Things on my mind:
-My sister graduates from college this weekend. In fact, she graduates from the same college I went to and the same college my father went to (what? We’re big on the legacy advantage). It’s always emotional for me, going back there. Even though I didn’t enjoy college nearly as much as I thought I would (I drank a lot! And I hooked up a lot! And I dressed like a slut a lot! And yet somehow it was still unfulfilling!) time has created a sense of nostalgia, and somehow memories of me doing a keg stand or stumbling home from another dorm at 8am in last night’s party clothes have morphed from “holy god, I DID that? Seriously?” to “aww, those were the days.”
-Speaking of mixed emotions, I cannot believe my little sister is graduating college. I feel old and proud and protective and worried and excited all at once. She’s taking a year off before law school and she’ll most likely be working at my dad’s firm and for her graduation, I’m going to give her a huge chunk of money to buy new clothes because hoodies with tiny whales on them and ripped jeans and the tiniest tank tops and tee shirts I have ever seen are just not going to cut it in the ‘real world.’ It’ll be like my own version of A Makeover Story. Except she’s not going to listen to anything I say (“no more Abercrombie! I’m serious! Their skirts do not even completely cover the ass!”).
-On a wholly unrelated note, but on my mind nonetheless, my new boss on this new project I’m working on is driving me crazy. I was a double major in college and one of those majors was English and my mother is an English teacher and my father has impeccable grammar and GRAMMATICALLY CORRECT WRITING WAS AND CONTINUES TO BE IMPORTANT IN THE CLINK HOUSEHOLD. While I’m not saying I get everything right all the time, I tend not to confuse (note: UNLIKE YOU, NEW BOSS) “roll” (as in, dinner) with “role” (as in, a part in a film) or “they’re” with “their” or “it’s” with “its” or I could go on and on and on and on and on. I can deal with it when it’s just an email to me, but when he emails, say, the World’s Most Famous Director or Quirky and Popular Actor, then I cringe for him. And for the both of us. And for the English language in general. Can anyone come up with a gentle yet forceful way of saying: “For the LOVE OF GOD GOOD SIR, PLEASE FORWARD ME YOUR EMAILS BEFORE YOU SEND THEM SO THAT I CAN CORRECT THEM”?
-We’re eating Hamburger Helper tonight. Backstory: We were in the grocery store the other day, discussing indulgences we rarely allow ourselves to have. M pretty much allows himself to have anything he wants (other than non-diet Coke) because, well, if you had his metabolism you wouldn’t worry much about gaining weight either. I, of course, started spouting a list of things I love but never let myself eat (Chipwiches, Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups, Taco
Bell…). We just happened to be in the Hamburger Helper aisle (or whatever aisle it is that you would find HH), and I pointed at a box and said “…also, that.” So M picked up the box and put it in our cart and said, “let’s eat it sometime this week.” Like it was the easiest thing in the world. Like, oh yeah, we can TOTALLY be the type of people who just eat Hamburger Helper like it’s a grilled chicken salad. I, needless to say, have been thinking about Hamburger Helper all day. Unfortunately, a spinning class stands between me and the beefy, cheesy goodness. But you can bet your ass I’ll be envisioning sweet, delicious, calorie-filled dinner as I climb or sprint or jump the saddle or whatever the hell else the tyrant instructor is going to make us do.
Hamburger Helper. And other things. May 17, 2007
Weekend! Recap! How! Original! May 14, 2007
How boring are posts about perfect weekends? So boring. So, so boring. However, that doesn’t mean I won’t subject you to one. A long one. Because I’m cruel like that.
Things got started during lunch on Friday afternoon, when a colleague of mine and I realized, hey we just got paid. And hey, we got money in the bank. And hey, rent isn’t due for a while. Conclusion: shopping! I bought four shirts, a cardigan, a dress that is entirely too expensive but makes me look like I have the body I’ve always wanted, a summer handbag and a few accessories. Because, you know, ALL NECESSARY.
I wore a new outfit to meet a friend on Friday night. She had had a hard week. I hadn’t, but I played along because pretending you’ve had a hard week justifies two bottles of wine, a devoured bread basket, an appetizer, an entrée and a dessert. Ok, fine, TWO desserts.
