Friday, March 03, 2006
Thursday, March 02, 2006
Blunt
Father is obsessed with the pop singer James Blunt.
Obsessed, I tell you.
When we were in Princeton for my birthday celebration, Father said "Leah, have you heard of the pop singer James Blunt?"
"No."
"You haven't?"
"No."
"I find that weird."
"Whatever."
"He's really good."
"If you say so."
Pause.
"Wait, Dad, how do you even know about this guy? Since when do you listen to pop music?"
Someone at work told him about him, said he was amazing and you gotta hear this etc., lent him the CD, and the man is now obsessed.
He said "I'll play him for you in the car."
I didn't throw a fit, only because I was curious as to whether I'd actually heard of or heard James Blunt without realizing that I had. When the introduction to "You're Beautiful" started, D said "Ooh, this music is sort of pretty... oh my god MAKE IT STOP!"
I, of course, had heard the song before.
I was sitting at lunch, eating my bagel, trying desperately to concentrate on whatever nonsense I was reading in the Entertainment section of AM New York when I heard the worst song I'd ever heard. I gave up trying to read and allowed myself to concentrate on the trite and ridiculous lyrics that were slamming against my brain.
I thought "Oh my god, as soon as I get back to work I am going to make fun of these lyrics on my blog!" I recited the words over and over in my head so I wouldn't forget them, and so I could look up the song title on the reversible lyrics database thing so I could find out who sang it. Why I just didn't assume that the song was called "You're Beautiful" is beyond me. Sometimes I give people too much credit.
By the time I got back to work I'd blocked the entire experience out, and didn't ever blog about it. Until now!
My siblings and I proceeded to make fun of Father and of the song for the entire weekend, doing rap versions of the song and making pot references to James "Blunt." Believe me, it was funny at the time.
Father said "It's so weird that you haven't heard of him."
"It's so weird that you have," I said. "Don't you think it's weird that you're into modern music all of a sudden? And don't you think its even weirder that you're into someone who should be in a boy band? Really, Father, I expect more from you."
"But how could you not have heard of him?"
I didn't want to explain to him that I don't listen to the radio because I am hyper critical. I'm always talking to Mother en route to shows and she'll say "Where are you off to?" and I'll say "To a show..." and she'll say "Should I even ask?" "No, you haven't heard of them." We always laugh.
I think the only time they knew anything about someone I was going to see was one of the times I went to see Ben Folds, but this was only because I'd given Father a copy of one of his CDs because I thought maybe, just maybe, he'd like is because of the piano. I once caught him singing "Give my money back, you bitch..." Heh.
It is weird when your parents have no idea what you like and what you do with your time. Do my parents even know that I'm into music? Probably not. Does it matter? Not at all. It's not that important.
But imagine if the situation were reversed. Imagine if I was like "Father, have you heard of 'The Magnetic Fields?' No? Well, I am going to make you listen to them while you are trapped in the car with me."
Sister had to be in the car with The Parents for over five hours on their way to New Jersey. She had to listen to the entire James Blunt CD. At high volume.
She did, however, make my parents listen to "Interpol" and apparently Father actually liked it! Awesome. He is capable of liking interesting-sounding things.
One of the things I love about Father is his ability to laugh at himself. We beat the James Blunt jokes to death that weekend. We brought him up at least once every three minutes, and many of the jokes involved Father. He laughed every time.
My siblings and I often criticize Father for not having any feelings, but it is precisely this that makes him fun to be around. Because he doesn't take himself seriously, he is an easy and fun target. He will laugh at anything, even if it is at his expense. He has a good sense of humor. Yes, he can be insensitive, but we never have to worry about saying the wrong thing or hurting his feelings.
I know that sounds brutal, but it is nice to have mechanisms in place for keeping the mood light around parents. Things can often turn stressful when families spend time together. We are lucky that we can be honest and playful and silly around Father without having to watch our words.
The joke is still ongoing, with Father (and today, Brother's girlfriend!) sending the occasional James Blunt related web-article to cause a stir. When I write back to him, he replies with "You're beautiful."
Hehehe.
Obsessed, I tell you.
When we were in Princeton for my birthday celebration, Father said "Leah, have you heard of the pop singer James Blunt?"
"No."
"You haven't?"
"No."
"I find that weird."
"Whatever."
"He's really good."
"If you say so."
Pause.
"Wait, Dad, how do you even know about this guy? Since when do you listen to pop music?"
Someone at work told him about him, said he was amazing and you gotta hear this etc., lent him the CD, and the man is now obsessed.
