2011 February

Ode to Oscar

February 26, 2011

So the Oscars are nearly here. As a movie lover, this used to be a big event for me. Before kids. Before I had no time to go to the movie theater. Before my TV was taken over by “Thomas the Train” instead of very cool on-demand movies. I used to make a point of seeing all of the nominations for Best Picture, Director and Screenplay. I planned my morning commute on the day the nominations were announced so I could catch them live.

Not so much anymore. But, hey, I heard Cars 2 is coming out this summer — that’ll be fun.

I’m having my annual guilt about not having seen most of this year’s nominated films. So, without any authority on who should win this year, I’ll instead write about my favorite movies of Oscars Past — both real and imagined.

In alphabetical order (since I can’t rank them), these are my favorite movies ever.

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Almost Famous (2000) — Oscar for Best Original Screenplay (Cameron Crowe). Nominated for Best Supporting Actress (Frances McDormand and Kate Hudson) and Best Editing

Imaginary Oscar: Best Cast Singalong

A coming of age story is one of the oldest themes out there, but this is just done so well — especially since it’s supposedly based on director Cameron Crowe’s own experiences. And against the backdrop of 1970s music and all its overindulgences. I don’t care if you love Elton John or not (OK, I care a little — you should love his older stuff), but you can’t *not* love that “Tiny Dancer” group singalong on the bus. Also, the amazing moment when Billy Crudup’s character finally answers the question: “What do you love about music” and it launches into the whole ending sequence…complete with Led Zeppelin…Oh, I love it so much.

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American History X (1998) — Nominated for Best Actor (Edward Norton).

Imaginary Oscar: ~~Best Ongoing View of Edward Norton’s Abs~~ Best Skinhead in a Leading Role

This movie is more violent than most I’d typically watch, but Edward Norton is amazing in this role. A total and complete badass. The whole thing is a heartbreaking and very real look at the White Supremacist movement in our country.

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Annie Hall (1977) — Oscar for Best Picture, Best Actress (Diane Keaton), Best Original Screenplay (Woody Allen), Best Director (Woody Allen). Nominated for Best Actor (Woody Allen)

Imaginary Oscar: Best Opening Sequence of a Movie

I know I said I can’t rank them but this is my all-time favorite movie, start to finish. Even if you think you hate Woody Allen, just give this a try sometime. For me. Especially if you love When Harry Met Sally because, psssst, that movie is borrowed heavily from Annie Hall.

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Casablanca (1942) — Oscars for Best Picture, Best Director and Best Original Screenplay. Nominated for Best Actor, Best Supporting Actor, Best Cinematography, Best Editing, Best Original Score

Imaginary Oscar: Best Global Love Triangle

Of course Victor and Rick both wanted Ingrid Bergman. Stunning. So, ladies, what would you have done in Ingrid’s shoes? Me, I think I can safely say I would have stayed in Casablanca and lived in the casino with Rick, even if he remained emotionally unavailable. Because we gals often gravitate towards the complicated stuff. And I wouldn’t be much good at outrunning the Nazis.

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Cinema Paradiso (1988) — Oscar for Best Foreign Film

Imaginary Oscar: Best Non-Gangster Italian Film

Another coming of age film. Quiet and gorgeous and will make you want to sit in an old-time movie theater with a huge glass of Chianti. Ah, Alfredo — we all should have had someone like you in our childhood.

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Double Indemnity (1944) — Nominated for Best Picture, Best Actress (Barbara Stanwyck), Best Director, Best Cinematography, Best Original Screenplay, Best Original Score, Best Sound Recording.

Imaginary Oscar: Best Cheesy Dialogue

I know I said Ed Norton was a badass but I think that Barbara Stanwyck may be able to take him down. She was that good — the original Femme Fatale. Angelina Jolie, you could learn a thing or two from Barb.

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Fargo (1996) — Oscars for Best Actress (Frances MacDormand) and Best Original Screenplay (Joel & Ethan Coen). Nominated for Best Picture, Best Supporting Actor (William H. Macy), Best Cinematography, Best Director, Best Editing

Imaginary Oscar: Best Use of a Wood Chipper

Oh, Frances MacDormand. Oh, William H Macy. Oh, Steve Buscemi. Which of you do I love most in this movie? I really couldn’t say. Dark, dark humor against a blaring white North Dakota winter backdrop. Crime, used cars and a very pregnant police officer. Hats off, Coen Brothers, hats off. Their very best, as far as I’m concerned.