I took the subway home at midnight. Or 12:30am. Closer to 1am? Who can remember? (See: Bottles of wine, two). M met me at Columbus Circle and shook his head and told me that he would’ve paid for me to take a cab. I played the “but I’m 25! I’m still allowed to do stupid things!” card that I keep in my pocket for circumstances wherein, well, I do stupid things. He wasn’t buying it; we had great sex anyway. Great quiet sex, as my roommate and her visiting mother were asleep in the next room. Quiet sex can surprise you, is all I’m sayin’.
Saturday was bliss. I got up! And wasn’t hungover (miracle of miracles)! And immediately went to the gym! (I know, I know - who AM I?) I then had brunch at a hoity toity place with my roommate and her mother, where I wore large sunglasses that make me look like a bug and drank my very first Bloody Mary ever. (Conclusion: It tastes like dinner, in a glass.) I also ate a croissant. I have not had a croissant in a very, very, extremely long time mainly because croissants = delicious = bad for me = will undo all of my hard work at the gym. I ate it anyway, with raspberry jam. And I silently praised myself for taking three spinning classes and two body sculpting classes the week before.
After brunch, I baked. Ok, well not so much baked as made pudding and poured it into a ready-made crust and placed it in the fridge. But still, it felt productive and domestic. Especially because I melted a few dark chocolate squares into the pudding which was NOT IN THE RECIPE. It made me feel like a real-live chef. Nigella, watch out.
I worked off the croissant (and the many licks of the chocolate pudding) by walking all the way up to 84th street (30 blocks) to meet a friend of mine back in town from LA. This friend. She’s still dating the actor and still a little confused by his actions. You see, he’s only affectionate with her in the bedroom. When they’re just hanging out at his house or in public, there’s no hand-holding. No kissing, not even when she picks him up from the airport. They’ve been dating for about two months and she’s starting to get a little concerned. Frankly, I am too. But I know that everyone (especially men; especially men in LA; especially men in LA who are semi-famous actors) is different, so I told her to give it some time. What say you, o wise Internets? Red flag? Or just the awkward beginning stages of a relationship?
Saturday night was Domestic Bliss. Well, Domestic Bliss with a minor crisis thrown in, for good measure. We went to the grocery store to load up and also purchase some things to make for dinner (turkey burgers and salad because we wanted easy and fast and also yummy). Once we got back to M’s apartment, the burners wouldn’t ignite. This led to frantic phone calls to my parents, who told us that the pilot light was probably out, which led to M attempting to light the back of the broiler while I shrieked about how I didn’t want his face to get blown off. It wouldn’t light, so M put in a call to his landlord, who informed him that, no, that particular stove doesn’t have a pilot light and M was actually trying to light a frickin pilot light that DID NOT EXIST. We ended up resetting the electrical component (does that sound smart? Because, in actuality, I have no idea what M did but he reset something and it worked) and then enjoyed delicious turkey burgers and delicious salad and the delicious pudding pie I had made earlier. Then we watched the Yankees, all curled up on the couch, and maybe once or twice commented about how we have suddenly become 45 year old losers.
On Sunday I took the bus out to New Jersey, where my mom met me and we promptly drove straight to the mall. We did some shopping (mom got peep-toe wedges. The brand? Jessica Simpson. She will never live it down, so long as my father lives) and even did a quick tour of engagement rings in a jewelry shop. That was probably the highlight of the weekend. Sitting with my mom and trying on rings and cooing and in general making a big fuss. Her enthusiasm for all things engagement and wedding was contagious. It was sickeningly sweet, but in the best way.
The entire immediate family (yes, all forty of us) later went to a Portugese restaurant where I drank almost an entire pitcher of sangria by myself, spilled two glasses of water, and ate my weight in rolls, garlic shrimp, sausage and filet mignon. And then I had some cake. And some more cake once I got back into the city and curled up in bed with M.