He said "I'll play him for you in the car."
I didn't throw a fit, only because I was curious as to whether I'd actually heard of or heard James Blunt without realizing that I had. When the introduction to "You're Beautiful" started, D said "Ooh, this music is sort of pretty... oh my god MAKE IT STOP!"
I, of course, had heard the song before.
I was sitting at lunch, eating my bagel, trying desperately to concentrate on whatever nonsense I was reading in the Entertainment section of AM New York when I heard the worst song I'd ever heard. I gave up trying to read and allowed myself to concentrate on the trite and ridiculous lyrics that were slamming against my brain.
I thought "Oh my god, as soon as I get back to work I am going to make fun of these lyrics on my blog!" I recited the words over and over in my head so I wouldn't forget them, and so I could look up the song title on the reversible lyrics database thing so I could find out who sang it. Why I just didn't assume that the song was called "You're Beautiful" is beyond me. Sometimes I give people too much credit.
By the time I got back to work I'd blocked the entire experience out, and didn't ever blog about it. Until now!
My siblings and I proceeded to make fun of Father and of the song for the entire weekend, doing rap versions of the song and making pot references to James "Blunt." Believe me, it was funny at the time.
Father said "It's so weird that you haven't heard of him."
"It's so weird that you have," I said. "Don't you think it's weird that you're into modern music all of a sudden? And don't you think its even weirder that you're into someone who should be in a boy band? Really, Father, I expect more from you."
"But how could you not have heard of him?"
I didn't want to explain to him that I don't listen to the radio because I am hyper critical. I'm always talking to Mother en route to shows and she'll say "Where are you off to?" and I'll say "To a show..." and she'll say "Should I even ask?" "No, you haven't heard of them." We always laugh.
I think the only time they knew anything about someone I was going to see was one of the times I went to see Ben Folds, but this was only because I'd given Father a copy of one of his CDs because I thought maybe, just maybe, he'd like is because of the piano. I once caught him singing "Give my money back, you bitch..." Heh.
It is weird when your parents have no idea what you like and what you do with your time. Do my parents even know that I'm into music? Probably not. Does it matter? Not at all. It's not that important.
But imagine if the situation were reversed. Imagine if I was like "Father, have you heard of 'The Magnetic Fields?' No? Well, I am going to make you listen to them while you are trapped in the car with me."
Sister had to be in the car with The Parents for over five hours on their way to New Jersey. She had to listen to the entire James Blunt CD. At high volume.
She did, however, make my parents listen to "Interpol" and apparently Father actually liked it! Awesome. He is capable of liking interesting-sounding things.
One of the things I love about Father is his ability to laugh at himself. We beat the James Blunt jokes to death that weekend. We brought him up at least once every three minutes, and many of the jokes involved Father. He laughed every time.
My siblings and I often criticize Father for not having any feelings, but it is precisely this that makes him fun to be around. Because he doesn't take himself seriously, he is an easy and fun target. He will laugh at anything, even if it is at his expense. He has a good sense of humor. Yes, he can be insensitive, but we never have to worry about saying the wrong thing or hurting his feelings.
I know that sounds brutal, but it is nice to have mechanisms in place for keeping the mood light around parents. Things can often turn stressful when families spend time together. We are lucky that we can be honest and playful and silly around Father without having to watch our words.
The joke is still ongoing, with Father (and today, Brother's girlfriend!) sending the occasional James Blunt related web-article to cause a stir. When I write back to him, he replies with "You're beautiful."
Hehehe.
Wednesday, March 01, 2006
Certified Mail is Certified Scary
Worst. title. ever.
Nevertheless...
I met up with former department head from former company from which we were both laid off ages ago. These days, he is a big wig at a big company. He was in NJ visiting one of their sites, and suggested we meet for dinner in the big city. I owe him everything (I'd not be here were it not for him, but I earned his recommendation so I don't feel bad about it) so it was the least I could do. In addition, another former employee of his recently relocated to NYC without knowing a soul other than her brother, and he asked if I'd be her friend.
"Of course," I said. "I know what that's like."
Plus, I love a good friend set-up.
When I met Former Boss on the street, he yelled "I can't believe you live and work in this jungle!"
Being in the industry he, of course, knew about the nonsense that is going on. He can empathize with the trauma of the potential layoff, and the desire to avoid the actual trauma of the actual layoff.
He did not, however, offer me a job on the spot.
The friend set-up was cool. She is a young whippersnapper with absurdly high expectations of herself and for her life. She thought I was Punjabi. "I get that a lot," I said, "And don't understand." "It's your complexion." Apparently being as-white-as-possible means you are Punjabi?