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Goodfellas (1990) — Oscar for Best Supporting Actor (Joe Pesci). Nominated for Best Picture, Best Supporting Actress (Lorraine Bracco), Best Director, Best Adapted Screenplay, Best Editing

Imaginary Oscar: Best Handheld Shot

So this movie made me want to marry a gangster when I first saw it at age 19. Ray Liotta fucking rocked in this role. And Martin Scorsese, who often calls the music in his films “the soundtrack of my life,” just nails this. Here’s the handheld camera shot I referenced in my fake Oscar. Not one cut. Crazy. And with The Crystals (“And Then He Kissed Me”) to boot. Who doesn’t love a good back entrance tour of the Copa? (I can’t find a clip of this anywhere that will embed into the page, so sorry for the pop-up.)

www.youtube.com/watch?v=yCYwcObxl78

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Hannah and Her Sisters (1986) — Oscars for Best Supporting Actor (Michael Caine), Best Supporting Actress (Dianne Wiest) and Best Original Screenplay (Woody Allen). Nominated for Best Picture, Best Director, Best Editing and Best Set Design.

Imaginary Oscar: Best Husband Swapping

Mia Farrow. Dianne Wiest. Barbara Hershey. Sir Michael Caine. I think I’m done selling this one. If you haven’t already, please see it.

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Lost in Translation (2003) — Oscar for Best Original Screenplay. Nominated for Best Picture, Best Actor (Bill Murray) and Best Director.

Imaginary Oscar: Best Mystery Ending Line. Best Karaoke Scene

You are a little dead inside if the end of this movie did not get you. Bill Murray’s unknown whisper at the end, right into Jesus & Mary Chain’s “Just Like Honey” — I was a mess. Plus a fabulous cover of Roxy Music by Bill Murray. What a great, great movie.

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Manhattan (1979) — Nominated for Best Supporting Actress (Mariel Hemingway) and Best Original Screenplay (Woody Allen)

Imaginary Oscar: Most Stunning Visual Love Letter to New York City

A lot like Annie Hall. But with a very young Meryl Streep (her second movie role) and an even younger Mariel Hemingway. And great line about Sanka:

I wanted to tell you about it. I knew it would upset you. I…
We had a few innocent meetings.

A few? She said one. You guys should get your story straight. Don’t you rehearse?

We met twice for coffee.

Hey, she doesn’t drink coffee. Did you meet for Sanka? That’s not too romantic. A little on the geriatric side.

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And the Honorable Mentions go to Jerry Maguire (yes, really), Radio Days, The Producers (original version) and Something’s Gotta Give. And maybe The Shawshank Redemption.

OK, that was hard to narrow down! But fun. Surely my picks are not the same as yours — so let’s see your additions please? And Happy Oscars to you all.

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Filed Under: Entertainment 18 Comments

Almost Famous

February 23, 2011

{Photo: Examiner.com}

Dear Señor,

You’re a fantastic pet. You always have been. You have adapted so well to a life with two kids that you never signed up for. You never so much as growl at these crazy toddlers when they attempt to use you as their personal pony. You serve as the stand-in Swiffer to quickly retrieve all of their food items that hit the floor during mealtime. You even let P and I have about 40% of the bed at night. You know I love you.

I know you can’t do anything about your snoring (which is louder than that of an 80 year-old man) or your shedding, and that’s OK.

But I feel you are not living up to your potential, especially as it pertains to your income, and we should talk about that.

Look. I know your breed is prone to laziness and weight gain — much like myself, which is probably part of the reason we always got along so well. But I’ve noticed a certain, shall we say, advertising surge in the use of pugs lately. And I wonder why you’ve expressed no interest in riding this money wave.

It seems that everywhere I turn, there’s a pug on TV, in a print ad or in some sort of product placement. Petco. Bissell. Pedigree. Even the kid on Dino Dan has a pug with a prominent role. I have to believe these are lucrative arrangements.

And then, I saw this.

A Super Bowl ad. Are you kidding me? We have to get in on this before the tide turns and Schnauzers become all the rage.

Now, maybe you’re feeling insecure about your middle-aged physique. I’m here to tell you that these Hollywood pugs have nothing on you. The Doritos pug — he could stand to lose a few pounds, too. It’s really just a matter of getting out there, being yourself and giving it a shot.

I know you have a certain lifestyle you’d like to maintain, and I never want to take that from you. Those twisty beef tendon treats you love to get your paws on — you know, the Flossies that are like vials of crack to you? The gravy train can’t last forever, my friend. That plush travel bed for the car? Not free. The hijacking of my fine Italian leather overnight bag for your personal lounging? Come on.

We’re working hard here, pal. And, like you, our age is starting to wear on us a bit. I’m not trying to pimp you out — all I’m saying is that you could chip in from time to time. So, I’ve taken the liberty of putting together a first attempt of a portfolio for you.

I think this one shows what a natural you are. Calm and collected, the reliable family dog. Perhaps not happy about being in photos, but we’ll keep that between us.

And everyone needs a good head shot. I think this works.

You’re probably still upset about this from Halloween, but you really were the hit of the neighborhood. I thought your animal cruelty remark was taking things a bit far. And, see? Now we can showcase your wardrobe versatility and million dollar smile.

Yes, there are perils that come with a life of fame, it’s true. But you have a good head on your shoulders, so I’m not worried about you getting caught up in the partying, rawhide-consumption lifestyle with the Glamour Dog crowd. I know you’ll always stay grounded and true to your roots, lazing about the house.