M, who had been roaming around Manhattan for four hours after I locked him out of his apartment. You see, M left before me to go to work on Sunday morning. When I was about to leave, I realized I didn’t have his keys with me. So I just locked the bottom lock (the one we really never use) from the inside and then shut the door, thus securing his apartment. However, for a reason neither one of us can figure out, M doesn’t have the key to the bottom lock on his key ring. When he arrived home after a long day of work, he couldn’t get into his own place. And I was in
New Jersey, at dinner. And we hadn’t even gotten our appetizers yet. So M - who handled everything with humor as I apologized over and over and over - set himself up at the Borders near my apartment and waiting four hours until I got back into the city. (He doesn’t have keys to my apartment mainly because we have been too lazy to get them made. Hi, we’re M and Clink and we’re PATHETIC.)
All’s well that ends well or whatever they say, because we had a brilliant night. Eating cake (!) and talking about engagement rings and our wedding and how neither of us want our kids to have processed food (as we ate a total of three slices of cake).
This morning I was kind of in denial about work. As much as I’m enjoying this job lately, I still wanted nothing more than to extend the weekend and keep myself nestled in the crook of M’s arm. Alas, as The Rolling Stones remind us, we can’t always get what we want. But this weekend, I definitely got what I needed.
Snippets. May 1, 2007
Hi! I have nothing to write about! Nothing at all. Not even shopping (I know, right?)
But I also happen to be a wee bit bored at work, so pointless drivel wins out. Apologies in advance.
-I have been thinking a lot about eloping. Not seriously thinking, more like fantasizing. Kind of like the way I fantasize about going to Australia even though I know it will never actually happen because I don’t think I can be drunk for 24 hours on a plane and it takes 24 hours on a plane to get there. A friend of mine recently eloped. She and her fiancé-now-husband were engaged for all of seven days before they decided to go to Key West and get married at sunset on the beach. No friends, no family, no obscene price tag. “It was just the two of us,” she said, “and that’s all it needed to be.” I know, deep down, that I want the memories and the photographs and to be surrounded by friends and family as I bind myself to another human being for all of eternity. But I also know, deep down, that one day I would like to stop throwing thousands upon thousands of dollars into the abyss that is renting, and the more money saved for a down payment on an apartment or house, the better. I know this line of thinking is fleeting and that once I actually get engaged I will want to plan a wedding. Because I do want a wedding. I just want it to be free is all.
-Speaking of things that are not at all free (and also, speaking of being drunk on a plane), M and I are in the early stages of planning a jaunt to Las Vegas (never been! Not once! Suggestions?) and California (been many times! Love!). We’ve been talking about going to Vegas and LA together since forever and ever. We’re finally starting to get serious about it, to the point that we may actually buy these plane tickets we’ve been mulling over all morning. One of M’s best friends is in Vegas (a short trip for a bachelor party turned into a permanent residence). Casinos are also in Vegas and casinos happen to have slot machines and I happen to be the Queen of All Slot Machines so that bodes very well for me (though not very well for my bank account). There may not be casinos (as far as I know) in Los Angeles, but I’m just as excited to go there. As much as us New York “industry” folk like to take digs every now and then (read: all the time) at our Los Angeles counterparts, I do really love LA. What’s not to love: sun, surf, sand. The three S’s of happiness, I say. I really need a vacation and while I’m still considering Greece in August, August is very very far away. My mental health is not stable enough to make it the next three months without some sort of reprieve, even if it is only 4 days. At least it will be 4 days in 2 very wonderful places.
-The only foreseeable worry about the potential trip (other than the fact that it involves planes! Evil planes!) is that I need my body to be up to snuff by then. And by “up to snuff” I mean “bikini-ready.” While I’ve been great about working out and okay about eating right (okay, I’ve been downright shitty about eating right. Example, from last night: garlic parmesan chicken, lasagna and apple crisp with vanilla ice cream), I need to take it to the next level in order to feel confident come June. I’m going to have to kick my own ass. But maybe the trip as a dangling carrot is exactly what I need to revamp my workouts and my diet.