Because the big company was picking up the bill (woop!), we drank too much and kept forgetting to order food. I needed martinis (many, many martinis) after the day's work-related and personal-life related news. What I hadn't anticipated needing was the support of someone who understands. This dinner couldn't have come at a better time. It was nice to reminisce about the carnage of lay-offs with someone who experienced it with me. I was never close to Former Boss, but experiencing something like that with someone bonds you for life.
D called mid-dinner. Taken a back, I was like "What do you want?" "Where are you?" "Mirchi?" I said. "Still?" "We haven't even ordered yet."
I invited him to join us after he said he was calling to see if he could come over. I didn't expect him to, as I figured he was trying to come over in order to break up with me for having the audacity to suggest having a conversation about living together. "Awesome!" he said, and appeared ten minutes later.
Of course he was a big hit. Former Boss told glowing stories about my insanely productive years, and how working with me was such a treat. Aw, shucks. We drank more and I left with the spins.
We small talked in the cab back to mon apartement. No mention of the "Moving In Together" speech. He was completely normal. It was as though nothing had happened.
I realized, then, that he has no idea.
Which is not surprising. All data suggested that this would be the result.
Starting from scratch, folks. Starting from scratch.
I made a list this time, because the list is already out of control and I am afraid of bringing up old things that are not relevant to the topic(s) at hand, among which are being ignored, the future, the future being ignored, inability to talk about the future, inability to talk about the relationship, inability to engage in normal couply dialogue such as "Are you looking for a new job and therefore moving away?" "Why yes, I am!" and "Wow, am I stressed about being laid off!"
I passed out with the spins, and endured the fabulous drunk sleeping pattern of feeling like you are waking up every three minutes. Each time you think "Dear god I need some water," but then think "But I might fall asleep! I can't take the chance!" Repeat three minutes later.
I woke up with headache and other wonderful pains, but didn't care because the sun was out and D was in my bed.
When I was gathering my things together to bring to work, I found a little note indicating that I had certified mail! (this whole episode from the night before was foggy) No! Certified mail freaks me out. I am afraid that I am being sued or that I owe some insane quantity of money to an unknown service that I've totally forgotten and that they are coming to take my camera away next week because I've been negligent. I am also annoyed that I will have to go to the post office to find out about whatever this unsolicited certifiedness is!
Today I am in a bad mood again because D and I were supposed to go to the movies but he asked if he could "invite M and A."
I paused.
I was thinking "Remember how last week on my birthday I was crying like a lunatic and how you didn't respond and how the following day I sent you an email about how I wanted to talk about what was making me upset and could we set aside some time and how you ignored it and also never asked me what that was all about or if I was feeling better or if there was anything you could do and how that was a week ago? Well I was thinking maybe I was going to force some time to talk about it after the movie tonight but you want to invite your friends so FINE! I don't care!"
I said "Well, I feel like we haven't had any good alone time lately."
Which meant "I feel like I haven't said anything to you in the last two weeks that I wouldn't say to a complete stranger on the street."
(Although, I should mention, that this is progress. In the past, I have thought that we are going on a date and then he'll inform me that he's invited everyone he knows to join us. Not that I mind, but I am the sort of person who likes to know what I've signed on for.)
He understood. I was like "But, I don't mind. If you want to, that's cool," because I could really use another night to cool off.
But he didn't invite them because I think, subconsciously, he knows that there are things to talk about. Especially given that I've talked about yesterday's work news with all of my coworkers, many friends, the friend set-up last night, pretty much everyone I know except for him. He must know there's some anxiety somewhere.
So hopefully it will go well. I just need information. Whatever it is. I just need to know what he's doing so I can know what to do.
It will be fine. It always is. It just takes time with us, and right now we have no idea how much time we actually have.
Nevertheless...
I met up with former department head from former company from which we were both laid off ages ago. These days, he is a big wig at a big company. He was in NJ visiting one of their sites, and suggested we meet for dinner in the big city. I owe him everything (I'd not be here were it not for him, but I earned his recommendation so I don't feel bad about it) so it was the least I could do. In addition, another former employee of his recently relocated to NYC without knowing a soul other than her brother, and he asked if I'd be her friend.
"Of course," I said. "I know what that's like."
Plus, I love a good friend set-up.
When I met Former Boss on the street, he yelled "I can't believe you live and work in this jungle!"