So, what do you think? I see no reason why these other pugs should have all the ~~college tuition money~~ glory. If your look is in right now, let’s at least talk about making that work for the family.

Right after you finish that nap.

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Filed Under: Entertainment, Family 24 Comments

Sheer Value

February 21, 2011

There are certain things you expect to cost a small fortune in life. Rare jewels. NYC pre-schools. Prosthetic limbs. Eradicating polio.

But window treatments? Now, that was a rude awakening.

Maybe the guy could smell my desperation. We’re coming up on a year living in our house, and the main living areas on the first floor have nothing on the windows. I’m completely tired of the fishbowl effect, and I’m sure my neighbors are sick of seeing me chase two toddlers around in full view. I mean, we’re not nudists (well, the kids are, at times), so I don’t think we’re offending anyone, but — still — it’s just odd to have no privacy filter.

And why haven’t I just gone out and bought some cheap, makeshift temporary blinds? The short answer is I don’t know. The point is that now I’m ready for the real deal.

Or so I thought.

The window guy wants to charge me the equivalent of one child’s future orthodontic work. He tells me about my 100 year-old windows and how their sizes and shapes are no longer standard. He tells me how they are also, due to the age of the house, all just more than a little askew. This, of course, translates to the word you never want to hear.

Custom-Made

I decided to tell P about the quote while we were trapped in endless crosstown traffic in Manhattan on Saturday. I figured he was a captive audience. But we were going on 45 minutes to cross two city blocks, so in retrospect, maybe he wasn’t in the best frame of mind.

I remember the look on his face when I told him the quote. I can only describe it as blinking audibly. He’s a calm and collected guy and so he had a few questions, which were not dissimilar to my own. They went kind of like this:

Are you sure that’s the number?
Seriously?
We’re talking about fabric, right?
Fabric?
Not replacement windows for the entire house?
Is said fabric spun from gold?
What else will these insanely priced, custom window treatments do for us?

The last question is a good one. At that price, we both felt we should get more than some white fabric that drew up and down and rotated to angles to block the sun. I mean, that was the original intention, but, upon further reflection, here’s what we’d like to see the window treatments do for us at the proposed price point:

–Of course, self clean the fabric. Also, clean the window panes themselves, and possibly, by extension, the living room in its entirety.

–Rotate on their own to accommodate the position of the sun, and adjust their own height based on the time of day and year.

–Serve as a motion detector and house alarm as necessary.

–Babysit the children when we want to grab a quick dinner in town.

–Produce matching clothes for my kids, spun from the same gold (I’ve always had a soft spot for the VonTrapp kids).

–Write a blog post for me from time to time.

All things being equal, P and I think that these features would help us feel like we are getting sufficient value for our money. So now I have to circle back to the window guy and discuss these customizations. Surely he’ll understand. I mean, everything is open to negotiation, right?

What do you think — am I missing anything we should add to the list?

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Filed Under: Project Colonial, To-Do Lists Extraordinaire 14 Comments

A Tale of Two Sixth Graders

February 17, 2011

If we’re lucky, we have a few truly good friends we cherish for life. You know those friends — the ones you can tell anything to, the ones you don’t have to see/speak with all the time to pick right back up where you left off.

One of my best friends is S, someone I met in sixth grade. To this day, we feel we’d win any game show challenge in the category of “Name a Great How-Our-Friendship-Began Story.” I’ve always wanted to write it down and, so, for her birthday, I decided to finally document it.

Like I said, it was sixth grade. You may recall those years as I do — awkward and fashion-challenged. Especially in NJ in the mid-1980s. My look of choice was the Aspiring Preppy: shoulder pads, big argyle sweaters with two to three stacked polo shirts underneath (collars pointed sky-high, naturally). Benetton, Esprit, Polo. You get the idea.

{Disclaimer: My taste has since evolved.}

It is the first day of school and our English teacher gives us an assignment: Pair up with the person sitting next to you and interview each other. Find out a few interesting things about your interviewee and then present to the class.

OK. I turn to my left and there is a very nice, very chipper girl. She is the polar opposite of me. She has short, kind of spiky hair, whereas mine is in a French braid. She’s wearing a long denim trench coat over her really colorful shirt and black pants. But I’m staring at her shoes. Her silver, checkered Chuck Taylors. My penny loafers suddenly feel really dull. Her notebook is covered with things like Worship Idol (as in, Billy), Public Image Ltd and little anarchy symbols. She is far cooler than I could ever hope to be and she doesn’t even appear to be trying. Meanwhile, like most sixth graders, I’m trying. Hard.

But she is lovely from the start — not at all intimidating and not at all condescending toward my tragic argyle look.

We get down to the business of the assignment. She asks how I spend my free time and I tell her I take ballet and tap lessons. She tells me she wants to take archery. God, she is cool. Archery.

