy to say anything to him. Since I have never heard of this person and wouldn't know him from any of the other wannabe-hipsters in the place, I took it upon myself to talk to him. So I approached him, told him my friend loved his band but was too shy to come up and talk to him. He introduced himself, asked me my name, and asked who my friend was. I pointed her out, and he came over a few minutes later to say hi. To his credit, he was incredibly nice, and I thanked him later for making her night. Meanwhile, Shel's idiotic sister is drunk off two weak vodka crans, has found some guy who she thought was a girl, and made out with him/her, because apparently making out with a girl does not count as cheating on your boyfriend. How does one make this mistake? Well, in such an establishment where the boys are wearing tighter jeans than me, have the body of a preteen girl, and have longer hair than I do, it could be confusing. But when she pointed out the victim to Shel and I, we both could immediately tell that she was a he. Nice one! So she is whining and moaning about what to do about her boyfriend, Shel is still not over the Gabe situation, and as it is now approaching 1:15, I am trying to get us out of there. Twenty minutes later, I have reached my limit. I'm waiting outside for the two of them after they told me fifteen minutes earlier that they were going to the bathroom and would meet me outside. I'm commiserating with the bouncer, who clearly hates his job. I barge back inside, find both of them talking to some dudes, and demand that we leave. Now. One of the dudes gives me a douchey look and says to Shel, "Your friend is kinda feisty. I like it." Even if I wasn't already thoroughly annoyed, that certainly would have done it. I grab both of them and head for the door, but suddenly the sister can't find her fucking coat. Great. We are finally in a cab and getting to the location of the party, only to find that it has ended. Shel feels really bad about the situation, but I was still really, really, pissed off that I missed a party that I later heard was a rousing success, and would have been indefinitely more fun than where I ended up instead. UGH.
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It is disgusting to me how politicians are spending more time talking shit about each other than actually making legitimate and convincing points. And their Christmas/Holiday television commercials make me want to vomit.
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Tomorrow, I'll be heading home to Boston via Amtrak. After far too many trips on the disaster that is the Fung Wah bus, and one attempt at flying via JetBlue which took a total travel time of seven hours, of which 40 minutes were actually spent in-flight, I've decided to stick with the train. I usually don't mind it because I actually enjoy traveling by train, but not during holidays, not when I have far too much luggage (and I will), and not on the Regional service (as opposed to the Acela), which is always--ALWAYS--delayed. Since I will be out of New York for a month, packing is going to be impossible. Especially with the added burden of somehow transporting the Christmas gifts I've purchased. I originally didn't want to do my Christmas shopping in the city before I got home specifically because of that reason, but no way in hell am I going near a shopping mall after I get home on December 22nd. I managed to do some of it online and have it delivered to my parents' house, but I still had to do some in-store shopping. I have absolutely no idea how I'm going to get my bags, and gifts, to Penn Station and on the train. I'm sure it will be really entertaining for those that are lucky enough to observe it.
On a similar note, it will be a mystery how I survive a month at "home" without completely losing my mind.
********************
And now on a lighter note, some things I think are awesome: first and foremost, the iTunes Alarm Clock. If you're someone like me who hates the sound of her alarm so much that hearing it elsewhere causes heart palpitations and a cold sweat, this will be a godsend. You can set several different alarms, for different times or different days, and set what music you want it to use. So, instead of being woken up by some awful beeping, you can awake to the sounds of whatever your musical taste prefers. It can shuffle through your entire library, or start from the beginning, or you can use a playlist. So now, I awake to G. Love and Special Sauce, get out of bed to Brendan Benson, wash my face and brush my teeth to Ari Hest and Tom Waits, and stand in front of my closet trying to decide what to wear to the sounds of Prince and Regina Spektor. And best of all, if you don't like to leave your computer up and running all night, the computer will wake itself from sleep mode when the alarm is supposed to go off. Nice!
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If you're ever in the downtown-ish area, I strongly reccomend you try Tavalon. I'm a big tea drinker, and I stumbled upon this place as it's sort of on the way during one of my commutes. It's located on 14th street between 5th and University Place, and it's actually good enough to get me to brave 14th street. Granted, the stretch of sidewalk that Tavalon is on isn't quite as bad as, say, 14th between University and Broadway, but it's still 14th street. But, the chai at Tavalon is worth it, in my opinion.
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Britney Spears' 16-year-old sister is pregnant. Christmas came early this year!
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Those that know me know that I have a serious thing for Anderson Cooper. I would say its a healthy obsession, which I'm aware is an oxymoron. I also will remain in denial about his homosexuality until I hear it from the silver fox himself. And it goes without saying that age is not an issue. I watch his broadcast every night, sometimes more than once as it's aired several times. I read his book when I was in Africa last summer and it blew my mind. Everything I was never able to explain about why I went, why I couldn't rest until I could go, and what it meant to me, he perfectly put into words. I highly recommend it to anyone, but it might not resonate as much with others as it did with me. He's one of the people I admire most, and it's no secret that I can be more attracted to someone for his mind than anything else.
But it doesn't hurt that he looks like this:
He didn't really do anything special or noteworthy this week, but if I'm doing any sort of list involving things I like, he automatically gets a spot on it. And in case you were wondering, he's 40. As far as I'm concerned, it's just a number.
Christmas is in 4 days? What?!
********************
It is disgusting to me how politicians are spending more time talking shit about each other than actually making legitimate and convincing points. And their Christmas/Holiday television commercials make me want to vomit.
********************
Tomorrow, I'll be heading home to Boston via Amtrak. After far too many trips on the disaster that is the Fung Wah bus, and one attempt at flying via JetBlue which took a total travel time of seven hours, of which 40 minutes were actually spent in-flight, I've decided to stick with the train. I usually don't mind it because I actually enjoy traveling by train, but not during holidays, not when I have far too much luggage (and I will), and not on the Regional service (as opposed to the Acela), which is always--ALWAYS--delayed. Since I will be out of New York for a month, packing is going to be impossible. Especially with the added burden of somehow transporting the Christmas gifts I've purchased. I originally didn't want to do my Christmas shopping in the city before I got home specifically because of that reason, but no way in hell am I going near a shopping mall after I get home on December 22nd. I managed to do some of it online and have it delivered to my parents' house, but I still had to do some in-store shopping. I have absolutely no idea how I'm going to get my bags, and gifts, to Penn Station and on the train. I'm sure it will be really entertaining for those that are lucky enough to observe it.
On a similar note, it will be a mystery how I survive a month at "home" without completely losing my mind.
********************
And now on a lighter note, some things I think are awesome: first and foremost, the iTunes Alarm Clock. If you're someone like me who hates the sound of her alarm so much that hearing it elsewhere causes heart palpitations and a cold sweat, this will be a godsend. You can set several different alarms, for different times or different days, and set what music you want it to use. So, instead of being woken up by some awful beeping, you can awake to the sounds of whatever your musical taste prefers. It can shuffle through your entire library, or start from the beginning, or you can use a playlist. So now, I awake to G. Love and Special Sauce, get out of bed to Brendan Benson, wash my face and brush my teeth to Ari Hest and Tom Waits, and stand in front of my closet trying to decide what to wear to the sounds of Prince and Regina Spektor. And best of all, if you don't like to leave your computer up and running all night, the computer will wake itself from sleep mode when the alarm is supposed to go off. Nice!
********************
If you're ever in the downtown-ish area, I strongly reccomend you try Tavalon. I'm a big tea drinker, and I stumbled upon this place as it's sort of on the way during one of my commutes. It's located on 14th street between 5th and University Place, and it's actually good enough to get me to brave 14th street. Granted, the stretch of sidewalk that Tavalon is on isn't quite as bad as, say, 14th between University and Broadway, but it's still 14th street. But, the chai at Tavalon is worth it, in my opinion.
********************
Britney Spears' 16-year-old sister is pregnant. Christmas came early this year!
