What Would Cordelia Do?

Knitting Content Is Moving

2008-03-18T13:29:00.004-04:00

I have (somewhat) limited the knitting jabber here, but will go crazy with it here:

No, not expecting. But, you know, expecting to expect. One of these days. And plan on knitting then. And all other times. You know.

So visit, chat about knitting, if you don't know much about knitting, chat about babies.

Ye Olde Irish Veste

2008-02-20T13:52:00.004-05:00

George in my office has a vest he wears every day. It is ratty and greasy and full of holes, but he wears it Every. Damn. Day. He bought it in

Ireland

twenty years ago, and has never found a replacement. He asked if I could mend it, but it was beyond recovery. In the end, he had me knit him a new one.

Ye Olde Irish Veste

Materials:

Knitpicks Merino style nutmeg, approximately 5 skeins (600 yds)

1 US 11 20-inch circular needle

1 US 7 50-inch circular needle*

1 US 7 20-inch circular needle

2 US & dpns

Tapestry needle

3 wooden toggles

Gauge:

18 sts = 4 in. long

13 sts = 4 in. wide

Pattern:

Back:

Using larger needles, CO 86 sts. Work in stockinette until work measures 16 inches from the beginning, ending with a WS (knit side) row.

Shape armhole: BO 5 sts at the beginning of the next 2 rows.

Next row: purl one row.

Next row (WS): k2, ssk, k to last 4 sts, k2tog, k2.

Repeat these two rows 4X more.

Continue in stockinette until work measures 25 inches, ending with a WS row. Purl 19 sts, BO next 27 sts, purl to end.

Left shoulder:

Row 1 (WS): BO 5 sts, K to end.

Row 2: P2, p2tog, p to end.

Row 3: BO 6 sts, k to end.

Row 4: p2, p2tog, p to end.

BO remaining sts.

Right shoulder:

Reattach yarn.

Row 1 (RS): BO 5 sts, p to last 4 sts, p2tog, p2.

Row 2 (WS): k all sts

Row 3: BO 6 sts, p to last 4 sts, p2tog, p2.

Row 4: k all sts

BO remaining sts.

Left Front:

Using larger needles, CO 30 sts. Work in stockinette until work measures 16 inches, ending with a WS row.

Armhole and neckline:

Row 1 (RS): BO 3 sts, p to last 4 sts, p2tog, p2.

Row 2: k all sts

Row 3: BO 3 sts, p to end

Row 4: k all sts.

Row 5: p2, p2tog, p to last 4 sts, p2tog, p2

Row 6: k all sts

Row 7: p all sts

Row 8: k all sts

Row 9: p to last 4 sts, p2tog, p2

Repeat rows 6-9 5X more.

Shoulder:

Row 1 (WS): k all sts

Row 2: BO 4 sts, p to end

Row 3: k all sts

Row 4: BO 4 sts, p to end

Row 5: k all sts

BO remaining sts.

Right Front:

Repeat as for left front, reversing all shaping.

Finishing:

Sew shoulder seams. Sew side seams.

Using smaller needle, with WS facing, pick up sts evenly--and loosely--around entire edge of garment.

Join to begin working in the round, p 1 row. Continue in purl st for 2 inches. BO all sts in the following manner: p2, sl 2 sts to left needle, p2tog, *p1, sl 2 sts to left needle, p2tog. Repeat from * until all sts are bound off.

*Alternatively, you could use a circular needle with a shorter cord, and do this in rows and in stages, sewing the edges together.

Repeat this process for both armholes.

Block well.

Button Loops:

Using size 7 dpns, CO 5 sts. Work an i-cord until length = 4 in. BO all sts. Make 3.

Sew onto vest as shown in photo, or wherever feels comfortable.

Sew on toggles opposite loops.

Weave in all ends.

Sherwin

2008-01-29T14:53:00.000-05:00

Ten minutes ago, at my desk.

Ring ring

Cordelia: Hi, this is Cordelia.
Unknown Male Voice: Hey baby, what's up.
Cordelia: Who is this?
Unknown Male Voice: This is Sherwin, we met at the bar last night.
Cordelia: I didn't meet you at the bar last night.

Click.

One moment later.

Ring ring.

Cordelia: Hello?
Sherwin: You didn't have to be rude.
Cordelia: Look, I'm sorry, but you have the wrong number. I don't know who you are. I'm guessing the girl you met gave you the wrong number, you know?
Sherwin: Oh. Well, you didn't have to hang up on me.
Cordelia: I'm at work, okay? This is my work number. You kind of freaked me out.
Sherwin: Oh. Bye.

Click.

Roy's

2008-01-25T17:21:00.000-05:00

After our trip to wd-50, Guy and I had not intended on taking advantage of Restaurant Week. I don’t believe we’ve ever taken advantage of Restaurant Week, come to that. But my boss called Guy and asked where we were going, and apparently that’s all it took.

Well, that and the fact that Roy’s was participating.

We’ve actually been to Roy’s three times—once when we were first dating, again for our one-year anniversary (a whole one, this time) and then again in Kona on our first trip visiting my parents, when it was absolutely essential that we have a night to ourselves.

Roy’s in Manhattan is tucked away in just about the worst location imaginable—at the base of the Marriott Hotel. And at the moment, opposite the construction site for the newest W Hotel (it was mercifully quiet, for all that). The décor is mildly tacky by Manhattan standards—the seats and tables are worn and scratched, and the pseudo-tropical murals on the pillars are cheery at best. The funny thing is, it’s authentic. All nice restaurants in Hawaii look like that, with exactly that color scheme.

It was far more crowded than I’d ever seen it, though hardly anybody was ordering the Prix Fixe. And to be honest, there wasn’t much on there that I wanted—miso soup? Spring greens? Shrimp lo mein? I’m sure it’s the very best shrimp lo mein in the whole world, but there was no way I was spending $24 on a noodle stir fry. The options were so limited that Guy ordered the salmon on soba noodles even though he doesn’t like salmon. We both ordered the Sichaun braised short ribs to start, and I, in a wild surge of homesickness, ordered the glorified loco moco.

A loco moco (real name) costs you about $2.00 at Café 100. You get a Styrofoam cup filled up halfway with rice, an overdone hamburger patty, and an egg, topped with gravy. I’ve only had it once or twice—it’s no spam musubi or cone sushi.

We had asked for water when we were seated, but none came. As we ordered, our server went through the list of “sparkling, still, etc.” and I said—or meant to say—plain water is fine. We were brought a bottle of Figi. Guy growled. The server rolled his eyes, but the $8.00 or whatever that bottle would have run us did not appear on the bill.

I’m so glad I went with the two meat dishes. Miso soup would just have been sad. Those were some of the best short ribs I’ve ever had—certainly the most tender. The bones stripped themselves clean at the slightest tug. The fat was juicy but not chewy, and the sauce was peppery and sweet and sour and perhaps even had that fifth flavor that Guy was going on about: umami.

Our food was delivered by someone other than our server—the happiest man I think I’ve ever encountered. Bringing us our food absolutely made his day, and he was so excited for us to be eating it. However—he did attempt to give Guy my loco moco. I guess nobody believed a skinny girl would ever really order it.

It was a disk of properly sticky rice, topped with grilled meatloaf, a sunny egg, and fried onions. It was delicious. The meatloaf was crisp and juicy, and the egg yolk dripped down and it was all very simple and hearty and good.

Guy’s salmon on green soba was tasty…I think. I had a bite and don’t really remember it. That’s probably a bad sign.

Guy had ordered the dessert I wanted—the lilikoi cheesecake with lychee gelée—so I went with the caramel flan. It was too sweet. I suppose if I hadn’t scraped off the berry compote it would have cut the sweetness a little, but I didn’t like berry compote. It reminded me of canned cranberry sauce—and not the smooth kind that you slice up. (I like that kind). Guy claimed it was guava. It was not guava.

Guy’s dessert, on the other hand, was excellent. I don’t usually like flavored cheesecakes—and haven’t like lilikoi cheesecakes in the past—but this wasn’t too overwhelming. I thought the pistachio crumble was a mismatch, but that’s a quibble. And the lychee gelée was perfect. It tasted exactly like lychee.

We split a cup of coffee to combat the sleepiness of a heavy meal consumed in the middle of the day. It has not had much effect. My stomach is only now starting to shrink back to normal size, and I’m looking forward to a light meal of hummus and falafel tonight.

The homesickness, on the other hand, is not assuaged.

Undisputed.

2008-01-24T10:59:00.000-05:00

I am the undisputed cook in my household, but the honest truth is I only do about thirty percent of the cooking. On nights when we have the kids, Guy gets home early and whips up one of the five or six dishes they are willing to eat (chicken, pasta with very little pasta sauce, some variation of the above). We eat our food-as-fuel and then get down to the serious business of bath-giving, homework-assisting, and Pictionary-playing. And on Sunday nights (when we never ever have the kids) Guy fixes us martinis and whips up his Julia Child special: pan-fried steak with garlic-butter-red wine sauce. I sip my martini and keep him company, but never touch a knife or spoon. And then, you know, we get takeout or go to Taqueria at least once a week.

So, um, when exactly do I do any cooking?

Maybe I should lower that percentage a little.

But! When I do cook, it’s as a cook. I invent dishes--sometimes successfully, sometimes…not so successfully. The cooked ceviche was a misstep. But the marinated tilapia topped with the grapefruit-shallot salsa is excellent! I look at a recipe and take from it what I will—to Guy’s constant dismay.

“Doesn’t that say coriander? Do we have coriander?”

“No, but I don’t really like coriander. I’m using turmeric instead. It’s good for you, and it’s such a cheery color.”

“But aren’t the flavors totally different? Nigella wrote this recipe and tested it carefully, it’s supposed to be with coriander! It’s right there on the printed page!”

Shrug. “I love Nigella, but turmeric will be fine. Trust me.”

And the couscous was delicious. Is. We have it every few weeks. I still haven’t purchased any coriander.

On the other hand, Guy never sits and knits while I do all the cooking—I put him to work. I’ll be stirring and tasting and fiddling, and he’ll be chopping or grating or whatever I tell him to do.

And like the prep cook extraordinaire that he is, he’s very proprietary. This weekend was so bitterly cold, I decided our arteries could probably withstand a little risotto. I set Guy to work chopping shallots and celery, but he paused halfway through to do some dishes. There wasn’t much I could do until the shallots and celery were cooked down, so I started chopping.

“What are you doing? I’ll be right there, let me just dry this knife.”

“I’m just chopping some celery.”

Guy stared at my handiwork, aghast.

“Didn’t you say they were supposed to be finely chopped? What do you call that?”

“Well, I was just doing some preliminary chopping, and then I’ll chop them all down smaller.”

I demonstrated, and the overloaded cutting board sent celery flying across the counter.

“I would have chopped a little at a time. This is impossible. You’re just going to have to live with coarsely chopped celery now.”

I bowed my head in shame, lowered the heat in the sauce pan, and began stirring the overly-large celery chunks in with the shallots and butter.

“Huh,” I said, craning my head at the recipe. “Jamie Oliver says we should add 4 ounces of pecorino and four ounces of parmesan. Plus the goat cheese. That’s a lot of cheese. Don’t bother grating the parmesan—just go with the pecorino.”

“But he says both—and you love cheese. Can there ever be too much cheese?”

My embarrassment over my poor chopping technique, coupled with my great love for cheese, was too much. I caved. The risotto had pecorino and parmesan and goat cheese. It was freaking cheesy.

Too cheesy. It was very rich and not particularly flavorful, as all that cheese overwhelmed any subtlety the dish might otherwise have had. My anti-recipe instincts were correct.

Who’s the cook now?

Iron & Whine*

2008-01-23T13:07:00.000-05:00

As usual, I am quite behind on all things entertainment-related. I don't watch shows until they come out on Netflix ("Oh my GOD! McDreamy's married?!?") and I don't buy music until I see it on everybody's top ten list of albums of the year.

So I bought Iron & Wine's The Shepherd's Dog. Now, I have always had great love for Iron & Wine, and it's been my longstanding belief that it'd be great music to slit my wrists by. (Not a criticism--every emotion needs it own soundtrack. Although I'm not allowed to listen to The Creek Drank The Cradle in February.) (AndI have to be careful to whom or how I make that joke. I went to a party at Boy and Girl's Mom's house, and she was playing Iron & Wine, and I was all "Damn! You're playing that? You planning on handing out razor blades with the cheese plate?" Must remember that not everyone shares my sense of humor. Still embarrassed about that.)

However, The Shepherd's Dog isn't like that.** For one thing, it's a lot less muddy. Since Sam Beam didn't make it in his basement and all. And it feels like an album, which so few do. Like Cat Power's The Greatest, I have trouble picking out any particular song. It's not that they don't stand out and have their own specific melodies and moods. They do, but they run into one another so well, producing one uber-melody. (I really just wrote uber-melody. But I couldn't think of another phrase that describes what I mean. Sorry). It's raucous at times--Wolves, The Devil Never Sleeps--but, while some disagree, I didn't find it any less melodic and pensive for that. Melodic, pensive--but not tragic. It makes me feel peaceful, but not bored. Or, you know, suicidal. I'm content to sit and listen.

Constantly. Guy and I are wearing down the cd. Just imagine if we'd gotten it months ago.

*Really no whining here for a change. (That I can think of, anyway...) I just couldn't resist.
**With one notable exception. Resurrection Fern still makes me want to reach for my bottle of sleeping pills.*** But, you know, in a good way.
***I'm not ready to make jokes about Heath Ledger, as I am genuinely sad. This was not a joke about Heath Ledger.

As We Walk Away From Sweeney Todd

2008-01-11T10:00:00.000-05:00

Cordelia: I found that kind of upsetting. (Translation: I need to be fetal right now.)

Guy: I thought it was pretty good. (I thought it was pretty good, and I'm hoping that just chatting about it matter-of-factly will make her less upset.)

Cordelia: I thought so too, but I don't think I really like dark movies. (The world is terrible and awful. I feel so alone).

Guy: Are you kidding? What about Buffy? (See, it's working. We're chatting.)

Cordelia: I don't think Buffy is anywhere near as dark. (Okay, yeah, Season Six Buffy is pretty depressed and doing some not-so-healthy things, BUT SHE ISN'T KILLING HUNDREDS OF PEOPLE AND SERVING THEM UP AS SNACK FOODS.)

Guy: Well, I guess not as violent, but it's pretty dark. (She sounded a little shrill there.)

Cordelia: I. Don't. Want to talk about this anymore! (How can he think this was anything like that? I can't talk about this with him. I am alone in my sadness.)

Guy: Huh? (Huh?)

wd-50

2008-01-08T10:07:00.000-05:00

I became obsessed with molecular gastronomy after reading an article written by one of Guy's clients--while I don't think anyone would ever call the food scene in New York boring, there does seem to be a certain amount of repetition. Beets are suddenly on every menu. Oh no, wait, now it's pomegranates. Something a little more adventurous and experimental sounded, at the very least, worth trying.

So, for our three and a half year anniversary*, Guy planned a surprise. A surprise which he came so very, very close to keeping a surprise. He told me what to wear (less gay than it sounds--he gave me a dress for Christmas and told me to wear that) and that it was an experiment. And then the day before he 'fessed up to his plans. Really all for the best--it gave me the opportunity to study the menu.

We were right there in that corner booth spot. My brown dress matched the decor. It was early, and therefore empty, so I felt absolutely no hesitation in demanding advice from our Paul Rudd-ish server, who declared that we had given ourselves the best possible meal without order the tasting menu.

Guy ordered the popcorn soup with shrimp medallions and tamarind-marinated jicama. It was exquisite. The soup tasted like creamy popcorn, but wasn't in any way overwhelming. The jicama was a surprisingly strong burst of sour--but the shrimp. Oh, the shrimp. At first bite, all you tasted was popcorn soup. Chew a couple of times, and all of a sudden there's lemon. And then it's gone, and you have shrimp. Amazing.

I did not intend to eat an entire slab of foie gras all by myself, but I did. Guy didn't get it--he also didn't notice that the lentils made of mole sauce were exactly what we'd been reading about and fascinated by and why I ordered the thing, but anyway more for me. And I'm feeling fine today; my heart is still beating and everything. I loved the consistency and the just damn coolness of the lentils, but they didn't taste too mole-y to me. I've had tiny melting yumminess of foie gras before, but never a big old steak of it, and my lands, it's rich. But if I loaded a bite with beads of mole, wriggling foie gras, and a smudge of quince yogurt, all these flavors smooshed together and became much more than they were on their own.

Guy deviated from his original plan of lamb, and went with the Paul Rudd's suggestion of pork belly instead (hey, I ate the foie gras all by myself--I don't want to die alone). It was a little dry in places, but the fattier bits (normally not my favorite thing) were squishy goodness. The sunchokes were crispy, and Guy at first mistook them for water chestnuts. The caper sauce had a little mustardy bite to it--which was nothing compared to the ancho-soaked pineapple slices.

I ordered the scallops. They were normal-sized, which I was relieved to see; giant scallops are a little too milky for me. I'm a mushroom fan, but the black trumpet mushrooms just seemed to be kind of there, and not really part of the dish. However, everything else worked together wonderfully well. The scallops and mushrooms were sitting in a broth of spice bread, and laid over the top were cranberry fruit leather strips. Taken on its own, the cranberry was way too tart--certainly wasn't cranberry cocktail fruit leather. But with a swirl in the broth, a dab of chestnut mayo from the corner, the bite was excellent.

Dessert, however, was by far the best dish. While I was fascinated by the white chocolate, potato, and white beer ice cream, I was pretty full from all my foie gras, and we went with the yuzu curd and shortbread. The yuzu had the consistency of soft cheese, and sat on a salty shortbread cracker. The pistachios were ground up into something resembling a granola, as well as a smooth green sauce. And dabbed about the plate were little white spoonfuls of spruce yogurt. Which tasted like spruce. In a good way.

And then we went home and watched Buffy. Because that is what we do, and crazy good food doesn't change you all that much.

*The three and a half year anniversary of us getting together. Not of us getting engaged, which is in April, or of us getting married, which I guess technically is August 2009 (though we did toast it in 2007. Cause we're weird). Lots of opportunities for celebration.

Bad Things That Happened To Me Today

2008-01-03T13:32:00.000-05:00

7:45 AM Wake up. 'Nuff said.

8:50 AM Walk out the door. Ow. It's fucking cold. And Bob Dylan's Return To Me is playing on my iPod because God knows why I have it on there and it sucks and my hands are too cold to take out of my pocket to skip the song.

8:57 AM The PATH platform is shoulder to shoulder. Police Action and 20 min delays. I am suffering from slight claustrophobia.

9:25 AM I finally get on a train, but I am stuck in the middle of the car with nothing to hold on to. Luckily, it is so crowded that I can just crash back and forth into people's shoulders with no fear of falling down.

9:45 AM Walking to work. Ow. It's fucking colder.

10:15 AM Spill glass of water all over my desk, keyboard, notebook, shoes, and pants.

10:30 AM Realize headache and lack of coordination is most likely result of glass of paint thinner aka eggnog I foolishly drank last night.

11:00 AM Wish boss would stop being randomly snippy. Understand it is not actually directed at me, but still. Is annoying.

12:00 PM Look at NYNZ and back at my own post-in-progress and realize that I too suffer from a brain that has been exposed to too much Bridget Jones. Realize that I had already realized that this morning as I walked to the bathroom thinking "Resolution Number One: drink less."

1:00 PM Go to get my unexciting lunch of leftovers from yesterday's lunch out of the office refrigerator, only to discover that someone had eaten most of it, but put back the three or four bites of rice they didn't want. Very thoughtful.

1:02 PM Send mildly nasty email round the office, receive many queries of what exactly it was that I had planned on eating for lunch, as well as offers of someone to walk with while I buy another lunch.

1:15 PM Eat someone else's food that was in the refrigerator as surely this is the Karmic thing to do (but only after ascertaining that it is indeed up for grabs).

1:30 PM Post complaints on Blogger in hopes that day will turn around once I make my unhappiness known to the universe at large.

The Day After

2007-12-26T12:13:00.000-05:00

Well. They didn't want to go see Enchanted again. And while this may shock no one, it was sort of surprising, since they had requested to be taken to see it only three days before. But then, Christmas Eve was No Man's Land at our house, and nothing could be expected to go according to plan or logic.

Boy asked to be allowed to open all his presents about fifty times over the course of the day, and responded to patient reminders that tomorrow is Christmas, and that he can open them then with shouts of "It's not fair!" Guy suggested that Boy's New Year's Resolution be to remove that phrase from his vocabulary.

Girl was not exactly ill-behaved, but she did make life tough in that she was absolutely entirely unwilling to any thing--any single thing--by herself. She couldn't play by herself, she couldn't get dressed by herself, she couldn't eat a snack by herself, she couldn't pee by herself. I find this tiring.

We offered up Enchanted as something to take up a few hours in the day, and also as incentive for good behavior. Except for how suddenly they didn't want to see Enchanted. They wanted to see Alvin and the Chipmunks. (And they wanted concession stand popcorn and soda. Because, Boy's logic ran, if we could afford to buy him all these presents we should be able to buy him whatever the hell else in the world he wants. Also his mom gets him soda and popcorn every time.)

My self-sacrifice does not extend that far. I stayed home. Guy went and wished he'd brought a book and headphones. The kids adored it. (And they drank water and ate Trader Joe's popcorn. Plus a lot of candy.) It made Boy stop asking to open presents for ten whole minutes after they got home.

We ordered Japanese food and watched Olive the Other Reindeer. It was very silly. We began hustling them down to bed. Only Girl balked. She didn't want to sleep here. She wanted to sleep at her mom's house.

Now, if a six year old kid--or frankly, any year old kid--wants to sleep at his or her mom's house and that house is just down the street, then damn skippy that's what they'll do. And that's what Girl did. But I won't pretend that after a long day and a long week and some long months of building up this Christmas in my head it didn't hurt my feelings.

Boy put it very succinctly as he lay on the floor sobbing as Girl walked out the door: "I just wanted this Christmas to be about the four of us, of us together, as a family. I wanted to wake up with her on Christmas morning. How can she not care about that?"

I explained to Boy--and to myself--that she does care, but she wants her mom. And it's okay to be sad about it, and to wish things were different, but it shouldn't ruin Christmas. She'll be over at 7 am, and we'll open presents, and it's really not a big deal. It shouldn't be taken as any kind of indication that this family unit is anything less than that, just because that other family unit eight doors down has its own pull on her emotions and needs.

Boy went to sleep. Guy and I went upstairs, and set out the presents from Santa, and dutifully ate the cookies and drank the milk (didn't even pour it down the sink, though I did consider it. Milk is yucky). We talked ourselves out of feeling sad and discouraged and wished each other a Merry Christmas. And we went to bed. Only I couldn't sleep. I tossed and turned for hours, and started to wake Guy, and so went upstairs to sleep on the couch. (Which somehow felt sort of sacreligious. Santa can't come if I'm sleeping on the couch right in front of the Christmas tree.)

Only I couldn't sleep up there either. I could go into the ironies of as a kid not being able to sleep on Christmas Eve, and then as an adult not being able to sleep on Christmas Eve because of kids, but I find it too depressing. I felt very sorry for myself up there on that couch.

But then the doorbell rang promptly at seven and Boy and Girl rushed up the stairs and ooohed and ahhed over the missing cookies and the notes from Santa (which I tried to write extra messy so they wouldn't suspect it was me) and woohoo Santa got us Pictionary! And a jewelry box! And jewelry to boot! And Guy got me a giant whisk and just about every bath ball Lush makes and he liked the shoes I got him and also the Kurt Cobain action figure because it's So. Freaking. Insane. (Even though it doesn't come with a gun. Sigh.) And there was wrapping paper everywhere and Maud was playing in it and it was all happening on my living room floor in my house with the people I live with and love.