She asks me about my favorite music. Why, Olivia Newton-John, of course. Much to her credit, she doesn’t blink. She tells me she likes The Sex Pistols. I am at a total loss, and I tell her that I don’t think I can say that to the class.

But I do. I tell the class all about my new friend S and I know instantly that she is unlike anyone I’ve ever met.

We begin to talk between classes in the hall, pass notes, etc. — all the things that sixth grade girls do. I invite her over to my house because neither of us has begun our social studies project — a sign of procrastination solidarity that, unbeknownst to us at the time, would prove to last decades.

This single evening of social studies perhaps cemented our friendship forever. She arrives hours late (a harbinger of many events to come), with massive ambitions for a simple project. Whereas my mother (“Oh, who’s your new friend? Those are very interesting sneakers…”) and I had maybe mustered together some poster board and markers, S came equipped with a grand idea to make a planet by encasing a basketball in homemade paper mache and baking it so that we could then paint it to scale. I reminded her that this wasn’t for any significant grade — no need to do anything major — but her ideas were big and, after all, it was only 8:30pm, she said. She was a night owl at age 12 (actually, it turns out, from birth). So I guess I’d be missing this week’s episode of “Family Ties,” then? Yes, she said, as she handed me a mix tape to help make the project more fun.

A mix tape! And what a mix it was — all kinds of things I had never heard. This was no Olivia Newton-John. I felt instantly cool telling my mom that we were listening to The Dead Kennedy’s (“The what?!”).

But she, too, liked S instantly, and has ever since.

The thing was — S wasn’t trying to corrupt me. I wasn’t her pet project or anything like that. She was really just being herself — and was probably the only sixth grader who could honestly do so — and she was opening my eyes to a million other things. And that is how it has been ever since. She arrives late, thinks big and charms you to pieces. And you learn something new every time.

We remained fast friends in high school, through the era of Depeche Mode and The Smiths (I told you my taste evolved) and “The Young Ones” on MTV (remember them?). She never had just one crowd, but was instead that unique person who could befriend anyone in those high school hallways. We snuck into the city with our group of friends many nights to hear music, find bars and just take it all in. And by “it,” I of course mean the requisite amount of underage alcohol consumption that any dive bar in the East Village would allow.

In college, she went on to study art history in a very liberal school with like-minded souls. My college was only 90 minutes away, so we saw each other pretty often. We studied abroad the same semester — she went to Florence, and I went to Madrid. We visited each other in our respective cities for some European adventures. We met up in Prague as well, for which she was a full day late, pre-cell phone era. But thanks to a pinned up note at the local American Express travel office, we managed to find each other.

When she got her first apartment in Manhattan on East 4th Street, I visited her often. The tiny stall shower was beside the kitchen sink. I moved to the city shortly afterwards, and we each grew up into progressively bigger and better apartments over the years. She always had the next interesting book, magazine article, exhibit, film or band to talk about — and I was always five steps behind, eager to listen.

She moved away from New York briefly and then came back home. And when her dad died a few years ago, I watched her pull together the most gorgeous impromptu tribute along the banks of the Hudson River at sunset, in a way that only she could do.

I’m in the suburbs now and she’s in Brooklyn. Our lives are different, and we see each other a few times a year. It’s never as often as I’d like. But it’s always a treat and it’s never even a stitch of strain to pick back up and resume talking as if it happened every day.

Of all the people in my life, S may have taught me more than anyone else. She is the rarest gem of a person.

So, Happy Birthday, my dear friend. And thanks for talking to me that day in sixth grade, despite my bad sweater and awful taste in music. I still think it’s one of the greatest “how we became friends” stories out there.

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Filed Under: Friends, Holidays 27 Comments

February Festivities

February 13, 2011

Love it or hate it, you’re probably aware that Valentine’s Day is tomorrow. If you’re “supposed” to know and you forgot — well, you’re welcome. Glad you dodged that bullet. It’s a low-key event here in Fordeville. P and I were trying to go out for a casual, sort-of-Valentine’s dinner tonight but were thwarted by the lack o’babysitter blues. So we hung out with our pint-sized valentines and prepared some treats.

I have more fun up my sleeve for the kids tomorrow, but today seemed like a better day to celebrate since we’re all home together. Like I said, a mellow holiday for us. And that was more than enough.

Because, really, who wants something like this?

Look, if you buy me a necklace that contains an engraved paragraph with this sort of nonsense, I will leave you forever. On the spot. Even if I have spent four hours cooking whatever is on that stove. Yes, even if we have two children together.

And, while we’re at it — can we just look at my other favorite Kay ad, just for kicks?

Every kiss begins with give.me.a.fucking.break. Is this not begging to be a SNL skit? The actors in this spot have probably not only fired their agents by now, but may be serving life sentences for gutting them to pieces. Unless they were exonerated on the basis of a “Humiliation Too Great To Bear” defense. Ditto all Jared Jewelry commercial actors.

By the way, if you google “Every kiss begins with Kay,” you’ll be amused by the level and reach of viral hatred for this ad campaign — complete with its own Facebook page and spoof videos.