********************
Those that know me know that I have a serious thing for Anderson Cooper. I would say its a healthy obsession, which I'm aware is an oxymoron. I also will remain in denial about his homosexuality until I hear it from the silver fox himself. And it goes without saying that age is not an issue. I watch his broadcast every night, sometimes more than once as it's aired several times. I read his book when I was in Africa last summer and it blew my mind. Everything I was never able to explain about why I went, why I couldn't rest until I could go, and what it meant to me, he perfectly put into words. I highly recommend it to anyone, but it might not resonate as much with others as it did with me. He's one of the people I admire most, and it's no secret that I can be more attracted to someone for his mind than anything else.
But it doesn't hurt that he looks like this:
He didn't really do anything special or noteworthy this week, but if I'm doing any sort of list involving things I like, he automatically gets a spot on it. And in case you were wondering, he's 40. As far as I'm concerned, it's just a number.
Christmas is in 4 days? What?!
Monday, December 17, 2007
Ho, Ho, Ho: A Preview, Part II
So after everyone has finished dinner and we're all sitting around the table, there will be a (very) brief lull in conversation, at which point someone will casually mention, "Should we do presents?" Which sets off the three kids shrieking and screaming "PRESENTS!!!!" and running around in circles. It will take a solid thirty minutes to an hour to get everyone migrated into the living room, seated, while they've delegated the duty of dispensing the presents to a younger minion (read: me). Meanwhile, the three kids are tearing open presents with reckless abandon, making as much noise as possible throughout, screaming how much they love each gift for about three seconds until they realize they have more to open and toss it aside. My mother and her sisters open their gifts and are squealing almost as loud as the kids are, and yelling to each other across the room. My dad, brother, and Uncle Larry are drinking beers in a corner. I open my presents slowly, pretending to enjoy the process until I remember that no is paying any attention. After I've opened them, I attempt to get the attention of the giver by waving frantically and mouthing "Thank you" or yelling "I LOVE IT" over the ruckus.
After everything has been opened, the kids are temporarily entertained by whatever they've been given, and the entire room is covered in wrapping paper, I breathe a temporary sigh of relief and head back to the bar. Not too soon after, someone decides it's time for dessert. Plates upon trays are brought out from somewhere and arranged on the table. At this point, Joe and my dad head out to the back porch to smoke cigars, where they are soon joined by Adam. It takes about two minutes for the discussion to turn to politics, and another minute until those of us inside can hear them yelling at each other. Joe is a Republican, and Adam is a raging liberal Democrat, and my Dad sits there and mediates the both of them, keeping quiet until he drops in a comment that neither of them can respond to. To which they acknowledge for a moment, and then start arguing again.
Meanwhile, inside, everyone else has attacked the desserts, despite the fact that everyone is moaning about how full they are and how much food there was. There is coffee and tea, but mostly everyone is still hitting the bar. Hard.
Another inexplicable tradition of Christmas that I have never been able to find a reason or origin for is the Pickle. It dates back to when my grandmother had Christmas Eve at her house, and she had all these tacky ornaments on her tree, one being a metallic pickle. Every year, she would hang slash hide the ornament on her tree somewhere, and we kids (back then my brother, cousins, and I were the "kids") had to find it. First one to find it won a big scratch ticket and got to keep whatever the prize money was. Apparently there was never any objection, much less a raised eyebrow, at the encouragement of gambling from a young age. So my grandmother would say the word, and the Broseph, Adam, Shannon, and I would scour the tree, elbowing and shoving each other out of the way trying to find it. Whoever did spot it would dive for it with a yell, wrench it off the tree in a shower of plastic pine needles (my grandmother has never had a real tree), and most likely knock the tree over before emerging, victorious. He or she would be awarded with one of those big scratch tickets, while the rest of us losers would receive consolation prizes of smaller scratch tickets. The irony would be when one of the losers would end up winning more money off the ticket than the actual winner did. I have many a happy memory of going to the 7-11 on the day after Christmas before we headed home so my Dad could redeem my $1 or $2 winnings.
So, back to the present. (Do you see what I did there? Present? Christmas? I'm so clever) Now that we "kids" are older and there is a younger bunch of kids, we do two rounds. Brooke, Jay, and Joey get a turn of their own first, and they have embraced the tradition with true dedication and violence. Then, Broseph, Adam, Lucy, Shannon, and her girlfriend, Kathy (breaking the news of a lesbian in the family to my grandmother is a story for another time), and I get our turn. Luckily, the tree at my aunt and uncle's house is huge, so we can all hunt around without killing each other. Also fortunately, we're (somewhat) past the age of wrestling each other to find it, because if the tree got knocked down, it would probably kill someone, not to mention take out a window. For the record, I never win. Ever. Last year, my father committed the sacrilege of accidently breaking the pickle. We have managed to keep this a secret from my grandmother, and as far as I know, it's been replaced.
Now, for the climax of the evening. Joe has installed a sound system in the house that has speakers in literally every room of the first floor. Someone, though it remains a mystery to me exactly who, puts music on. But not just any music. Oh no. Almost any other music would be tolerable.
Barry White's Greatest Hits.
Every.
Fucking.
Year.
We'll all be sitting around, finishing off dessert, chatting and actually enjoying each other's company now that we're drunk enough to do so (or maybe that's just me), and suddenly the first notes of "Can't Get Enough Of Your Love" will start blasting. As if on cue, my mother and her sisters and Shannon and Kathy will scream with delight and jump into action. Someone hits the lights in the kitchen and pushes furniture out of the way, and they all start dancing like idiots while singing along. Adam and I have tried every year to hide, throw away, burn, destroy, et cetera the CD, but to no avail. Either they have an unlimited supply of copies, or the fucking thing is immortal. After they've made it through all ten (yes, there are ten Barry White songs that are considered hits, I was pretty shocked myself) of the godforsaken songs, someone throws on a mix CD of 70's disco songs, and they're off again.
The whole ordeal lasts for probably an hour. By this point, all the men have fled down to the basement to watch ESPN. I attempt to creep down to join them, but am usually spotted by one of the dancing women, who grab me and drag me into the dancing circle. After I get tossed and spun around a few times, I take advantage of one opportunity and spin myself right out of the circle, full-on sprint towards the basement door, and hurl myself down the stairs before they can catch me.
I should have mentioned first that my mother and her sisters have a freakish obsession with karaoke, which explains why any activity that involves singing slash dancing around drives them wild. For my aunt Lynne and her husband Larry's anniversary a few years ago, they rented out a room at some Chinese restaurant in the Lower East Side that had its own karaoke machine. It also had a $500 alcohol minimum. One of the high points of the evening involved my mother drunk dialing one of my friends and singing karaoke to her over the phone.
Exhibit A:
My dad and brother, who weren't able to make it to that blessed event, didn't believe me until I showed them that picture. If my mother knew that it was on the internet, she'd probably have my head on a platter, but the truth needs to come out, dammit!
Anyway, after the dancing horror, the night has pretty much hit its peak. Eventually, everyone starts organizing their belongings and heading out. My family heads back to my grandmother's in Fairfield, Connecticut to retire for the night. Luckily, the majority of ridiculousness has passed, but there's still plenty to come on Christmas day...
To be continued...
After everything has been opened, the kids are temporarily entertained by whatever they've been given, and the entire room is covered in wrapping paper, I breathe a temporary sigh of relief and head back to the bar. Not too soon after, someone decides it's time for dessert. Plates upon trays are brought out from somewhere and arranged on the table. At this point, Joe and my dad head out to the back porch to smoke cigars, where they are soon joined by Adam. It takes about two minutes for the discussion to turn to politics, and another minute until those of us inside can hear them yelling at each other. Joe is a Republican, and Adam is a raging liberal Democrat, and my Dad sits there and mediates the both of them, keeping quiet until he drops in a comment that neither of them can respond to. To which they acknowledge for a moment, and then start arguing again.
Meanwhile, inside, everyone else has attacked the desserts, despite the fact that everyone is moaning about how full they are and how much food there was. There is coffee and tea, but mostly everyone is still hitting the bar. Hard.