It was a nice day. I took a bath with one of my Lush balls, and we watched Dinosaurs "Not the mama!" and played Pictionary (thanks, Santa, for giving us the one game Guy and I suck at) and I somehow managed to stay awake for all of it and even shout orders at Boy as we made a very harried chilli-chocolate pudding while sending smart ass texts to my sister because nice as this Christmas was, and important as it was to me, I still felt very homesick.

But I did sleep last night. Like the proverbial rock. Only one who was cuddled.

A Christmas List

2007-12-21T10:56:00.000-05:00

This has been a stupidly hard week.

Monday: Clean office in preparation for construction of office. Get many papercuts. Listen to people complain about how they're getting screwed and their desks are getting smaller. Tell them gently to suck it up. Refrain from pointing out that I too am getting a smaller desk and somehow managing to not have (or be) a cow. Do not sleep well.

Tuesday: Office party. First party I have planned that wasn't thrown at my house. Call restaurant at 4:00 to confirm for the eleventh time that all is well. "We'll see you at 7:30!" they say cheerily. "5:30! 5:30! Are you setting up? 5:30!" I now have a cow. I rush over to the restaurant an hour and a half early--only to discover that all is well, and I have to sit and chit chat with the only other person who for reasons unknown arrived early--the hands-down scariest person in the office, who has never managed to figure out who I am among the other peons. Others finally arrive, and party is widely hailed as best party office has ever had. Get very drunk at party. Do not sleep well.

Wednesday: Am horribly hungover. Give in and take sleeping pill.

Thursday: Am hungover from sleeping pill. Everyone in office suddenly decides that today is asshole day. Fit-pitching over desk-downsizing reaches astronomical level. My attempts at placation backfire. Try and hide, but feel very exposed and frankly just want to crawl under my desk while it's still big enough for me to fit under it and listen to the new PJ Harvey on repeat until everyone goes away. Day lasts forever, and does not improve. Watch Grey's Anatomy as closest thing to Enchanted and discover that so close is still so far. Cannot sleep, get up and take sleeping pill, which does not work.

Friday, i.e. Today: Hungover from sleeping pill which did not make me sleep. Really desperately do not want to be here, even though everyone's mood seems to have improved. Need to make a new list. Things that make me happy list.

~~1. Sweeney Todd got good reviews, and I shall go see it this weekend. Although that probably indicates that therefore I cannot see Enchanted, so strike this one.~~
~~2. Period is arriving, so this feeling of weepiness and nausea will pass soon enough. Although then period will be here. Strike this one as well.~~
3. Office closes today at 3:00.
4. Christmas is four days away, and I need to be here in this office for none of those days.
5. Christmas is four days away.
6. I really like the presents I got Guy. And he has to share them with me because I live there too.
7. We've decided not to make a turkey for the four of us at Christmas as that would be insane.
8. I love the Christmas tree in the PATH tunnel.
9. Our Christmas tree is still standing. And still green.
10. I got the Enchanted soundtrack on my iPod last night. Didn't even have to wait for Christmas.
11. I got a bigass TV and didn't even have to wait for Christmas.
12. I am comfortable with my commercialism and the fact that sometimes things DO make me happy.
13. The mexican restaurant in our neighborhood now serves Tortilla Soup.
14. The kids are happy that they're spending Christmas with us.
15. I'm happy that they're spending Christmas with us.
16. They're going to be so psyched about their presents. That'll be fun.
17. Guy takes and is going to take good care of me. I bet he'll draw me a bath if I ask him to. Although not tonight, because no bath is relaxing when the kids keep knocking on the door to see if they can come in or if I'm done yet.
18. I finished all my Christmas knitting weeks ago. This still makes me happy.
19. I bet the kids would want to go see Enchanted again on Christmas Eve. And so would Guy, because whatever everybody thinks about how he's super self-sacrificing and good to me and yeah, sure, that's all true, but the fact is he loves the movie too and won't take much persuading.
20. People love me even though I'm delusional and insane. That's nice.

On Love

2007-12-07T14:47:00.000-05:00

Since I first heard of the concept love, I’ve dreamed of it. So I must have been, what, six? Seven?

As I got older, my daydreams changed from going to the movies and long, closemouthed Disney kisses to banter, adventure, and sex. They were always complicated and heavily-plotted, though—sometimes at recess, instead of going out to play, I would sit with my head on my desk and dream up some wildly romantic get boy-lose boy-get boy back story. I learned to tell my teachers I was tired and needed a nap.

This continued through high school and college and even after—and it got a lot more active. Instead of sitting or lying in bed with my eyes closed, I would go for long walks and meet and talk with the imaginary man I fell in love with. Or sometimes I would spend an entire day alone in my house (or dorm room, or apartment) not alone, but blissfully kept hostage by evil orcs/mobsters/vampires and—sigh!—being rescued. Or just talking and laughing with someone I loved.

This may sound very lonely and Miss Havishamy, but it wasn’t. I oftentimes couldn’t wait for family and friends and even boyfriends to leave me alone so I could get back to my daydreaming. It made me very happy, and I miss it terribly.

Because you see, I can’t anymore. Believe me, I’ve tried. I’ll go on a walk, and I’ll bump into a stranger, and it’ll be some miraculous connection (you know the scene) and I’ll start talking to him and it’ll be just like old times…except, my brain will skip forward and I’ll think about what will happen when I get home and how will Guy feel and my heart will break and I so don’t care about imaginary stranger man and poof! He’s gone.

This is very frustrating. I’m just trying to have a harmless little daydream. It’s how I used to occupy my unoccupied time. I am now unable to have impure thoughts.

I’ve tried getting around the heartbreak by first imagining Guy having an affair, or suddenly turning into a bad person, which would thereby free me up to fall in love with that man who really needs a place to hide for the night because he’s Johnny Depp and the paparazzi are after him, and he and Vanessa split up, didn’t I know? But instead I’m so angry and hurt at the idea of being cheated on that I can’t keep Johnny from poofing either.

I suppose this is all very romantic. I am so in love with Guy that I am incapable of even thinking about possibly loving someone else.

It’s still fucking annoying though.

Easily Enchanted

2007-12-03T10:34:00.000-05:00

So I've been having a hard time for the past week. I'll sleep for hours, and still feel exhausted. Everything is a struggle. Cutting up Girl's chicken cutlet has felt like the hardest task in the world. Line-editing a manuscript should not take me an entire week. And crossing the street while horns blare and headlights blind should be commonplace, not shocking.

I miss Hawaii. I miss the warmth and the sunshine and the ocean. I miss my parents. I even miss their smelly-ass dog. In Hawaii, I got to sit and read. A book, not a manuscript about addiction-recovery or menstruation or religion. I was so relaxed, I even stopped knitting in Hawaii.

Everything here is hard, and demands so much of me. And it's a life I chose, and would still choose over again (since sitting at my parents house, no matter what my mother says, is not a life), but that doesn't mean it isn't kinda tough sometimes. Especially when we have the kids almost every day while I'm still adjusting.

So, given all that, we needed to find something to do to entertain them on freezing cold Saturday. So, even though they'd already seen Enchanted, we took them again. Guy sat me down on his right, and put the kids on his left, and set about doling out popcorn and candy and whatall.

And I spent two hours in a state of utter delight.

Enchanted starts off as a very silly movie. Disney snarking at itself is all well and good and pretty funny, but that's about as far as it goes. Shrug.

But then something happened...some unnoticeable moment where it became something more, where Disney said yes, we know, we know, but look--this is what we do. And it was suddenly the sweetest and happiest movie I'd seen in a very long time.

Not that it wasn't still funny--oh, it was. That bouncy-ball of a prince, the eye-rolls of Patrick Dempsey, the spot-on delivery and physical comedy of Amy Adams--all hilarious. But I kind of expected that.

I didn't expect it to be sexy.

And oh, it was. Not lewd, just some damn fine chemistry--another thing I haven't seen in a very long time (Pride and Prejudice? Was that the last time? Crikey).

And romantic. And there was singing and dancing. And pretty dresses.

What does it mean that I am now in such a fabulous mood (and might I mention, even as I type this, flying through my line-edit)? Part of me thinks it shouldn't be that easy--that my problems are actual problems, and can't be solved with a trip to the movies.

But then, they seem to be. Maybe I'm just that shallow. Or just that mercurial.

If I knew how to turn a cartwheel, I'd be flip-flopping my way past the cubicles. As it is, I skip. I'm waving and smiling at everybody. I might go have Pinkberry for lunch. We have the kids tonight--and I'm looking forward to it. Maybe we'll invent some more Pictionary phrases--impossible to draw Pictionary phrases, like Cliff Clavin, Captain Underpants, or Cheerio Baby. Maybe we'll bake. Maybe we'll dance.

It may not be warm here, but I have lots of things that make me happy. I have a fun boss, and Anthropologie, and a dried rose on my desk, and Christmas coming, and friends, and two demanding but everlastingly loving stepchildren.

And I've also got a guy who took me to see Enchanted again on Sunday.

What more could anyone ask?

Thanksgiving, 2007

2007-11-26T11:45:00.000-05:00

Day 1

We played much scrabble on the plane. I mostly won. I discovered that I looooove Magic Loop, and will knit socks with Magic Loop always and forever, Amen. Guy discovered that he likes Thomas Pynchon.

We ran to make our connecting flight. No, really ran. As in out of breath ran.

We arrived in Hilo in the rain. We went to sleep.

Day 2

We hiked, and my Dad was crabby he didn't get to play tennis. He complained that he had a headache, but really he was just crabby about the tennis.

We picked berries and my mom made Ohelo berry pie. Guy helped--he picked out worms. All of the worms. Yes indeed, for I ate no worms.

Day 3

Guy and I went to Waipio Valley, which I've been trying to arrange for the past three years. It was worth it.

We tromped around in the mud and through streams and hey look there are some stoned hippies and whoa more stoned hippies and that's fun.

And it was sure pretty.

Then we had dinner at the world's worst Mexican restaurant that my dad loves onlybecause he likes being difficult but they do have good margaritas so we ordered a pitcher but then it turned out my dad wasn't drinking and Guy was driving so it was just me and my mom and oy.

Day 4

Guy and I went to Richardsons and ate a ton of Hawaiian junk food (and also a ton of ants) and lay in the sun and saw big splashy waves and turtles but the water was cold so we didn't go swimming. Then we went home and made dinner and I took a bath in my huge ginormous clawfooted bathtub that I miss terribly and then we played scrabble and I won but then we played Trivial Pursuit and I lost.

My mom has always been crazy busy but now that my dad is all judgy they're both crazy busy so we didn't get to see as much of them as I would have liked. But we made them stuff they probably don't eat even though they can get it all the time--poke and poi and haupia. Which didn't harden really, so it was haupia creme. Still tasted good.

We played trumps. Dad and I won.

Day 5

I got a migraine. We didn't go to the beach, but stayed home and watched Slapshot. Cause you know, nothing makes your head feel better like watching other people's heads get pounded into the ice. I took another bath.

We played trumps. Mom and I won.

Day 6

I helped prepare the turkey. Okay, not really. I had every intention of helping with the turkey this time, but once again, I saw my dad reach in there for the packages of bloody turkey bits, and then talk about how we want to use the okole for the gravy, and that was it, I couldn't help anymore. At least I stayed in the room.

We cooked. We cleaned. We prepared for the onslaught by hiking and then eating a lot of cheese. My cousin Drew came home after three years of being stuck on the mainland. We hugged. My grandmother loved her shrug. My cousin Jeremy drank three martinis without seeming much the worse for wear. Guy was impressed. We cleaned some more. My cousins all looked beautiful. We sang the Doxology in Hawaiian, and recorded it on my sister's voicemail to make her cry and prove to her that she should never be away from home ever again.

We ate a lot.

We played Trivial Pursuit. The Gorillas won.

We passed out.

Day 7

My parents had to work AGAIN.

Guy and I went on the Volcano Artists' Tour. I kept a straight face. Or tried to anyway.

We met with the wedding photographer. Guy decided he's in the witness protection program, because how on earth would an Italian with a German last name go from the marines to model photography in Volcano?

We played trumps. Guy and I lost.

Day 8

Mom and Dad went to a funeral. Guy and I packed. I took one last bath. We read outside. My book was terrible, but damnit I was going to finish it. I got sunburned. The cats had fleas.

We did yard work. We cleaned up. We went to dinner. We were all very tired.

We went to the aiport. We played trumps one last time. Dad and I won.

Guy and I managed not to fall asleep until we were on the flight to Newark. Then we slept long and painfully. I am doing the full body turn today.

Day 9

We stumbled our way through the airport and unpacking and shopping and cleaning out the kitty litter. I snuggled with the kitty and finished my second book. The kitty missed us.

In an effort to get ourselves back into New Jersey life, we followed our Sunday evening routine of Guy making steaks while I sat and knit, and then eating the steaks on wobbly TV trays while we watched our Netflix (Kiss Kiss Bang Bang. Utterly forgettable. Robert Downey Jr. was asleep, but Val Kilmer was funny. The world is askew). And we practiced swearing again.

Guy: That fucking guy is like Harvey Keitel's Mr. Wolf in Res Dogs.
Cordelia: Harvey Keitel wasn't Mr. Wolf in Res Dogs. He was Mr. A-Color.
Guy: Five dollars.
Cordelia: Done. He was Mr. A-Color. You're thinking of fucking Pulp Fiction.
Guy: 100 dollars. It's fucking Res Dogs.
Cordelia: Fine.

Ten second pause.

Guy: FUCK! I just lost a hundred fucking dollars! Fuck! It was fucking Pulp Fiction!

Yeah, the swearing doesn't ring true to me either.

After the movie, we figured it was time for bed. We were certainly sleepy enough. Guy brought the dishes into the kitchen.

Cordelia: What time is it?
Guy: Um. What time do you want it to be?
Cordelia: Uhhh...9:30? 10? What time is it?
Guy: It's only 7:40.
Cordelia: Oh. We can't go to sleep at 7:40.

So we watched an episode of Angel and I managed to keep my eyes open during the part where Darla kills herself (because you can't miss that!) and then we went to bed. At 8:30.

As If I'd Be Done Complaining About This

2007-11-07T10:07:00.000-05:00

So. The Beesting.

It occurred while backpacking. Boy and Girl had such a splendiferous time that we decided to go again, and this time take along Boy's Awesome Friend. BAF is sweet, smart, and easy-going. She rules.

The hike itself was great--again, since the kids were so excited, Guy got all excited, and went out and bought them real live hiking gear. They have matching boots, and Boy has an honest-to-goodness internal frame pack. Which we loaded the hell up, let me tell you. BAF marched along, laughing not complaining.

We got to camp, and Boy and Girl ran down to the water to go throw rocks at it. BAF, this being her time camping, stuck around to watch Guy and me set up the tents.

Guy fed me a pole, and as I was inserting it into the sleeve, I felt a poke in my pants.

"Hold on a sec." I reached back.

"Come ON," Guy said impatiently.

"Um, it's a bee." I did not panic. "There's a bee in my pants."

Guy scrambled across the flattened tent and fished the bee out of my pants.

Now, you would think that would be the end of it. But no. Guy is talented. He somehow managed to get the bee out of one pantleg AND INTO THE OTHER. WHERE IT PROMPTLY STUNG ME.

Then I panicked.

Motherfuckerohmygodohfuckowshit.

I jumped up and tried to take off my boots so I could take off my pants. Guy tried to take off my pants. I fell down. I stood up again, Guy got my pants down.

I glanced up to see BAF staring at my bare ass. Stupid thongs. I should really stop wearing the damn things.

But then I felt the bee crawling around my ankle and returned to panic. OFFPANTSPANTSOFFNOWOFFFUCKFUCKFUCK.

BAF elected to go discreetly down to the water to throw rocks at it.

After the pants were off--and promptly stomped on--I calmed down. Our First Aid Kit was somewhat depleted, and we didn't have Benadryl, or really anything at all. But, while it twinged slightly, the beesting felt fine and I was able to walk, sleep, and hike out the next day without a problem.

Until. When we returned home on Sunday, I took a much-needed bath. And it made the beesting insane.

Besides turning red and splotchy, it also became hard and puffy. And over the course of the next two days, it doubled in size. And turned purple and veiny.

And hurt. A Lot.

Suffice it to say, I seem to be allergic to beestings. I have an Epipen prescription in my purse. Which is, you know, almost as good as actually having the Epipen.

When Did This Stop Being Fun?

2007-10-31T10:04:00.000-04:00

When I ended up with only two women and no Jeff Tweedy. And no British Sea Power. And no Josh Ritter. And--sigh.

Bob Dylan
Neil Young
Joni Mitchell
David Bowie
Brian Wilson
Prince
Jagger/Richards
Lennon/McCartney
Marvin Gaye
Elvis Costello
Bono
Tom Waits
Bruce Springsteen
Van Morrison
Madonna
Stevie Wonder
John Fogarty
Paul Simon
Rufus Wainwright
Fleetwood Mac

I also had to remove all Jazz/Musical people.

This list is a shadow of itself. Also I personally despise two of the entries, and never listen to six of them.

Top 20

2007-10-29T10:48:00.000-04:00

Last night, I complained about Elvis Costello. I don’t like his voice. (I also dislike the voices of Tom Petty, Neil Young, and Bob Dylan).

Guy: I don’t care. He’s still one of the Top 20 Best Songwriters of the past forty years.
Cordelia: If you say so.

It occurred to me that’s a phrase people bandy about with far too much ease. Who are these Top 20 Songwriters? What are the criteria? Over the rest of the bottle of wine, we came up with, um, a lot more than twenty Top 20 Songwriters. And they were 90% rock musicians. And 90% male.

We are in need of assistance. We’re looking for Top 20, not Top 50. (Also, if you can think of any women I’ve left out…)

The criteria we settled on include, but are not limited to:

Longevity. Will these songs be covered in 50 years? (This is why Radiohead didn’t make it).
Mass Love. If they deeply touched millions of people, they should probably be on the list. (This is why Lennon/McCartney did make it).
Just Being Damn Good. Just because someone’s underrated and unknown doesn’t mean they don’t belong in the Top 20. This is our list, not EW’s.

Elvis Costello
Bob Dylan
Tom Petty
Neil Young
Joni Mitchell
Patti Smith
Stephen Sondheim
Bonnie Raitt
Keith Jarrett
PJ Harvey
Elton John
John Fogarty
Rufus Wainwright
Brian Wilson
David Bowie
Fleetwood Mac (so as to free up space on the list, we melded together Lindsey Buckingham and Stevie Nicks, and what the hell, threw in Christine McVie too)
Marvin Gaye
Bob Marley
Van Morrison
Michael Stipe
Josh Ritter
Kathleen Edwards
Chrissie Hynde
Mark Knopfler
Burt Bacharach
Carole King
Jagger/Richards
Lennon/McCartney
Paul Simon
Bono
Bruce Springsteen
Tom Waits
Jeff Tweedy
Lou Reed
Madonna
British Sea Power

Bruce

2007-10-19T12:02:00.000-04:00

There is one concert I have always wanted to see. More than the Stones, more than Joni Mitchell. I wanted to see Springsteen. And now I have.

I was kinda grouchy before the show started--they made us walk waaaay past our seats, and up the escalators in order to go back down to the floor. Which kinda sucked for me, since beestung-hobbling through a drunken crowd is less than fun. We got to our seats, did our best to ignore the completely wasted folks around us (in fact, let me just get this off my chest now: you paid a lot of money for these seats! I paid a lot of money for these seats! So don't you maybe want to be able to remember the show in morning? Or just SHUT UP and stop chatting amongst yourselves at the top of your voice? God.) I pulled out Atlantic Monthly and felt slightly pretentious.

But then Bruce came out, and I was over it. I was over the pain in my leg, the sounds of British Sea Power still echoing in my head, the annoying people, the fact that someone spilled beer over my (inherited) Gucci bag--Springsteen was playing.

He played a lot from Magic, but he played almost as much from Born To Run, so much so that we might have been seeing him on the Born To Run tour. Meeting Across The River into Jungleland were unbelievable. Reflective, cacophanous, and ecstatic. Like the best of Springsteen always is. Guy got all choked up at the point, while I came near to losing it during The Rising.

I see you Mary in the garden
In the garden of a thousand sighs
There's holy pictures of our children
Dancin' in a sky filled with light
May I feel your arms around me
May I feel your blood mix with mine
A dream of life comes to me
Like a catfish dancin' on the end of the line

Sniffle.

But You Can Look (But You Better Not Touch) was hilarious and delightful...and Badlands. A song that I've loved but never quite understood--is it happy? is it sad? Who knows. It rocked.

Are there other songs I would have loved to have heard? Of course. I'd'a been pumpin' my fists for Adam Raised a Cain, and couldn't we pretty please have heard one more song from Born In The USA? But all this means is that I want to see him again. Bruce can play whatever the hell he wants--whatever makes him happy. Because nothing is better than seeing someone having such a fantastic time.

18,000 people singing Born To Run (and not just the ho-ohhhhhs--we all knew all the words) made me forgive the drunken chatties, in some sort of amazing spirit of togetherness and Americanness and striving through disappointment and just shouting with joy....that's all I wanted.

If there's anyone asking did you get a rush

2007-10-16T10:03:00.001-04:00

I find it difficult to write about music that I love without sounding like I'm in high school. Is that why critics always seem to dislike everything--because they want to avoid sounding all gushy?

British Sea Power is a widely unknown (except for a few people who really care what Daniel Radcliffe thinks), deeply weird, and fucking amazing band. I've seen them at the Bowery Ballroom, Staten Island, and now Maxwell's. They've taken my breath away every single time. If we weren't seeing Springsteen on Thursday, we'd be at the Bowery Ballroom again. They're that good.

They rock harder than any other band that I love. The last time I saw a show at Maxwell's, I had a migraine and Yo La Tengo was playing. I ordinarily find Yo La rather soothing, but not live. And not there. Not all echo-y. We had to leave.

Last night, I hobbled around (I have a beesting, more on that later) and wouldn't use my earplugs because I felt too distanced, too removed. I wanted to be completely present. (See what I mean about the highschoolish?) My ears ring, my beesting vibrates, but I care not. Songs that don't mean much to me on cd suddenly become vibrant and powerful. Songs that I love make me jump--or bob vigorously, anyway. Am I a member of the Third Battalion (as wikipedia tells me their fan base calls itself)? I know not.

Counterclockwise, from right*:

Eamon. No longer in the band, now singing crazily in Brakes Brakes Brakes. I miss his drumming antics, but (sorry Guy) the keyboards must not have made much of an impact, for I noticed nothing amiss.

Hamilton. Despite How Will I Ever Find My Way Home, is probably still working in an office and paying his bills. Takes out his frustration on his bass.

Wood. The only drummer that has ever made me say "That guy is an amazing drummer." Holding the band together is a tough job, and keeping his drumming interesting is an art. He misses crew. It was simpler.

Yan. Certifiable. Paints houses while listening to "Leaves of Grass" on tape. Writes Elegiac stanzas for me.

Noble. His father and three brothers are all highly decorated military officers. He is a very restrained rebel.

*Pure fantasy. But so might be anything else you read about them.

Sunshiney Memories

2007-10-09T14:49:00.000-04:00

Guy and I went to Cape Cod this weekend. Again. I know y’all are sick and tired of it—“You were gone? Where did you go? Massachusetts? You must REALLY like driving the Merritt. And, you know, being stuck in traffic.”