Being in the industry he, of course, knew about the nonsense that is going on. He can empathize with the trauma of the potential layoff, and the desire to avoid the actual trauma of the actual layoff.
He did not, however, offer me a job on the spot.
The friend set-up was cool. She is a young whippersnapper with absurdly high expectations of herself and for her life. She thought I was Punjabi. "I get that a lot," I said, "And don't understand." "It's your complexion." Apparently being as-white-as-possible means you are Punjabi?
Because the big company was picking up the bill (woop!), we drank too much and kept forgetting to order food. I needed martinis (many, many martinis) after the day's work-related and personal-life related news. What I hadn't anticipated needing was the support of someone who understands. This dinner couldn't have come at a better time. It was nice to reminisce about the carnage of lay-offs with someone who experienced it with me. I was never close to Former Boss, but experiencing something like that with someone bonds you for life.
D called mid-dinner. Taken a back, I was like "What do you want?" "Where are you?" "Mirchi?" I said. "Still?" "We haven't even ordered yet."
I invited him to join us after he said he was calling to see if he could come over. I didn't expect him to, as I figured he was trying to come over in order to break up with me for having the audacity to suggest having a conversation about living together. "Awesome!" he said, and appeared ten minutes later.
Of course he was a big hit. Former Boss told glowing stories about my insanely productive years, and how working with me was such a treat. Aw, shucks. We drank more and I left with the spins.
We small talked in the cab back to mon apartement. No mention of the "Moving In Together" speech. He was completely normal. It was as though nothing had happened.
I realized, then, that he has no idea.
Which is not surprising. All data suggested that this would be the result.
Starting from scratch, folks. Starting from scratch.
I made a list this time, because the list is already out of control and I am afraid of bringing up old things that are not relevant to the topic(s) at hand, among which are being ignored, the future, the future being ignored, inability to talk about the future, inability to talk about the relationship, inability to engage in normal couply dialogue such as "Are you looking for a new job and therefore moving away?" "Why yes, I am!" and "Wow, am I stressed about being laid off!"
I passed out with the spins, and endured the fabulous drunk sleeping pattern of feeling like you are waking up every three minutes. Each time you think "Dear god I need some water," but then think "But I might fall asleep! I can't take the chance!" Repeat three minutes later.
I woke up with headache and other wonderful pains, but didn't care because the sun was out and D was in my bed.
When I was gathering my things together to bring to work, I found a little note indicating that I had certified mail! (this whole episode from the night before was foggy) No! Certified mail freaks me out. I am afraid that I am being sued or that I owe some insane quantity of money to an unknown service that I've totally forgotten and that they are coming to take my camera away next week because I've been negligent. I am also annoyed that I will have to go to the post office to find out about whatever this unsolicited certifiedness is!
Today I am in a bad mood again because D and I were supposed to go to the movies but he asked if he could "invite M and A."
I paused.
I was thinking "Remember how last week on my birthday I was crying like a lunatic and how you didn't respond and how the following day I sent you an email about how I wanted to talk about what was making me upset and could we set aside some time and how you ignored it and also never asked me what that was all about or if I was feeling better or if there was anything you could do and how that was a week ago? Well I was thinking maybe I was going to force some time to talk about it after the movie tonight but you want to invite your friends so FINE! I don't care!"
I said "Well, I feel like we haven't had any good alone time lately."
Which meant "I feel like I haven't said anything to you in the last two weeks that I wouldn't say to a complete stranger on the street."
(Although, I should mention, that this is progress. In the past, I have thought that we are going on a date and then he'll inform me that he's invited everyone he knows to join us. Not that I mind, but I am the sort of person who likes to know what I've signed on for.)
He understood. I was like "But, I don't mind. If you want to, that's cool," because I could really use another night to cool off.
But he didn't invite them because I think, subconsciously, he knows that there are things to talk about. Especially given that I've talked about yesterday's work news with all of my coworkers, many friends, the friend set-up last night, pretty much everyone I know except for him. He must know there's some anxiety somewhere.
So hopefully it will go well. I just need information. Whatever it is. I just need to know what he's doing so I can know what to do.
It will be fine. It always is. It just takes time with us, and right now we have no idea how much time we actually have.
Tuesday, February 28, 2006
Regressed
I regressed at the departmental meeting this morning as I focused on avoiding any D-related emotions while I tried not to listen to any of the words regarding possible future maybe we-know-nothing and we-understand-how-you-feel joblessness. In so doing, I found myself drawing on my sneakers!