Another inexplicable tradition of Christmas that I have never been able to find a reason or origin for is the Pickle. It dates back to when my grandmother had Christmas Eve at her house, and she had all these tacky ornaments on her tree, one being a metallic pickle. Every year, she would hang slash hide the ornament on her tree somewhere, and we kids (back then my brother, cousins, and I were the "kids") had to find it. First one to find it won a big scratch ticket and got to keep whatever the prize money was. Apparently there was never any objection, much less a raised eyebrow, at the encouragement of gambling from a young age. So my grandmother would say the word, and the Broseph, Adam, Shannon, and I would scour the tree, elbowing and shoving each other out of the way trying to find it. Whoever did spot it would dive for it with a yell, wrench it off the tree in a shower of plastic pine needles (my grandmother has never had a real tree), and most likely knock the tree over before emerging, victorious. He or she would be awarded with one of those big scratch tickets, while the rest of us losers would receive consolation prizes of smaller scratch tickets. The irony would be when one of the losers would end up winning more money off the ticket than the actual winner did. I have many a happy memory of going to the 7-11 on the day after Christmas before we headed home so my Dad could redeem my $1 or $2 winnings.
So, back to the present. (Do you see what I did there? Present? Christmas? I'm so clever) Now that we "kids" are older and there is a younger bunch of kids, we do two rounds. Brooke, Jay, and Joey get a turn of their own first, and they have embraced the tradition with true dedication and violence. Then, Broseph, Adam, Lucy, Shannon, and her girlfriend, Kathy (breaking the news of a lesbian in the family to my grandmother is a story for another time), and I get our turn. Luckily, the tree at my aunt and uncle's house is huge, so we can all hunt around without killing each other. Also fortunately, we're (somewhat) past the age of wrestling each other to find it, because if the tree got knocked down, it would probably kill someone, not to mention take out a window. For the record, I never win. Ever. Last year, my father committed the sacrilege of accidently breaking the pickle. We have managed to keep this a secret from my grandmother, and as far as I know, it's been replaced.
Now, for the climax of the evening. Joe has installed a sound system in the house that has speakers in literally every room of the first floor. Someone, though it remains a mystery to me exactly who, puts music on. But not just any music. Oh no. Almost any other music would be tolerable.
Barry White's Greatest Hits.
Every.
Fucking.
Year.
We'll all be sitting around, finishing off dessert, chatting and actually enjoying each other's company now that we're drunk enough to do so (or maybe that's just me), and suddenly the first notes of "Can't Get Enough Of Your Love" will start blasting. As if on cue, my mother and her sisters and Shannon and Kathy will scream with delight and jump into action. Someone hits the lights in the kitchen and pushes furniture out of the way, and they all start dancing like idiots while singing along. Adam and I have tried every year to hide, throw away, burn, destroy, et cetera the CD, but to no avail. Either they have an unlimited supply of copies, or the fucking thing is immortal. After they've made it through all ten (yes, there are ten Barry White songs that are considered hits, I was pretty shocked myself) of the godforsaken songs, someone throws on a mix CD of 70's disco songs, and they're off again.
The whole ordeal lasts for probably an hour. By this point, all the men have fled down to the basement to watch ESPN. I attempt to creep down to join them, but am usually spotted by one of the dancing women, who grab me and drag me into the dancing circle. After I get tossed and spun around a few times, I take advantage of one opportunity and spin myself right out of the circle, full-on sprint towards the basement door, and hurl myself down the stairs before they can catch me.
I should have mentioned first that my mother and her sisters have a freakish obsession with karaoke, which explains why any activity that involves singing slash dancing around drives them wild. For my aunt Lynne and her husband Larry's anniversary a few years ago, they rented out a room at some Chinese restaurant in the Lower East Side that had its own karaoke machine. It also had a $500 alcohol minimum. One of the high points of the evening involved my mother drunk dialing one of my friends and singing karaoke to her over the phone.
Exhibit A:
My dad and brother, who weren't able to make it to that blessed event, didn't believe me until I showed them that picture. If my mother knew that it was on the internet, she'd probably have my head on a platter, but the truth needs to come out, dammit!
Anyway, after the dancing horror, the night has pretty much hit its peak. Eventually, everyone starts organizing their belongings and heading out. My family heads back to my grandmother's in Fairfield, Connecticut to retire for the night. Luckily, the majority of ridiculousness has passed, but there's still plenty to come on Christmas day...
To be continued...
And Now, Your Daily Dose of Entertainment...
Courtesy of Overheard In New York:
Dude #1: Yo, check it out: this chick in the lecture I was just in -- huge tits, bro.
Dude #2: Yeah?
Dude #1: Yeah. Fucking bombs.
Dude #2: That's it? That's the story? I mean, I like tits, but there's gotta be a point to a story, man.
Dude #1, after long pause: ... Fag.
--Kimmel Center, NYU
Seven-year-old on cell: Emily, I've been trying to call you, like, three times! Are you still mad at me about... [looks around crowded bus and lowers his voice] ... you know...?
--Shuttle bus, Flushing
Guy #1: God, this girl is a terrible text messenger. Look at this -- it doesn't make any sense!
Guy #2: Yeah.
Guy #1: You love texting, though, right?
Guy #2: Yeah, and it's only gonna get worse when I get my BlackBerry. I plan to cut off voice communication altogether.
--The Burger Joint
[Ed. note: Story of my life.]
Gay barista with asymmetrically-fashioned hair: Oh, yeah, I had really fancy ear bud headphones, too... But then I dropped them in a puddle of my own vomit on the subway, so now I have cheap ones. Yeah, that sucked.
--Bushwick Ave, East Williamsburg
Tourist kid: Look! The Empire State Building!
Tourist mom: Where? I don't see it.
tourist kid: The big, pointy one!
Tourist mom: Oooh, let's take a picture!
Passerby: That's the Chrysler Building, you fucking niggers.
--Outside NYC Public Library
Happy Holidays!
Dude #1: Yo, check it out: this chick in the lecture I was just in -- huge tits, bro.
Dude #2: Yeah?
Dude #1: Yeah. Fucking bombs.
Dude #2: That's it? That's the story? I mean, I like tits, but there's gotta be a point to a story, man.
Dude #1, after long pause: ... Fag.
--Kimmel Center, NYU
Seven-year-old on cell: Emily, I've been trying to call you, like, three times! Are you still mad at me about... [looks around crowded bus and lowers his voice] ... you know...?
--Shuttle bus, Flushing
Guy #1: God, this girl is a terrible text messenger. Look at this -- it doesn't make any sense!
Guy #2: Yeah.
Guy #1: You love texting, though, right?
Guy #2: Yeah, and it's only gonna get worse when I get my BlackBerry. I plan to cut off voice communication altogether.
--The Burger Joint
[Ed. note: Story of my life.]
Gay barista with asymmetrically-fashioned hair: Oh, yeah, I had really fancy ear bud headphones, too... But then I dropped them in a puddle of my own vomit on the subway, so now I have cheap ones. Yeah, that sucked.
--Bushwick Ave, East Williamsburg
Tourist kid: Look! The Empire State Building!
Tourist mom: Where? I don't see it.
tourist kid: The big, pointy one!
Tourist mom: Oooh, let's take a picture!
Passerby: That's the Chrysler Building, you fucking niggers.
--Outside NYC Public Library
Happy Holidays!
Saturday, December 15, 2007
Chivalry Is Dead, But Sometimes Revives Itself Briefly
Thursday night, my roommates and some friends and I went out to a bar that is notorious for being the watering hole of preppy, yuppie, "young professionals" or so they are sometimes called. I know what you're thinking..."So why in God's name would you go there?" Well, because last time they had a pretty decent live band and we actually had a pretty good time.
Second time around: not so much. It wasn't nearly as crowded as it was previously, which normally would be something I'd prefer. I hate, hate, hate, overcrowded bars where you can't move or breathe and you get someone's elbow to the face or drink spilled on you every time you turn around. Especially when it's one of those crowds where, being a girl, you get looked up and down by every single dude as you're walking through the crowd just trying to find the goddamn bathroom.
So, it wasn't crowded. And it wasn't fun. We found ourselves to be somewhat bored. Out of nowhere, this pretty drunk guy stumbles over and starts asking me if he can buy me a drink, to which I (politely) decline. He is persistent. Won't leave me alone. I'm trying watch the Bruins game on the TV, and there is only so much a girl can take. At one point, I actually turn around to get back to the game, which apparently sets him off. He flips out and starts yelling obscenities at me before storming away. One of my roommates, Ganz, witnessed the entire episode and wants to go after him and punch him, but I convinced her not to. I didn't want her to get kicked out, even though I was significantly shaken up. I can honestly say that I've never been verbally assaulted by a guy just because I rejected him at a bar. It was obscene, and made me feel rather ill.