No, not really. But we do like the Cape. The twelve-year plan is to move there. (Or to Washington State. Or to Hawaii. Or possibly Scotland. One of those.) We have spent much time there—it was the first place we went away to together, our favorite restaurant is there (we ate at The Wicked Oyster four times in three days (and really if you count just getting coffee it was six times in three days)), and it’s quiet and wet and oceany and wonderful.

So we thought it would be appropriate to head on up to Provincetown on a rainy windy day and dodge the many Lesbosians* and browse some jewelry shops. The first one we went into was dark and dank and had some cheesy name like “Sunshiney Memories” and smelled funny and had a mildly crabby old woman behind the counter. It also had a ring, dated 1932, and etched all about with flower-fishes. (At least, that’s what they look like to me). It fit perfectly, looked lovely with my engagement ring, and looked even lovelier on its own.

The third one we went into was not an estate jewelry shop—it was a regular jewelry shop. Guy tried on several—your standard manly white gold band, the square-cut handcuff-looking band (um, NO), and a thinner rounded white gold band which he dismissed almost immediately as “too feminine.” We were about to leave, when I asked him to try it on again.

“Really?”
“Yes. You’re complaining that the others feel too big, so try that one.”

It was perfect. It was smooth and nonaggressive and not at all feminine. It looked right.

So we found both our wedding bands on Cape Cod.

Because I am, as has been stated many, many times before, a huge dork, I suggested we wear our wedding rings out to dinner. For, um, practice. But really just because it was pretty and new and I already have a dress that I can’t wear until next August, are you honestly asking me to do the same thing with jewelry, too?!

So we sat at The Wicked Oyster (of course) and lucky Guy even had a view of the Yankee playoff game. But he swore he would not look at it unless I asked him to.

This held true through the appetizers.

“No! It’s the first lie I’ve ever told you with our wedding rings on!” Guy wailed.
“Many more will come, I’m sure,” I said. “What’s the score?”

(That was the game we won, by the way.)

The food, as usual, was excellent. We always get exactly the same thing. Which isn’t as boring as it sounds because we only get there once or twice a year, and once or twice a year of having The Most Amazing Beef Tenderloin You’ve Ever Tasted is only natural. Mmmm, the duck and squash salad. Mmmm, the oysters. Mmmmm, that Bourbon magical mystery sauce they put on the tenderloin….

We went home after dinner, and we, um, “exercised.” We had planned to not exercise with the rings on and leave that bit of specialness until after we were actual married (not exercising period. Just exercising with the rings on. Guy would want that point made quite clear) but I spaced and left mine on.

And because much rich food and much strenuous exercise do not normally go hand in hand, I felt nauseous afterwards. And then I puked. A lot. With my wedding ring on.

WARNING: EXTREMELY GROSS OVERSHARING APPROACHING

I vomited so hard and so strenuously that I blew my nose afterwards and tiny chunks of steak were in the snot.

I also vomited so hard and squeezed my eyes shut so tight that I burst all the little tiny blood vessels around my eyelids.

Okay, they don’t look THAT bad. That’s my cellphone camera trying to make me feel like shit. Really it’s just a lot of tiny red dots.

I’ve been telling people Guy hit me. Much less humiliating.

(A better picture. Because I simply cannot post that picture of my eye without some redeeming picture after it).

*Trivial Pursuit Question we really did have this weekend: What do you call the citizens of the Isle of Lesbos?

Lesbosians.

Sleep & Me

2007-10-03T12:32:00.000-04:00

I didn’t sleep much at all during the months of June and July. I would be awake for hours every night, and the lack of sleep would build and build until I would panic and cry hysterically and wake Guy and then neither of us would sleep. It was ugly.

By August 14^th, I gave up and sought help. I was put on both anti-anxiety and sleep medication. First I tried Ambien, which didn’t work. Lunesta, the green butterfly, couldn’t keep me asleep. Then I tried Seroquel (which is apparently used for people in comas or with multiple personality disorder or something equally scary.) The Seroquel works. I take it, I start to feel sick, and then I pass out.

Believe you me, at first I was all over this. Hell, I was sleeping! What more could anyone ask! Sure, the feeling sick and the never having sex at night anymore weren’t my favorite things in the world, but Sleep. It is good and important.

Lately, though, it’s starting to take a toll. I’m starting to feel more and more hungover in the mornings, and for the first hour or two that I’m at work I’m confused and sleepy and have trouble remembering which author goes with which book and what their particular contract issues are and what the hell was this manuscript I’m reading about, anyway?

And at night…I’ve been having these long, vivid, incredibly intricately plotted dreams… I’ve always had weird long dreams, but the Seroquel is making it so that I have them every night. At first it was awesome—an adventure every night! But I’ve noticed a pattern….they’re all nightmares. Sometimes they’re fairly simple. I dreamt that I was having dinner and Guy walked into the restaurant and we made eye contact and he moved along. I had all the memories of our relationship, but he didn’t. He felt nothing.

Others, they’re a little more complicated. Grand, dystopic universes in which I’m trying to save the world but must abandon my husband and child and get raped for my trouble.

So yeah. Kinda over the Seroquel. But recently I skipped taking it, and surprise surprise, I couldn’t sleep. I know I need to get my act together and get a new shrink (at some point along the way, the psychiatrist I’d seen all of two times told me Guy doesn’t love me and I have no self-regard but that hey, I really was going to be a great mom! Getting a new one) and get some new medication or do something differently, but I gotta say I’m not really looking forward to putting myself through the emotional (not to mention financial—all these different meds aren’t exactly cheap) rollercoaster-that-only-goes-down-
really-fast-and-did-I-mention-I-have-motion-sickness-and-also-fear?

Hi-Larious

2007-10-01T15:47:00.000-04:00

In this package is my wedding dress.

Somehow, I thought it would be classier.

(The packaging, not the dress. The dress is CLASS-Y. Or so I believe. I peeked in, but I'm afraid to touch it, much less try it on. I might get it dirty! (Also I'm sure it's wrinkled, being as it's all squished up in there)).

Color Me Bewildered (And Annoyed)

2007-09-21T10:53:00.000-04:00

Okay, so just last night, I commented to Guy that hooray! The bleeding seems to have stopped, nothing for days now, isn't that swell, and ironically, just as I am about to enter what should have been the bleeding period, which begs the question, will I bleed once more? Can there possibly be any more blood in there?

Why yes. Another watercolor in my underwear. Lovely.

Because We Haven't Talked About Bodily Functions For Days Now

2007-09-18T09:48:00.000-04:00

So my period is a source of near-constant aggravation for me. Sure, it really only comes once a month, but there's the week before of sore nipples and weeping, plus the pain. Hello the pain.

I've tried several different brands of birth control pills. The very expensive Estrostep, with it's varying geometric pills, seemed to increase rather than solve the problems. And now my gynecologist recommended I try Seasonale.

Let me tell you, those first two months flew by--ahhh, what joy! No mood swings! No nausea! No bleeding nipples! No smell of rancid chocolate in my underwear! (For that is what my period smells like. Rancid chocolate blood.)

But then, less than halfway through the third month, I started spotting. And then I started bleeding in earnest. (Sort of. More on that in a bit). It was as though my uterus was so full of blood it simply overflowed. Although, if I understand these things correctly, birth control pills are supposed to make my body think it is already pregnant. So what is this? The world's most drawn out miscarriage?

For it is incredibly drawn out. Three weeks later, I still bleed. Sometimes. Really, only when I decide "hey, this pad's been clean for the whole day, maybe it's stopped finally, I think I'll take it off, whew!" That, of course, is when I start leaking like a sieve. And am reduced to stuffing my underwear with toilet paper. Scratchy toilet paper. Because I'm at work. Of course.

In reality, I suppose it's working out about the same, three months, three weeks of period. (Although, this is looking like it's going to work out to be four-five weeks, so maybe I'll have to retract that statement). But the cramping is less, I haven't cried not even once (AND I watched The English Patient, so honestly) and I have no unbearable cravings for steak and red wine.

Plus, I'm afraid to go back to my gynecologist. She's super nice (if a little scarily anti-male--she has a "Boys Suck" poster on the wall in her office) and straightforward, but her staff only speak Chinese. Which makes making an appointment a little challenging.

Into The Woods

2007-09-17T09:59:00.000-04:00

Boy and Girl are new to the world of hiking. Well, new by my definition--my sister learned to walk hiking (and she never wore those yellow socks again, let me tell you), so perhaps my perspective is somewhat skewed.

In any case, they've taken to it surprisingly well for soft, lily-footed city folk, so Guy and I decided to take them backpacking this weekend.

It was an amazing success--barely any complaints, few rest requests, and--get this--they each carried their packs the entire way. For FIVE relatively difficult miles--Guy and I have trouble finding decent hikes in the NJ area, and easy hikes there are none.

Not that Girl and Boy seemed to mind! Boy was off like a rocket--definitely making him carry more next time--and while Girl seemed unclear on the concept of watching where she was going, she got through her spills like a marine recruit and marched up steep hills and never stopped talking for a single second.

And it was quite lovely. There we are, looking over Round Valley Reservoir, eating Nerds Ropes. (Backpacking requires many bursts of sugar. We did bring their toothbrushes).

But I think Boy and Girl's favorite part was probably the setting-up of the camp. I personally love organizing the tent, nesting everything away and creating a little home made entirely out of stuff with brought with us, plus rocks and logs. Boy and Girl were more into their father's millieu--caveman-like demolishing.

They pulled down dead trees and smashed them for the fire, and lit the fire and fed the fire and damn near danced around the fire.

I sat and knit a sock for my sister. Much more seemly.

There was a sad lack of a bear wire in this campsite, however (or, I should say, an Iorek Byrnison wire, which is what referred to it as in order to avoid alarming the small folk. Ticks were Mrs. Coulters (Fuckers. Although there were none! Hooray!)) and Guy decided we should string our food up on a tree branch. A tree branch that was high.

This necessitated shimmying up said tree. Freak.

Success! Well done Guy! And damn, those are some dandy little trousers there, sir.

We didn't remember everything--we forgot a sponge, slippers for the kids, our hiking chairs--but we did remember the most important thing (especially when you consider that we needed to take two tired kids and hustle them back five miles--uphill this time--in time to get back to their mother's by noon):

Coffee. Espresso, to be exact. I gave Boy a sip. Perhaps that accounted for his speediness. Shrug.

A Letter To My Sister

2007-09-10T16:07:00.000-04:00

We haven’t talked much in the past year. The fault is entirely mine—to be completely honest, I haven’t wanted to talk to you, for one simple reason: I couldn’t bear to.

It was horrible hearing you so unhappy, so terrorized--by your own emotions and insecurities, but even more so by your husband.

Who I hated. I hated him for what he was doing to my sister, and I had absolutely nothing helpful to say. I tried, I honestly tried to listen to you, and be supportive, but it was all I could do not to scream in frustration and anger. I love you, and I wanted so much better for you, but your choices were yours alone, and I couldn’t risk hurting you more by making things harder for you—which sharing my own feelings certainly would have done.

So I pulled away.

You are my big sister, and I have always loved and admired you. I admire you even more today. What you are doing is incredibly brave, and I’m proud of you. I know how hard it is to stick up for yourself, to remove yourself from a situation enough to realize that it is wrong—it’s a process. You did everything you could, and more. While I wish you would have left sooner, if only to save yourself more unhappiness, I understand why you didn’t. And I respect and love you for being the sort of person who tries, who will always try. You’ve taken an enormous step. I firmly believe that as time passes it will feel more and more like the right step, and the next one will be easier, and so on until you realize how strong, and good you are.

And beautiful. My God. For years, I wanted to look like you—your features are finer, your sense of style and of self more defined than mine (of course, I spent most of my time dressed like Helena Bonham Carter, so…) It has never in my life occurred to me that anyone could be unhappy with the way you look—I know that you have been, and I’ve always thought you were nuts. The idea that someone could aim and fire at such a vulnerable place in you enrages me—but that takes us back to where I’m not being helpful, and I want to be.

When I was in trouble—alone and sad and completely directionless—you took care of me. I want to be able to do the same for you. My doors are open, my phone is always on.

I love you.

He has a puh-NIS

2007-09-04T17:34:00.000-04:00

In the car on Saturday, the following conversation occurred in the backseat:

Giggle
Girl: “I don’t have a VAG-ina, I have a puh-NIS!”
Giggle giggle.
Boy: “You don’t have a puh-NIS, you have a VAG-ina!”
Giggle giggle.

Guy and I attempted to feign deafness. After all, they do have penises and vaginas and why shouldn’t this fact be open for discussion, even—or perhaps especially—at age six, and anyway, at least they’re not making us listen to the Buffy Musical Soundtrack for the fortieth time.

However, when I glanced back and saw a tiny six year old finger sticking out of her unzipped pants waving around like a puh-NIS, I accepted the fact that I was just too prudish for this, and asked that they take a break from this game, and hey wouldn’t they like to listen to Hannah Montana? Or even (sigh) High School Musical?

No such luck.

Later that evening, freshly squeaky clean from his shower, Boy announced that he had something tell me—“While I was in the shower, I was playing with my penis, because it was hard, and sperm shot out!”

Um.

“Did it feel good?”

“Ohhhh yeah.”

“Okay. That’s called masturbating. It’s perfectly normal. I’m glad it felt good. Have fun.”

(Aside)

Cordelia: Your ten year old son just jerked off in the shower.
Guy: That’s my boy!

But the thing is, I’m not sure he did. A) He’s ten. Which is so early it’s just sad. B) What happened to wet dreams? Doesn’t anybody have wet dreams anymore? C) If you’d just had an orgasm for the first time, would you tell your parents about it??? Much less your stepmother? No. Like me, you’d lock your bedroom door and have at it very quietly and secretively and never never no never masturbate? Idon’tknowwhatyou’retalkingabout.

He does seem to be going through the early stages of puberty (and so was given a book—What’s Happening to My Body, and gee, I wonder if maybe masturbating was described in this book?) and gives me daily updates on the state of his pubic hair.

Boy: The hairs are growing! (Opens pants) Wanna see?
Cordelia: No, thank you.

I’m not sure why I’m the go-to person on this whole puberty thing. Maybe because I went through it more recently? He and I have had frank talks about how all of this is normal and not weird or gross and no, that’s just regular underarm Polish kid hair, not pubic underarm hair and menstruation isn’t painful (giant lie, but some girlfriend will bitch to him later in life) and no, we needn’t warn Girl about it right this minute, there’s plenty of time.

The kid’s freaking himself out. And dammit, he’s freaking me out. I don’t want to make him feel like he can’t talk to me, but I’m not the expert on all things sex! And I’m not a parent! And not to mention, if Boy has discovered masturbating, those kids are going to need separate rooms asap.

At the very least, we’ll work on the proper pronunciation of various genitalia.

Places Where I Have Knit The Mystery Stole

2007-08-24T09:22:00.001-04:00

1. The subway
2.Yankee Stadium
3. Island Beach, NJ
4. The car. Oh, the car. Charts and charts' worth in the car.
5. Duck Harbor Beach, MA
6. Marconi Beach, MA
7. Newcomb Hollow Beach, MA
8. The parking lot outside Stop & Shop
9. My desk
10. My boss' couch

I vow to finish by the beginning of next week. Most likely in the car. On the way up to Massachusetts. Again.

The Kind of List I Like

2007-08-20T09:33:00.000-04:00

Imperial Teen
Bruce Springsteen
PJ Harvey
Wilco
The Meat Puppets
Spoon
Feist
Joni Mitchell
Tegan & Sara
Rufus Wainwright
Lucinda Williams
Maximo Park
The White Stripes
Josh Ritter
Rachael Yamagata
British Sea Power

What do all of these have in common? They are everybody in the world that I love. What else? They all have or will put out an album this year.

It's insane. It's Christmas every day. What's next? Joey Ramone comes back from the dead?

White Blankets

2007-08-09T09:11:00.000-04:00

Kristy at She Just Walks Around With It has sent out a request for knit or sewn baby blankets for super-sensitive preemies: 20X20, soft washable white yarn or fabric.

Help the baaaabies! Email whiteblanketproject@gmail.com for details on where to send (they're asking for them by 8/25, but I'm betting a hospital somewhere would be more than happy to take one at any time).

Things That I Have That Are New*

2007-08-08T10:41:00.000-04:00

*This is not a complete list.

1. For my birthday yesterday, I received two books: Knit Two Together and Still Angry Little Girls. So I want to make the world happy with knitting, but I'm really pissed off about it....

2. Three very large and painful blisters, because I wanted to wear cute shoes to go with my cute dress. Today, I'm wearing the only shoes I have that do not rub against that particular area of my feet--sadly, they rub against another area. Tomorrow I may go barefoot.

3. The memory of scallop and watermelon ceviche....mmmmm....

4. Beachcomber shirts! May the daily surfwear continue! (Day 5 and counting....today we have Roxy)

5. The image of BirkenCrocs. After the unholy union of Crocs and Maryjanes, I thought the worst was over. But no. While these are, technically, less ugly than the CrocJanes, they are evil. They are a combination of my two shoenemies. They are what popped out after Voldemort and Bellatrix Lestrange got down and dirty in the Malfoys' master bedroom.*

*Anybody who comments on the fact that I have blisters and yet hate Crocs and that maaaaybe there's a connection between the two will find their comment deleted, as this is not a new thought and therefore does not belong.

Must. Get Off. Ravelry.

2007-08-06T16:00:00.000-04:00

Gah. Just got back from vacation. (That story forthcoming). So I have MUCH WORK to do. But lo! I got into Ravelry! So clearly I must spend my time posting the projects I've done....and remembering all the projects I've done! (Because dude. It's embarrassing. I need to get out more). But also reading about--whoa! Mystery Stole has a theme! And it's Swan Lake! And there's....a wing? Really? A wing. What does everybody else in the world have to say about this? And ooooh, patterns!

Yeah. Half of my brain still thinks I'm on vacation.

But see what I did while I was there!

Shoulda turned the backlight setting on the camera--the top picture is more like the actual color. Guess I'm Odile.

Wing. Huh.

A wing.

A Freaking Unicorn

2007-07-19T12:17:00.001-04:00

There is a unicorn outside my office building.

And girls with hula hoops. And boys in short shorts on skateboards. And sailors. And a nurse.

They’re shooting a music video.*

A UNICORN. OUTSIDE MY OFFICE.

(Picture taken when my boss ordered me downstairs to "take a picture of that freaking unicorn.")

*Ben Lee, Love Me Like The World Is Ending. Who cares. There was a unicorn.

Too Tired For Titles

2007-07-18T11:48:00.000-04:00

Happy Birthday, Maud.

I had a dream last night, during the very little sleep that I had, that you were lying stretched out across the floor like you always are, only you had died in the night.

(I also dreamt that somebody poisoned my dog. A dog that is long dead).

And then I stumbled across Crazy Aunt Purl’s death of Roy, got to Loggins & Messina and started crying at my desk.

(Stupid Loggins & Messina. Of course, I cry at the drop of a hat when I don’t sleep).

I am very tired.

I love my cat, the baaaaaby, the bunny, the crabby old woman, and the friend who hears me crying in the middle of the night and calls to see if I’m okay.

I love the man who gave me the cat, who wants to be awakened when I can’t sleep even though he knows it means he won’t be able to get back, who can hold me and keep me calm when I panic, and who just wants me to be happy. And to sleep.

Perhaps tonight, I will love Ambien.

Mystery Stole Progression

2007-07-16T12:24:00.000-04:00

Friday

8:01 PM Hey, this chart thing isn’t THAT bad. Now that I’ve just about got the symbols memorized (even though it’s taken me a retardedly long time) I can pretty much follow it.

10:30 PM Gah! Gah! I’m knitting the wrong goddamn row again! How does one keep track of this shit? I’ve knit for TWO AND A HALF HOURS and I’ve made no progress whatsoever and have had to rip back twice! Make that three times! The hell with this, I’m going to bed.

Saturday

8:30 AM New plan. Crayon. I’m going to crayon the rows I’ve knit.

8:35 AM Stop knitting the rows that you’ve crayoned, dumbass. Those are the ones that you’re NOT supposed to knit.

11:30 AM Okay, now remember to crayon after you’ve knit them.

7:30 PM Whew. Seems like I’ve got it now. Not sure why they call this thing a stole though. Stoles are rectangular, and this is triangular. Well, that’s nice, I prefer shawls anyway. Sweet. Maybe Melanie’s British or something and they call shawls stoles when really they’re shawls.

8:45 PM Sure is pretty.

Sunday

9:50 AM Tra la la. I can even knit this while I read the newspaper over Guy’s shoulder. Am chartastic.

10:30 AM That can’t be right. If I decrease right before that yarnover, that means there won’t be any more increases, which means this shawl will be bizarre (elongated triangle? Huh?) Have I made a mistake somewhere?

10:35 AM Doesn’t look like it. But I’m still not increasing stitches as I should. Must rip back. But not now. Can’t face it now.

1:45 PM I’ve reknit and still it’s not increasing like it’s supposed to. God, there must be a problem with the pattern.

2:15 PM The internet doesn’t seem to think so. The charts online look the same. I don’t see any messages posted about an error anywhere. None of the comments (and my GOD there are a billion of them) say anything about an error.

2:20 PM I wonder what her previous shawls looked like.

2:25 PM They looked like stoles. Elongated. Rectangular. Stole-like.

2:27 PM I am an idiot.

2:28 PM In my defense, it did start out like a shawl. So I can be forgiven for thinking it would be a shawl.

2:29 PM Nope. Said it was a stole right there in the name.

2:30 PM Also? It’s a MYSTERY. You’re supposed to just trust the pattern, and not have some preconceived notion of what it looks like. You don’t know what it looks like, because guess why? IT’S A MYSTERY.

Town & Country

2007-07-13T11:43:00.000-04:00

Hill Country, it’s called Hill Country. Must remember that.

After the Times’ review, Guy and I and some friends really wanted to go. Obviously. We are Barbecue Pals. And lo—good new barbecue review on the day before we all have dinner plans! Is fated!

Was crowded. Half Hour wait turned into Over Hour wait. Was a mite chaotic. Had bad bottled beer.

All of this surprised me not at all. We were there on The Day After a good review—not several weeks after or months after but One Day After. Of course there was a wait. And of course the restaurant underestimated the wait—they are only a month old and had no way to anticipate or prepare for last night’s rush. And the bad bottled beer was noted in the review.

But for whatever reason, others in our party were surprised: “This is not okay. When I go to a restaurant, I like to sit down and have food. Also, the beer selection really sucks. Miller? Seriously?”

Um, yeah. Get over yourself.

And while you’re at it, get real. This is New York. This is a new restaurant. Of course there’s wait, and we knew there would be one which is why we had a backup plan, remember? Don’t be such a fucking princess, man, you’re at a barbecue place. (Although I'm with you on the beer thing).

And back to the barbecue. It was GOOD. Not “what is this, it delights me with its complexity” but just plain good. As barbecue ought to be. We didn’t actually get the moist brisket as they gave the last of it TO THE WOMAN RIGHT IN FRONT OF ME NOT THAT I’M BITTER, but the sausage was greasy and great and the ribs were very juicy.

And I have to say, despite what Mr. Meehan may think, I thought the sides were pretty darn tasty. We tried the bourbon sweet potatoes and the green bean casserole and the mac & cheese and corn pudding, and while the corn pudding wasn’t quite as good as my mother’s, they were all yummy. It was suggested that they maybe got a guy to come in a beef up their sides after the review, which I think is unlikely, but hey, all’s I know is I was happy. And the green bean casserole had mushrooms which Guy doesn’t like so I had it all to myself. Much like how Guy had the banana pudding with Nilla wafers all to himself, but I’m told that was very good as well.

