Nina

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

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.

Judgy

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

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.

Not Quite A Year

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.

Uhoh

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

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.

Whatever Happened to Anna Chlumsky?

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."

Phantom Smells

The fact is, I can't be sure I wasn't exaggerating about this whole Mark Bittman business. Don't get me wrong--it definitely smelled bad. Our clothes smell. But I can still smell it lingering in the air three days and lots of yummy cooking later and that seems a trifle unlikely.

I can also smell the traces of Maud's vomit, hidden beneath the burning. Maud threw up last week, having decided to forgo her canned kitten food in favor of grody Indian corn. Smart cat, that one. And I scrubbed and resolved and febreezed the hell out of those spots--it was a lot of vomit--and couldn't smell it if I put my nose right up to it, but if I entered the hallway from another part of the house, I could smell it again.

But see, here's the problem: I can't be certain my cleaning sucks that badly, because I smell stuff that doesn't exist all the time. And worse, sometimes things just smell weird to me. For a while there, all coffee smelled like shoyu (soy sauce to those who don't know), and for a period of two weeks last year, Jersey City smelled like sperm.

These smell issues have led to not a few pregnancy paranoias, let me tell you.

Guy, on the other hand, claims to have no sense of smell. This is a lie. He just can't smell when I put on the expensive perfume. He can smell a bakery from a mile away, and a Pizza Hut from a state away.

And so--I am unresolved. I don't feel I owe Mark Bittman an apology as that recipe was still retarded and did stink up my house, but I do think I must place a small disclaimer, and say that while it is not my intention to exaggerate, I may have inadvertently done so, as both Guy and I are olfactorily challenged.

Mark Biteme

My house smells. It smells very bad. Thankfully, I am out babysitting this week and so do not have to sit in my stinky house all day, but the fact remains that I do have to spend some time here and it smells.

And it's all Mark Bittman's fault.

We finally carved pumpkins on Saturday. I know, it's tragic to leave pumpkins uncarved until so long after Halloween, but we did, and trust me, we have been amply punished.

I've never really been a fan of eating pumpkin seeds. You chew, you get blechy stuff in your mouth, and you spit it all out. Theoretically, there's some soft something in there that you consume, but the blechiness outways any mystical yummy softness. However, Guy's a big fan and the kids were excited and we did have all these pumpkin seeds, so here we go.

Now, in some sense one could say that this is partly my fault, as I complained about my pumpkin seed-eating experiences, and Guy turned to the experts to find a better way of doing things. Mark Bittman said that we should bake them at 350 for 45 minutes or until done, AND THEN MICROWAVE THEM FOR FIFTEEN MINUTES--yes, he said minutes--stirring every five minutes. Ahah! thought Guy. This must be the secret to softer pumpkin seeds--the microwave must seal in the moisture or something.

After five minutes in the microwave, we smelled a fire.

There were no actual flames, but the seeds were charred. (And the one or two that weren't were just as blechy, by the way.) We coughed and gagged and hid downstairs, but reading a story was still difficult, and I had a terribly sore throat.

So, sad waste of pumpkin seeds. But the worst part is, the smell won't leave. We've vacuumed, we've cleaned, we aired out, we've febreezed the hell out of the place. Nada. It smells like burning.

The Wave

And I'm not talking about that thing they don't do at ballgames anymore. I'm talking about how do you wave at people without feeling awkward?

This was inspired by professional waver, Tara Reid:

I'm keeping the picture small because I hate Tara Reid. But she does provide an excellent demonstration of the two-hand elbows-bent wave.

I think we can all agree that this is not a wave we would care to emulate. Neither is the two-hand elbows-straight wave, which I couldn't find a picture of because I'm lazy and have work to do, but we all know it--it's the one Tom Cruise used to do before his other arm was always occupied by Katie Holmes.

Somewhat better is the one-arm-straight wave, made popular by many male celebrities. It's just a jut up hey there, and then down. Forceful, yet casual. However, you kind of have to be a movie star putting up with the paparazzi to make that anything other than an arrogant jackass wave.

This morning, I waved at a friend of Girl's as we walked to school. I used the one-hand-close-to-shoulder-spirit-fingers wave. She was cute, so I was going for cute. But used on anyone older than eight and I think the wave would just seem simpering.

Then there's the exuberant back and forth arms and elbows working it wave, used most commonly when you're trying to get someone's attention at the airport. Not really appropriate anywhere else, unless you want people to think you REALLY like them. Which might scare them.

There's the at the hip wave, which is used when you don't really want to wave to someone but feel like you have to acknowledge their existence in some way. Nobody likes that one. The ever-mocked beauty queen wave (elbow, elbow, wrist, wrist, touch your pearls and smile), and the politician wave (one arm, way up, back and forth).

I find I most commonly use what is perhaps the dorkiest looking wave of all: the up-by-shoulder-whole-hand-moving-from-side-to-side wave. It's big enough so people don't feel like I'm dissing them, but is neither simpering nor frighteningly exuberant.

Am I missing any? And does anyone have a preference?