-My boyfriend is going to Wisconsin on Thursday, to visit his sister and her husband and their delicious child. We were supposed to go this winter, but that fell through because of (my) work. And I was supposed to be going on this trip with him but again it fell through because of (my) work. We were there at around this time last year and while you won’t see me packing up my things and slapping a “Wisconsin or bust” sticker on the back of an RV, I did really enjoy it. Wisconsin is pretty much the antithesis of New York City and is therefore quite rejuvenating. I mean, there are tons of chain restaurants (Like Butter Burger! Which is exactly that, be still my clogged arteries), and no one looks at you funny if you suggest actually eating at one. (I almost lost a few friendships after I mentioned the T.G.I.Friday’s on 34th Street as a possible dining destination to a group of my friends.) Also, there is sky. And there are stars. And it’s nice to be reminded that those two things do still exist, somewhere.
-This weekend my mom and I are driving down to my alma mater, which is soon to also be my sister’s alma mater, as she graduates later this month. She “needs help” picking out a dress for the dinner dance. That is code for: she wants my mom to pay for the dress. I’m just along for the ride and the shopping at the mall and the free meal (possibly at a chain restaurant! Cheesecake Factory, perhaps?). Also, spending some time on campus may remind me of just how skinny I was in college which may remind me of how nice it was to be so skinny which may jumpstart my motivation to be Little Miss Twiggy Arms and Legs by the time we go to Vegas and LA in June. Hey, it’s worth a shot.
Stuck in the middle. April 24, 2007
I hate being in the middle of anything - the middle of a row of seats on a plane, the middle of two large people on the subway, the middle of the work day or a work out. I especially hate being in the middle of a situation, which is exactly where I find myself squirming uncomfortably at the moment.
I have a cousin, Luke. Except it feels weird to label him as only a cousin, because he is so much more. He’s the older brother that I really didn’t want when I was growing up but whom I now cherish. And Luke, Luke is gorgeous. He always has been. He’s half Greek and half Italian, so the smolder factor is very high. In middle school, a group of, uh, “fast” girls befriended me not because they wanted me to teach them lessons on how to be naïve and preppy and well-behaved but because they wanted access to Luke. True story. They all signed my 8th grade yearbook a similar version of: “Dear Clink, Good times. Oh, and your cousin Luke is sooooo hot! (Smiley face.) Please don’t show him this, I would be SO EMBARASSED if he knew how I felt about him! (Smiley face, smiley face, winking smiley face, smiley face.) Love, Slutty Friend Your Parents Disapprove Of.”
Even my real friends have copped, at one point or another, to being quite enamored with Sir Luke of Luscious Locks and Dark Eyes. To me he’s just Luke, you know, my obnoxious relative who used to pretend to want to play Barbie with me and then would want all the Barbies to be single-mom strippers working their way through college but WHATEVER, I will allow that he’s handsome and charismatic. (Even when pulling my earring so hard that he ripped a hole in my ear and I had to get it re-pierced. The ripped hole is still there.)
When my current roommate met Luke, she too fell under his spell. She’d giggle about how cute she thought he was and how she wished he’d hang out more, but I never really paid attention to it because Roommate has the annoying habit of falling in love with every semi-attractive man who crosses her path. I thought it would pass.
Recently, Luke, myself, Roommate and M all went out, with a few mutual friends. Luke flirted with Roommate because, well, that’s what Luke does. He flirts with girls. Not intentionally. He just doesn’t know any other way to communicate with members of the opposite sex to whom he is not related.
Roommate came home gushing about Luke. Like, wouldn’t shut up. Like, started to make me feel a bit uncomfortable.
Roommate: “All my friends think he likes me!”
Self: “Really? But your friends weren’t there the other night. How would they know?”
Roommate: “Well, they were just like, ‘EVERYBODY likes you Roommate!’ so they assume Luke does too.”
Self: “Oh. Ha.”
Roommate: “He’s so hot, Clink. And so smart! Omigod, I love him. But not, you know, really love but like crush-love.”
Self: “Right. Ok, goodnight!” (Closes bedroom door to watch bad reality television in peace)
Roommate has been trying to pry information about Luke’s dating situation out of me for quite a while. I’ve always played the “um, I’m not really sure” card before quickly changing the subject. The truth is: Luke is a dater. After years and years of consecutive monogamous relationships, he is reverting back to college and dating anything cute in a skirt who can construct a simple sentence. He’s been dating a few girls, one of whom he is very interested in. But I felt uncomfortable relaying that information to Roommate because…well, I really don’t know why. Perhaps because I am a wuss. Also, I don’t want to hurt Roommate’s feelings or make her think that I don’t feel she’s good enough for my cousin. I’m afraid she might think I’m sabotaging her efforts before they even begin (ok, maybe I am. Sort of.)