And then we held our stomachs gingerly and hobbled our way over to Webster Hall to see a bunch of Brits. Quite the culture shock, except not really because food aside, Hill Country bears very little resemblance to anything Texan (they didn’t even have Lone Star, for God’s sake), and Maximo Park are so over-the-top-ly British that they seem almost not-British. There were bowler hats. I thought they were fun. Guy decided that, even though this was a band that he likes, that he didn’t enjoy the show because they’re not a jam band and he really likes jam bands, so it was kind of boring.

Logic and taking into account things you knew ahead of time were not features of any part of the evening.

2007-07-09T17:31:00.000-04:00

Guy and I have decided to give up cable.

Our reasons for getting cable in the first place were, if I recall correctly, Studio 60 and the Yes Network. Since both Studio 60 and the Yankees have kind of sucked out, we took a moment to reassess whether we really need cable.

Cons:

1. The aforesaid Yankees. Guy doesn't mind as much, but I wince every time he wants to watch a game, and because I'm a spoiled brat we usually just watch either Buffy or whatever we have from Netflix. We watched more earlier in the season, but now I just find it depressing. Even when they win.

2. The old adage "there is never anything on" is so completely, entirely, totally in every way true.

3. While it is nice to have shows available—shows like Heroes, for example, and Coupling—I could so totally rent those and frankly would rather do so because then they wouldn't have commercials and I could watch them in a row instead of waiting for SIX WEEKS WHICH IS NOT HEROIC AT ALL SYLAR COULDA KILLED HOW MANY PEOPLE IN ALL THAT TIME.

Pros:

1. On the other hand, it is nice to have shows like House and Who's Line Is It Anyway available, because those aren't really renters but Hey, I kinda feel like watching a crabby doctor whose American accent still freaks me out a little. But actually now that I think about it, I watch Who's Line Is It Anyway for hours on end so really it does fall into the rental category and I heard House is completely, insanely inaccurate which kinda spoils the fun. So really this entry belongs under Cons.

2. On Demand, though. On Demand is good. We watched Die Hard With A Vengeance the other night. Just doesn't get better than that.

3. The kids really like them some America's Funniest Home Videos. And Hannah Montana. And The Naked Brothers. And Fairly Odd Parents. And Drake and Josh. And Zach and Cody. I have the sense that the Disney Channel is visual crack. I don't know how else to explain High School Musical.

So. It was a difficult decision. But then we saw something that made our decision so clear, so right, it was like the clouds parted and the angels above sang out the answer in ten-part harmony.

We watched Animal Planet's Chased By Sea Monsters.

Not something we would ordinarily have watched, but having scrolled through the channel guide and discovered that (surprise!) nothing was on, we felt that a show with the words "sea monsters" in the title deserved a closer look.

Now I'm not sure what this show deserves. The guillotine would be too kind.

"Naturalist" Nigel Marven goes diving with the sea monsters. He and his crew go out on a boat, and sail around with their radar until they find something scary, and then he puts on his scuba gear and tries not to get killed. Fair enough.

But the monsters are prehistoric.

They are CGI.

And yet he tracks them on radar and swims away quickly in case the scary computer graphic bites him in half.

It would of course be one thing if this were a Magic School Bus-type kids show. But it's not. It was on at 9:30. The tone was adulty, or at the very least teenagery.

Nigel scanned that radar. Would the Mosasaur be swimming in Hell's Aquarium? Would it??? It would! Hooray! But it is far, far too dangerous to go diving in these dangerous waters. Nigel can't risk it. Even his smell suit wouldn't keep him safe.*

Oh, but Nigel can't resist.

And in he goes! I'm so surprised! How thrilling! Uhoh--watch out! And elasmosaur is attacking the giant CGI turtle Nigel is riding! And now a bunch of them are attacking the boat! And at the end? Nigel and his crew die, asleep in their bunks, killed by a swarm of Mosasaurs.

And the colored angels sing: Doo, doo doo, do-do-do, doo, doo doo, doo doo, do-do-do....Goodbye, Cable!

*Yes. Nigel wore a "smell suit" to survive swimming with Dunkleosteuses. When one came to attack him, he released the odor of rotting reptile into the water.**

**I would go into how retarded it is to release the odor of rotting reptile when one considers that at the time, they were busy attacking Nigel and another rotting reptile***, but that would presume some sense of logic in a show that is honest to God featuring a man in scuba gear swimming with dinosaurs.

***I would go into how bad the CGI effects were, to the point where the rotting reptile looked like a stone statue dinosaur that was crumbling into dust, but that would presume some sense of anybody caring about this stupid ass show enough to do a decent job on the special effects.

2007-07-09T14:53:00.000-04:00

Dear Woman On The Train:

Is the press of people is making you feel, psychically speaking, as though your hair is being flattened? It is indeed quite crowded, so much so that I am pressed between you and Asian Gentleman, and Old Woman Who Almost Made Me Miss The Train. Given these conditions, do you think you could FOR THE LOVE OF GOD STOP TOSSING YOUR HAIR? The girlish hair flip is wasted in such close quarters. I am getting hair-flicked in the shoulder every ten seconds. I am not impressed.

Also? There is such a thing as Too Much Product. When the smell of your hair makes me dizzy, you have crossed the Too Much Product Line. When your hair looks wet with lard, you have crossed the Too Much Product Line. When my shirt is oily and smells like YOUR GODDAMN HAIR, you have crossed the Too Much Product Line.

Nauseously yours,

Cordelia

grrrrrrrrrrgrrrrrrrrrrgrrrrrrrrgrrrrrrrrrgrrrrrrrrrgrrrrrrrrgrrrrrrrrrgrrrrrrrrrr

Dear Standpipe,

FUCK YOU! Is there any earthly reason to have so many freaking pipes sticking up out of the ground? I have never in my life seen a single one of you in use! Are you there merely to trip up unsuspecting women who are just trying to walk up Broadway without getting ashed on by Eurotrash? If so, well done! Mission Accomplished!

With skinned knees on the day I wore practical shoes,

Cordelia

PS No one even knows what you are!

grrrrrrrrrrgrrrrrrrrrrgrrrrrrrrgrrrrrrrrrgrrrrrrrrrgrrrrrrrrgrrrrrrrrrgrrrrrrrrrr

Dear Mystery Stole 3,

You have caused me unnecessary aggravation, and I don’t even have the yarn yet.

You call for 1,200 yards of laceweight yarn, but then elsewhere you call for 780 yards of laceweight yarn. That’s a lot of unused yardage. You were supposed to be my Zen-like escape from working on Butterfly.* I needed this time to recover. But what do you do? YOU GO AND HAVE NO PATTERN ONLY CHARTS.* I do not like charts. I do not like them on a plane, I do not like them on a train that has stinky-haired women on it.

Two clues behind already,

Cordelia

*Perhaps more accurately: from fucking up Butterfly. Never knit lace from a chart using mohair while suffering from a migraine. Is a good way to fill up your wastebasket with unfroggable yarn.

*Nobody go and tell me I should have figured this out before signing up because HELLO? SECRET INFORMATION NOT AVAILABLE TO THOSE WHO DIDN’T SIGN UP. And also nobody go and tell me I could just not knit it because I SIGNED UP ALREADY AND THE SIGNUP SHEET OR INTERNET PAGE OR WHAT HAVE YOU IS THE WORD OF GOD.

Predators B-Gone

2007-07-03T09:54:00.000-04:00

I have a policy of not posting pictures of the children on here (so as not to make their mother nervous) but I thought this one was just too lovely not to be shared, and anyway it only looks like some random boy child. And hey, I could just be messing with you and scanning some perfect postcard-type image and only pretending to be such a fabulous photographer and somebody's going to come sue me for copyright violation.

It's enough to make me cry for MY mother

2007-06-28T12:06:00.000-04:00

The wedding was so much fun, it was like an escape from everything—Guy and I spent the morning of the Big Day walking around Newbury Street and Boston Commons, and it was so wonderful it was pathetic. (If a little window shopping (and, okay, a little real shopping) provokes repeated sayings of “This is just the best day!” “I love this day!” “God, this is nice.” “Isn’t this a great day?,” we clearly need to get out more). And then getting all dressed up and, as a friend put it (using questionable grammar), “Usually really great people and people who care about each other, might not be the most fun people. But everybody was on the same page and it was just amazing how you could have so many great people together and each one of them not only enjoying themselves, but truly enjoying each other's company. I think it's a testament to Kate and Pat. Just an amazing experience and a ton of fun.”

Yeah. What he said.

And then we came home. And thudded.

Girl’s been on this kick for the past few weeks. A kick that I do not find particularly pleasant. She’s got a case of the mommies, and she’s got it bad.

Okay, on the face of it, that sounds perfectly fine—she adores her mother, and wants to be with her, and that’s sweet but I haven’t described the symptoms yet. They include: crying constantly. That’s really the only one. There’s a lot of “Mama says…” and not really being interested in talking about anything that doesn’t involve her mother, but that’s all fine.

The crying is not.

It usually starts right around the time it occurs to Girl that she’ll be sleeping at our house. Her lip will begin to quiver, in this forced lip-quivering thing that she does, usually just to get attention. We will hug her and say it’s okay, we love her, and her mom loves her and she’ll see her tomorrow (or the next day, or whatever). This does not appease her. Not having received the response she wanted (which is what? Her mother at the door? Or just better attention-giving? It’s unclear), she begins to cry. And then to wail.

For hours.

Every night.

Granted, the kid has been on antibiotics pretty much this whole time, and if they make me feel like shit, I’m sure they do the same to her much smaller body. And I know I’m being entirely self-absorbed in wishing that I could stay in effervescent, fun-with-friends wedding land where there is no crying and no screaming and no ignored-feeling Boy child pitching fits over Every Single Little Thing that doesn’t go his way so he too can get some attention. But I wish it just the same, and I drag my feet walking home.

But more than anything, I just feel bad for her. She is making herself SO MISERABLE, it’s unhealthy, and Guy and I are at wits end as to how to fix it. Distracting her with fun and games has not been successful. Remaining calm and comforting hasn’t helped. Giving in and sending her to her mother’s hasn’t helped (in fact, in retrospect it probably just made things worse). We haven’t tried guilting her or scolding her and telling her to knock it off before we really give her something to cry about, but I’m guessing that wouldn’t help either. Every day, I think “this has to end soon. It’s just a phase. It can’t last forever.” But it just drags on and on and on, and everyone is unhappy because of it, Girl more than anyone. And it’s a self-defeating cycle, because nobody can have fun at our house when there’s constant sobbing, and there’s constant sobbing because our house isn’t as fun.

Sigh. I think I’ll go look at some wedding pictures now. Good times.

Funfunfunfunfun

2007-06-26T10:09:00.000-04:00

Well, Wisp was not quite as warm as I hoped--I had to resort to using Guy's jacket at one point (totally ruining the line of the dress, my GOD, and I was the only woman in a suit jacket and so therefore am a wimp. The bride never even bothered with a shawl). But then the dancing started in earnest and I nearly forgot the thing on the floor (wooo champagne! wooo gin!) which would have been a shame because damn, it's pretty.

I have never had so much fun at a wedding. After a certain point (ahem, after the first sip of martini) I had no desires, no agenda, just caffeine in my feet and a song in my heart.

The song went like this:

Oooh, fun, fun, fun, fun!
And now I'll dance with Jen-ny
And now I'll dance with Aar-on
And oooh they're doing a riverdance!
Fun, fun, fun, fun, fun!

And now I'll talk to Da-an
Hey, Dan is ni-ice
And doesn't Kate look pret-ty
And now I'll dance with Gu-uy!
Funfunfunfunfunfunfun woooh!

Nina

2007-06-20T14:40:00.001-04:00

I have had two best friends in my life.

I met Nina on the first day of kindergarten. It was one of those friendships, where we spoke only to each other, were constantly confused with the other (though we really looked nothing alike), and bickered over everything, from who was the more impressive reader to the length of a unicorn’s tail.

The school never put us in a class together again. It didn’t make much of a difference. Nina won Rainbow Pride every year, while I never won. Nina got picked to go to Japan, and all the fourth grade teachers took me aside to tell me, and I cried. We climbed around the waterfalls behind her house, and waded in the floods that nearly swallowed mine.

In the sixth grade, Nina abandoned her funky, fairy-loving ways and started hanging out with the cool kids who had their periods at age ten and never even bothered with training bras. She started wearing New Kids on the Block t-shirts, for God’s sake. I was horrified. And then she said something hurtful--“You’re not worthy of my friendship”—which she immediately forgot but echoed in my head for years, and frankly I nursed it for all it was worth. (And come to think of it, during this forced separation, I DID win Rainbow Pride).

We eventually recovered, became inseparable again in high school and perfected the dorky chic lifestyle. And then she went to Harvard. (I didn’t get in to Harvard).

I went to visit her there, and it was all very strange. She had removed all the furniture from her dorm room, and lived entirely on the floor. She grilled me on all of my friends, asking questions I didn’t want to answer. We hadn’t seen much of each other in years, after all, and her questioning felt more like an interview for a British tabloid than the curiosity of a friend. She instructed me to bring—and wear—all of the sexy, partyish clothes I’d bought since moving thousands of miles away from my parents. But seeing as how we didn’t go to any parties, there was just me in the miniskirt and boots and backless top being paraded around to all her friends. Her very unfriendly friends.

I felt distinctly uncomfortable the entire time.

But our friendship had bounced back from worse, so we kept in touch. Kind of. Sort of. Occasionally. And then not at all.

I heard she moved to New York, but I never got in touch with her. But then she never got in touch with me either. I actually passed her on the street once.

I was walking with Best Friend #2 in Soho, and saw a girl dressed oddly. (I remember lots of pieces, like the Olsen twins used to wear, but all those flowing pieces seemed to take up an incredible amount of sidewalk). I glanced at her face as we passed, and glanced away. And then gasped and turned around. She kept walking, and didn’t look back. I doubt she recognized me. I didn’t call after her. I haven’t seen her since.

Nina reminds me almost unbearably of Guy’s Favorite Playmate Ever! ex-girlfriend. (The hunched shoulders. The clothes. The whole stick of butter-eating). (And her mother reminds me of our neighbor who irritates me without reason).

I heard she moved back home. This video proves that in a thousand ways, Nina is no different from the girl I knew in grade school. (And neither is her mother). I'm not sure this is a good thing.

He really ought to have known better

2007-06-19T09:43:00.000-04:00

I am not a morning person. I wake up later than everyone else in my house, and for the first hour after I get up, I am not really aware of what's going on around me. Guy once had an idea of a gift for me--he would fly my sister out, pick her up at the airport, and have her sitting at the table eating breakfast when I came upstairs.

The problem was that I would come upstairs and a) not understand how this person came to be sitting at my table, and b) not understand who she was. He decided this was a bad idea.

Not a morning person.

So (knowing all this) Guy requested that, for Father's Day, I get up early and make him breakfast--and not just any breakfast. Coffee cake. Which would be served with coffee. Which meant there would be no coffee beforehand.

He came and woke me up, and I pulled down the coffee cake recipe and gathered the children and began oiling pans and measuring flour and cinnamon and crushing walnuts. Girl got bored quickly, thereby insuring that Boy would remain interested. They never want to do the same things. It took forever, because Boy is THE MOST CAUTIOUS MEASURER EVER HE EVEN SCRAPES THE TOP OF A 1/4 TEASPOON WITH A KNIFE OH MY GOD, but we eventually got the damn thing in the oven. And then discovered that it would need 45 minutes to bake.

So we went to play The Game of Life: Spongebob. They wouldn't let me be Patrick. After 45 minutes of ruining Squidward's life, I went to take the cake out of the oven. Only it was still entirely liquid. And getting very tall. "A few minutes more!" I called.

Rinse, repeat. Guy became very annoyed with me, and pointed out that I had used the wrong size pan. I suggested that he should have more of a sense of humor, and he shouted at me: "how much of a sense of humor do you have when you're starving?" I told him to leave me alone and started crying.

Two hours after I got up, we ate. The coffee cake was very moist. The coffee itself was very reviving. We sent the kids to their mother's ("Happy Father's Day, Daddy! Bye!") and read the paper, and I almost understood what I was reading.

Because I have the emotional maturity of a 25 year old

2007-06-15T10:25:00.000-04:00

Progress progresses on the wisp:

And MAN does my table look black in that picture. And the yarn looks pink. Which it's not.

And just in case anybody was thinking that here was this incredibly old soul person, with the much older fiance and the two stepkids and the knitting and the bookish though somewhat alcoholic tendencies:
Yeah, whatever.

And Now I Have Gone Blind

2007-06-13T14:20:00.000-04:00

This week is crazy-ass. Everybody's cranky. After sweltering and begging Guy to run fetch me a tank top because the high-necked cotton shirt, it binds!, it is chilly and windy on the day we're going to take the kids to a concert in Battery Park. I spent my morning redoing a buttonhole THREE GODDAMN TIMES (Once because it was too small. Twice because it was too big. Thrice because I didn't put it in the right spot (and no, I didn't notice that the other two times I did it.) But it was my very first buttonhole. And now I am experienced!)

And that's not even counting the random craziness. I saw a hungover guy walking down the street consuming a morning after Pellegrino straight out of the bottle. (Predictably, the street down which he walked was 5th Avenue). I saw a woman wearing garishly patterned bloomers that gathered together at her knees to become leggings. I say it again: bloomers that turned into leggings.

And then Zappos saw fit to share with me the following atrocities:

They are lavender ballet flat crocs. Crocs that are ballet flats. In lavender. Will horrors never cease?

In an effort to turn the week around, I went to Purl and bought yarn for Craftster's wisp knitalong. Madil's kid seta in taupe. (It looks more like a light peach in person).

But I want to have it finished for a wedding in two weeks. And so the craziness continues.

This is the One Ring

2007-06-06T11:23:00.000-04:00

Last week I went to a party with a friend from work. Guy was home with the kids, but I was out on a rooftop. There was Corona, there was sunshine, there was a fantastic view—but there were only two people I knew: the woman throwing the party, and the woman I came with. I braced myself for some small talk with strangers.

The guy to girl ratio was seriously askew. It was like four to one—and they were Finance Guys. Duh duh duh. I knew what to expect—as the Coronas vanished, the conversation would shift from chit-chat to gentle flirting to genuine hitting on to guessing what color my panties were and what my cup size might be. Sigh. Nice view, free beer, I told myself. It’ll be okay—you’ve dealt with it before, you can deal with again.

Except no. They chatted. And kept their eyes above neck level. With me, that is. With the other three women, it was panties all the way.

And okay, terrific, I was just as happy to be free of slaver. But it wasn’t exactly doing a lot of good for my ego since every other girl was getting hit on. Did I smell? Did I suddenly sprout extreme facial hair? I did a quick check to make sure that yes, I did still have breasts. Legs, hair, hands….

Oh. Duh.

The ring. It repels them like Sauron at the beginning of Fellowship of the Ring. I sweep my arm, and hundreds of men go flying.

Neat.

Judgy

2007-05-30T17:26:00.000-04:00

I will be out of town for a few days, for I am flying off to Hawaii (yes, only for a few days. I will be back on Monday, and I will be tired). The reason for this departure is that we will be celebrating a Very Serious Occasion. My father, former Public Defender, former Head of the Legal Aid Society of Hawaii, former Private Practice Attorney, former Child Advocate for the State of Hawaii, is being appointed a Family Court Judge.

I think he'll be pretty good at it.

Taking a Dim View

2007-05-25T10:08:00.000-04:00

On my way to work, I pass some important government building or other (along with all of Fifth Avenue, most of Soho, and 42^nd Street. Readers of this blog must think I have the longest commute ever) and this morning the sidewalk in front of it was literally swarming with firemen. Dressed-up, gelled-hair firemen, loosening their collars and shaking each others hands and ignoring their wives who were standing in their own circle off to the side.

I walked through knowing that a group of self-congratulatory guys may very well feel like they are owed attention from anyone who walks by—and I had to weave my way through them.* As the unsubtle once-overs and glances turned to whistles and comments, I whirled around, whipped off my sunglasses, and glared at the lot of them.

“Are you kidding me? This is how you want to present yourselves on this Hooray Firefighters Day or whatever? And in front of your supportive wives? And in front of the important government building that probably mails out your paychecks? If my house is on fire, please pay attention to THAT, and not to the bra hanging on the doorknob, ‘kay?”

And I strode off, slinging one of them with my purse with one arm, and putting my glasses back on with the other.

*Everything from this point on is pure fabrication. It’s what I imagined might happen, and how I would respond if it did. (Thank God it didn’t, though, because it would slow me down, and I was late.) I apologize for my dim view of this group of firemen, who not only save lives, but are very classy and only subtly check out other women when they are out with their wives.

The Ring

2007-05-17T09:59:00.000-04:00

So I didn't get an engagement ring when I got engaged. Guy, being a big chicken, wanted to "make sure you had something you really wanted."

So we browsed online, and I gagged at how expensive engagement rings are, and chose one that I thought was lovely, and Guy looked at it and squinted at its smallness and said it wasn't good enough.

Ahem. Part of the reason I wanted it was because it was small and (relatively) inexpensive. But Guy ignored me and went on his merry diamond district way and this is what I ended up with:
I think it all worked out well enough.

I mean, if you like gorgeous engagement rings. If you're into that sort of thing.

(Arty shot)

(Shot where the flash didn't work like it was supposed to)

Anticipation (Carly Simon-style)

2007-05-14T09:48:00.000-04:00

Boy and Girl didn't get me anything for Mother's Day this year.*

In the past two years, I've gotten a chocolate flower, a bouquet of paper peonies (still prominently displayed), and a sun-pixie lily. The first year, I was so surprised and delighted by my chocolate flower I almost cried. It hadn't occurred to me that I would be given anything, and the idea that it occurred to Boy made me incredibly happy. The second year, having something that they made and picked out of their own accord (to my knowledge. I certainly didn't suggest it) made me feel valued and loved. I went around telling everybody what a great relationship I have with Boy and Girl.

And so, this year, I admit I was expecting a present. Not so much.

On the morning of, I heard Guy tell Boy and Girl to go wish me a Happy Mother's Day.

Boy: But she's not our Mom.

Guy: Go on.

Boy: (shouting) HAPPY STEPMOTHER'S DAY!

Cordelia: Um. There's no such thing. THANKS!

Girl: HAPPY STEPMOTHER'S DAY!

Cordelia: THANKS!

No card, nothing. I admit, I was hurt. And I felt all embarrassed, as if I had been trying to horn in on the day of momness, and sweet jesus, I wasn't.

But given a little while to think about it, it is more than a little ridiculous to complain about kids wanting to have Mother's Day be solely for their mother. It was very sweet, but really, Mother's Day is for moms, and when I look back, my happiness at receiving the chocolate flower was tinged with panic: "A Mother's Day present? For me? That's so sweet really I love you but OHMYGODI'MNOTYOURMOM."

So. I'm over my hurt feelings there. But one concern remains--is this indicative? Why the sudden decision to not think of me on Mother's Day, when they had in the past? What's changed? Are they not quite as happy about the engagement as they appear to be? Do they feel that in some way it threatens their mother? Does this mean that the good times are over and we are now going to go down the road of "I hate you" step-relating?

I can be a chicken-littlish person.

*Guy did. And so did Maud.

And Did I Mention It Was Early?

2007-05-10T10:05:00.000-04:00

This morning, per her usual habits, Maud tried to knock over the lamp. Now, I'm not at my best and brightest in the mornings, and so rather than hunt her down and deal with her trying to knock over my coffee and sit on my magazine, I put her on time out. That is, I shut her in the bathroom so I could finish my breakfast in peace.

I could hear her pawing away at the doorknob, and thought to myself what a smart little kitty I have. She gets that the doorknob is the key to opening the door! Soon enough, she'll figure out how to open doors and we won't be able to put her on time out anymore! My widdle baby's gwowing up!