First of all, I'd completely forgotten that we once did this in elementary school when not listening to the teacher. Oh, the elaborate patterns we'd create with fluorescent highlighters and putrid smelling sharpies!
Second of all, I can't believe my parents ever allowed this.
Third of all, I can't believe I found myself writing on a sneaker at age 30! I haven't thought about this since I was, like, 11. I found myself drawing lines and then outlining cute little geometrical patterns before I actually committed to them with pen.
Luckily I only have a few pen lines on my right shoe. I was doing it and then all of a sudden I was like "What am I doing!?! What's going on? Am I writing on my shoe? Am I suddenly eight years old?"
I looked around, horrified that someone may have noticed, and then imagined little drawings on the shoes of the real adults at the meeting.
I want to doodle right now to help me forget that I have neither heard from nor seen D all day, and am afraid he is busy practicing his speech which will begin with something like "Look, I know we've been talking about the future in the abstract, but that was pretend. The idea of actually having an actual future that I actually have to plan for with you horrifies me, so I'm afraid that you will have to remove your hair straightener and toothbrush from my apartment at your earliest convenience, or, now. And how dare you ask me about moving in together without warning? How dare you?"
Nothing like avoiding a person when she's rendered herself completely vulnerable. That's mature.
I hate the status of my life right now. Nothing is certain. There's nothing to hold onto. At times like these your relationship is supposed to be a source of security and solace, not mystery and angst. I feel like the living together issue is secondary to the inability to communicate issue.
Ugh. In six months I will be homeless without a job and without a boyfriend and without the beautiful future we were able to discuss only in the abstract.
I could cry, but instead I shall draw on my sneakers.
First of all, I'd completely forgotten that we once did this in elementary school when not listening to the teacher. Oh, the elaborate patterns we'd create with fluorescent highlighters and putrid smelling sharpies!
Second of all, I can't believe my parents ever allowed this.
Third of all, I can't believe I found myself writing on a sneaker at age 30! I haven't thought about this since I was, like, 11. I found myself drawing lines and then outlining cute little geometrical patterns before I actually committed to them with pen.
Luckily I only have a few pen lines on my right shoe. I was doing it and then all of a sudden I was like "What am I doing!?! What's going on? Am I writing on my shoe? Am I suddenly eight years old?"
I looked around, horrified that someone may have noticed, and then imagined little drawings on the shoes of the real adults at the meeting.
I want to doodle right now to help me forget that I have neither heard from nor seen D all day, and am afraid he is busy practicing his speech which will begin with something like "Look, I know we've been talking about the future in the abstract, but that was pretend. The idea of actually having an actual future that I actually have to plan for with you horrifies me, so I'm afraid that you will have to remove your hair straightener and toothbrush from my apartment at your earliest convenience, or, now. And how dare you ask me about moving in together without warning? How dare you?"
Nothing like avoiding a person when she's rendered herself completely vulnerable. That's mature.
I hate the status of my life right now. Nothing is certain. There's nothing to hold onto. At times like these your relationship is supposed to be a source of security and solace, not mystery and angst. I feel like the living together issue is secondary to the inability to communicate issue.
Ugh. In six months I will be homeless without a job and without a boyfriend and without the beautiful future we were able to discuss only in the abstract.
I could cry, but instead I shall draw on my sneakers.
I Should Have Known Better
The Czars last night were too big a sound in too small a space. While we wrestled thumbs, I realized that the discussion of the serious is not something that we have in our relationship repertoire.
Consideration of the serious was precipitated by a conversation with MF. There are two other company couples. One was initiated circa the same time as D and I. They moved in together within a few months and are now engaged. MF, a friend, has been dating T for about five months, and yesterday he told me that they are planning to move in together.
"Already?" I said.
"Well, not quite yet, but the discussions are on the table."
"Really? How did they come up?"
He said "Well, basically, she told me that she's on the other side of the bridge and is ready and waiting for me to cross it."
"Huh. How did that come up?"
"Well, I don't know, we haven't talked about it officially, but it's been mentioned. And it just makes sense."
There was then discussion of leases ending, money saving, being too old to carry clothes around when you want to stay at the other person's apartment, not wanting to buy duplicates of things, wanting all of your books around when there might be time to read, etc.
"Man. You guys just talk about these things?"
I was jealous.
In addition, these feelings have been precipitated by multiple people, including friends and family and my boss, saying "I was expecting you to get a ring on your birthday!" Each time I responded with an awkward "Ha.. hahah... hah? No way! D? Are you kidding? HAH!"
But why is that so absurd? Is it really that inconceivable that a man in his 30's could make up his mind about someone he's been with for over a year?