Today Roommate emailed me first thing in the morning:
“I hope you don’t mind, but I emailed Luke! Just to, you know, make conversation and stuff. I hope that it doesn’t make you uncomfy or anything!”
How did Roommate get Luke’s email address, you might be asking. Ok, YOU might not be asking but that’s certainly what I was asking.
“Oh, I got it off his business card that you have in your room.”
Awesome. She searched through my stuff to get it (the business card is kept in a catch-all basket I keep in a corner of my room, and it certainly must’ve taken some combing to find the card because that basket is a veritable black hole of SHIT). (Note: She knew I had his business card because he gave it to me in front of her, and she saw me put it in the basket.)
I emailed her back and conveyed, as gently as I could, that a) next time she should just ask me for the card, because I keep some personal stuff in that basket and b) I didn’t want her to get her hopes up too high, as I am aware that Luke is dating a few girls and is not looking for anything serious.
No word from her yet.
The truth is, I’m being a bit selfish in this situation. I don’t want them to date because the odds of them dating and then getting engaged and then getting married and then living blissfully ever after are VERY SLIM. So at some point, if they start to date, they are probably going to break up. And before that, one of them is probably going to piss the other one off and I don’t want to hear it. I just don’t. I love Luke like a brother and I must uphold a friendly relationship with Roommate so as to maintain a decent living situation and therefore I do not want to be middleman if Roommate’s pursuit of Luke ends in victory.
At the same time, I don’t want to butt in. And, other than giving Roommate a head’s up about Luke’s situation, I won’t. I will let things play out the way they play out. The odds are that Luke will probably write a friendly email back but not pursue Roommate any further. However, if I am wrong and they all of a sudden realize they are destined to be together, I will make it very clear to both of them that I am staying out of it, 100%. Go-between just doesn’t suit me.
What would you do in the situation? Am I making a mountain out of a molehill (me? NO! NEVER!).
Greek Easter April 5, 2007
My knee-jerk response to “what’s your favorite holiday?” is always “Christmas.”
But that’s not necessarily true. While I enjoy presents and the birth of the savior as much as the next person, I’m kinda really into Easter.
It could have something to do with the appearance of Cadbury eggs (everywhere but IN THE CITY. Damn you Duane Reade and your imposter Snickers eggs! Why oh why do you thwart my attempts to expand my ass with sugary Cadbury goodness!) Or it could be that the Easter church service and subsequent Greek traditions are some of my favorite.
I’m not a particularly religious person, but the Easter midnight mass is breathtaking. My entire extended family (all 30 of us) trek over to my beautiful childhood church right in the heart of Newark. (Using beautiful and Newark in the same sentence is a bit of a stretch, but trust me). As midnight nears, the church lights go off and candlelight is spread from row to row until every pew is illuminated.
As a kid, holding a candle in a dark church was akin to being let loose in Disneyworld after the park closed. We had candlestick wars and wax dripping wars and once my cousin Christopher set my aunt’s hair on fire (it was the 80’s; hairspray was very in and very flammable). Now, the candlelit church offers a chance to reflect and find solace in a religion I am oh so quick to find faults in.
At midnight, we keep the candles lit as we drive out of the city and into the suburbs. That’s the good thing about driving in a car with lit candles through downtown Newark: no one messes with you because everyone thinks you’re crazy.
We all end up at an aunt’s house in the wee hours of the morning, feasting on pasticcio and Greek meatballs and cracking red eggs. The cracking of the red eggs is a longstanding tradition in my family, one that we take very seriously. To the point that once one of my uncles arrived with a marble egg that did NOT look like a marble egg and cracked all of our eggs and declared himself the King of Easter until someone had the smarts to order him to eat the egg and then we were all pissed.