Ahem. That was not entirely accurate.

When I got up to let her out, the handle wouldn't turn. She had somehow managed to lock the door. And of course, being one of those cheapy bathroom door-style locks, we didn't exactly have a key.

I tried jiggling a paperclip in the hole. I tried jiggling a chopstick in the hole. Maud tried batting at the doorknob some more. No results.

I wasn't exactly panicked, because that bathroom is where we keep her food, water, and litterbox, so if she was going to lock herself in anywhere, this was the place to do it. But still. I was going to have to leave for work soon, and I really didn't want to leave her in a tiny room with a closed window on a day that's shaping up to be 80 degrees and humid.

I called Guy, and luckily reached him before he got on the train. He went down into the basement and came up with some tools. Some tools that were more effective than a paperclip and a chopstick. The hinges came off, the cat came out.

She may look intelligent and thoughtful there, but apparently she's really dumb.

Or she's messing with us. One of the two.

Pitch & Decibel

2007-05-07T09:56:00.000-04:00

This weekend, I hung out with Guy's nephews. They are squeezable and big-cheeked and squeaky-voiced and I'm always very excited to see them.

As I was holding one of them and chatting with bigger, less-huggable adults, said little boy held up an unflattering mirror. As children are prone to do.

Cute small child: Your voice sounds different from how it usually sounds.

Cordelia: Oh? How does it usually sound?

Cute small child: EEEEEEEEEeeeeeeeee!!!!

Cordelia: Shut up, kid.

Horseys!

2007-04-30T17:25:00.000-04:00

For our very first backpacking trip of the year, Guy and I went in search of some warm weather. And a way to use our Golden Eagle Park Pass, because contrary to what my very generous aunt thought when she gave us the pass for Christmas, there actually aren't any national parks within a hundred miles of where I live.

So we drove down to Maryland.

Assateauge Island, specifically.

Backpacking on Assateague Island doesn't really resemble backpacking anywhere else. It has none of the lost-in-the-wilderness atmosphere of our last backpacking trip, I'll tell you that.

It is a little disheartening to be walking mile after mile with a bigass pack on your back while watching people driving on the beach in their cars and setting up their chairs and their fishing poles and their bigass coolers of beer.

And while they were very friendly, I have yet to bum a beer off of someone flying the Confederate Flag.

But after about six miles, we veered off away from the beach, and the scene changed completely. Goodbye Yuengling,

Hello wild horses. We had read that there were wild horses on Assateague, but it honestly didn't occur to us that we would actually see any. But a foal?! A foal seemed like something worth jumping up and down over.
If I actually had the energy to jump up and down, that is.

Much as we loved the horses, they did have their drawbacks.

Ahem. This wasn't quite as bad as the tick-in-pubic-hair incident --by which I mean, no ticks were in my pubic hair. In fact, I didn't get any ticks on me at all. But Guy got, like, fifty. He was freaking infested.

Guy: Ticks.

Guy: Horseys!

And it was beautiful there. We explored along the marshy coastline, watching cranes and other weird-looking water birds, and more horseys, and picked up more ticks, and drank a lot of wine to keep ourselves from freaking out.

It was so beautiful I was unable to keep my horizons straight.

And in the morning, we came across these:

Little foal prints!

And little foal himself! We got those pictures because the horses, wild though they may be, are trusting souls. That, or they're really lazy. I spent the weekend with "Wild Horses" stuck in my head, and it occurs to me that the guy who wrote that song may have been slightly disingenuous: wild horses couldn't drag anybody away, because they are happy standing still eating their grass and ain't gonna move for nobody. That song just isn't that romantic anymore.

On the way home, we stopped and got crabs. Obviously. We were in Maryland after all.

Yum. And fun. Whatever my calves may say, it was a fun weekend, and we seem to have survived Tick Attack 2007.
Baby horsey!!!!

And Now For Something Only Sort Of Different

2007-04-26T10:08:00.000-04:00

I'm not one for nature shows. Ever. Oooh, a dumbass in a cage is being circled by a shark! And a lion ate a caribou! That is SO THRILLING. AND NOT AT ALL GROSS.

But I am obsessed with The Discovery Channel's Planet Earth. (This is a weird time to post this though, because last week's episode featuring a giant hill of batshit swarming with cockroaches? Not recommended).

I can't say that I've learned anything super-exciting about any of the animals featured. Lots of creatures depend on grass and water. Birds of any feather, when it comes to choosing where to birth or raise their young, are COMPLETE DUMBASSES. Animals eat other animals' babies. And take those babies to feed their own babies, who would otherwise starve to death.

Yeah, not new.

But the footage is incredible. Absolutely amazing shots--I spend the entire hour gasping and ooohing and ahhhing over how stunning the world is. I look forward to watching these even more than I look forward to rewatching episodes of Buffy. Which may not seem like a resounding recommendation but it really is.

The cutest little bear cub ever! Love love want to hug and squeeze (there are lots of cute babies on this show. I do wonder what the evolutionary reasoning is behind making humans love all babies--other animals certainly don't seem to share this tendency).

That's a herd of something or other down there. I don't care what exactly, it's just beautiful.

Lots of elephants on this show. Elephants seem to live in many many different kinds of climates. But dude, check out that sand dune.

That right there is a snow leopard. I haven't seen this episode yet, but I'm excited.

Even those who already know the story of the emperor penguins (because seriously, there was a whole movie about them already, which was probably being shown while the poor Planet Earth guys were out there filming the penguins. Suckers.) will enjoy this. Is pretty.

Very pretty.

Heroes gives me nightmares

2007-04-25T09:36:00.000-04:00

And not because of Sylar's crucifixion of Isaac. It's because of Peter and Claire.

See, from the moment Peter saved the cheerleader, I've been convinced those two should hook up. They're good together! And he needs a woman. Badly. So she's only sixteen--she's very mature for her age! And they're Heroes--they should stick together.

But then the stupid show had to go and make Nathan her father and now Peter's her uncle, and first of all, how soap opera-y is that? And second of all, noooooo they have such good chemistry you can't just waste that kind of thing on elaborate inbreeding!

Even last night, when Claire pulls the piece of glass out of Peter's head and revives him in a reverse Sleeping Beauty, I was all "Ooh, they should kiss!" Except no, because it would be sick and wrong.

And so last night I went to sleep still seething with frustration that will never go away unless we discover that Nathan isn't Claire's father, that it's really Linderman or something. Hey, a girl can dream. And I did.

I dreamt that because of something to do with my uncle, I wouldn't be able to get married unless my father married my sister.

Sick and wrong.

Venue Whore

2007-04-23T09:52:00.000-04:00

Guy: "Hey, is it cool if I go and play a gig in August?"

Cordelia: "Of course. When is it?"

Guy: "Oh, you don't have to go."

Cordelia: "Well, I may not. Is it the same Rolling Stones crazy cover band thing?"

Guy: "Um. Not really."

Cordelia: "Oh, you're playing something new? Well, then I definitely want to go! What is it?"

Guy: "We're playing Joe's Pub."

Cordelia: "Wow! That's great. What are you playing?"

Guy: "I've never played Joe's Pub before."

Cordelia: "I know. What are you playing?"

Guy: "I've always wanted to play Joe's Pub."

Cordelia: "Guy. What are you playing?"

Guy: "They're paying me..."

Cordelia: "Ahem."

Guy: "We're playing The Who."

Cordelia: "The Who??? The Who who we hate and their songs are dumb and boring and we hate them?"

Guy: "It's at Joe's Pub."

Cordelia: "I don't think I'm going."

No one knows what it's like

To feel these feelings

Like I do

And I blame you

Look What I Bought

2007-04-20T13:56:00.000-04:00

Because I am a HUGE DORK.

Making Everything About Me

2007-04-19T10:23:00.000-04:00

When I was in college I knew a creepy, abusive, and probably insane guy named Ben. When I talk about this period of my life, it's simplest to say I was stalked, but that's really not it at all. It would be much more accurate to say I was an abused housewife, with all the attendant self-recrimination and hamster-on-a-wheel behavior. I have made peace with my own stupidity and spinelessness, but I don't know if I've fully recovered--or if I ever will.

People have asked me why I don't have my name on this site, since most of my readers know who I am. The answer is very simple: I don't want to make things easier. If Ben ever shrugged and thought "hey, I wonder how Cordelia's doing and maybe I'll look her up so I can hit her some more," I don't want him to be able to do a google search and show up here. You can find out a lot of things by doing a google search for me, but you can't find me and my life.

Did I ever report him? No. (Again with the spinelessness). But if Virginia Tech has told me anything, it's that it wouldn't have mattered if I did. Because of the abused housewife thing we had going on, there really was very little anyone could object to (or at least that's how it felt at the time, considering that no one who witnessed his behavior ever did). But those women did report crazy ass behavior, and it accomplished nothing and everybody still ended up dead.

I don't expect Ben to start shooting anybody, but I would not be shocked.

Do I feel nervous putting this out there? Yes. Probably even a little scared. But here we go.

Hello, Ben! What's new? Next time I run into you, I'm calling the cops.

I am not The Baroness

2007-04-17T11:08:00.000-04:00

While it's true that Boy and Girl have asked whether/when Guy and I were going to get married about, oh, a thousand times in the almost-three years we've been together, I still felt nervous about telling them about the engagement.

You know, it may have been one of those things where they thought they really wanted it, but in fact it would make them howl that MOMMY AND DADDY GOT A DIVORCE AND IT'S ALL CORDELIA'S FAULT.

Or something like that.

But obviously it had to be done. We told pretty much everybody else in the world first, and then settled in at the dinner table to ask questions about how their days were and oooh, what a nice drawing of a--is that a kitty?--and oh by the way we're getting married.

That is, that was the plan. The only problem was Cordelia wouldn't sit down at the table. There were, um, dishes in the dishwasher that had to be put away right that second because yes this is very important and what about the cat doesn't she need to be fed and also the plants need to be watered.

Eventually I ran out of chores, and half-empty glass of pomegranate and vodka in hand (well, vodka and pomegranate, I suppose, ratio-speaking), I did sit down at the table. And sat quietly while Guy very matter-of-factly told them that we were getting married in August 2008.

Girl continued drawing kitties, but Boy's eyes welled up. I crooked a finger and he walked over and gave me a hug. "I'm crying tears of joy," he said, surprised at himself. And Girl looked up and was all "oh! hey, neat!" and came to get in on the hug action.

Then Boy proceeded to email everybody he knew (even though they all already knew because we'd already done that) and write some invitations (which, dude, we're totally using because a) free and b) not tacky because kids are cute and we can totally get away with it) and do some planning ("Can I come up with ideas which you can change or not use but can I just come up with them please?"). Girl started planning her own wedding, or rather the guest list, which would include The Groom, Mom, Dad, Just Her Cousin, Just Her Other Cousin, and Boy.

We finally got them to settle down by putting on The Sound of Music. Strangely enough, we were at the scene where Captain von Trapp informs his children that they're getting a new mother, and The Baroness submits to kiss after dutiful-but-haughty kiss. Boy and Girl were outraged--how dare the Captain just marry this woman without asking their permission?! Is horrible and wrong! I pointed out that their dad and I had just done exactly that.

"But we asked you guys to get married how many times!" Boy exclaimed.

True enough, from their perspective, though really not at all relevant, and so now I feel kind of sorry for the Captain. Except not really, because The Baroness? Barring that scene in the fabulous red dress, she's a real bitch.

Burying The Lead

2007-04-13T12:25:00.000-04:00

Not that you can tell from the comments section, but man did I get a lot of grief for yesterday's post. What, you don't care about sea bass? And Roero Arneis? No taste, no taste whatsoever.

So those of you who are interested in a more chick lit-esque version of the story, read on.

To be honest, we had been talking about possibly getting married for some time--precipitated, perhaps, by the kids always asking about it--and this was the first big night out in a while, so I did have some inkling that there might be a proposal at some point in the evening. But when the half hour alone together in the room passed uneventfully, I assumed the rest of the evening would as well.

So when Guy held my hand and started talking about how happy he was, I didn't think anything of it, and sort of accidentally changed the subject asking about how happy he thought So and So were. When he grabbed my hand again and brought us back on topic, it started to dawn on me.

We talked about how we had talked about getting married, but now we want to stop talking about it.

My face got hot.

We talked about how happy we both are.

My back got hot.

But because it was in the form of a discussion, it didn't feel all that different from all of the "we'll probably get married someday"s that we'd had before. There was no ring or anything, and I wasn't sure that I could get up from the table and say "I'm engaged."

Cordelia: Would you say the thing?

Guy: Will you marry me?

Cordelia: Mmmhmmm.

Big smiles.

And I shivered through the rest of the meal.

Blue Hill

2007-04-11T11:24:00.000-04:00

A few months ago, well into my second martini with no dinner, and while listening passionately to Joni Mitchell's Blue album, I suggested that Guy get one of his authors to do a book on the subject.

A $150,000 advance later, Guy took me out to dinner.

I was mighty excited. I'd never been to a restaurant like this before, with the fancy and the fresh and the famous and all. I got a manicure and pedicure in anticipation--not the smartest of ideas since it, um, snowed over the weekend, and every single manicure I've ever gotten has chipped within the first day. And I was starting my new job, so it's not like I could just sit and admire my pretty nails until dinnertime.

However! This is the best manicure I've ever had! Still no chips! Days later! Was a sign of things to come!

We were ushered through the libraryish main dining room to the back garden room--which I much preferred. It's smaller and more peaceful, and we had it to ourselves for the first half hour.

The tasting menu with the wine pairings included dishes that I would not normally have ordered--which was sort of the point. They started us off with shot glasses filled with celery root puree and beet and grapefruit juice, shortly followed by carrots on a fence (seriously. Little fresh off the farm carrots, complete with greens, on a tiny metal fence) and bread smothered with what may have been lard but in any case tasted like salty heaven. Accompanied by glasses of Prosecco. It was all delicate and lovely and slightly silly in its excess. Or maybe I'm just unused to that kind of thing.

The next course was my favorite. The wine arrived first, a Roero Arneis that at first we couldn't quite get a handle on. It was hard to nail down exactly what it tasted like--and my google search has just told me that Arneis means "difficult or stubborn," so now I feel like I might accidentally know what I'm talking about here. But when tried with the dish--very nearly raw White King Salmon, served on top of grapefruit slices with a paprika and shallot vinaigrette--everything tasted much stronger and all those mismatched ingredients suddenly made sense. It was neat.

The second wine was a Cabernet Franc, a blushy wine which was light but quite caramely toward the end there. It was served with a wild striped bass served with mushrooms! which Guy ate! and an almond and shellfish foam. These flavors all made much more sense to me to start with, and the scarily named honshimeji mushrooms were delicious.

The third course wasn't served for a very long time, because the highly professional waitstaff don't interrupt people in the middle of intense conversations.* In any case, it was my least favorite. The wine was a smooth, heavy red and it accompanied the milk fed poulard and ginger noodles. Guy tried to convince me that combining Italian and Chinese made sense, much like those restaurants that serve Chinese and Mexican takeout make sense, because Marco Polo was Italian or possibly Portuguese and he sailed to China and brought back spices. Uh-huh. We were, after all, on our fourth glass of wine at this point.

The blood orange sorbet with milk jam (a "dessert amuse" served in a port glass) was heavenly.

As was the steamed cheesecake, served in jars like this. Possibly my favorite detail of the meal.

When we got up to leave--not sober, but not stumbling either--I noticed something rather unfortunate. All the food I'd eaten had somehow managed to drop not into my stomach, but into my feet which seemed to have swelled and were now much, much too small for my new Geoxs. So, in fact, I did stumble home.

*We got engaged. Tiny, insignificant little detail.

And they say Christmas is commercial....

2007-04-08T13:44:00.000-04:00

I got up really goddamn early this morning. I decided it was imperative that the kids wake up and go upstairs and find eggs that were hidden last night. I can no longer remember why.

However, the kids certainly seemed to appreciate it. Guy and I decided to break from tradition, and not buy Willy Wonka death-in-an-egg, but give them a Jacques Torres chocolate in each egg. Very popular move. And I borrowed Kat's pattern and made chicks for each of them. And when they found the chicks they got a matching box of Peeps. Because I am a huge dork.

And it was honestly adorable.

I was much less enamored of the whole thing on Friday though. Guy is no longer allowed to shop at Jacques Torres without me, because without proper supervision, he has been known to spend hundreds of dollars. On chocolate. That's just ridiculous. He was under strict instructions to buy a box of 25 chocolates and nothing else.

Cordelia: You spend how much at Jacques Torres?

Guy: $38. Totally reasonable.

Cordelia: On Easter candy?? Those boxes are $27--where did the other ten dollars go?

Guy: Well, there were these beautiful little robin's nests...and I got eggs, because they're not getting Cadbury Creams, and...

Cordelia: You know, I already spent, like, two and a half bucks on those Peeps. We're not made of money, you know!

Guy: Who bought shoes today?

Ahem. Yes. The real issue was that I'm a selfish shoe whore. I had just purchased Geox Kink 9's* (because I'm jealous of Girl's boots and these were the closest I could get). And I need (want) a new bag. And new earphones. And I got this 20% off card from Aerosoles....

Guy: So you're blaming me for your buyer's remorse?

Cordelia: Candy doesn't last! Shoes are forever!

*Found by Guy, who spent hours searching around Zappo's and Nordstrom for me. XOXO.

Obligatory

2007-04-06T10:45:00.000-04:00

Hey, this a Buffyverse website, okay? An Anya Bunny picture is, like, required.

A Slew of Boyfriend Questions

2007-04-05T11:46:00.000-04:00

But first off, a picture of my shoes. Because dude, these are beautiful shoes.

I want to marry them.

Dear Cordelia:

My boyfriend has a poster of his ex-girlfriend hanging in his room. Should I break up with him?

Cordelia Says:

Well, no. Don't panic. Which of us hasn't come across a picture of the ex-girlfriend, and had to resist shouting "Why do you have this?!? Didn't you burn everything of hers? Why not?!"

Although, I have to say--a poster? That's not exactly like an old photograph you find in a book or something. Posters are big. And prominent. Is it, like, really artistic or something, and so it's just up there for interior decorating purposes?

But either way, you get to ask. Anybody who has a poster of his ex-girlfriend up is begging to be asked about it. You can even go so far as to say "You know, this giant picture makes me think you might still have a thing for your ex--is that true?" And see what he says. And then maybe break up with him, because a poster is fucking excessive.

Dear Cordelia:

What if you just started going out with a new guy, and he constantly mentions his ex-girlfriend. Not in a bad way, but just brings her up a lot. Do you wait to get screwed over, or walk away immediately?

Cordelia says:

Well. This is similar to the poster thing. If it were the same guy, I would say run away immediately. But again, this merits further investigation. It certainly is possible that he will go back to his ex, but by no means guaranteed.

I have a friend who constantly talks about her life with her ex, even though she is now happy with someone else. I'm not sure why she does it, but she does and I don't think it means anything.

On the other hand, hearing about the ex--even, as you say, in a perfectly casual, non-nostalgic way--has got to be irritating, and certainly merits concern. If you ask, I'm sure he'll shrug it off--nobody wants to admit to their current girlfriend that they're still hung up on their ex. I'd advise you to watch closely: is it really non-nostalgic? If not, or if you don't care enough about the guy to wait and see, yes, you should walk away. Otherwise, thicken up your skin and tell him to knock it off.

Dear Cordelia:

What if you've been seeing a guy for a while, six months or so. But the whole time, you've never made it official. People ask you if you're together, and you want to say yes, but technically, you're not. Do you wait for this guy to finally take some initiative, or hit him with an ultimatum?

Cordelia says:

Um. Six months? I'd say you've definitely done enough waiting.

Now, some clueless guys don't realize that they have to say "So we're a couple now, that's cool with you, right?" Which may be all it is. However, if in six months you've never heard him casually introduce you as his girlfriend, or say he's meeting his girlfriend, or "hey, I need to go buy a Valentine's Day present for my girlfriend," then I'm sorry to say that the answer may not be the one you're looking for.

But don't ultimatum. Have the conversation, and if he says "blah blah don't want to put any labels on this blah blah"--or worse, "well, I'm seeing all these other people, so I couldn't really call you my girlfriend," which happened to me--then you decide. Do you want things to move forward with this guy, or are you happy enough with the status quo?

Phantom Pregnancy: A Tale of Woe

2007-04-02T10:42:00.000-04:00

Last week, apropos of absolutely nothing relevant (except choice of birth control. So I guess that's kinda relevant) my sister asked me if I were pregnant. Or rather, she shouted excitedly "Are you pregnant!"

The answer was--and remains--an emphatic NO. I am not pregnant. (Hear that, Hannah? NOT PREGNANT.) But the conversation seems to have infected me with the symptoms of early pregnancy. This has happened before.

This weekend, it started when we stopped to pick up a loaf of pepperoni bread for lunch (Boy and Girl and Guy and I were going hiking). Guy came in from the bakery, dropped the freshly-baked, still-warm loaf on my lap, and I suddenly had to hurl.

Bread! It is the strongest smelling thing on earth! And I was trapped in a car with it! I made like a dog and rolled down my window to hang my head out--which in the narrow streets of Jersey City risks decaptitation. I didn't have any bread for lunch.

By the end of the day, I was exhausted and crying at any little thing that went wrong. Guy beat me at cribbage! Is so unfair!

And after a bad night's sleep, I woke up to freshly-risen bread dough, and Guy, on his way out the door, instructed me over his shoulder to place it in the oven.

Ahem. Baking bread smell permeating my entire house. I stuck my head out the window.

One would HOPE that Guy will be more supportive when I really am pregnant. I guess phantom fetuses don't deserve the consideration that real ones do.

Making fresh bread. The nerve.

Is There a Lamps Anonymous?

2007-04-01T08:50:00.000-04:00

I'm sure everyone is desperate to know what's new with Maud these days. (And you wouldn't believe the number of hits I get a week for "cat q-tip orgasm.")

We did get her spayed, and it was traumatic. For me. She was fine. But when I went to pick her up, the vet handed me a sheet saying that she shoud have no water for the first day, no food for the next, and should not be allowed to jump or walk around or go up or down any stairs for at least two weeks.

Okay, she lives for those things. They are the whole reason for her existence. Food, water, and jumping up on things. And knocking shit over. The vet didn't say anything about that, but since all our stuff is kept up on things (tables, shelves, etc.) she's out of luck. And the only way we could keep her from jumping up on things (since there are things in every single room. We don't have space to have a room that just has, you know, air in it) was to lock her in a little kitty cage. For two weeks.

We decided to see if she coud be trusted to not jump up on stuff. She jumped on the table. She ran down the stairs. We tried locking her in the bathroom, and she jumped on the radiator and the tiny little shelf that used to hold glass bottles and shells and things until she knocked them all down.

We gave up. Our concern for her wellbeing and the state of her stitches was less powerful than our wish to avoid hearing her howling for two weeks because she was stuck in a tiny cage.

Anyway, she's fine. She pulled the stitches a little, but they did eventually heal up, and though her belly is taking forever to grow all its hair back, she's as active and lovingly bitey as ever. Now we're just waiting for her to settle ino the post-spay phase and become a lazy little lump.

It hasn't happened yet. Guy is most distressed by her habit of knocking over anything that has liquid in it, and is on a mission to make sure that we all gulp down our beverages as fast as we can because Maud might get them--a strategy that works really well with coffee and makes me hyper for the rest of the day.

I, on the other hand, would be fine if she would just FOR THE LOVE OF GOD LEAVE THE LAMPS ALONE.