But I digress. Back to celebratory thoughts.

Did you know that tomorrow is also a day of other esteemed commemorations? Seems odd to compete with the Hallmark hugeness of St. Valentine, but allow me to list them for you in case you care to seek alternative celebration causes.

—National Ferris Wheel Day. OK — I’m not clear if this is intended to mark the anniversary of its creation, or to encourage all people worldwide go out and board this ride. The latter seems ill-planned, given that it’s winter and all. Unless this was a holiday of southern hemisphere origins. In any case, I’ll opt out. I’m terrified of ferris wheels. They are so open and vertigo-inducing. And they remind me of an episode of “Emergency One” (remember that show from the 70s?) when a ferris wheel got stuck, a boy fell, rescues ensued. Gah.

—National Organ Donor Day. This is no joke. I won’t be preachy — you can all make your own personal decisions and we’ll leave it that.

—Clean Out Your Computer Day. This is a great idea. I am more than a little guilty of digital hoarding and my devices could all use a good purge. Maybe I don’t need checklists dating back to our apartment move in 2004. Or address labels for holiday cards in 2008. And I could move even more photos onto a back up drive or external site. Like this one.

An innocent enough photo of my husband at a lovely dinner while we vacationed in Italy a few years ago. It was all so other-wordly. Until you look at the scenery “behind” him. This guy nearly ruined my carpaccio. But we were always tempted to repurpose this photo as a greeting card or something. What do you think?

And you guys thought February was dull! See, there’s lots of fun to be had. And it’s all just a warm up for the raging parties of President’s Day (I have no corresponding cookie decor) and also winter break (aka, The Week the Kids Climb Up the Walls).

But the spring clothes are in the stores, the Easter catalogs are arriving in the mail. Spring is certainly not yet in the air, but its advertising claws are starting to get the band going.

Here’s to hoping.

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Filed Under: Family, Holidays 35 Comments

My Formerly Glamorous Life

February 9, 2011

Since we left the city for the suburbs last April, people seem to be shocked that I don’t miss it more.

It goes like this:

“You must miss the city so much!” (head craned in sympathy)

“Nah. I mean, there are days. But, surprisingly, I’m really happy with the move.”

“Oh. So, you like, uh, New Jersey? How’s that…going?”

The truth is that I haven’t missed it as much as I thought I would. But, now and then, I do get wistful about my old life in Manhattan.

But not always. And not today. Not when it’s bone cold outside. Because it reminds me of a very stressful period in my life last winter when the morning ritual of getting two small kids to daycare in this weather pushed me to the brink of insanity.

At that time, my husband had a new job that required him to leave before the kids woke up and to come home too late to pick them up at daycare. And I also have a full-time job — one that expects me to be generally on time and pretty much mentally together. So these were character-building days, folks. If you had flashed back a year ago, this would have been my morning in Manhattan.

6:15 — Tiptoe out of bed into the shower so the kids don’t wake up. Promise God a new soup kitchen for the needy if the baby would just sleep through the night. Check Blackberry for work-related fires/crises that transpired overnight.
6:20 — Attempt to have five minutes of peace in shower before the chaos begins.
6:22:30 — Have shower interrupted by 1) two year-old announcing his arrival in the bathroom and opening shower curtain for morning conversation about Elmo, 2) six month-old crying in crib and 3) ringing Blackberry.
6:30 — Retrieve Blackberry voice mail. Check email again. Respond to three colleagues in Japan before they go to sleep for the night.
6:35 — Feed kids. Dress them, perhaps more than once if someone spills/vomits/spits up.
6:55 — Dress self, forgetting belt, jewelry or other random accessory. Attempt to dry hair and look presentable. Conclude this look is overrated. Fantasize about breakfast that will surely not materialize.
7:15 — Ignore red flashing light on Blackberry out of corner of eye.
7:17 — Assemble the following items to cart to day care: Bottles, diapers, jars of baby food, extra clothes (baby); lunch (toddler); various permission slips, medical forms that are long overdue.
7:30 — Pack breast pump and all related accessories for work.
7:35 — Wrestle toothbrush into mouth of two year-old. Oh and self also — must brush own teeth.
7:40 — Begin excruciating process of convincing two year-old to put on jacket, hat and gloves. Bargain. Plead.
7:50 — Ignore Blackberry.
7:55 — Strap toddler into double stroller in front of TV while wrestling baby into full bunting.
8:00 — Place writhing baby into double stroller, strap everyone in. Ensure that all day care items are stowed in bottom of stroller, breast pump on one shoulder and briefcase on the other. Put on coat, hat and gloves even though apartment is sweltering because 1) heat is not controlled by tenants and 2) body temperature is at 101 degrees from wrestling children into stroller.
8:05 — Dog! Feed dog! Sorry! Keep kids in stroller, wedged against open apartment door.
8:07 — Pine for coffee. Fear looking at clock.
8:10 — Negotiate double wide stroller into packed apartment building elevator, eliciting eye rolling and audible sighs from fellow tenants.
8:15 — Stop on every floor on the way down (13 in total). Sweat through winter coat. Beg two year-old to stop crying about being strapped in stroller.
8:17 — Arrive in lobby to find it is sleeting outside. Again. Find rain/snow cover thingy for the stroller buried under daycare supplies and attach it around entire perimeter of stroller while both children cry. Consider selling soul to Satan for coffee.
8:25 — Navigate snow/ice piles pushing 40 lbs of child weight in stroller. Resent feeling of numbing ice pellets hitting face. Panic briefly over possibility of a 9:00 conference call that may or may not have been confirmed. Will never make it.
8:30 — Realize, when strong wind comes along, that stroller cover is not properly secured and is now flapping about in the wind like a tarp. Stop on sidewalk. Drop all bags from shoulder and resecure stroller cover. Answer questions about trucks, buses and police cars from two year-old.
8:35 — Begin to display signs of pathological need for coffee. Food would be nice, too.
8:35:30 — Realize [any item — insert here] was left at home and decide that there is no going back.
8:35:37 — Curse out husband’s new job. Repeat.
8:40 — Manipulate double stroller through day care entryway and begin the unloading process. First, the baby and her supplies. Then, the toddler and his stuff. They are in separate rooms, of course. Chat with caregivers about necessary instructions for the day and kiss kids goodbye.
8:52 — Catch glimpse of clock. Feel early warning signs of stroke.