Clearly this has not been an issue for the other girls in the company. Why is it so far-fetched for me?
It's not that I want or need him to propose, but I wish I didn't feel like it was a complete impossibility. I wish I didn't think "D? Want to marry me!? Are you INSANE? Please!"
I talked to Mother, who told me about a waiter at Uno's who was young but married. When asked why he married young, he said "Well, a friend of ours got cancer, and it just got me to thinking that there just isn't all the time in the world, you know? If you know you love someone, and you both want to be together, why wait?"
Preach on, Pizzeria Uno waiter.
I tried to think of ways to bring up The Future all night. Sitting on the couch at the show, silent, I lost a million opportunities because I couldn't find the right words. The mere contemplation of his response or non-response (more likely) made me angry with him and made me say nothing.
I didn't bring things up after the show because I hesitate to start potentially grand discussions late at night when people (me) may be tired (irritable). And we never have over two ours of undesignated time before 10 pm.
I didn't even want to bring up living together. I meant to talk about what he wants with his career, where he wants to be, if he really wants to move or if he just feels like he has to, if he's stressed out about things and what we can do about it, my career, photography classes, changes, exciting things in the future, babies, etc.
When we awoke this morning, he looked very cute and I thought "Why would it be so unpalatable for this to happen every day? It pretty much does anyway, so why do we need to pay for two places? Plus, sometimes I don't like to plan ahead what I am going to wear! What if I really want to wear my purple chucks one day and I don't have them because I didn't think of them the day before!? I can't take this anymore! I'm 30!!!"
He loudly ate cereal and mashed around in the kitchen for a bit while I stayed in bed, listening to NPR. I motioned for him to come over. Temporary insanity prompted me to take the direct route, because with D, being blunt tends to work best. I can't expect him to figure things out on his own, and my attempts at flowery exposition about the relationship are generally met with an "aww shucks" instead of dialogue or reciprocation.
And now, for your reading pleasure (with no embellishment), the transcript of the first time I have ever proposed living with someone. And yes, I realize I sprung this on him without warning, that he was caught off guard, and really, what was he to say? I didn't preface it with anything sappy, like "I'm really happy with our relationship right now, I like spending time with you, we're together all the time, we're both neat, and it would be lovely to build shelves with you." I guess I just didn't expect it to go down like this.
---
Me: So, ummmm, D, do you think that, um, if we don't get laid off, that we could talk about living together?
D: (hesitatingly, but not unenthusiastically) Yes.
Me: (smiling, beaming, glowing, ecstatic)
D: But we are going to get laid off.
Me: How do you know?
D: I know.
Me: But how? I don't think we are.
D: (stressed) Everybody thinks we are!
Me: You can't be sure.
D: I'm sure.
Me: Oh.
D: So what do you think?
Me: (not knowing if he meant the impending lay offs or the living together situation) About what?
D: About Anna Nicole?
Me: What?
D: About Anne Nicole Smith.
Me: What?
D: Anna Nicole Smith.
It took me a minute to realize that NPR had just mentioned Anna Nicole Smith. I didn't know this because I was not listening to the radio when we were having our first ever real, concrete discussion about living together.
I also realized that my boyfriend had (a) been listening to the radio while we were having this discussion and (b) was deflecting the topic at hand by making reference to Anna Nicole Smith instead of (c) being at all honest and saying something like "It's too soon" or "I like my apartment and commute and don't want to leave" or "I want to break up" or "STOP PRESSURING ME!" or "I like living alone too much" or "Let me think about it" or "Can we talk about this later please?" or "Cool, I'm happy you brought it up, I have been thinking about it too" or "I have to go to work."
No.
Anna Nicole.
I said nothing about Anna Nicole, although I was thinking "She's a terrible mother" or "She's a crackhead" or "She's pretty now but it doesn't count" as I stormed into the bathroom and shut the door. I wasn't being dramatic, I just needed to look at myself in the mirror and laugh at the absurdity of the boyfriend who is incapable of discussing or responding to real things involving the actual future.
He burst into the bathroom and said "What are you doing?"
"Staring at the bags under my eyes," I said, which was actually what I was doing.
"Did you mean you wanted to talk about it now?" he said.
"No," I said, and he left.
---
So that's that, folks.
I wish he'd just said "No."
Then I could be mad instead of disappointed.
Now I am entertaining the idea of being single soon and I having to do it with this ridiculous haircut.
Awshummmmm.