Maud has an addiction. She loves lamps. Specifically, she loves clawing them and knocking them over. The problem is, I too love lamps, almost as much as I love glassware, and there are a lot of lamps in our house. And while Guy can shrug and say "hey, there's a weight on the bottom there, she can't hurt it, stop yelling at her because I'm missing Xander being funny," I can't, because I love almost all of these lamps (there's one she's welcome to) and they are not allowed to break.

We have to refill the special Maud-punishment-spray-bottle a lot these days.

So if anyone knows of a twelve steps program for cats, I would be most grateful.

The Email Life of a Knitter

2007-03-29T11:26:00.000-04:00

On Mar 29, 2007, at 11:10 AM, Cordelia wrote:
sounds good
did i say i like knitting? i hate knitting

On Mar 29, 2007 at 11:19 AM, Guy wrote:
wha? what are you talking about? what happened?

On Mar 29, 2007, at 11:22 AM, Cordelia wrote:
it's fine. minor BUT FUCKING ANNOYING problem that is now cleared up. back to normal

On Mar 29, 2007, at 11:24 AM, Guy wrote:
whew. i was worried.

Internet, I Loooooove You

2007-03-29T10:31:00.000-04:00

From now on, I will post all my annoyances and whines! It produces results!

Do you know how long I've been waiting to hear about the not-job-offer? Days! Weeks! But I post one teeny little rant on the subject? And the job offer solidifies! Real job! With health, and dental! And paychecks!

Hooray!

Oh, one more thing. Internet? I want a million dollars and a rafting drip down the Colorado River. Please?

...And Waiting...

2007-03-28T17:38:00.000-04:00

My beloved temp job is finally coming to an end. Soon I will no longer be able to just sit around reading blogs and knitting all day.

Or rather, soon I will be sitting around reading blogs and knitting all day, I just won't be being paid to do so.

There is an alternative to this scenario: I could get a real job. Where they pay me to do work. Surprising as it may seem, I am not averse to this idea.

Or maybe it's not so surprising. We have a mortgage. And blogs get boring and repetitive. And I think I'm getting carpal tunnel from all the knitting. And I'd like this cute-new-dress thing to happen more often than just once a year. SO. I'd like a real job. And there's a job offer there waiting for me! Sort of. In all the ways that a job offer could be a job offer without actually being one.

And while I have great love for the person who has given me the not quite-job offer, I am about done pulling my own hair out and am contemplating moving on to hers. I feel like a puppy watching his owner wave the stick around and fake throw it and JUST THROW THE GODDAMN STICK ALREADY.

Or don't! Give me the freedom to look forward to couch time and complicated cooking time!

And yet I wait. And I don't blink because I might miss the stick-throw.

Martini tonight? No, I think this calls for margaritas.

Springtime = Sephora

2007-03-28T10:05:00.000-04:00

My mother calls me a bear in the morning (or words to that effect) but really I'm just a bear in the winter. I hibernate. I wear sweaters and sneakers to work, and even on the weekends I don't really break out much into fun clothes because I know I'll just be cold so I wear baggy pants and t-shirts and sweatshirts.

With yesterday's jump in temperature, I felt like someone had given me my personality back. I wore a beautiful dress, and heels and it's getting humid again so I wore my hair wavy and bouncy instead of flat. And everybody stared. Which was somewhat disconcerting.

Guy: "You should go look at yourself in the mirror." (Translation: "You'll be happy to see yourself again.")

My boss: "That dress is really flattering on you." (Translation: "You have breasts! And a waist! Who knew!")

Construction Worker Guys: "Hey baby!" "Hooooot!" (Translation: "I'm bored and construction work is hard.")

Suffice it to say, I felt so good about myself--and it's been quite a long time--that I resolved to spend more time caring for my appearance. I will wash my face at night. I will shave my legs. I will wear the face mask I bought from Lush. I will wear all the cute shoes I own but never wear because sneakers are so much more comfortable (I may resort to the time-honored practice of carrying the cute shoes in a bag).

Walking home, I passed a woman who'd had a similar epiphany that morning--cute dress, great shoes. I was admiring her shoes quite intently, and then got embarrassed about staring, and so looked up at her face to give an apologetic look. She was staring at my shoes. Hooray!

Hey, happiness is happiness, and if it comes in the form of looking good, then that just makes it all the more attainable. I went home and put on a foot mask and painted my nails.

Out Of The Woods

2007-03-27T14:52:00.000-04:00

On the day I saw Boy doing jazz hands out in the baseball field--instead of, you know, catching said baseball--I suggested he might perhaps be better suited for musical theater.

And so he has proven to be. Two months ago, he rushed home to tell me that his group was performing Into The Woods.

Cordelia: That's fantastic! I love Into The Woods! And who are you? You're Rapunzel's Prince? That's excellent--I'm so proud of you! Oooh, you get to sing Agony, that song's going to bring down the house!

A minute later.

Cordelia: Into The Woods? Are you sure? That's, um...that's Sondheim. There are complicated melodies. And complicated harmonies. And, well....[mutters to self at this point]...you're nine, and others are younger, and while these shows are delightful and the kids are cute and all I wouldn't really go so far as to say they're all able to, well, sing.

A minute later, upon hearing the rehearsal tape.

Cordelia: Ahhh. You're only doing the first half. And you've simplified it. Thank heavens.

Those of you who have been to these kinds of things--or have the self-awareness to realize what it must have been like for your parents--will realize that while cuteness is one strong selling point (I personally fell in love with Little Red Riding Hood and one of the stepsisters), it will only take you so far. And then you wonder how long There Are Giants In The Sky is, because DEAR GOD. Someone rescue that poor child.

But Boy, as the savior of Rapunzel, needed no rescuing. And Agony did bring down the house. He was unselfconscious--a rare commodity that day--but at the same time such a ham that he was practically begging for audience appreciation--which we were happy to give him.

The only trouble was that every time he came onstage my eyes got blurry. I can't even really tell you why, specifically. It was just that he looked so little and rosy-cheeked and unattractive haircuted, and there he was throwing himself into something wholeheartedly (and there hasn't been much of that lately) and having such a great time doing it.

In any case, it was highly inconvenient. Boy was being funny! Genuinely funny, not just cute little kid funny! I wanted to laugh like he wanted me to, not cry, because Agony? Not a sad song.

And I think I giggled inappropriately during Children Will Listen.

My Very First Free Pattern!

2007-03-22T13:48:00.001-04:00

Well, I've invented other patterns before this, but this was the first one I thought anybody would ever want to imitate, shapeless and knotty shirts never being especially popular. (And whyfor? They're so flattering!)

And so, in honor of the first week of Spring and therefore the approach of temperatures where gloves can be fingerless:

This uses--hooray!--one skein of Alchemy's Silk Purse yarn, which is the only number of skeins I can afford. I have to warn you, though--beautiful as it is, Silk Purse is a pain in the ass. I started calling it The Green Dragon, as it wants to catch and devour everything. Really.

Fingerless Gloves: Make 2
1 skein Alchemy Silk Purse: Spruce
US Size 6 dpns
US Size 9 crochet hook

2 sizes: small, large

Twisted rib: [K1tbl, P1]

Mini-vine lace pattern for in the round (mult. 7+3)
R1: k2 *yo, k1, ssk, k2tog, k1, yo, k1, rep. from *, end k1
R2 & all even rounds: k
R3: k1 *yo, k1, ssk, k2tog, k1, yo, k1, rep. from *, end k2

*Note: Mini-vine lace pattern for rows is exactly the same; just purl instead of knit the even rows.

CO 32 (38) sts, divide onto 3 needles. Join, k around.

Work in twisted rib pattern for one inch. For smaller size only, on last round, end p1, ssk (31, 38 sts).

PM. Sl 1st st from 2nd needle onto 1st needle. Marker indicates end of round.

Knit 8 inches in mini-vine lace pattern, end with R1

*Note: The number of stitches on each needle will vary as you will have to slip stitches from one needle to another occasionally to work the pattern. As long as the total stitch count remains the same, this is fine.

Thumb: For the next 8 rows, the stitches will be worked back and forth in rows.

Turn, p away from the marker. At end of row, turn and continue with Row three. Repeat in pattern for six more rows.

In the next row, rejoin and K around. Continue in pattern for 2 inches.

Picot bind-off:

BO4, sl st back onto needle, cable CO 1 st, BO 5. Repeat until all sts are bound off. Weave in ends.

Try on glove (it will be tight—so as to stretch out the lace and avoid blocking!) There should be a picot peak right around the knuckle of your middle finger. Using crochet hook, attach yarn at 2 sts before this peak, and work single crochet, chaining 6 (8) sts (or whatever will be comfortable). Attach chain 2 sts after peak, creating a loop to slip your middle finger through, Cruella DeVille-style.

Mystify Me

2007-03-21T10:51:00.000-04:00

I recently looked at my Netflix queue and saw that Napoleon Dynamite was on its way. I was actually shocked that I hadn't seen it already--the whole world has seen it. Obviously, this must be rectified immediately.

Guy and I sat down to watch it last night, and I must say we were nearly a-quiver with anticipation. So much fun in store for us!

Um, what?

We totally didn't get it. It was just a general sense of meh. It was slow, it was repetitive, I tried really hard to like Napoleon and Pedro and I actually did like Deb (mainly because she had a kind of Willow thing going) but I didn't find anybody funny. We chuckled occasionally. Very occasionally.

Now, I am well aware that we are in the minority here. People LOVE this movie. I understand that it is now among the most widely quoted movies ever, right after The Big Lebowski and Annie Hall (all I can remember from that one is "I forgot my mantra.") I can't tell you a single thing that was said. Well, apart from "Heck, yes." He said that a lot.

It upsets me that I didn't like it! I pride myself on caring about pop culture! Well, not reality shows. I can't help it, I hate them all. But TV shows and movies and music--I'm down with those! How is it that I hate The Arcade Fire? What's so great about Rome?

I plan on making money from liking what a lot of other people will like. So seriously, clue me in. What am I missing?

In Search of a Step 'n Bitch

2007-03-20T10:00:00.000-04:00

So I've been trolling the internet for fellow stepmoming bloggers. There don't seem to be very many. And those that I have found, well, I've got to say I'm not really feeling the warm embrace of humor and common sense.

I guess I'm somewhat pleased to learn that I'm not alone in having a hard time--indeed, some seem to have a much harder time, in some ways--but so much of it seems to be caused by the stepmothers. And honestly, if I, who am predisposed to sympathize with them, see it that way, then crikey, what must the mothers of the children think?

Which brings me to what seems to be a touchy issue: naming. Though Guy and I aren't married, I refer to myself as a stepmom. This wasn't really my idea; any sort of "mom" word in reference to me is somewhat panic attack-inducing. However, Girl had been asking me what to call me; was I her aunt? Was I her other mom? Friend didn't seem to do it for her. She would ask, were Daddy and I going to get married so that I could be her stepmom? Would it be soon? Finally, I told her that if she wanted, she could just call me her stepmom anyway, since we lived together and since Daddy and I loved each other and loved her. It seemed to satisfy her. And eventually I got used to the idea--I doubt much of anything will change when Guy and I do decide to get married. There is a name for the role I play in Boy and Girl's lives, and I might as well accept the title if I'm going to take on the job.

However. I would never, ever, refer to myself as their mother. Nor would I ever allow them to do so (and not just because it's written in the Divorce Agreement either). A friend of mine, on announcing their engagement to her boyfriend's children, was asked if they could now call her "mom." She couldn't say GOOD GOD NO fast enough. Mrs. H, on the other hand, thinks that it is unacceptable for the mother to be angry about the kids calling Mrs. H "Mom." And she doesn't want to go to teacher conferences with the mother, because it is "allows her to play her favorite game of trying to prove she is more mommy than me." Jeez. This is the kind of stuff that got us labeled Wicked Stepmothers in the first place. She is more mommy than you, lady. She's their mom. And since she's showing up to teacher conferences, I'm guessing she isn't exactly out of the picture. Back off.

So yeah, I don't think I'm going to be reading Mrs. H anytime ever. The Wicked Stepmother seems to have her head more firmly attached to her neck, with no spinning-all-the-way-around capabilities. But she too has a naming tic: she buys into the trend of calling the mother the "BioMom." Now, the role of the stepmother is important. Boy and Girl are with us half the time--I see them as often as their mother does. But my role is undeniably secondary, and that is as it should be. Qualifying the word mom by tagging a "bio" in front of it is not only silly--sorry, were we confused? Did the word mother not automatically imply a biological connection?--but self-aggrandizing. Stepmother has a qualifier because it isn't the same thing as a mother, and that should be made clear for the benefit of the children (not to mention for the benefit of me. I cling to that "step." It means that the screamed "It's not fair!"s won't be directed at me). Mothers don't need qualifiers. Their role is clear, and muddling it will only make divorce more confusing and upsetting.

I'm going to do a bit more poking around, I think.

Not Quite A Year

2007-03-19T10:06:00.000-04:00

I've never been tagged before either, but in reading other people's blogs, I have noted a certain disdain for the practice. Please God don't let my sister take my participation in this as encouragement and start sending me chain emails again--I still won't respond, sis, even if it does mean I'll have three years of bad luck.

But since I started this blog in a copycat attempt to be cool like Ruth, I feel honorbound to respond. I'll even pass it along--and here you are, Julie.

What Would Cordelia Do? started shortly afterI moved in with Guy and Boy and Girl. The Cordelia thing is more wishful thinking than anything else; wouldn't I love to be right all the time? And isn't it easier to solve other people's problems than worry constantly about your own? This blog has seen me get hired, get fired, and do keep reading because really, I'd like to stick to Cordelia feminism and, you know, get a real job, instead of staying home and having babies and knitting like I fantasize about doing.

I've drawn no grand conclusions, but sitting and writing it all out and trying to make it entertaining--a journal wouldn't require that--does tend to firm up my resolve when I'm tired of all the "I won't practice my piano!"s and "It's not fair!"s, and in any case certainly clarifies my feelings about important matters like whether Maud is cuter in this picture than that one.

And so: Things I Know By Heart

Two Novels/Poems/Plays: The Owl and The Pussycat by Edward Lear (Thanks, Dad), and The Highwayman by Alfred Noyes, which I really do have memorized, except for that one time I forgot it at the school recital and had to run off the stage crying.

Two Films/Television Shows You Can Quote From: Two? Only two? I can't! I at least have to split it up into two separate categories, okay?
Films: The Great Race and The Big Chill
Television Shows: Buffy/Angel and The West Wing

Two Songs To Which You Know Every Word: "Night In The City" by Joni Mitchell and "Landslide" by Fleetwood Mac. I was sixteen, okay? Lots of changes, lots of new beginnings.

Two Dishes You Can Make Without A Recipe: Anything that involves fish. The real question is, what recipe can I actually follow?

Two Cities You Can Navigate Without A Map: Um. Volcano, HI. Which has no stoplights. I have a good sense of direction when I'm in the woods, but streets confuse me.

And An Extra Question--What's A Date You Always Remember, and What's A Date You Always Forget?: I always remember Guy's Ex's birthday. Because it's the same as mine. Wacky fun. I always forget the day my grandfather died. I think about him almost every day, but I have to get Guy to mark the day on his calendar, because even if I put it on mine I don't see it.

Bond: The Chick Flick

2007-03-15T16:05:00.000-04:00

I loved Casino Royale. As I walked out of the theater, I wanted to walk right back in and see it again--

as I have a tendency to do. (I didn't). But in this case, I wasn't alone. And had I walked back in, my heels would have been stepped on by the pointy toes of lots and lots of women.

Up to now, Bond has been firmly identified as male territory. Hell, it has dumb puns and cars that are operable via remote control and explosions and Denise Richards and characters named Pussy Galore, for God's sake. Not things that women tend to care too much about, generally.

But all of a sudden--and after all the hoopla over Daniel Craig--Casino Royale comes along. Here's a sampling of female reactions*:

A friend who is ordinarily very restrained, not to mention loving of her husband: Damn! (Fans herself) I saw it last week, and I'm going again this afternoon. Dan's not getting laid tonight!

My sister, whose previous favorite scene ever was George Clooney coming off the escalator in Ocean's 11: I could watch that walking-out-of-the-water scene over and over and over and . . .

And male reactions*:

My dad: There weren't enough gadgets and cars.

Guy, who was an American Studies major, after all: There's a jauntiness of spirit [in the Sean Connery films] that I find hard to resist. They're an odd mix of campy, silly, and serious. Also, his head looked way too small in that walking-out-of-the-water scene.

Casino Royale is certainly a bit more serious and less pun-ridden than previous films, but why don't they think it was fun? That first running-through-Madagascar action sequence with that freaky jumping guy--that was the most fun I've had in an action movie in years (barring only that scene in Mission Impossible II when Tom Cruise jumps off his motorcycle to hug the villain in midair, but then that's mocking fun so it probably doesn't really count).

Why the Mars/Venus thing? It's not Daniel Craig's looks, I'll tell you that. He's definitely attractive, but the small head thing is a slight problem, as is the enormous lower lip. And I've got to tell you, we women didn't buy the whole settling-down-with-Vesper thing either.

For me at least, the difference lay in Bond's skill and commitment. I liked that he had to rely on running and punching instead of on nonsense gadgets. I liked that he walked out on the woman with the fabulous pink dress, because his job was more important than sex (not much more important, but a little). I liked that he wasn't all suave and punning, but that he got beat up and had to work hard and didn't give a damn how his martini arrived except that it had better have booze in it.

All of which goes against the very definition of James Bond. Well, I guess that explains it, then.

*Chosen to support my thesis; those that didn't were ignored.

And yet none of them appear in nature

2007-03-07T14:27:00.000-05:00

I temp on 5th Avenue, so walking to work every morning, I pass by a wide selection of stores--everything from The Gap to BCBG Max Azria. And oddly, the clothes vary less than the mannequins used to display them. Very skinny, not so skinny, large breasts, no breasts. None have faces though. Andrew McCarthy must be so sad.

Express:
Very Skinny
No Breasts
Standout Detail: The mannequins stand with their hands on their plastic hipbones (not to say hips, because they have none), and stick out their pelvises, as if they are trying to move gas created by eating too many leafy veggies and no carbs.

American Apparel:
Skinny
Midsize Breasts
Very Tall
Standout Detail: These women are ripped. They must go work out and lift weights at the mannequin gym because Damn those are some impressive biceps. I saw one of them getting changed, and she had kickass abs. Which is bizarre, considering that abs really don't show under clothes, but anyway it just proves that American Apparel is no longer the place to shop for that just-got-laid look, but is instead stuck in Flashdance Land.

Club Monaco
Skinny
Small Breasts
Standout Detail: Well, apart from the aforementioned comes-with-cameltoe factor, these things just scare me. Club Monaco decks out each of their mannequins in the same outfit--and by the same I mean the exact same. If there's a scarf, they all have it tied the same way. If there's a skirt, the same pleat is lined up over the same knee. And then they line them all up like an army of badly-dressed zombies come to take over the world with cardigans and cropped pants.

Bebe
Thin but not skinny
Large breasts
Standout detail: Hips! These are by far my favorite. I would mighty pleased with myself if I had a body like that. Hourglass, with a corset ribcage and tiny waist, and nicely rounded hips. And as for the breasts--those girls are perky. Not in a rest-your-teacup-on-them kind of way, but in a so-that's-why-they-call-it-a-rack kind of way.

Good Enough?

2007-03-06T16:11:00.000-05:00

This gorgeous sweater is from Romantic Style, which I purchased to further my knitting skills. Most everything in it is just slightly beyond what I'm capable of doing, but is stunning enough to make me want to suffer through the frustration of learning how to crochet, bead, and attach edgings so that they look nice.

The sweater in question requires none of the above, and therefore should in all fairness be simple enough--and so it would be, except for one thing: Purl 2 together through the back loop.

There is no stitch more time-consuming, irritating, or insta-carpal-tunnel-inducing than P2togtbl. Every time I have done it, I've wondered whether there's some mistake, because surely there must be a less awkward way of producing the same effect?

Apparently not.

And do you know how often I'm supposed to do it to make this sweater? About fifty bajillion times.

After trying three times--which is to say not even anywhere close to half of a row--I gave up. I'm just going to purl two together instead, and I'll ssk on the other side and it'll just have to do. And honestly, it looks fine. Really. To anyone who isn't an experienced knitter holding up a microscope, it doesn't look any different.

The problem is not so much with how the sweater looks, because I'm pleased with it, but with whether I'm being lazy. Clearly, there are knitters in the world--i.e. those for whom this book was written--that are capable of, even happy to p2togtbl over and over again until their wrists and/or needles snap to produce a sweater that looks only a tiny bit better than mine will. And I'm never going to be one of them. I don't want to spend the money and time on something that I won't enjoy making--which is the primary motivation after all, because really, pretty as this sweater is, I could get something much better for far less money if I didn't make it myself. And the fact is that I don't enjoy struggling with one stupid stitch for thirty seconds--which may not seem like a long time, unless you take into account that most stitches require only a half second, and as previously stated, there are fifty bajillion stitches to go.

I have no problem with the idea that I knit for my own pleasure and if I want to mess it up to make me happy, that's cool. But since I bought this book to inspire me to greater heights, and here I am taking the easy way out at the first sign of adversity...sigh. Is this laziness, or hedonism?

Stop Kemps

2007-03-05T10:54:00.000-05:00

Do you all remember that game Kemps, where you each had a partner and you went off into the corner to work out a signal, and then you passed cards furiously around until somebody got 4 of a kind and then they did their signal and their partner better have been paying attention enough to shout Kemps! You played it at slumber parties when you were eleven.

Bored with playing War or Go Fish, Girl's entire repertoire of card games, I try to introduce Kemps to the household. I partner up with Girl, and we send Guy and Boy out of the room to go work out their signal. Girl and I decide that if we get 4 of a kind, our signal would be to sneeze. Guy and Boy come back, and I start passing cards around. Girl looks at the 4 cards in her hand, willing them to turn all the same, but can't bring herself to look in the ever-growing pile of cards by her knee. Boy gets no cards. I get 4 of a kind, and sneeze. "Bless you," Girl says absently.

We simplify things. We each get only two cards, and have to try for 2 of a kind. Our new signal is to sing Cheerio, Baby--unsubtle, but perhaps more effective.

No such luck. Again, intense concentration on the two cards in her hand--so focused, in fact, that she notices neither Boy and Guy exchanging their signals and high fives, nor me singing Cheerio, Baby as loud as I can.

We simplify further. Girl gets one card, I look at it, and then search frantically through the pile for a pair for her. Our signal is to jump up and down saying "I win!" It ends with me jumping up and down, Girl looking up at me thoughtfully while holding the pair that she has had in her possession for the past two minutes, and Boy and Guy rolling on the floor laughing at us.

The fact is, Boy isn't playing because he never, EVER gets a card handed to him by Girl, and, well, Girl really isn't playing because it's clear that the concept is totally beyond her and what was I thinking trying to torture these poor kids with dumb games from my childhood that really don't make sense to begin with and probably aren't much fun unless you're eleven and you've had lots of cake and coke and inhaled a lot of puffy paint. And yet, Boy and Girl are positively screaming with delight as if nothing in the world could be more fun than failing miserably at playing cards.

It occurs to me that right there are two people who honestly love me no matter what, and whose default position is "Cordelia is funny and great and let's see what she'll do next," and even when I disappoint them or deny them candy/room on my lap/the inexaustible supply of love that only their parents can provide for them, they never hold it against me for long. I get the sense that this isn't something most stepmothers can claim, and even when I'm exhausted or migrained or overwhelmed, I'm always grateful for it. Back atcha.