8:53 — Trade cursory niceties with other parents, who don’t seem to be experiencing the same type of morning. Ponder why this is the case.
8:55 — Break into sprint, carefully (watch the ice!), for the subway station. Check Blackberry with one hand while running. Assess just how late work arrival will be. Pray for expeditious subway experience.
9:00 — Curse out the MTA for delayed and overcrowded subway. Repeatedly. Question if Mayor Bloomberg *really* rides the subway every day or if his PR people are, in fact, that good.
9:35 — Arrive at desk in full sweat and without coffee.
9:37 — Begin the day. Repeat at 5pm for day care pick up.

Isn’t city life glamorous? My life in the burbs isn’t so bad on days like today.

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Filed Under: Borderline Neuroses, Family, New to Town, That Which Drives Me Crazy, Work Stuff 26 Comments

Farewell, Louie

February 8, 2011

My sister and brother-in-law lost their sweet, sweet dog Louie yesterday.

He was lean and fast and strong, with a tail like a whip and a love of squirrel chases.

But, despite his size, he was always like a pup in so many ways — a sweeter dog you could never find. He whimpered when it thundered outside. He crawled in your lap as if he weighed five pounds.

He was loving and gentle, and gave lots of kisses — with a tongue the size of my head — which made my kids squeal.

He played with our dog, Senor — who was a quarter of his size and speed — and treated him like an equal in their wrestling matches. They were cousins and fast friends. The canine David and Goliath.

He wasn’t my dog but it really hurts to lose him. He was part of our extended family. Louie, thanks for all of the joy and memories you brought to us. We’ll miss you more than I can say.

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Define Stylish

February 5, 2011

Well, folks, in the spirit of the Hollywood awards season, let us add a new statue to the pile. This morning I received an email from Margaret Reyes Dempsey {Conjuring My Muse} saying that she had named me a recipient of The Stylish Blogger Award.

Clearly, Margaret has never met me in person as she thinks about the term “stylish.” Today, for instance, I am rocking a ponytail and jeans. Again. But I remain flattered since she is a fabulous writer.

Since this is the first — and very likely, the last — blog award of my life, I will of course abide by the award rules, which are as follows:

Present seven things about yourself
Name about a half dozen bloggers you think deserve the award
Contact those people
Create a link back to the person who gave you the honor

So here are seven things about me:

1. I still tie my shoes with two loops (aka Bunny Ears). I can do it the adult way but only if forced to prove it. And then I have to double-knot to make it hold.

2. I become nervous if I hear more than one song in a row by the same artist on the radio — as in, I fear that artist has died and mass tributes are ensuing. If this happens with U2 songs, I am especially panicked. Unless it’s Two for Tuesday or time for Perfect Album Side — then my mind is put at ease.

3. I know all of the words to “American Pie” and feel that you should too. If I could carry a tune, it would be my karaoke song.

4. I wink involuntarily. It’s not a tic but just something I do out of endearment without realizing it. This has caused more than one instance of confusion in the workplace. But no litigation — yet.

5. I love casinos. I’m not a high roller but could be very happy spending hours at a $5 roulette table. Remember, always cover the zeroes.

6. I have a Master’s Degree in Screenwriting. See where that got me. If you can’t tell, I’ll spell it out for you: I sold out to The Man doing corporate PR so that I could repay my related student loans in perpetuity. As a result, I have no time to write screenplays, or even go to the movies. On a related note, my favorite film is Annie Hall. And, in what some consider a criminal act, I saw Star Wars only once, in the theater, and never saw the rest of the series. Also, I categorically don’t watch epics of any kind. Or anything with Keanu Reeves.