Consideration of the serious was precipitated by a conversation with MF. There are two other company couples. One was initiated circa the same time as D and I. They moved in together within a few months and are now engaged. MF, a friend, has been dating T for about five months, and yesterday he told me that they are planning to move in together.
"Already?" I said.
"Well, not quite yet, but the discussions are on the table."
"Really? How did they come up?"
He said "Well, basically, she told me that she's on the other side of the bridge and is ready and waiting for me to cross it."
"Huh. How did that come up?"
"Well, I don't know, we haven't talked about it officially, but it's been mentioned. And it just makes sense."
There was then discussion of leases ending, money saving, being too old to carry clothes around when you want to stay at the other person's apartment, not wanting to buy duplicates of things, wanting all of your books around when there might be time to read, etc.
"Man. You guys just talk about these things?"
I was jealous.
In addition, these feelings have been precipitated by multiple people, including friends and family and my boss, saying "I was expecting you to get a ring on your birthday!" Each time I responded with an awkward "Ha.. hahah... hah? No way! D? Are you kidding? HAH!"
But why is that so absurd? Is it really that inconceivable that a man in his 30's could make up his mind about someone he's been with for over a year?
Clearly this has not been an issue for the other girls in the company. Why is it so far-fetched for me?
It's not that I want or need him to propose, but I wish I didn't feel like it was a complete impossibility. I wish I didn't think "D? Want to marry me!? Are you INSANE? Please!"
I talked to Mother, who told me about a waiter at Uno's who was young but married. When asked why he married young, he said "Well, a friend of ours got cancer, and it just got me to thinking that there just isn't all the time in the world, you know? If you know you love someone, and you both want to be together, why wait?"
Preach on, Pizzeria Uno waiter.
I tried to think of ways to bring up The Future all night. Sitting on the couch at the show, silent, I lost a million opportunities because I couldn't find the right words. The mere contemplation of his response or non-response (more likely) made me angry with him and made me say nothing.
I didn't bring things up after the show because I hesitate to start potentially grand discussions late at night when people (me) may be tired (irritable). And we never have over two ours of undesignated time before 10 pm.
I didn't even want to bring up living together. I meant to talk about what he wants with his career, where he wants to be, if he really wants to move or if he just feels like he has to, if he's stressed out about things and what we can do about it, my career, photography classes, changes, exciting things in the future, babies, etc.
When we awoke this morning, he looked very cute and I thought "Why would it be so unpalatable for this to happen every day? It pretty much does anyway, so why do we need to pay for two places? Plus, sometimes I don't like to plan ahead what I am going to wear! What if I really want to wear my purple chucks one day and I don't have them because I didn't think of them the day before!? I can't take this anymore! I'm 30!!!"
He loudly ate cereal and mashed around in the kitchen for a bit while I stayed in bed, listening to NPR. I motioned for him to come over. Temporary insanity prompted me to take the direct route, because with D, being blunt tends to work best. I can't expect him to figure things out on his own, and my attempts at flowery exposition about the relationship are generally met with an "aww shucks" instead of dialogue or reciprocation.
And now, for your reading pleasure (with no embellishment), the transcript of the first time I have ever proposed living with someone. And yes, I realize I sprung this on him without warning, that he was caught off guard, and really, what was he to say? I didn't preface it with anything sappy, like "I'm really happy with our relationship right now, I like spending time with you, we're together all the time, we're both neat, and it would be lovely to build shelves with you." I guess I just didn't expect it to go down like this.
---
Me: So, ummmm, D, do you think that, um, if we don't get laid off, that we could talk about living together?
D: (hesitatingly, but not unenthusiastically) Yes.
Me: (smiling, beaming, glowing, ecstatic)
D: But we are going to get laid off.
Me: How do you know?
D: I know.
Me: But how? I don't think we are.
D: (stressed) Everybody thinks we are!
Me: You can't be sure.
D: I'm sure.
Me: Oh.
D: So what do you think?
Me: (not knowing if he meant the impending lay offs or the living together situation) About what?
D: About Anna Nicole?
Me: What?
D: About Anne Nicole Smith.
Me: What?
D: Anna Nicole Smith.
It took me a minute to realize that NPR had just mentioned Anna Nicole Smith. I didn't know this because I was not listening to the radio when we were having our first ever real, concrete discussion about living together.
I also realized that my boyfriend had (a) been listening to the radio while we were having this discussion and (b) was deflecting the topic at hand by making reference to Anna Nicole Smith instead of (c) being at all honest and saying something like "It's too soon" or "I like my apartment and commute and don't want to leave" or "I want to break up" or "STOP PRESSURING ME!" or "I like living alone too much" or "Let me think about it" or "Can we talk about this later please?" or "Cool, I'm happy you brought it up, I have been thinking about it too" or "I have to go to work."