Double Header

2007-02-28T10:18:00.000-05:00

Monday morning, I listened to my weather report via Guy and sighed. This was going to be a difficult day to dress for. I had two interviews, and so had to look good. But it had snowed and the night before, and then the temperature went up so now it was supposed to rain. And be incredibly slushy.

My nice pants are too long, and would drag in the yuck. I didn't want to wear a dress, since I'd have to wear boots and one of the publishers is kind of conservative and I didn't want to be looking overly sexy. Also, it's not exactly like I could just wear my galoshes, but none of my other shoes have decent traction. Tricky, very tricky.

Also, it was the morning after Oscars night, and while I was a good girl and didn't stay up for the end to watch Martin Scorcese's eyebrows get all excited, I did stay up long enough to be horrified by the return of Celine Dion and Damn, Clint, where are your reading glasses? So I was tired.

I arrived, bespattered, at Interview #1 with the requested copy of my resume (Hello? You just responded to my email which had the resume attached. Surely you already have a copy? Do you folks in HR not have printers?) in its protective envelope, umbrella, coat, and scarf in hand. Or hands, because that's a lot of stuff for one hand. I took my proofreading test, and waited patiently for the HR lady, and was kept entertained while waiting by the Intelligent Young Man who walked in all pompous and said "I have an appointment with HR lady," and when asked to sit down and take the test, responded "Oh, she's expecting me, I should just go on in." Poor, naive, Intelligent Young Man. I was called back before he was, and when I returned he leaned over and asked what imprint was I applying for, and with whom, and did I think my interview went well. Wouldn't you like to know, little man.

Actually, the interview did go well, and I was out of there in an hour and a half and got to see the inside of the Flatiron Building. Really not that impressive, but yes, it's all pointy in that corner.

And then I went to work. And acted like I'd just beer-bonged a case of Red Bull, since I only had two and a half hours before I had to leave to go to Interview #2--which was in Hoboken, so I had to leave at around 1 in order to get there in time. A Clif bar is a very healthy lunch, under those circumstances.

I took my proofreading test and my letter-writing test. And then I waited. I waited long enough to read three issues of New York Magazine--which is three issues too many. I asked about the status, and was told I'd be seen soon. I read Issue One again. I met with one interviewer, and we chatted about Pluto's demotion and how fun it is to proofread. I met with a second interviewer, and we chatted about the history of the company and the history of the interviewer's employment in publishing. We chatted very little about my skills or qualifications.

When I finally walked out the door almost four hours after I'd walked in, it occurred to me that I had spent five hours of my day sitting around being weighed and measured.

Suffice it to say, I had a martini when I got home.

Dentistry

2007-02-21T10:25:00.000-05:00

So I think I'm somewhat more justified than most people in thinking that dentists are evil, and here's why:

When I was little, I sucked my thumb. I remember very clearly the feeling that there was nothing in the world more comforting than having my thumb in my mouth, and sometimes I miss it, though not so much the ever-wrinkly thumb or, come to think of it, the bacterial-farm thumb. It was very difficult for my parents to get me to stop--they tried putting tobasco sauce under a bandaid, which got in the papercut that was never allowed to heal because it was always in my mouth. I screamed. They tried this special vile-tasting nail polish. I chewed it off and carried on. They consulted a dentist.

The dentist put in a wire basket that cut into the roof of my mouth and my tongue, but made it impossible to fit my thumb in there. Food would get trapped in the basket but my thumb stayed out of my mouth.

Of course, all those years with my thumb made my teeth crooked. The orthodontist determined that I had too many teeth, and four molars needed to be removed. I was sent to a dentist I'd never been to before. He gave me laughing gas--which produced not the slightest chuckle, by the way--told me to lie down, and strapped me down like Frankenstein's monster. I kid you not. They gave me the novocaine, and proceeded to pull. And pull some more. Apparently, my "stems were crooked" or something like that, and they couldn't get them out. They tugged and wiggled at all four teeth, injected more novocaine, while I cried and strained against my bonds. IT HURT. Eventually the teeth came out, and they sent me home with a prescription for super painkillers, and while my mom was in the pharmacy, I was clawing the car seats in pain.

And now the orthodontists could get to work. They moved my jaw so that I couldn't close my mouth. My mom bitched them out. They put it back--mostly. I still have to work a bit to keep my mouth closed, and my chin still wrinkles slightly. And it's prone to pimples, but that may not be related.

Meanwhile, I went to the family dentist for my usual cleanings and cavity-fillings. Of which there were many. This frustrated me because, although I was very fond of candy, I took pretty good care of my teeth. The dentist would tell me I should floss more. I would say I floss every day. He would look at me and shake his head and say "really? every day?" And I would think back and hey there was that one time when I slept over at a friend's house and didn't floss because I didn't want to miss too much of Beverly Hills 90210, but I really didn't think that was the answer. But the cavities kept piling up, more with every visit.

On my last appointment, he told me I had eleven. Eleven cavities! That was the rest of my teeth! I'd had it. I was on my way to college, the chin was wrinkled but the braces were off, I needed some time off from everyone fussing over my teeth. So I ran away from the dentist and didn't make any appointments for fillings and never looked back.

And now, eight years later, I've gone back. Guy, horrified at my dentistry-free living, insisted I go to his dentist. I have two cavities. Two. Did the other nine just go away?

My mom still goes to that family dentist, and when she reads this I bet she'll remember things differently. But this is how I remember it--and I still floss every day.

People Who Knit With Glass Needles

2007-02-20T10:00:00.000-05:00

So I went to see it, but just the one time. I might have stayed to see the next showing, under different circumstances, were I not
a) starving
b) annoyed that the screen wasn't much bigger than somebody's nice widescreen (not mine, I don't have one), and annoyed that the cleaning crew/the next showings' viewers kept coming in during the movie since it started really late
c) afraid I might run into the guy who asked me out for a cup of coffee, which was probably unfair of me since he was very nice and not creepy and went away right after I said no thanks, but there you are
and d) pissed because Edward Norton DIES at the end.

I was afraid of that. Probably should've read the book. Why do they always have to die in movies like this? Cold Mountain? He dies. Anna and The King? Not one of my favorites, but he still dies. English Patient? They all die. What the hell? Can't they make a sweeping, dramatic, romantic movie--or book--where people survive? Is that so much to ask? I mean, I could just watch Dangerous Beauty over and over and over again, but I was hoping for something a teeny bit more respectable and less like romantic porn.

So since I didn't spent my entire weekend watching The Painted Veil, I had to find something else to do. I tried knitting with my glass needles. I'm making an afghan, and let me tell you--glass needles ensure that your tension is loose. I don't think they'd actually break and make me bleed all over my yarn--they are very thick--but still. They are very smooth, and lovely, and I meant to take a picture but Guy took the digital camera away with him on his trip, so oh well.

The tips do kind of scrape against each other, much like when you stack glasses on top of one other. Same sensation. They are getting a little scratchy-looking at the tips, though they remain smooth and the yarn hasn't been catching at all. I console myself by thinking that if I knit with them every day for the rest of my life, the tips will look like sea glass, and won't that be lovely?

Uhoh

2007-02-16T15:46:00.000-05:00

Guy just accused me of being depressed because the movie I wanted to watch isn't out on dvd yet. This is not strictly true.

There are lots of other reasons I'm feeling a little bummed right now. I'm bummed because it's February. I'm bummed because I've spent the last two weeks knitting socks and will be knitting socks for the forseeable future and that pretty much sucks for me. I'm bummed because I will be alone for the three-day weekend because Guy is going to Massachusetts and I'm not. (On the other hand, I'm jubilant about that one because driving to Massachusetts with the kids inevitably involves vomiting, crying, tantruming, and many repeated listenings of Cigarettes and Chocolate Milk and My Sharona. We hope the kids aren't really listening to the lyrics of the songs they're so obsessed with).

So last night, before watching The Departed, we saw a preview for The Painted Veil. And for whatever reason, rational or otherwise, I decided that was the movie I had to watch while Guy was gone. Period. I'd read a positive Manohla Dargis review of it, and we all know that never happens so I paid attention. And my mom mentioned something about wanting to see it and it just looked sexy and grand and adventurous and predictable and all the things that I wanted to be able to enjoy without looking sideways at Guy and thinking "is he bored? does he think this is lame? etc."

And yes, it's not out on dvd yet. Because it's still in theaters. Or, I should say, theater--at 2nd Ave and 12th. Now, I technically could--and probably will--go to Teany and go see the movie and be very happy and never mind how it's freaking cold here, it'll be getting me out of the house and that can only be a good thing, plus yay! Teany! But somehow that's just not enough.

This has happened to me before. The first time was when I saw Vacation From Marriage on Turner Classic Movies. Good movie, starring Robert Donat and Deborah Kerr, but there's a reason it's not in print--it's not great. But I didn't really get that. I saw it once, and needed to see it again. Immediately. The not-in-print thing was kind of a problem. I tracked down a service that provides all movies ever to directors and screenwriters and really nobody else and paid $50 for a vhs. Plus shipping and handling.

I think I've watched it once since then.

The second time was with Pirates of the Caribbean, when I saw it in theaters eleven times and bought one of those copies from the ladies on the subway so I could watch it even more times before I bought the non-camcordered-from-the-audience edition. This was an especially bad case, made worse by me deciding that Pirates of the Caribbean was the only thing that made me forget about the fact that I'd been dumped. And really, under those circumstances, wouldn't you spend just as much time and money watching it?

The third time was with Win A Date With Tad Hamilton! Yes, the exclamation point is part of the title. In my defense, I hated everything about that movie except for Topher Grace and the Liz Phair song. (Okay, that second part may not be so defensible.) I saw it twice in theaters, and bought it when it came out, and this time the obsession lasted past dvd-ownership and I watched it three or four times in a week.

I've tried watching it again now, and it's just about unwatchable. Except for this one scene where Topher Grace lip synchs Can't Get Enough of Your Love Babe. That's still pretty cool.

The common denominator here is urgency. And repeated watchings. I get the sense that after seeing The Painted Veil, I won't be going to Teany, I'll be going back in to watch The Painted Veil.

Wouldn't you be depressed?

Woops

2007-02-14T15:40:00.000-05:00

So last night Guy said "Sorry, but I didn't get you any sexy underwear this year." I laughed because really what's the point? I never wear any of it anyway. It's too much of a production. Either you have to stop the sexual momentum and go change "into something less comfortable" and really you could just get naked instead, or you're just kind of wearing it on the off chance that maybe you will have sex, but in the meantime you're sitting there feeling kind of uncomfortable. Not to mention cold.

But for whatever reason I woke up this morning feeling like maybe we've been missing out on something. The fact that there are nearly as many Victoria's Secrets as Starbucks would seem to indicate that other people think there's something to this sexy underwear business. So I dug around at the back of my pajama drawer, past all the flannel pants and henleys, and pulled out this pair of black lacy panties, with a bow on the back. It's a very large bow--like my butt's a present, but sexy, okay? I tucked the bow down my pants and into my left leg, and it was a little lumpy but not really so's you'd notice. Good to go.

Of course, every time I went to the bathroom today, I had to remember to tuck the bow back down. And I swear--I SWEAR to you--I remembered to tuck every single time. And yet, when I sat down just now after rushing around bending over filing cabinets searching for that missing proposal, I felt a very large bow sticking up out of my pants. Bet my boss thought that was sexy.

Excessive Exes

2007-02-13T12:30:00.000-05:00

So I get that when you date a guy fifteen years older than you, they're going to have racked up the exes. And I get that people are often friends with their exes--say, when they've been married and had kids and live down the block from each other. And I was going to complain about how Guy is one of those people who is always friends with his exes, but that's really not true--he starts out that way, maybe, but really there only two that still turn up: the aforementioned Mother of the Children, who had better stick around, or I'm going to be one frizzy-haired, frazzled, and probably against-my-will-bedazzled stepmother.

The other is the College Girlfriend. She came for a visit this past weekend. The first time we met was in passing, when she was going out to lunch with my brand-new boyfriend--a lunch to which I was not invited. Hmm. And then I met her in passing again--another lunch to which I was not invited, because she was "fragile." College Girlfriend was not becoming my favorite person in the world. (To be fair, I was invited to a dinner, but developed a migraine and so did not attend.)

Those of you who have been to my house will have noted the many excellent black & white photographs of a woman--the College Girlfriend. We do not have this particular image up in our living room because I think it's scary and not exactly conducive to a relaxing evening in front of the TV, but it is representative of her work and so I display it here.

In summary, I was expecting a dark, depressing, and somewhat unfriendly presence for brunch.

That is not at all the sort of person who arrived. Take the lady in the hellraising circle there and replace it with Boy and Girl's Favorite Playmate Ever! The Favorite Playmate Ever! was the sort of person who makes her sleeve eat a waffle and spit it across the table (according to Guy this is not an act put on for the childrens' benefit--it's just something her sleeve likes to do). The Favorite Playmate Ever! displays an almost genuine interest in clubpenguin.com, can do accents,* and best of all can howl.

And I don't mean just any howl. This is a howl that sent me fleeing from the room in an uh-excuse-me-I-gotta-go-clean-out-my-closet-so-I-can-hide-in-there panic. Fire engines would get to fires faster if they had her sitting on top of them.

The phrases heard most often were: "Hey, FPE!, you're crazy!" "She's cuckoo!" "Come tickle us, please please please come tickle us!"

I think I exchanged two words with her.

*Guy does appear to have a type. All the exes I have met plus me like to do accents. The Favorite Playmate Ever! is probably the best at it, and I fall far, far behind, having been taught by my father, whose Pakistani accent sounds exactly like his Irish accent.

Whatever Happened to Anna Chlumsky?

2007-02-07T10:23:00.000-05:00

Guy, flipping through the channels: So, do you want to watch an Angel episode?

Cordelia: That would require getting up. But I know I don't want to watch VH1: One Hit Wonders. Oooh, ooh, go back, go back!

Guy: Is that Macaulay Culkin?

Cordelia: This is My Girl! This is a good movie! Let's watch this!

Guy, shrugging: I've never seen it.

Later.

Guy: What is he doing? Those are wasps.

Cordelia, silently: Oh God. The bees. I remember the bees. Is this the part? I won't say anything, and maybe this time Macaulay Culkin will make it!

Later.

Guy: Sniffle.

Cordelia: Sob.

Guy: That was an interesting choice of movie for the evening. I was feeling all energetic, and now I'm going to kill myself. "Where are his glasses? He can't see without his glasses!" Want to watch Schindler's List next?

Cordelia: Sorry?

I've seen My Girl like ten times, and I'd forgotten how it's right up there with Radio Flyer for Dear God, can I possibly cry more?

Right after the credits came an ad for Cool Runnings, another movie from my childhood, but I don't think we'll need to watch that. I did like the part where the horribly injured Jamaican bobsled team carried the bobsled up the ice. That was inspiring.

As for Anna Chlumsky, I thought she was good in My Girl, and looking at her photograph on imdb, she didn't turn into a scary adult with those huge features of hers--so what happened? Why is she stuck making movies like Blood Car, in which "gas prices are at an astronomical high. One man is determined to find an alternate fuel source. That alternate fuel source turns out to be blood...HUMAN BLOOD."

Heat

2007-02-05T10:48:00.000-05:00

Last week, Maud underwent her first heat. It seemed a little early, as we still call her The Kitten, but I guess way-underage sex is not limited to the human species. In fact, given that Maud is only about seven in cat years, tweenage sex is downright responsible.

I've done a quick about.com check, just in case we had it wrong and she was just being crazy kitten or something.

1. Immediately preceeding oestrus, your female cat may become unusually affection, and rub her hind quarters against furniture, other cats, and/or her favorite human.
Well, she didn't bite us quite as much, and Guy got a lot of hindquarter rubbing, though I'd prefer to believe that's because he's male and not because he's her favorite, because hey now that's not right. But I wouldn't go so far as to say that she "became affection" because that would require some feat of postmodernist deus ex machina.

And at that point I stopped reading about.com because clearly if they can't check their own grammar I have some serious doubts about their veterinarian abilities.

Actually, it was pretty clear what was going on. It was like a combination of cramps and the worst case of female blue-balling that I have ever seen. She couldn't settle anywhere, but just kind of followed us around whimpering and dragging her crotch on the floor. Guy joked about how he would help her if he could, only really he wouldn't because punchline a) it would probably be a little more than she was looking for, and punchline b) it's icky for many many reasons. She didn't seem to think so.

I joked about buying her a kitty vibrator, which it turns out wasn't so far out there. Everything2.com, which granted is even less respectable than about.com, recommended inserting a Q-tip into the cat's vagina, and moving it back and forth until the cat orgasms, which apparently should be very easy to determine.

I think we'll just get her spayed, thanks.

We kept the vibrator jokes to a minimum when the kids were around, but obviously they noticed something amiss, since Maud was like an entirely different--and very unhappy--animal. I came home one evening to Boy saying "Dad says Maud's in heat. What does 'in heat' mean?"

Thanks a bunch there, Guy.

"It's something cats go through when they're ready to have kittens."

"We're going to have kittens?!!!?"

"No. It doesn't mean she's pregnant, it just means she's old enough to have kittens now." (Boy knows about sex, and talks about it often, and somewhat inappropriately, i.e. "That gesture Girl is making looks like semen.")

"Oh. Can we have kittens?"

"No. We already have a kitten." Just one that's old enough to have her own. Sad world.

Later, Boy asked Guy "Do all women go through heat?"

Guy said "NO. Just cats."

Hmm.

Things That Annoy Me Today

2007-02-02T14:19:00.000-05:00

1. I had to get out of bed. Granted, this is something that annoys me every single day and has for many many years. When possible (i.e. on weekdays when we don't have the kids) I delay the getting out of bed by enticing Guy to have sex with me. And yes, not getting out of bed is my first motive for this, though it does change into having sex for sex's sake quickly enough. But eventually--and usually quite soon after, since I insist that Guy not wake me until the last possible moment, and so things are perforce kind of rushed--I do still have to get out of bed.

2. I went to a school play for Girl and that's 40 minutes of my life I will never get back. In my defense, I actually want to go to these things, at least more than I don't want to go, and I do actually enjoy them and she's supercute and it's exciting and fun to watch her doing her thing and going to school and getting older and generally being her. However, that only lasts for about ten minutes, which really is as long as kindergarten school plays should last. At Girl's school they last thirty. And the other kindergarten class went first. In true Teletubby fashion, they did the same thing over and over ("Down came the toys, and around and around they danced, and careful Spiderman Toy Boy, try not to kill Scooby Doo Toy Boy!") and then it was time for Girl's class to do the same thing. Again. That would make like fifty times I heard the phrase "down came the toys." At this point, Guy and I had reached saturation point, not to mention the point where we were really late for work, and so we had to leave before Girl's class was done with even one repetition. Which kind of sucked for her.

3. My conversation with the clever folks at PW.

Cordelia: I'm calling because we didn't get this week's issue?

Customer Service Lady: What's the name on the account, and the zipcode?

Cordelia: Park Literary Group, 10010.

CSL: What's the last name?

Cordelia: Uh, Park? Or Group, potentially.

CSL: Park Literary Group?

Cordelia: Yes.

CSL: So what can I do for you?

Cordelia: We didn't get this week's issue.

CSL: We show you as being expired.

Cordelia: We should have another year left.

CSL: Oh, Park Literary Group? You expire in September 2008.

Cordelia: Okay. Great. So can we get this week's issue, then?

CSL: You would like a replacement issue? (Incredulous).

Cordelia: Yes.

CSL: Oh. Well, okay. I'll have one sent out.

What annoys me about this exchange isn't so much the runaround and repetition, as that's sort of expected with customer service lines and I'm mentally prepared for it and have the solitaire game going on my computer to get me through it. I'm annoyed by the "oh, would you like to actually receive the magazine for which you have a subscription? How strange!"

And they're good for cocktail parties too

2007-02-01T09:44:00.000-05:00

Hey! I won!

I entered a knitting design contest, and I'm a runner-up and I get beautiful glass needles as a prize plus, you know, fame and eventual fortune.

Go me!

And No Skinning Them Either

2007-01-31T16:59:00.000-05:00

I was going to write about something important, like how so many people out there have not seen Ladyhawke and that is just a damn shame because Ladyhawke has both Ferris Bueller-esque Matthew Broderick AND Bladerunner-as-opposed-to-The Hitcher-esque Rutger Hauer, PLUS it has swords and crossbows and hawks and wolves and horses, but I was informed that were I to proclaim my love for this movie I would lose all credibility forever and ever Amen, and so I won't.

Instead, I'm going to talk about Canadians. Unlike most, I have had great love for Canadians. Dude, Neil Young is Canadian. Okay, right, I hate him, but others whose opinions I respect really do seem to like him and so I will concede that there must be something valuable there. And anyway Joni Mitchell. L.M. Montgomery. Catherine O'Hara. Rufus Wainwright. Tegan and Sara. Leonard Cohen.

And they have really good healthcare, and I've talked to a lot of Canadians who never once uttered the word "eh" so I think that must be a myth, and hey it's EVEN COLDER UP THERE THAN IT IS IN MINNESOTA so I think that earns them a little slack.

Well, no more. The BBC has reported that Canadians are even more insane than the insanest.

The town council of Herouxville, Quebec issued a proclamation for all immigrants, informing them that Herouxville has certain standards, and the town council is hereby enumerating the cultural practices that will not be tolerated there.

The declaration declares: "We wish to inform these new arrivals that the way of life which they abandoned when they left their countries of origin cannot be recreated here. We consider it completely outside norms to... kill women by stoning them in public, burning them alive, burning them with acid, circumcising them etc."

It goes on to stipulate that in Herouxville, women are allowed to drive, vote, dance, and own their own homes. Sikh children are not allowed to carry their ceremonial daggers to school, even though the Supreme Court has ruled that they can.

A Montreal police officer was so enthusiastic about all this, that, in the tradition of Canada's great musicians, he wrote a political ditty: "We want to accept ethnics, but not at any price...If you're not happy with your fate, there's a place called the airport."

Councillor Andre Drouin, the driving force behind the declaration, is shocked that people--including the president of the Muslim Council of Montreal--find the declaration to be racist. After all, there have been cultural clashes between immigrants and real Canadians, and it's time to lay some ground rules.

Of course, the documented incidents have included asking a Toronto courthouse to take down their Christmas tree, and a gym to frost their windows so folks don't have to watch the sweaty jigglings on the treadmills. No acid-burnings or drive-by circumcisions have been reported.

I'm gonna blow this damn candle out
I don't want nobody coming over to my table
I've got nothing to talk to anybody about

Yarn After My Own Heart

2007-01-23T14:15:00.000-05:00

Okay, so I got bored faster than I thought I would. And I didn't even get to Cordelia! That's just pathetic.

But I was busy. I had...yarn websites to look at. And in a moment of bringing-everything-together, isn't-it-amazing-how-everything-is-connected-in-a-some-kind-of-spirituality-kind-of-way, I introduce you to Sweet Georgia Yarns. Normally I'm somewhat bored by yarn color names, but this Sweet Georgia gal (like many Canadians, come to think of it) has poetry. Dragon, Afterglow, Elf, Boheme--very descriptive without being dull.

But it gets better. As I scanned down the page, I noted one colorway called Angel. And it wasn't white or baby blue like you might imagine--it was black and red and white. What kinda Angel from hell is that?

Scan further. Firefly. Huh. But it's a glowy gold color, so that makes sense.

Kill Bill (yellow and black, much better name than the more obvious Bee), Libertine (deep red), Life Aquatic (Aqua, duh), Velvet Underground (purple).

And finally--Slayer. In blood red. Hell yeah.

If only I liked knitting socks. Maybe I'll make me some slayer socks, just so I'd have them, because really, what's cooler than that?