The early Sunday morning feast is repeated late Sunday afternoon, at a different aunt’s house (we’re Greek; I have hundreds of aunts). Since there are still some little ones roaming around, us older cousins hide the candy and money filled plastic Easter eggs (we used to get pennies in our eggs; these kids get freakin’ five dollar bills) in the backyard. Another longstanding tradition that once, circa 1998, became a tragedy: the kids from the neighboring backyard snuck in while we were eating dinner and took all of the eggs. A confrontation ensued but no eggs were ever returned. We may or may not have toilet papered their backyard a few months later; I admit nothing.
What I’m trying to say is that I’m thrilled about going home on Saturday morning. I’m thrilled about seeing my family, even if M will be stuck in the city, working. I’m thrilled about eating my weight in Greek sweet bread and helping my tiny (and only girl) cousin pick up the most eggs. I also have a very good feeling about my chances in this year’s Red Egg Cracking War. And I’ll be doing it without marble.
Arrivals & Departures March 20, 2007
There are a lot of things dysfunctional about my family (hello, none of us will drink water in anything other than bottled form), but airports is not one of them.
Whenever one of us is leaving – whether to Greece for the summer or a quick jaunt on the shuttle to DC for a business trip – it quickly becomes a family affair. So much so that there are usually five people in the car, leaving not so much room for the luggage. The non-travelers park the car, wait for the traveler to check in and then everyone hems and haws about what to eat (because, you know, the options are just that tempting – Super Wok? Or Chili’s Express?), before eventually deciding on McDonald’s. When it is time for the traveler to head to the gate, everyone walks him or her there and doesn’t leave until the traveler has turned around to wave four or five times and is generally concluded to be completely, one hundred percent out of sight.
Arrivals are a bit more tame, if you consider a sign bearing your name and a bouquet of flowers (“guys, I was just in Boston for a long weekend”) tame.
In sum, my family forms a mini-entourage at airports. We all pull together, because what says family more than “You get in at 1am? And want Mexican food ready and waiting in the car? And you need me to drive you all the way into the city? On a Tuesday night? I’ll be there.”
My boyfriend has had the exact opposite experience in his life. When he’d arrive home from college, from a vacation or for a visit, he’d be alone. No one to greet him, muss his hair and tell him how great he looked. He and his luggage would have to ride mass transit alone, both to and from the airport. From the station, he’d have to take a taxi to his parents’ home.
I don’t mean to be critical of his parents. They’ve done a wonderful job raising the man I plan to marry. It’s just that seeing someone off or greeting them at arrivals just isn’t something that has ever been a tradition in their family. It’s something that has always bothered M. He sees it as his parents being selfish.
I’m quickly becoming his family now, and I want my family’s tradition of being there to welcome a loved one back to endure. Which is why I told M that I won’t be able to make it to the airport to pick him up at 10pm on Wednesday night. “I’ll be working late, baby. I’m so sorry. Meet you at your place?”
Except, of course I’ll be there. Maybe even with a sign. I want him to know what it’s like to have someone waiting, to be able to get into a car and not a cab, to have someone to muss his hair and tell him he looks great, even though he’s a bastard for getting so tan and therefore making me look so pale.
The only obstacle between me and the airport is digging out his car, which has been parked in front of my building since before the ice storm. Tomorrow after work, I will be armed with a shovel and a pout, hoping that some sturdy passerby (or my doorman) takes pity on the girl barely making a dent in the ice/snow and offers to lend her a hand.
But even if I have to do it myself, it’ll be worth it because clearly he’s worth it.
Getaway. March 1, 2007
We’re going to wine country this weekend. No, not that wine country. Long Island wine country. Oh, you didn’t know it existed? (Confession: neither did I.)It’s a good friend’s birthday and since she loves a) wine and b) wine and c) her friends (a distant third, but still), she has coordinated a mini-getaway, which – seeing as it is March and people are feeling particularly itchy to get away, as if trying force spring’s hand – is more than welcome.M has booked us overnight at a quaint hotel. Normally I would insist on paying because my momma taught me never to rely on no man (and also, it’s my friend’s event, so I feel it should be on my dime). However, seeing as today can officially be considered the tail end of my third week at my new job and I still haven’t gotten paid, I am f-l-a-t broke. Not, of course, broke enough to curb my insanely expensive Starbucks addiction, of course. But broke enough to realize that the cost of “quaint” as opposed to “Howard Johnson’s” is far more than I can afford at the moment.