About twenty minutes later, one of my other roommates arrives with her boyfriend, Dan, who is also one of my good friends and lived with me in London. Ganz is still heated about the situation, and immediately tells them what happened. They are both horrified, and Dan decides he's going to go say something to the Asshole, who is now stumbling around the bar. I am not sure this is a good idea, because I really just wanted to forget about the whole thing, not to mention the guy is about twice Dan's size. But he's determined.
So he approaches the Asshole and taps him on the shoulder. At this point I stopped watching, but a few minutes later, the Asshole comes over to me and apologizes profusely. He offers to buy me a drink (again) to make up for it, but at this point I want nothing more to do with him, so I say no. He leaves.
I thanked Dan over and over, not simply for getting the Asshole to apologize, because frankly I didn't care, but because he was not only willing to "protect" me, if that's even the right word, but determined to do so. I'm not the type of girl that swoons when a guy opens a door for me or picks up the check, but the fact that he certainly didn't have to do it but insisted on doing it anyway really struck me. Most of my guy friends from home, who are practically family to me, probably wouldn't have done the same. Not because they don't care about me as much as Dan does, but because it simply wouldn't have occurred to them. And if it did, they would have taken the guy outside, punched him a couple times in the face, and called it a night. And probably would have gotten arrested in the process. (They are the type of guys that love to get in fights. Obnoxious.)
Moral of the story? Not sure exactly. This is not one of those "hint, hint, guys: this is what you SHOULD be doing" stories. Rather, just an instance that I was touched by and felt it deserved to be shared.
Also, this is what I get for trying to watch a hockey game at a bar. Fuck.
Second time around: not so much. It wasn't nearly as crowded as it was previously, which normally would be something I'd prefer. I hate, hate, hate, overcrowded bars where you can't move or breathe and you get someone's elbow to the face or drink spilled on you every time you turn around. Especially when it's one of those crowds where, being a girl, you get looked up and down by every single dude as you're walking through the crowd just trying to find the goddamn bathroom.
So, it wasn't crowded. And it wasn't fun. We found ourselves to be somewhat bored. Out of nowhere, this pretty drunk guy stumbles over and starts asking me if he can buy me a drink, to which I (politely) decline. He is persistent. Won't leave me alone. I'm trying watch the Bruins game on the TV, and there is only so much a girl can take. At one point, I actually turn around to get back to the game, which apparently sets him off. He flips out and starts yelling obscenities at me before storming away. One of my roommates, Ganz, witnessed the entire episode and wants to go after him and punch him, but I convinced her not to. I didn't want her to get kicked out, even though I was significantly shaken up. I can honestly say that I've never been verbally assaulted by a guy just because I rejected him at a bar. It was obscene, and made me feel rather ill.
About twenty minutes later, one of my other roommates arrives with her boyfriend, Dan, who is also one of my good friends and lived with me in London. Ganz is still heated about the situation, and immediately tells them what happened. They are both horrified, and Dan decides he's going to go say something to the Asshole, who is now stumbling around the bar. I am not sure this is a good idea, because I really just wanted to forget about the whole thing, not to mention the guy is about twice Dan's size. But he's determined.
So he approaches the Asshole and taps him on the shoulder. At this point I stopped watching, but a few minutes later, the Asshole comes over to me and apologizes profusely. He offers to buy me a drink (again) to make up for it, but at this point I want nothing more to do with him, so I say no. He leaves.
I thanked Dan over and over, not simply for getting the Asshole to apologize, because frankly I didn't care, but because he was not only willing to "protect" me, if that's even the right word, but determined to do so. I'm not the type of girl that swoons when a guy opens a door for me or picks up the check, but the fact that he certainly didn't have to do it but insisted on doing it anyway really struck me. Most of my guy friends from home, who are practically family to me, probably wouldn't have done the same. Not because they don't care about me as much as Dan does, but because it simply wouldn't have occurred to them. And if it did, they would have taken the guy outside, punched him a couple times in the face, and called it a night. And probably would have gotten arrested in the process. (They are the type of guys that love to get in fights. Obnoxious.)
Moral of the story? Not sure exactly. This is not one of those "hint, hint, guys: this is what you SHOULD be doing" stories. Rather, just an instance that I was touched by and felt it deserved to be shared.
Also, this is what I get for trying to watch a hockey game at a bar. Fuck.
Friday, December 14, 2007
Wednesday, December 12, 2007
Ho, Ho, Ho: A Preview, Part I
Since tis the season, and I will soon be returning home to Boston for the holidays, I figured now was a good a time as any to give you all a glimpse into the ridiculousfest that is Christmas with my family. If you know my family, depending on how well, you will either be completely surprised or completely understanding, and most likely laughing at me. I preface this by saying that my family, most of the time, is extremely WASPy. I could delve more into that, but I’ll save it for another time. Also, everything is 100% true. I swear, I could not make this shit up. So without further ado, an itinerary of the holiday events in store for me:
Prologue
For my entire life, we have celebrated the actual Christmas day with my mother’s side of the family, located in Connecticut. When my brother and I were little, my parents decided that it wasn’t really fair that we didn’t get to have a real Christmas morning, with the whole Santa coming down the chimney ordeal, and opening presents under our own tree in our own house. So, along with the legacy of Santa Claus, my brother and I were told that my parents had written a letter to Santa, asking him to come to our house a day early, on the 24th. Hence, we had our “Christmas Morning” technically on Christmas Eve. The fact that I fell for that is just a testament to what a bright child I was, but I do remember thinking the rest of my friends were suckers because I got all my presents a day early.
So, morning of the 24th, my parents, brother and I open presents from each other. This process has evolved from my brother and I getting up obscenely early, ravaged with excitement, and waking up our parents, to now our parents dragging us out of bed at what I deem an obscene hour when I’m on vacation, 9am. Another tradition has been that our parents would go downstairs first, and my brother and I would have to wait, eagerly sitting at the top of the stairs, for them to say they were ready. This was usually because my dad would set up the camera so he could take our picture/video when we first came down the stairs, and probably so they both could make themselves a cup of coffee. I used to think it was because they didn’t actually put out the presents until then, but one year I snuck down early and discovered that theory was false.
Believe it or not, they still make us do this. If, by some miracle, we do manage to drag ourselves out of bed on our own accord, we’re still forced to wait at the top of the stairs until our parents are “ready”. Except now, usually both of them are already down there, on their second cup of coffee, and yelling up the stairs at my brother and I to get out of bed and come down.
So, we finally make it down there and open presents. Nice, right? It used to be. A couple years ago, my mom created a system when she bought presents for us (my dad included). The system being, that they had to be opened in a certain order. So on each wrapped gift, there would be a tag with a number, and my mom would have a corresponding list that had each number and what gift it was. The original idea behind this was, I think, for when we would get one “big” present, and she would want us to save it for last, or if there were a couple gifts that were somehow related to one another. However, it kind of takes the fun out of the whole process when you’re gleefully grabbing a present to open, only to have your mother ask, “What number?!” And then scramble to put her glasses on, peer at the list, which she can barely read, and then say, “No, no, don’t open that. Open something else.”
“Uh, okay. How about…7.”
“Hmm. No, not that one either.”
“4?”
“No. Try and find 2.”
Sounds like a blast right? Chock full of merriment. So after the rousing round of gift-opening, we have breakfast together. Great. And then as we’re wrapping up, my mom will suddenly look at her watch and realize that we are incredibly behind schedule and everyone needs to get moving because we have to be in the car and on the road in no less than an hour. Which then results in my brother and I sprinting to get in the shower, and usually battling over who gets to go first. I always win because I, being female, have the burden of needing to blow-dry my hair. Victory for women everywhere!
Somewhere between an hour and a half to two hours later, we are finally packed and in the car. Broseph and I are crammed in the backseat, which should normally be a comfortable ride since my dad has a pretty nice car, but not on this occasion because we are crammed in with bags full of gifts, platters of food or some kind of dessert, and usually a plant of some kind that my mom is giving as a hostess gift to someone.