7. My driver’s license misrepresents me. See, my mother felt that I had hazel eyes growing up (they changed a lot) and insisted I put that on my original driver’s license application. They are actually green — much more so as I’ve gotten older — but I cannot get the New Jersey DMV to ever change it. To this day, it gets under my skin. You can change your name, your address, even which organs you’ll donate — but not your eye color. My eyes are green, damn it.

On to the passing of the baton and naming of names for The Stylish Blogger Award in my (non-hazel) eyes. Some of these folks are in another league and probably have received bona fide, cash-oriented prizes, and therefore will probably miss the email I sent about my prestigious designation of their work, because it’s in their Spam folder. But I played by the rules — here they are.

Kim Holcomb. People: This is a whip-smart woman and her star continues to rise. She knows more than a little something about everything and says it exceedingly well. She is a broadcast journalist in Seattle, a political junkie, pop culture maven and overall go-to gal. A must-read.

Ed Marsh. Beer purveyor. Technical writer. Ham aficionado. Racing loyalist. Foodie. Tweeter extraordinaire. You’ll learn something, I promise.

Constitution Lane. A lovely collection of recipes, tales, obsessions (in a good way), travels and reading lists. She does all of the things I wish I had time for and recaps them so nicely that I don’t have to do them after all.

Mommy Needs a Vacation. I’m a mom and so I read a lot of mom blogs. There are bazillions of them. But Rachel’s resonated with me right away — not just because, I, too, need a vacation and love wine as much as she does — but because she’s a straight shooter, very relatable and an overall hoot.

Wendi Aarons. So funny, I nearly pee. Every time. Absolutely top-notch writing with a sharp edge. Before you die, you must read her open letter to Procter & Gamble that was published on the McSweeney’s site. I will say no more and let you enjoy it for yourself.

There you have it. Tucked nicely between the Screen Actors Guild Awards and the Oscars, that about wraps up this edition of The Stylish Blogger Awards. And we didn’t even get cut off by the music.

I have to head over to the after party now, which consists of a third glass of red on my family room couch while checking out my DVR archives for the week. A more stylish blogger, you’d be hard-pressed to find.

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Filed Under: Blogging Cluelessness, Entertainment 11 Comments

Ensconced in Crazy

February 4, 2011

{photo courtesy: http://petelaburn.files.wordpress.com}

When you have things on your mind, do you sometimes choose to focus, or even fixate, on much smaller, less important issues? I’m sure there’s some sort of official term for it — redirecting, maybe?

Do you do this? I think I do. Here’s why.

I have some things on my mind. Don’t worry — nothing disastrous or horrible, but enough to keep my brain more than occupied. Regular life stuff. But you know what I have decided to focus on instead?

These.

My hideous entryway sconces.

So, in the category of “highly frivolous but slowly driving me insane,” can we just talk about these for a minute? That would make me feel better.

Thanks. I knew you guys would be there for me.

OK, not to be dramatic, but these sconces haunt me. I have been trying to replace them for the better part of a year, with no luck.

Maybe you don’t think they are hideous (in which case, I will ship them to you, or I’ll pay for your eye exam — your choice). Let’s have a closer look.

Are you with me yet? Can you see your own reflection in their shiny awfulness? Do you see how they cast a gold glow that reaches far and wide?

And, no, they are not tucked away. They are in our front entryway, where I had immediately noticed them the first time we walked into our house as prospective buyers. I think the morning sunlight bounced off of them and nearly cost me a retina. But I dismissed them and figured they could be easily replaced — because I’m not one of those dipshits on House Hunters, who walks away from a home purchase over the wall color or light fixtures. A quick fix, I thought.

Ah, not so. Because it turns out that the “easy to replace” approach didn’t factor in some very specific and restrictive measurements — meaning, I can’t install any sconces that are more than exactly six inches deep in this space, or we can’t open the basement door. And we can’t have that.

Trust me, I have combed through lighting websites and searched every variable of sconces online until my head throbbed.

And here’s the conclusion that my research has produced. Anything under six inches in depth either:

looks exactly like what I already have
costs a fortune or
is even more hideous

By “even more hideous,” I mean something like this.

My eyes. They burn.

It seems we’re at a crossroads, me and my sconces. So, maybe a more pragmatic approach would help — like applying the Five Stages of Grief to my dilemma:

Denial: This can’t be hard. They are just sconces. Surely I’ll find an easy and quick replacement.
Anger/Resentment: How can this be so hard? I’m an intelligent person, looking for a damn light on a wall. And where is the address of the former-former-former owner who shopped at a 1970s Light-o-Rama showroom? What the hell was she thinking, and why has she done this to me? I think I hate her.
Bargaining: If I find the right sconces for the right price, I swear I’ll never complain about another fixture in the house. Or maybe if we spend less on the basement renovation and sacrifice the wet bar, we could spring for the proper sconce solution.
Depression: I just don’t think there’s a viable answer except to live with the sconces under their far-reaching golden glow. The members of Fordeville are destined to look jaundiced forever. Or we could find a new house. Maybe we should just move. I hate moving.
Acceptance: I can begin to move on — gradually — to other home projects and overlook the eye sores that greet me in plated faux gold every damn day. I will start small. I will frame a print for the kitchen. Mantra: My happiness does not come from lighting fixtures.