Tangent: Dear Major Huge Conglomerate Company That I Work For: Not cool. Just. NOT COOL. Love, The Employee That Actually Filled Out A “Tell Us!” Card In The Cafeteria Asking For The Chocolate Chip Cookies To Be A Bit Softer.
I’m looking forward to getting away. Mainly for the wine (4 vineyards! And a limo to take us to each one!), but also because a change of scene might do M and I some good. We seem to be falling into the trap that we always fall into when one or both of us is stressed: home, unhealthy dinner, crappy reality TV, going-through-the-motions sex, sleep.
He actually sat through an entire two hours of the America’s Next Top Model premiere (as a fellow casting producer, I tip my hat to the brave souls who courageously sift through thousands of applications and auditions to find casting gold like mail-order bride Natasha and mom with abs of steel Renee) and he didn’t complain once. That’s when I knew something was wrong.
It’s the book, of course. I know I’d be the same – in my own head, anxious, wanting anything, even my significant other’s worthless choice of television, to take my mind off it - if my first book was about to be released, especially if it was a tad controversial and could piss off some people in the industry who one may not exactly want to piss off.
So, even though he doesn’t drink and will be toting his own Diet Coke to each vineyard, wine country will be good for M. Less time to worry about that looming date in mid-March, more time trying to hold up a drunk girlfriend as she teeters around in high heeled boots.
The only negative is that while we’re out wine tasting, we’ll be missing my little brother’s championship basketball game. My father coaches the team and, as much as he loves law and loves politics even more, his heart is truly in shaping young lives through basketball. (And trying to get those young lives to play zone defense, damn it.) The team they’re up against is one of the best. They’ve beat them before, but only after 3 overtimes and about that many heart attacks for my mother, who gets a tad too involved. My father wrote me an email this morning and concluded with, regarding the game on Saturday, “In the words of Han Solo, ‘I have a bad feeling about this.’”
I don’t have a bad feeling, because I know the team and the coach and I know what they can do and I know that even though their point guard separated his shoulder in last night’s semi-final, they’ll pull through and I’ll receive a phone call while we’re at our 3rd or 4th vineyard and then I’ll have another glass of wine, in celebration of their victory. (Go (recreation league) Bulls!)
Unfocused. February 27, 2007
I’ve started and stopped multiple posts. I’m blaming it on the grey – both in the sky and on the sidewalks, in slush form. I chide myself for being weak enough to let the weather affect me but there’s no getting around it. The grey out there sucks the inspiration and the motivation and the good cheer from in here. Perhaps I would be happier spending my winters in California.Here’s the beginning of a post that I will probably never finish because writing about my father and the surprise dinner thrown in honor of his 21 year political career this past weekend is too large of an undertaking. If you knew my father, you would understand that the English language (and my rather mediocre mastery of it) is too limited, too full of trite clichés, to capture the man I will always try to live up to:
I built my outfit around a red and white pin from his first election, back in 1985. It took me a half an hour to find, eventually located in the nether regions of my “junk box,” which has accompanied me from home to college to both of my Manhattan apartments, becoming more and more bloated along the way. It was buried underneath some of the silver rings I was so fond of in eighth grade and mountains of Dave Matthews Band tickets, from back when going to one of their concerts was considered a life-altering event. I was four years old in 1985, and I wore the pin as a badge of honor as my father and I canvassed the neighborhood, finding out what was important to the people in the town and asking for their support come Election Day. There were a few doors slammed in our faces – it was and still remains a die-hard Republican town – but mostly it was fun. Even if I did spend the majority of the time hiding behind my father’s leg overcome by situational shyness.
I can’t finish it. I’ve tried, but I get distracted by things like my boss’ voice or an email or my steaming caramel macchiato or ooh, look! Keys! Shiny!
I just can’t stay focused.
I’m opening the floor to topic suggestions or personal questions. People do that, right? The “email me a question and I will answer it” thing. It’s like a meme, only more interesting. Tailored. So, email me a question and I will answer it in a future post. Just please don’t ask “why are you so retarded that you can’t even finish a tribute to your father, whom you adore above all others?” because then I will curl up under my desk and cry.