Nine times out of ten, usually right when we’re merging into traffic on the highway, my mother will suddenly gasp frantically upon realizing that she’s forgotten something that is so important we have to turn around and go back. My dad at this point is already grumbling because he was the first one ready and waiting in the car, and Broseph is grumbling because he has to sit through the ride in pants and a tie. We all have to be dressed for the evening’s festivities when we get in the car since we’re going directly to said festivities’ locale. Do not stop, do not pass Go. I, however, am completely content since I’m in my sweats. No way in hell am I sitting through a three hour car ride curled into a 2’x2’ area in tights, a dress, and heels, thank you very much. And although it means that once we get close to our destination, I have to somehow perform a miracle change and finagle myself into the outfit, it’s worth it.
So, my dad speeds home while my mom is white-knuckling the armrest, I usually am elected the one to run back inside the house and grab it since I’m wearing moveable clothing, and then we’re pulling back out of the drive for the second time. After a brief stop at Dunkin Donuts for coffee (priorities), we finally get on the highway and start the trip, at which point my brother and I promptly put on our ipods and tune out.
Chapter 1
Our destination on Christmas Eve is the home of my aunt and uncle, Tracey and Joe, who live in a palatial estate in Westchester, New York. I babysit for their three kids, my cousins, pretty often and I love going to their place because it’s so huge I get my own wing of the house, they have a pool and hot tub, and my uncle is an absolutely amazing cook. Of course, being how close in proximity they live to Manhattan, it would make a whole lot more sense every year if I just stayed in the city until the 24th, then hopped on a train, instead of schlepping all my stuff all the way home, only to turn around and come almost all the way back two days later. But, of course that would mean I would miss out on the Callahan Family Christmas Morning, so it is Not An Option.
We are always the last ones to get there, without fail. As soon as we pull out of the driveway, two of my three cousins come tearing out the front door, screaming our arrival. Joey is the youngest, at 8, Brooke is 12, and Jay is 14. Brooke, and I say this only because its true, is obsessed with me. She has told her mom, and apparently anyone who will listen, that she wants to be just like me when she gets older, because I am “perfect”. Don’t ask me how she came to that conclusion. It’s a mystery. And I don’t think I have to worry about her becoming just like me, because, at 13, she’s already prettier than me and much less of a bitch.
We make it inside, where everyone else is waiting. We make the rounds saying hello to everyone, answering the same “how was the ride?” question a million times, and when we’ve finally got our coats off, drinks in hand, and my mom is safely ensconced in the dining room creating a flower arrangement for the table centerpiece, the real fun begins.
First and foremost, there is the eating. Platters upon platters of hors d’oeuvres before we’ve even sat down for dinner. My uncle cooks everything on Christmas Eve, and its one hell of a production. Joe is this huge, Italian, hulk of a man, and like I said, he’s a fabulous cook. They redid their house a few years ago, and now have this unbelievable kitchen with two refrigerators, two ovens, and a full griddle, not to mention a full bar. He spends pretty much the entire night in the kitchen, even when the rest of us are eating dinner, and it’s almost impossible to get him to sit down at the table.
The cocktail hour is really when the most energy is required. Everyone is asking a million questions about school, and work, and the film I produced, and plans for next year, and my roommates, and New York, etc etc etc. Usually I can anticipate most of the questions beforehand and come up with acceptable answers for them before I get there so I’m adequately prepared. My cousin Adam and his girlfriend (and soon to be fiancée, we hope) Lucy, also live in the city, and they can usually be some kind of a buffer. They were actually crucial in helping me get my first apartment, when my parents didn’t want me to live somewhere without a doorman. Adam and Lucy were able to back me up in convincing them that it was completely unnecessary and most people don’t have doormen, anyway.
The cocktail hour is also, understandably, when we (okay, I) drink the most, and I constantly have to remind myself that the evening is a marathon, not a sprint. With the barrage of questions, the amount of times I take a sip of a drink just to stall an answer or fill an awkward silence would alone be enough to get me sufficiently buzzed. Luckily, I am not alone. Everyone except for my grandmother and the kids, and usually my dad, are tipsy by the time dinner rolls around. Especially my mother, all 98lbs of her, who tosses back gin and tonics and mojitos like water.
We finally sit down to dinner, which consists of seven, count ‘em, SEVEN courses. I kid you not. Including: antipasto, meatball soup, salad, ceviche, some sort of shrimp dish, manicotti, and chicken in some form, Oh, and later, there’s dessert. Luckily, I don’t eat seafood so I don’t have to participate in every course. But even so, its an obscene amount of food. After we’ve been eating hors d’oeuvres for an hour and a half. And like I said, my uncle spends most of the time in the kitchen, whether preparing for the next course, cleaning up from the previous one, making more of something, etc. Meanwhile, the rest of us are crammed around the dining room table, there’s ten different conversations flying around the room, and boy are we LOUD. Complete chaos.
You’d think that after such a big dinner, everyone would relax with coffee and maybe a platter of cookies before eventually making their ways out the door. Oh no, my friend. If only. After dinner, the night is but half over and the real entertainment is yet to come.
To be continued…
Prologue
For my entire life, we have celebrated the actual Christmas day with my mother’s side of the family, located in Connecticut. When my brother and I were little, my parents decided that it wasn’t really fair that we didn’t get to have a real Christmas morning, with the whole Santa coming down the chimney ordeal, and opening presents under our own tree in our own house. So, along with the legacy of Santa Claus, my brother and I were told that my parents had written a letter to Santa, asking him to come to our house a day early, on the 24th. Hence, we had our “Christmas Morning” technically on Christmas Eve. The fact that I fell for that is just a testament to what a bright child I was, but I do remember thinking the rest of my friends were suckers because I got all my presents a day early.
So, morning of the 24th, my parents, brother and I open presents from each other. This process has evolved from my brother and I getting up obscenely early, ravaged with excitement, and waking up our parents, to now our parents dragging us out of bed at what I deem an obscene hour when I’m on vacation, 9am. Another tradition has been that our parents would go downstairs first, and my brother and I would have to wait, eagerly sitting at the top of the stairs, for them to say they were ready. This was usually because my dad would set up the camera so he could take our picture/video when we first came down the stairs, and probably so they both could make themselves a cup of coffee. I used to think it was because they didn’t actually put out the presents until then, but one year I snuck down early and discovered that theory was false.
Believe it or not, they still make us do this. If, by some miracle, we do manage to drag ourselves out of bed on our own accord, we’re still forced to wait at the top of the stairs until our parents are “ready”. Except now, usually both of them are already down there, on their second cup of coffee, and yelling up the stairs at my brother and I to get out of bed and come down.
So, we finally make it down there and open presents. Nice, right? It used to be. A couple years ago, my mom created a system when she bought presents for us (my dad included). The system being, that they had to be opened in a certain order. So on each wrapped gift, there would be a tag with a number, and my mom would have a corresponding list that had each number and what gift it was. The original idea behind this was, I think, for when we would get one “big” present, and she would want us to save it for last, or if there were a couple gifts that were somehow related to one another. However, it kind of takes the fun out of the whole process when you’re gleefully grabbing a present to open, only to have your mother ask, “What number?!” And then scramble to put her glasses on, peer at the list, which she can barely read, and then say, “No, no, don’t open that. Open something else.”
“Uh, okay. How about…7.”
“Hmm. No, not that one either.”
“4?”
“No. Try and find 2.”
Sounds like a blast right? Chock full of merriment. So after the rousing round of gift-opening, we have breakfast together. Great. And then as we’re wrapping up, my mom will suddenly look at her watch and realize that we are incredibly behind schedule and everyone needs to get moving because we have to be in the car and on the road in no less than an hour. Which then results in my brother and I sprinting to get in the shower, and usually battling over who gets to go first. I always win because I, being female, have the burden of needing to blow-dry my hair. Victory for women everywhere!
Somewhere between an hour and a half to two hours later, we are finally packed and in the car. Broseph and I are crammed in the backseat, which should normally be a comfortable ride since my dad has a pretty nice car, but not on this occasion because we are crammed in with bags full of gifts, platters of food or some kind of dessert, and usually a plant of some kind that my mom is giving as a hostess gift to someone.