[Just FYI, I’m still firmly in the Bargaining phase and not ready to move on to Depression or Acceptance yet.]

Alrighty, I think you just got a very generous peek into my crazy Type A mind. It’s a fun (and well-lit) place to live — there’s really never a dull moment.

I do realize that my fixation is not really about the sconces themselves (I’m quick like that). Like I said, sometimes it’s easier to focus on the unimportant. Not the three year-old with the croup, or the 18 month-old with the ear infection. Or the distinct possibility that our temporary fill-in nanny stole beer from us last week — and drank it — while caring for our kids. More on that another time. Or the pile of other pretty important things I really should be doing right now.

Nah, I’ll stick with the sconces. Because crazy lives on a sliding scale.

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Filed Under: Project Colonial, That Which Drives Me Crazy, To-Do Lists Extraordinaire 18 Comments

A Non-Hollywood Ending

February 1, 2011

Today’s topic: How My Life is Like a Bad Liam Neeson Movie.

See, I was told this morning that I am ceasing to exist. That my fingerprints are literally fading away.

Was I being booked at the local precinct for nearly stealing a car in the pre-school lot? No. Background checked to enter the space program? Negative.

I was merely trying to get into my building at work. You know, to do my job — which, incidentally, is not nearly as sexy as espionage or other fingerprinting-oriented careers. Sorry to disappoint, but I’m just a PR girl at a desk in Post 9/11 Lower Manhattan, which means that building security is tighter here than at most major US airports.

We have ID cards to swipe in my office building and then we do, in fact, have to press down a fingerprint before the turnstiles will unlock and allow us to enter. And I’ve had a history of mishaps — or, as the Security team calls them, “shallow prints” (there’s a joke in there somewhere, I know). It’s a more of an issue when my fingers are cold. But the last few days have been even more problematic than usual for my shallow prints, and I continue to get the red rejection light at the turnstiles. So, off to Security I went.

It had already been a long morning of sleet and ice-related commuting slowdowns, so imagine my delight in being held up further to have my fingerprints assessed in the place where I’ve worked for almost seven years.

The woman in Security is very nice. She has me press my finger for a fresh print to capture and compare to the electronic one on file. She then raises an eyebrow with distinct concern.

“Hm. It has changed, your print. Can I see your ID again?”

She looks at my photo and then squarely at my face. I’m not an imposter, she realizes.

See? Sort of like a Liam Neeson movie — but decidedly without the Hollywood paycheck. And I’m holding a Starbucks Grande Latte instead of a concealed weapon.

She tells me we’ll need to capture a new print. Fine. Where do I press?

I give her my best right-amount-of-pressure and centered-in-the-middle print (I know from shallow prints experience how to get an optimal result). I look at the time. I’m so late. I feel my blood pressure rising.

She shakes her head.

“Do you know your prints are shallow?”

I resist the urge to roll my eyes and instead nod in polite acknowledgement that tells her I’ve been down this road before.

“Well, your print is just too light. It won’t work. It has faded over time.”

Maybe we have veered more into Matt Damon territory now. Inception, or even The Bourne Identity? I consider the possibility that I might need to get to my desk like this in the future:

My fingerprint — my unique identifier — has faded over time. I feel like there is some deep life analysis that should happen at this point. What does this mean? It’s all so cosmic.

“You should moisturize more,” Security tells me.

Wow, OK. Didn’t see that one coming.

This will fix my fading identity. Moisturizing. She’s dead serious, by the way.

Since I don’t have a pocket supply of lotion in my bag (clearly), we tested my other fingers until we found one that had not faded so profoundly — one that, I guess, has somehow been better moisturized than its peers. It seems that my rarely used but now beloved left thumb still has my full history and genetic make up embedded. It is the last proof point that I am me — and I must protect it at all costs (how was that for a Damon/Neeson line?). I pledge to moisturize it well.

We capture its print. One good print out of ten fingers. I’m slowly fading away, and it’s all due to dry skin.

Not much of a Hollywood ending. My identity remains intact, for now, and it’s off to my desk I go — after a stop to pick up some hand lotion.

{Photos from baywoodelementary.org and filmcritic.com}

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Filed Under: Work Stuff 3 Comments

Ode to Oscar

Almost Famous

Sheer Value

A Tale of Two Sixth Graders

February Festivities

My Formerly Glamorous Life

Farewell, Louie

Define Stylish

Ensconced in Crazy

A Non-Hollywood Ending

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