Spike

2007-01-11T11:05:00.000-05:00

Spike on Angel is, unfortunately, Diet Spike. He is shot to look shorter, his accent is different, and his voice is pitched higher. Gone is the Spike who draped himself decoratively over a cross.

However, Spike is a breath of fresh air on a show that has boxed itself into a very depressing corner in Season 5.

A little background: Angel sired Drusilla, who sired Spike. Angel is no longer the only vampire with a soul, as Spike recently got himself one too. There is a prophecy, the Shanshu prophecy, that states that the vampire with a soul, if he saves the world from a bunch of apocalypses, will become human. Now there are two. And both of them have dated Buffy. Tricky.

Of course, for the first half of Season 5, the point is moot since Spike is a ghost (he died saving the world from an apocalypse, but somehow reappeared in Angel's office):

Fred: "Spike has a soul?"

Angel: "Forgot to mention that."

Spike: "Or maybe Captain Forehead was feeling a little less special. Another vampire with a soul in the world."

Angel: "You're not in the world, Casper."

Things get a little more complicated--and violent--when Spike gets magically recorporealized, and realizes that he just might be the vampire with a soul the prophecy is talking about--a theory that sends Angel into a tailspin. The two of them go after The Cup of Torment, which will supposedly determine which of them it is. (For anyone who just rolled their eyes at the lameness of "The Cup of Torment," it's a joke: the thing turns out to be a hoax, and filled with Mountain Dew.) Spike an Angel beat each other up pretty badly for two guys who are supposed to have souls and be fighting for good and all, but the situation seems to be bringing up some unresolved issues, as it were. Back in the day, Angel was just about the worst kind of serial killer you can think of, so bad that he could atone for a thousand years and save millions of lives, and probably still go to Hell. He emotionally tortured Spike, and turned a kind of happy-go-lucky nerd of a vampire into a mass murderer. He was cursed with a soul, as punishment; Spike nearly died earning his.

Spike: "Every time you look at me, you see all the dirty little things I've done, all the lives I've taken--because of you! Drusilla sired me, but you made me a monster."

There was one episode I almost didn't rewatch; it's great, but it's very scary and I was all alone.

In the last episode of Buffy, a bunch of girls known as "slayer potentials," i.e. girls that could be called to be a slayer if Buffy were to die, were suddenly imbued with slayer power, creating an army of slayers. One such girl, Dana, was in a mental institution--she had been kidnapped and tortured as a child, and was already not what you'd call stable. When she received the memories off all the slayers that had come before (a side-effect), the violence of these memories triggered a true psychotic break. She escapes and begins slaughtering everyone she comes across. Because Dana's memories include being murdered by Spike (he killed two slayers), Spike gets special treatment: she cuts his arms off.

Spike (to Angel): "Lass thought I killed her family, and I'm supposed to what, complain because hers wasn't one of the hundreds I did kill? I'm not saying you're right, because I'm physically incapable, but for a demon I never really did think that much about the nature of evil. I just threw myself in. I liked the rush. I never did look back at the victims."

Angel: "I couldn't take my eyes off them. I was only in it for the evil. It was everything to me. It was art. The destruction of a human being...I would've considered Dana a masterpiece."

Spike: "The tingling in my forearms tells me she's too far gone to help. She's one of us now. A monster."

Angel: "She's an innocent victim."

Spike: "So were we. Once upon a time."

Illyria

2007-01-10T09:56:00.000-05:00

Illyria is a god from way back when men were muck; in order to ensure the continuation of her reign, she turned herself into an infection, which would hollow out the body and soul of whatever unlucky person happened to be nearby at the appointed moment. That unlucky person was Fred (a likeable but unfortunately somewhat dull science nerd who was cute when she was crazy but is now just blah, so really it was for the best).

If this sounds like an unlikely candidate for arguably the most interesting character on the show, and certainly the savior of Season 5, I would have to agree.

Illyria arrived right when Wesley and Fred finally got together. Of course, this being Joss Whedon and all, that's to be expected. He can't let his characters actually be happy or anything. Fred dies in Wesley's arms, and then jumps back up, suddenly blue and suddenly someone else.

This would all be very evil and terrifying if Illyria had actually meant to kill Fred, or had killed her as anything other than an unavoidable side-effect of her own survival. And the worst of it is that Illyria comes to regret this as much as anyone else: it being millenia later and all, the world is somewhat different than when she left it. Her kingdom has been destroyed in her absence. Her powers (though still incredible by anyone else's standards) are diminished. She kneels before the ruins of her kingdom, murmuring "my world is gone." Wesley points a gun at her and says, "Now you know how I feel." She looks up at him, and he sees that she does, in fact, know how he feels, and is just as broken as he is. He doesn't fire.

And at that moment, Illyria becomes something other than just another big bad. She is lost, and uncertain, and has never been uncertain before. She hesitantly turns to Wesley for guidance: "If I abide, will you help me?" Wesley agrees. "Because I look like Fred?" Wesley whispers, afraid of his own answer: "Yes."

Wesley and Illyria make for an unusual pair. Wesley doesn't blame her for Fred's death, exactly, but of course he can't avoid the fact that she did in fact kill the woman he loved. Illyria thinks humans are vermin, but something about this one--it could be the fact that she retains Fred's memories--merits her respect, among other things. I don't think it could quite be said that Illyria falls in love with Wesley; I don't think she's capable of that. But she feels as strongly for him as she is able to feel at all.

Wesley attempts to reverse the past, to bring Fred back, and in so doing, as an unavoidable side-effect, he would kill Illyria. He fails. Illyria accuses him of betraying her; Wesley shrugs. What else would he do, under these circumstances? Would she do any different? Illyria pauses. "Betrayal was a neutral word in my day. As unjudged a word as water, or breeze." And yet it is clear that Illyria's sense of betrayal is as we would define it now.

Illyria chooses to be blue; she can look and sound like Fred, if she chooses. She offers herself to Wesley, in Fred's form, saying "You feel love for this form. I wish to explore it further." Wesley refuses, horrified, and demands that she never take on Fred's appearance again. The effect on Illyria is like a fourteen-year-old being rejected by her first crush. She doesn't know how to handle it.

While I'm not crazy about Season 5, the last episode is one of my favorites of the series. It has great, classic lines like "Your manservant has become entangled in my bodily fluids again!" This is the kind of show where people say things like that. It's also the kind of show that will make you cry.

This is the last hurrah--they're all going to die at the end of the day, and they know it. The characters all go off to do the one thing they want to do before they die. Wesley stays and bandages a wounded Illyria. She asks him why he isn't off somewhere else, and Wesley shrugs and says where else would he go? There isn't one last walk in the sunshine that will make his life okay. Illyria offers to be Fred for him, knowing that if he could, he would spend his last day with her. This time, the offer is a gift for Wesley, not an attempt to use his emotions for Illyria's own pleasure. He still refuses; he is incapable of lying to himself.

Of course, at the end of the day, Wesley does die. Illyria arrives too late to save him, and asks if now he would like her to lie to him. "Oh, yes please," Wesley says. And Illyria/Fred holds Wesley, telling him how much she loves him, crying as he dies. Illyria says goodbye to Wesley, and Wesley says goodbye to both women.

In seven episodes, Illyria becomes one of the most complex and tragic characters in the entire series. The idea of a god who is suddenly expected to deal with other people's emotions--and incredibly, have them herself--produces an incredible combination of fear, arrogance, power, and vulnerability.

But What About Angel?

2007-01-08T13:57:00.000-05:00

I just spent the last two hours reading through the New York Times' archives under the search directive "Joss Whedon."

Most are, at first grudging, then more enthusiastic admissions of respect for Buffy--the enthusiastic ones are dated in 2002, at which point Buffy had been on for five seasons, and had, according to most but not me, passed its peak. (The rest of the articles are bitching about how Firefly is weird, which turns into "Wow, wasn't that show great and isn't it tragic that it got cancelled?" once it got cancelled.)

Suffice it to say, if the Times is on board, I think it is now officially A-OK to say that I like Buffy. I could probably even go so far as to say that I think it is an intelligent and well-written show, a cult classic in the good way, and probably the most influential series of the nineties.

Whew! I was getting kind of tired of the eye-rolling at my dvd collection. I'll probably never convince my parents that Buffy is some damn fine television, but I can talk about it at cocktail parties now without being that weird dork who is talking about Buffy. (Now I can be that cool dork who is talking about Buffy, an important distinction).

But I'm about to plant myself firmly back in weird dork territory, and take a stand that, as far as I can tell, none have taken. My only hope is that one day I can say "I said it first" and buy back any coolness points I am about to lose.

I think Angel is better than Buffy.

I'm not saying I don't think Buffy is good, I would NEVER SAY THAT. But I don't think it's as good as Angel.

I didn't expect to like Angel--or Buffy, for that matter. I got pulled into both shows by James Marsters. Some friends in college sat me down to watch Buffy, saying "you will love this show, and even if you don't love this show, you will love Spike." That was, ahem, in Season 6, so there was a whole lot of Spike to love. Midway through the season, i.e. before the attempted rape and the end of my starry-eyed love affair with Season 6, I taped a five-day Buffy marathon on F/X and caught myself up on the entire series. There was a lot more to love than just Spike.

Those selfsame friends had been talking about Angel, but I felt no particular desire to watch it, though obviously I now trusted their judgment. I thought Angel was the weakest character on Buffy; at any rate, he was as cardboard as the show got. Why on earth would I watch a show named after him?

I gave in and watched Angel out of desperation. I had already seen all of Buffy, Firefly was off the air, and I had just moved to New York and had no friends. I read that Spike was now on Angel, which made it seem significantly more palatable. I'd always liked Cordelia, and unlike most I thought Wesley had potential. Perhaps it wouldn't be so bad.

I bought all five seasons within the space of two months. I spent those two months doing little besides watching Angel. And when I finally got a life and regained my sanity and casually went back and watched a few episodes of Buffy, it just wasn't the same.

It took a little while for me to realize this, but Angel is the better show.

Buffy is hailed as brilliant most often because of its metaphor: the Hellmouth/vampire slaying as a metaphor for the pain of being a teenager, Willow's magic addiction as a metaphor for drug addiction, Angel losing his soul as a metaphor for guys who lose their soul when you have sex with them (okay so, to paraphrase Giles, the subtext there was pretty much the text). But the fact is that Buffy, more often than not, is hampered by its need to stay within the metaphor.

Angel has a much grander vision. Season 1 is, for the most part, a series of monster-of-the-week episodes, and something I go back to when I want to watch a single episode, a kind of espresso shot of fun. The other seasons don't allow that.

I tried to watch a single episode from Season 3 last week--I ended up giving up and inserting disc one, because now I have to watch the whole thing. And Season 4, because the two are inextricably connected.

Firefly got cancelled because Fox wanted less arc and more sitcom. Anyone who has seen Buffy rolls their eyes, because Joss Whedon is all about arc. Anyone who has seen Angel knows that anyone who has only seen Buffy hasn't seen anything yet.

There are seeds laid in Season Two that won't reveal themselves until the end of Season Four. That's arc. But unlike Lost, which slowly dribbles out information and basically drove me away because of its unwillingness to give its viewers anything to watch, only things to look forward to, it doesn't feel like seeds are being laid, and certainly not like information is being withheld. I never finished an Angel episode throwing up my hands and saying "Well, goddamn it, what does that mean, and why do we still not know anything about Jack, or what the deal is with Claire's baby, or why Walter's stepdad thought he was weird?"

Instead, I finished an ordinary Angel episode laughing, or thinking about how good the acting was. Information and groundwork was snuck in, and all I had to do was watch an entertaining and intelligent show. And I finished an extraordinary episode marvelling at either the complexities of the plotline: "Oh my God. Really?? And yet, thinking back, I guess that makes sense...oh my God," the complexities of the characters: Angel's really much more interesting than I thought he was, Cordelia rules way more, I'm just going to skip right on over Gunn and Fred since they really aren't all that interesting, but my God Wesley makes up for it, not to mention Lila, Darla, and Illyria among those who do so much with relatively so little screen time.

Over the next while-I-feel-like-it, I plan to analyze/obsess over some of those complexities. If you're like me, a little spoilage won't distress you, but if not, and I've actually managed to convince anyone to watch the show, don't read and ruin it for yourself. I'm going to go home and watch all the Illyria episodes I can squeeze in. Stay tuned.

Future?

2007-01-08T10:16:00.000-05:00

Last night, Guy and I went to see Children of Men. My admiration for Clive Owen has been amply documented here, so I suppose I need not go into it much further, except to say that, once again, it was like no one else was onscreen.

Children of Men has been hailed as the new Bladerunner, but I don't think that's accurate. Bladerunner was fun. This was tense, frightening, and completely believable, unfortunately. Children of Men asks what would happen if, starting right this minute, we all became infertile. And the result seemed to be that life would continue pretty much along its path (i.e. the one to hell in a handbasket) only there wouldn't be any children around to witness it. England, according to the film, was the country with the "best" handle on the situation, had turned into Iraq.

I had been thinking, watching this, that Homeland Security has little daily effect on us, really. Sure, we have really long lines at the airport and argue over the length of a pair of scissors and the volume of a tube of hand lotion. But for those of us who don't commute via Jet Blue, it's not that big a deal. But then this morning I was almost an hour late to work. Why? Because there was a gas leak in Chelsea.

Okay, yes, bad. But the fact that a gas leak merits a) shutting down all trains into midtown from New Jersey, b) placing 4-5 police officers at every station, and c) referring to the gas leak as a "police action" only makes things worse.

I know the theory is to take precautions, and to treat every possible danger as the ultimate threat. But I'm tired of living in fear, and I'm tired of being told to be afraid; I was sure the police action was just some guy who hadn't had his coffee yet this morning and had refused to let his backpack be searched. Instead, it's not even as unusual as that. I don't feel safer being constantly surrounded by police. Even if the guns are being held by people who are supposed to be on my side, as far as I'm concerned, that only ups the chances that I'm going to get shot by a stray bullet.

*Edited to add: So it was apparently NOT a gas leak, but a leak of the stuff that is added to gas to make it smell weird so you know there's a leak...and the reasons for this smell are as yet unknown. So--weird and spooky, but actually even less dangerous than if it were a gas leak.

Company

2006-12-15T10:02:00.000-05:00

Monday
Cordelia: If it's at all possible, I'd like to see Company. It got a great review in the Times, and I've heard Raul Esparza's amazing in it, and I've never seen it, so you know, if we can, I'd like to go.

Tuesday
Guy: I got tickets for Thursday night, 7th row center.
Cordelia: Are you HIGH? I mean, YAY, but hello? Poverty?
Guy: Merry Christmas!
Cordelia: [hyperventilates]

Wednesday
Cordelia: I think you'll actually like this one, you know.
Guy: I'm excited for you being excited for it.
Cordelia: Yeah, but I think you'll really like this one. You haven't seen any Sondheim--he's not like other musicals. Very complex vocals--and this is a very adult play. No ho-downs.
Guy: Sounds good.
Cordelia: I'm excited.

Thursday
Cordelia: I think you'll really like this one.
(Later)
Guy: Wow. My head is exploding--they're playing instruments and singing. And dancing. And acting. All at the same time. And they're really good. That's got to limit your casting choices.
Cordelia: Well, you'll note that the vocal powerhouses aren't playing the tuba or anything--they're playing the triangle. Raul Esparza's really good.
Guy: No foolin'.
Cordelia: The Ladies Who Lunch made me incredibly tense. I always thought that song was fun. It's not fun, it's terrifying and tragic.
Guy: I liked Getting Married Today. That was fun.
Cordelia: Being Alive ruled.
Guy: We should go to the theater only twice a year and get really good seats like that from now on.
Cordelia: As it is we only go to the theater once or twice a year. So you're just saying you want better seats.
Guy: Um, yeah.

Friday
Guy: I would get tickets for Alla Beginagain.
Cordelia: Huh?
Guy: If someone gave us tickets I would go see it again.
Cordelia: Bobby, Bobby, Bobby Baby, Bobby Baby...Nothing to do with, all to do with...when they get depressed, it's a bottle of scotch, plus a little jest...somebody make me come through I'll always be there, frightened as you...Bobby Bobby Bobby Bobby

If I got scratched, it was my own fault

2006-12-13T09:39:00.000-05:00

So I had a dream last night that I lost Maud.

We were Christmas shopping in a store, one of those giant winding ones with crystals and ungents and scarves, and Maud was trotting along quietly and not swatting at anything. Don't ask me why she was out shopping with me, or who we thought we were shopping for in a store like that, dreams don't respond to logic.

There were lots of other cats there, and I was heading into a section where there weren't any--the guy's section. I asked the owner of the store if I could leave my cat to hang out with all her cats, and I'd be right back.

I wanted to try on a dress, you see--a red, oddly constructed dress--potentially either very flattering or godawful. But the man wouldn't let me go try it on! He was a big biker guy, so again don't ask why a big biker guy was working at a store with red flowy dresses.

"You're not going to buy it," he said, "so why should I let you try it on?"
"I MIGHT buy it," I said. "I can't know if it'll look good until I try it on."
"You're just one of those girls who likes to go into expensive stores and try on the dresses and pop all the sequins off and then leave."
"I am not one of those girls," I protested. Although I may have been at one point in my life. "Do you know what a pain it is to take off one set of clothes--especially when it's cold out and you have on lots of layers--put on another, and then take that set off, and put on the original ones? It's annoying! I don't do it for my own amusement!"

But he would not budge. So I went off in a huff to go find Maud. I asked the lady where she had gone, and the woman stared at me blankly. What cat? There are like a hundred cats here.

And there were--cute kitten after cute kitten, most cuter than Maud because they were younger, but no Maud. I went to the sacrificed animals section--nothing. The tiger balm section--a white kitten. In the way of dreams, I went round and round, getting increasingly more panicked.

However, unlike most anxiety dreams, this one solved itself! I did find her--lying in one of those chairs that look like they're carved out of a whole tree, next to a fire. I picked her up and she purred, forgiving me instantly, and we proceeded to shop for presents for my sister--would she and her roommates have time for a complicated foot scrub regimen?

Sorry sis, that was crazy dream talk. I already bought all your presents.

And so when I got up this morning, I heard Maud yowling outside my bedroom like she does, and went to scoop her up and give her a hug. She dashed up the stairs like a mad thing. Sorry Maud.

Big Sticks

2006-12-07T09:33:00.000-05:00

You know how knitting is all very delicate and contained? Smooth movements of the wrist, slide, wrap, swish? Granted, the smaller the needle, the smaller the motion, so using a size one makes me feel more like a squirrel, making tiny chittering movements right in front of my mouth.

And using size nineteen needles makes me feel like an elephant attempting to knit. Or an oversized four year old, since these Susan Bates needles look kind of like giant crayons. (Deep, slow motion voice): Sliiide, wrraaapp, ssswwiisshhhh....

I read recently that the comment most knitters hear most often is "Isn't that hard?" They must live and work in a nicer neighborhood than I do. The comment I hear most often is "What are you making me?" This from people on the train, messengers, UPS guys, and yes, usually men.

Har de har, yes, that's sooo funny and you're the only person ever to have said it.

If the giant needles weren't so inconvenient, I'd carry them around with me to beat people with.

I Heart Christmas

2006-12-05T09:42:00.000-05:00

I love Christmas. Everything about it really. I've heard all the complaints: "It's so commercial--look at all those stores putting up Christmas decorations, just trying to get us to spend our money." The decorations are pretty. They make me smile, but they're not forcing me to spend money just because they're all sparkly. "It's expensive." It can be, but I LIKE getting and giving gifts. It's fun, and what I choose to spend my money on. It is a choice, you know.

Cordelia: I love Christmas!

Guy: You love standing in line?

Cordelia: Standing in line isn't Christmas--I never have to stand in line. (It's true; I do all my shopping way in advance and almost never at a mall).

Guy: What, they don't have lines in Hawaii?

Cordelia: Nope. No lines, and I love Christmas.

Guy: Oy. Studio 60 made you all caffeinated; you're using lots of words and repeating yourself like Aaron Sorkin.

Cordelia: Studio 60 didn't make me caffeinated! It's not even written like the previous shows--really hardly any excessive dialogue. It was a slightly better show this week, though--Danny...this show Danny, not The West Wing Danny...

Guy: Bradley Whitford?

Cordelia: Yeah. He asked out Jordan.

Guy: Even though she's pregnant? That's class (sarcastic-sounding)

Cordelia: Why is that bad? (confused)

Guy: I said it was class. So who's the father?

Cordelia: That doctor guy from the first episode who outed Danny.

Guy: It was him, then? I figured it was going to be Steven Weber or Ed Asner.

Cordelia: ED ASNER???

Guy: I figured it might be.

Cordelia: You do not have the spirit of Christmas. Ed Asner.

"Catch up" means all the episodes, right?

2006-12-04T09:46:00.000-05:00

First of all, a note to Club Monaco: If your pants give your mannequins cameltoes, it may be time to rethink the design.

But the rest of this post has nothing to do with Club Monaco. It is a rant re: my anger at the Sci Fi Channel. Apart from the lame-ass movies they show (Final Destination II? Dead & Deader? Come on), they seem to have a loose grasp on the concept of episodes, and seasons, and whatnot.

Guy and I had been bugged to watch Battlestar Galactica for some time, and finally gave in a couple of months ago, and put Season 1 on the queue. Those of you in the know will hoot with laughter at this mistake. Battlestar Galactica doesn't start with Season 1! That would be too obvious! It starts with the miniseries! Duh!

Okay, so maybe if we'd known there had been a miniseries, we could have figured that out. So Guy and I are sitting there trying desperately to figure out what's going on:

"This is kind of confusing. Who is that guy again?"
"What's with the blonde chick? Is she an angel?"
"I don't like this show very much. It doesn't make any sense."
Etc.

Of course, once we got the miniseries, it all came together and no, she's not an angel, she's a hallucination of a cyborg. Duh.

But the "tricked ya!" attitude of the Sci Fi Channel doesn't stop there--oh no! They like to keep their viewers on their toes. Guy and I finished Season 2 last week (we're speedy), but were annoyed that it was so short. Three discs long? That's not a season. What the hell?

Oh, of course! Season 2.5 is next! Those wacky Sci Fi Channel people!

Last night, however, they crossed the line. Guy and I have also been under pressure to watch Heroes, which we have seen bits of while waiting for Studio 60 to start, and have been intrigued because hey, Jess! but very confused. But the Sci Fi Channel was running a recap of all the episodes to date (or so it was advertised) and we set the tape and then yesterday sat down to watch them so we could be ready for tonight.

However, the Sci Fi Channel only showed six episodes.

"Don't you remember that one scene where the creepy dad guy was trying to get the painter guy to take heroin? We didn't see that."
"And what about the charming Japanese guy who looks like he's going to burst a blood vessel? Doesn't he leave that restaurant and his friend counts to five and he's not there?"

Let me tell you, it's a good thing we would sit down early to make sure we caught the beginning of Studio 60. Because when we went online to check how many episodes there were supposed to be, the Sci Fi Channel didn't show the next four. We would have been so confused!

And there it was, closing on 10pm, and we were wondering what on earth we were going to do--wait for the show to come out on dvd and never catch up and be sad? No! Genius Guy remembered the iTunes carries TV shows--and lo and behold! Sadly, it would take 3 hrs per episode to download, unless we held the computer in that one spot on the stairs. And Maud likes to try to kill the computer.

We stayed up late to watch three of the four, and have just enough time to watch one before the show starts. Pathetic, and all the Sci Fi Channel's fault.

Incidentally, I wonder how on earth we're going to watch Studio 60 after this. Maybe as a make-you-sleep-before-bed kind of thing?

As I was typing the word "before," it came out "bore." Huh.