Nine times out of ten, usually right when we’re merging into traffic on the highway, my mother will suddenly gasp frantically upon realizing that she’s forgotten something that is so important we have to turn around and go back. My dad at this point is already grumbling because he was the first one ready and waiting in the car, and Broseph is grumbling because he has to sit through the ride in pants and a tie. We all have to be dressed for the evening’s festivities when we get in the car since we’re going directly to said festivities’ locale. Do not stop, do not pass Go. I, however, am completely content since I’m in my sweats. No way in hell am I sitting through a three hour car ride curled into a 2’x2’ area in tights, a dress, and heels, thank you very much. And although it means that once we get close to our destination, I have to somehow perform a miracle change and finagle myself into the outfit, it’s worth it.
So, my dad speeds home while my mom is white-knuckling the armrest, I usually am elected the one to run back inside the house and grab it since I’m wearing moveable clothing, and then we’re pulling back out of the drive for the second time. After a brief stop at Dunkin Donuts for coffee (priorities), we finally get on the highway and start the trip, at which point my brother and I promptly put on our ipods and tune out.
Chapter 1
Our destination on Christmas Eve is the home of my aunt and uncle, Tracey and Joe, who live in a palatial estate in Westchester, New York. I babysit for their three kids, my cousins, pretty often and I love going to their place because it’s so huge I get my own wing of the house, they have a pool and hot tub, and my uncle is an absolutely amazing cook. Of course, being how close in proximity they live to Manhattan, it would make a whole lot more sense every year if I just stayed in the city until the 24th, then hopped on a train, instead of schlepping all my stuff all the way home, only to turn around and come almost all the way back two days later. But, of course that would mean I would miss out on the Callahan Family Christmas Morning, so it is Not An Option.
We are always the last ones to get there, without fail. As soon as we pull out of the driveway, two of my three cousins come tearing out the front door, screaming our arrival. Joey is the youngest, at 8, Brooke is 12, and Jay is 14. Brooke, and I say this only because its true, is obsessed with me. She has told her mom, and apparently anyone who will listen, that she wants to be just like me when she gets older, because I am “perfect”. Don’t ask me how she came to that conclusion. It’s a mystery. And I don’t think I have to worry about her becoming just like me, because, at 13, she’s already prettier than me and much less of a bitch.
We make it inside, where everyone else is waiting. We make the rounds saying hello to everyone, answering the same “how was the ride?” question a million times, and when we’ve finally got our coats off, drinks in hand, and my mom is safely ensconced in the dining room creating a flower arrangement for the table centerpiece, the real fun begins.
First and foremost, there is the eating. Platters upon platters of hors d’oeuvres before we’ve even sat down for dinner. My uncle cooks everything on Christmas Eve, and its one hell of a production. Joe is this huge, Italian, hulk of a man, and like I said, he’s a fabulous cook. They redid their house a few years ago, and now have this unbelievable kitchen with two refrigerators, two ovens, and a full griddle, not to mention a full bar. He spends pretty much the entire night in the kitchen, even when the rest of us are eating dinner, and it’s almost impossible to get him to sit down at the table.
The cocktail hour is really when the most energy is required. Everyone is asking a million questions about school, and work, and the film I produced, and plans for next year, and my roommates, and New York, etc etc etc. Usually I can anticipate most of the questions beforehand and come up with acceptable answers for them before I get there so I’m adequately prepared. My cousin Adam and his girlfriend (and soon to be fiancée, we hope) Lucy, also live in the city, and they can usually be some kind of a buffer. They were actually crucial in helping me get my first apartment, when my parents didn’t want me to live somewhere without a doorman. Adam and Lucy were able to back me up in convincing them that it was completely unnecessary and most people don’t have doormen, anyway.
The cocktail hour is also, understandably, when we (okay, I) drink the most, and I constantly have to remind myself that the evening is a marathon, not a sprint. With the barrage of questions, the amount of times I take a sip of a drink just to stall an answer or fill an awkward silence would alone be enough to get me sufficiently buzzed. Luckily, I am not alone. Everyone except for my grandmother and the kids, and usually my dad, are tipsy by the time dinner rolls around. Especially my mother, all 98lbs of her, who tosses back gin and tonics and mojitos like water.
We finally sit down to dinner, which consists of seven, count ‘em, SEVEN courses. I kid you not. Including: antipasto, meatball soup, salad, ceviche, some sort of shrimp dish, manicotti, and chicken in some form, Oh, and later, there’s dessert. Luckily, I don’t eat seafood so I don’t have to participate in every course. But even so, its an obscene amount of food. After we’ve been eating hors d’oeuvres for an hour and a half. And like I said, my uncle spends most of the time in the kitchen, whether preparing for the next course, cleaning up from the previous one, making more of something, etc. Meanwhile, the rest of us are crammed around the dining room table, there’s ten different conversations flying around the room, and boy are we LOUD. Complete chaos.
You’d think that after such a big dinner, everyone would relax with coffee and maybe a platter of cookies before eventually making their ways out the door. Oh no, my friend. If only. After dinner, the night is but half over and the real entertainment is yet to come.
To be continued…
Monday, December 10, 2007
Excuses, Excuses and the Procrastination Solvent
Why I Know I'm In The Right Business, Exhibit #327628:
After being thirty minutes late to meet me one afternoon, a colleague rushes in and explains, only half-apologetically, "Sorry I'm late, I was having lunch with Javier Bardem."
---------------
Meanwhile, if you, like me, are a procrastinating champ and/or if you are, also like me, someone who can not get any work done without music playing in the background, this will be your saving grace next time you need to accomplish anything work or study-related. [Courtesy of HackCollege via LifeHacker]
After being thirty minutes late to meet me one afternoon, a colleague rushes in and explains, only half-apologetically, "Sorry I'm late, I was having lunch with Javier Bardem."
---------------
Meanwhile, if you, like me, are a procrastinating champ and/or if you are, also like me, someone who can not get any work done without music playing in the background, this will be your saving grace next time you need to accomplish anything work or study-related. [Courtesy of HackCollege via LifeHacker]
The Writer's Strike Is Ruining My Life, Part I
Before I say anything, I feel it necessary to clarify: I AM A WRITER. My degree is in screenwriting, with a concentration in television writing. I've been writing since I could pick up a pen. I wrote my first play when I was six. (My mom and I starred in it. For the record, my dad thought it was phenomenal. It had 8 lines.) I've always identified myself as a writer, until I started identifying myself as a producer.
That being said, it's also important to note that I work and study in this business, and have been hearing about nothing but the strike for months now; even before it started and it was just a rumor, everyone was talking about it. So let's just say I know my fair share about what the issues are. And yes, I think the argument of the writers is grounded in a worthwhile cause. They deserve to get paid for their work like everyone else. It's no one's fault that none of these issues were in their contract before because no one can predict how successful new forms of media can be. Fair enough.
However. HOW-FUCKING-EVER. What are they fighting over, really? They want 2.5%. That's the number they're going for, which can be pennies to some people and millions to others. Is it fair that the same people who get pennies have to be out of work and
support their families at the risk of losing their homes, cars, children's education? At this time of year?
"Well, that's what being in a union is all about, unity through good times and bad." Alright, fair enough. But what about people who aren't in the union but are forced to be unemployed because of the strike? Like crew members? Who, for the record, don't get paid all too well either, in most cases.
And here's the kicker. When the strike is all said and done and finally a deal is reached, whenever the hell that may be, I'll let you in on a little secret. They ain't gonna get 2.5%. Studios and producers are not going to just give them what they want. So we're looking at something in the middle, like 1.25%.
1.25%.
People are out of work for months, millions of dollars are lost, some people's careers could be permanently ruined. For 1.25%.
So how is this affecting me? Well, who knows when this will all end, but I can cross that bridge when I come to it. I currently work for a talent agency, the name of which I'd rather not share. But we represent a lot of actors, big and small, as well as producers, directors, writers, authors (there's a difference), comedians, etc. And yes, business is still running because there are plenty of scripts that have already been written, in terms of film. (The film industry will most likely not feel the effects of the strike) But for all the people we cast in television, we're beginning to hit a wall. Things are getting quiet. Really quiet. And we all know what that means...less business=less money. Not good.
So before this gets any more lengthy, let me summarize why, exactly, the strike sucks. People outside of the industry don't comprehend how many people this effects.
So the writers aren't working and the producers aren't working --> crew isn't working -->actors aren't working -->agents aren't working --> agencies aren't getting a lot of business --> ME=FUCKED.
So yes, the argument of the writers is legit. But will it be worth it in the long run? Only time will tell. Personally, I think the answer is no. And in the mean time, it's making my life hell. And obviously, I am the most important person IN THE WORLD.
That being said, it's also important to note that I work and study in this business, and have been hearing about nothing but the strike for months now; even before it started and it was just a rumor, everyone was talking about it. So let's just say I know my fair share about what the issues are. And yes, I think the argument of the writers is grounded in a worthwhile cause. They deserve to get paid for their work like everyone else. It's no one's fault that none of these issues were in their contract before because no one can predict how successful new forms of media can be. Fair enough.
However. HOW-FUCKING-EVER. What are they fighting over, really? They want 2.5%. That's the number they're going for, which can be pennies to some people and millions to others. Is it fair that the same people who get pennies have to be out of work and
support their families at the risk of losing their homes, cars, children's education? At this time of year?
"Well, that's what being in a union is all about, unity through good times and bad." Alright, fair enough. But what about people who aren't in the union but are forced to be unemployed because of the strike? Like crew members? Who, for the record, don't get paid all too well either, in most cases.
And here's the kicker. When the strike is all said and done and finally a deal is reached, whenever the hell that may be, I'll let you in on a little secret. They ain't gonna get 2.5%. Studios and producers are not going to just give them what they want. So we're looking at something in the middle, like 1.25%.
1.25%.
People are out of work for months, millions of dollars are lost, some people's careers could be permanently ruined. For 1.25%.
So how is this affecting me? Well, who knows when this will all end, but I can cross that bridge when I come to it. I currently work for a talent agency, the name of which I'd rather not share. But we represent a lot of actors, big and small, as well as producers, directors, writers, authors (there's a difference), comedians, etc. And yes, business is still running because there are plenty of scripts that have already been written, in terms of film. (The film industry will most likely not feel the effects of the strike) But for all the people we cast in television, we're beginning to hit a wall. Things are getting quiet. Really quiet. And we all know what that means...less business=less money. Not good.
So before this gets any more lengthy, let me summarize why, exactly, the strike sucks. People outside of the industry don't comprehend how many people this effects.
So the writers aren't working and the producers aren't working --> crew isn't working -->actors aren't working -->agents aren't working --> agencies aren't getting a lot of business --> ME=FUCKED.
So yes, the argument of the writers is legit. But will it be worth it in the long run? Only time will tell. Personally, I think the answer is no. And in the mean time, it's making my life hell. And obviously, I am the most important person IN THE WORLD.
Friday, December 7, 2007
Finally...
...something that legitimizes the use of camera phones. They've gotten a pretty bad rep because of all the horror stories about women's locker rooms, looking up women's skirts, basically becoming the average pedophile's handy-dandy tool. I'm not a fan of them myself only because I never really saw the point. I'm a BlackBerry user (and huge fan) but my previous phone had a camera, and it seemed useless to me because the quality of the pictures was so poor. Granted, the quality has improved by now, especially on the iPhone, but I still don't feel like I'm missing anything by not having one. Even despite the fact that I recently broke the screen on my camera during a bout of drunkenness, and am now camera-less for the time being. Whoops!
Anyway, this is kind of genius:
30+ Uses for Your Camera Phone
8:45 am on October 10th, 2007 by Rosario Doriott
How often do you use your camera phone to take pictures? Simple. Not enough!
Here’s a quick list of several uses for your camera phone:
1. Try taking a picture of the take-out menu at your favorite restaurant. Save paper.
2. And snap a picture of the business hours.
3. Is it your birthday coming up? Walk around the mall and take pictures of what you want. Then send your list around.
4. Is your roommate stealing your stuff? Take a picture of your belongings each time you leave your room.
5. Do you lend DVDs, CDs, or books to your friends? Take a picture of it and label it your friend’s name to remember who has what.
6. Forget saving business cards. Just snap a picture of them.
7. Take a picture of your suitcases. If they’re lost, you can show exactly what they look like.
8. When in a foreign city, take pictures of the intersection next to your hotel. If you’re drunk, show the cab driver the photo, and he’ll know to go.
9. Hell, take a picture of your hotel room number if you really lack memory skills.
10. When traveling, take a picture of your hotel’s name and even the important phone numbers. If you’re in a foreign country, it’s not 9-1-1. Take a picture of the number to remember it.
11. Forget blogging. Take a picture each day when on a trip and send the picture to your friends and family
12. Or just keep a photo journal in general!
13. See a psychology experiment? Or a job offering? Or a local show? Snap a picture to remember it.
14. See a poster for a good movie? Snap a picture, so the next time you’re at Blockbuster, you won’t have to spend time trying to remember what that movie was.
15. If you’re a blogger, writer, or journalist, take a picture of something the next time you see something you want to write about.
16. Did you just now get the highest score? Take a picture and taunt your friends.
17. If you print a lot, you’ll need new ink. Take a picture now of what kind of printer you have (the label). This will make it easier the next time you go for new ink. Just show the clerk the picture.
18. Be the paparazzi.
19. Need to remember something important on your to-do list? Take a picture to remind yourself and set it as your wallpaper.
20. Need some motivation? Set whatever gets you going as your wallpaper. Endless possibilities for this one.
21. Use your camera phone to send a map to someone who’s lost.
22. Want to send your significant other on a hunt? Send them pictures along the way.
23. Take a picture of where you parked!!!
24. If you’re in a car accident, take a picture of the scene and the other driver’s license plate.
25. Take a picture of your license plate, your car, your driver’s license, or your insurance information –in case it gets lost or stolen.
26. In the library, take a picture of reference numbers for the books you need. You don’t need a pencil!
27. Use your camera phone as a mirror.
28. Use your camera phone in class when you’re too lazy to write down what’s on the board.
29. Before going to the grocery store, take a picture of what’s on your spice rack. This way, you won’t buy a third bottle of vanilla.
30. Lose something underneath a car or underneath something else equally dirty? Take a picture of what’s underneath before you get all gross.
Courtesy of HackCollege.
Anyway, this is kind of genius:
30+ Uses for Your Camera Phone
8:45 am on October 10th, 2007 by Rosario Doriott
How often do you use your camera phone to take pictures? Simple. Not enough!
Here’s a quick list of several uses for your camera phone:
1. Try taking a picture of the take-out menu at your favorite restaurant. Save paper.
2. And snap a picture of the business hours.
3. Is it your birthday coming up? Walk around the mall and take pictures of what you want. Then send your list around.
4. Is your roommate stealing your stuff? Take a picture of your belongings each time you leave your room.
5. Do you lend DVDs, CDs, or books to your friends? Take a picture of it and label it your friend’s name to remember who has what.
6. Forget saving business cards. Just snap a picture of them.
7. Take a picture of your suitcases. If they’re lost, you can show exactly what they look like.
8. When in a foreign city, take pictures of the intersection next to your hotel. If you’re drunk, show the cab driver the photo, and he’ll know to go.
9. Hell, take a picture of your hotel room number if you really lack memory skills.
10. When traveling, take a picture of your hotel’s name and even the important phone numbers. If you’re in a foreign country, it’s not 9-1-1. Take a picture of the number to remember it.
11. Forget blogging. Take a picture each day when on a trip and send the picture to your friends and family
12. Or just keep a photo journal in general!
13. See a psychology experiment? Or a job offering? Or a local show? Snap a picture to remember it.
14. See a poster for a good movie? Snap a picture, so the next time you’re at Blockbuster, you won’t have to spend time trying to remember what that movie was.
15. If you’re a blogger, writer, or journalist, take a picture of something the next time you see something you want to write about.
16. Did you just now get the highest score? Take a picture and taunt your friends.
17. If you print a lot, you’ll need new ink. Take a picture now of what kind of printer you have (the label). This will make it easier the next time you go for new ink. Just show the clerk the picture.
18. Be the paparazzi.
19. Need to remember something important on your to-do list? Take a picture to remind yourself and set it as your wallpaper.
20. Need some motivation? Set whatever gets you going as your wallpaper. Endless possibilities for this one.
21. Use your camera phone to send a map to someone who’s lost.
22. Want to send your significant other on a hunt? Send them pictures along the way.
23. Take a picture of where you parked!!!
24. If you’re in a car accident, take a picture of the scene and the other driver’s license plate.
25. Take a picture of your license plate, your car, your driver’s license, or your insurance information –in case it gets lost or stolen.
26. In the library, take a picture of reference numbers for the books you need. You don’t need a pencil!
27. Use your camera phone as a mirror.
28. Use your camera phone in class when you’re too lazy to write down what’s on the board.
29. Before going to the grocery store, take a picture of what’s on your spice rack. This way, you won’t buy a third bottle of vanilla.
30. Lose something underneath a car or underneath something else equally dirty? Take a picture of what’s underneath before you get all gross.
Courtesy of HackCollege.
Wednesday, December 5, 2007
My Current Favorite Distraction
My colleague and fashion expert Arianna turned me on to the genius that is Polyvore. On this website, you can browse through the world's largest closet and sift through thousands of clothes, bags, shoes, accessories and jewelry, designer and otherwise, in order to create various "sets" illustrating your fashion tastes. It allows you to search through the entire database, whether by designer, color, style, etc. You can even search from specific websites--even ebay! And if there's something that isn't on there, you can upload it yourself to the server!
Although it took me a little while to get the gist of it, it's thoroughly taken over my internet browsing time at this point. I still have a few problems with it--the interface is a little iffy and sometimes doesn't work the way it should, from what I can tell there's no screening process for what items get uploaded, and it simply takes too long to scroll through some of the categories. Nonetheless, I've already spent far too much time creating a few sets.
First off, here's a little cross-section of my closent, currently:
I was thrilled to find that they had my neon Nikes and my BAPE sneakers (though not in my color), as well as my Minnetonka moccasins and lace-up boots, my Christian Louboutin pumps, my Goyard tote (but not my Marc Jacobs one, though every other MJ bag known to man was there), my vintage Chanel bag, Levis jeans, True Religion jeans, even the high-waisted jeans I got at TopShop in London! Not to mention both my fur vest and fur coat. And before anyone jumps down my throat, both my items are faux fur. They had my American Apparel leotard and skirt, but they shockingly didn't have the v-neck AA t-shirts that make up a large percentage of my wardrobe.
I also didn't delve too much into the jewelry section, mostly because I knew nothing I own would be on there. Granted, I have my fair girl's share of Tiffany's jewelry acquired throughout high school when it was the ultimate status symbol, but the jewelry I wear now is a pretty eclectic assortment of things I have gotten either in my travels (bracelets from Florence, Africa, London, Greece, etc), inherited from my mother or grandmother, or found in some vintage store here in New York.
And now just for fun, here's a rough draft of (a section of) my Shoe Wishlist:
Including Lanvin flats (at the "12:00" position), YSL MaryJanes (1:00), Tod's loafers (3:00), Chloe ankle boots (5:00), Burberry ankle boots (6:00), Christian Louboutin pumps (7:00)...and in the center: Chanel flats and the coveted Burberry Prorsum studded platforms, which can be spotted in every Fall fashion spread in every magazine, if you look closely. Of course, by the time I can afford them, at $940, they'll be out of style. But that doesn't stop me from drooling over them.
This website would have been amazingly helpful a few weeks ago, when I was coming up with my Christmas list, at my mother's insistence. I had a hard enough time coming up with a couple things my various relatives could get for me, but as I was poring through the collections on Polyvore, I--shocker!--suddenly found quite a few things I wanted.
However, discovering the site smack in the middle of the onslaught of finals is probably going to cause a problem.
Although it took me a little while to get the gist of it, it's thoroughly taken over my internet browsing time at this point. I still have a few problems with it--the interface is a little iffy and sometimes doesn't work the way it should, from what I can tell there's no screening process for what items get uploaded, and it simply takes too long to scroll through some of the categories. Nonetheless, I've already spent far too much time creating a few sets.
First off, here's a little cross-section of my closent, currently:
I was thrilled to find that they had my neon Nikes and my BAPE sneakers (though not in my color), as well as my Minnetonka moccasins and lace-up boots, my Christian Louboutin pumps, my Goyard tote (but not my Marc Jacobs one, though every other MJ bag known to man was there), my vintage Chanel bag, Levis jeans, True Religion jeans, even the high-waisted jeans I got at TopShop in London! Not to mention both my fur vest and fur coat. And before anyone jumps down my throat, both my items are faux fur. They had my American Apparel leotard and skirt, but they shockingly didn't have the v-neck AA t-shirts that make up a large percentage of my wardrobe.
I also didn't delve too much into the jewelry section, mostly because I knew nothing I own would be on there. Granted, I have my fair girl's share of Tiffany's jewelry acquired throughout high school when it was the ultimate status symbol, but the jewelry I wear now is a pretty eclectic assortment of things I have gotten either in my travels (bracelets from Florence, Africa, London, Greece, etc), inherited from my mother or grandmother, or found in some vintage store here in New York.
And now just for fun, here's a rough draft of (a section of) my Shoe Wishlist:
Including Lanvin flats (at the "12:00" position), YSL MaryJanes (1:00), Tod's loafers (3:00), Chloe ankle boots (5:00), Burberry ankle boots (6:00), Christian Louboutin pumps (7:00)...and in the center: Chanel flats and the coveted Burberry Prorsum studded platforms, which can be spotted in every Fall fashion spread in every magazine, if you look closely. Of course, by the time I can afford them, at $940, they'll be out of style. But that doesn't stop me from drooling over them.
This website would have been amazingly helpful a few weeks ago, when I was coming up with my Christmas list, at my mother's insistence. I had a hard enough time coming up with a couple things my various relatives could get for me, but as I was poring through the collections on Polyvore, I--shocker!--suddenly found quite a few things I wanted.
However, discovering the site smack in the middle of the onslaught of finals is probably going to cause a problem.
Tuesday, December 4, 2007
Rebirthing the blog.
Oh boy, here we go again. So this will from now on be my new home in cyberspace--for now at least. I decided it was best to start anew, so I ditched the old blog and created a fresh one. Because why not? And I like blogspot. The Africa blog still exists on this server (if anyone's even interested), but its pretty sparse--having limited internet access had limited my posting. Anyway, so here we are. I would have liked to keep my same old name (caseyliz) but apparently someone on Blogger is already using it, so I threw in the hyphen.
The title of this one comes from a quote in the Tom Stoppard play Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead. It's one of my favorite plays, and if you haven't read it, you should. Anyway, the quote is as follows:
"We do on stage things that are supposed to happen off. Which is a kind of integrity, if you look on every exit as an entrance to something else."
I find it fitting, since the following months of my life are sure to be filled with exits and entrances and changes in general. More on that to follow. For now, I'll leave you with another quote from the play which I particularly like. Though I'm positive no one is reading this yet since I haven't given the link to anyone.
"We cross our bridges when we come to them and burn them behind us, with nothing to show for our progress except the memory of the smell of smoke and the presumption that once our eyes watered."
I feel that this is something that I've been living my life by in the past years and will continue to do so in the ones that follow. Stay tuned!
The title of this one comes from a quote in the Tom Stoppard play Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead. It's one of my favorite plays, and if you haven't read it, you should. Anyway, the quote is as follows:
"We do on stage things that are supposed to happen off. Which is a kind of integrity, if you look on every exit as an entrance to something else."
I find it fitting, since the following months of my life are sure to be filled with exits and entrances and changes in general. More on that to follow. For now, I'll leave you with another quote from the play which I particularly like. Though I'm positive no one is reading this yet since I haven't given the link to anyone.
"We cross our bridges when we come to them and burn them behind us, with nothing to show for our progress except the memory of the smell of smoke and the presumption that once our eyes watered."
I feel that this is something that I've been living my life by in the past years and will continue to do so in the ones that follow. Stay tuned!
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