No.
Anna Nicole.
I said nothing about Anna Nicole, although I was thinking "She's a terrible mother" or "She's a crackhead" or "She's pretty now but it doesn't count" as I stormed into the bathroom and shut the door. I wasn't being dramatic, I just needed to look at myself in the mirror and laugh at the absurdity of the boyfriend who is incapable of discussing or responding to real things involving the actual future.
He burst into the bathroom and said "What are you doing?"
"Staring at the bags under my eyes," I said, which was actually what I was doing.
"Did you mean you wanted to talk about it now?" he said.
"No," I said, and he left.
---
So that's that, folks.
I wish he'd just said "No."
Then I could be mad instead of disappointed.
Now I am entertaining the idea of being single soon and I having to do it with this ridiculous haircut.
Awshummmmm.
Monday, February 27, 2006
Bowl Cut
Ah, the weekend. How quickly they pass even when nothing is happening.
I didn't change out of my pajamas until 5pm on Saturday, and that was only to get the mail. I ate a breakfast burrito (thanks, D!), scrambled up some eggs for PW, heard LBF's weekend news, squealed at MG's news, watched the end of The Island which I'd slept through the previous weekend at Brother's (and oh how I wish I hadn't wasted those precious minutes on chase scene after chase scene - it started off so promising with the torturous exploration of the status of the soul in clones!), played piano, wrote and recorded a song, watched the bonus features of Strangers With Candy and was therefore giddy beyond comprehension.
On Sunday I watched Far From Heaven (gorgeous), ate oatmeal, spent entirely too much money on makeup at Duane Reade (why why why must it be so costly to be pretty?) after freaking out about my appearance (I loathe you, PMS, for making me insane), replenished supplies of milk and eggs and apple juice and orange soda and butter and havarti dill cheese, talked to JQ and learned that I am still confused that he is a father and was even more confused when my mostly-joking suggestion that he buy my parents' house was met with the enthusiastic sigh of possibility, went to D's house after demanding that he cut my hair (more on this later), went for family style heaping plate of pasta with E (more later), saw death-obsessed Oscar-nominated live action shorts at Cinema Village (more later), had rainbow sherbet in a red cone and then devoured D's uncharacteristic candid words of affirmation/affection.
---
Re: my hair. I got my hair cut two weeks ago at the Aveda Institute. I was pleased with my $18 haircut for about a week, but the centimeter that has grown since made the haircut completely unworkable. I had the sort of day yesterday when I would look in the mirror and think "How can others even dare behold a sight as hideous as you?!" I was pulling on my hair and trying to put it up, put it down, put it somewhat up, etc., and there was nothing that could be done. I called D hysterical and said "Can you cut my hair tonight?"
He agreed. I know what you're saying. You allowed a BOY to cut your hair? I was desperate, folks. Desperate! I needed it OFF MY HEAD that instant. Were it not for him, I'd probably have cut it all myself and would have cut my face in the process given how urgent things seemed.
For the entirety of our relationship, D has offered to cut my hair. He cuts his own hair, and does quite a lovely job. He is great with his hands. He paints, he builds, he makes lamps and candleholders (that ignite), he puts things on walls, he makes furniture, he is to be trusted with all things aesthetic.
Of course I've been reluctant. I'd rather spend money (not tons) to know that I will look pretty for a couple of weeks.
He took the scissor and began to cut and I was like "What are you DOING!?" and it occurred to us then that D has never even SEEN a woman's hair being cut. He just cut it in a straight line. It looked like a shelf.
"No, you're supposed to cut at angles, like this," I said, and cut some of the front, but even when I cut it at an angle, it still looked like a shelf. "And don't do such big chunks at once! You're supposed to do small portions!"
"No, I know what to do," he said, "And I don't understand what you're talking about. I'll just give you the standard bowl cut. It will look good!"
"No, please, just TRY angles."
"Trust me."
It's not terrible, but it looks like a four year old cut my hair because it is straight lines. Combined with the pre-existing shorter layers. No angle, no body, just pilgrim-bowl cut on the bottom and fun, nice-looking layers on the top. People at work were like "So... you... um... you got a hair cut?" When I told them that D cut it they were enthusiastic, but nobody said "Oh my god your hair looks amazing did you get it cut?"
Sister suggests that I cut it with a razor, but D said "I have no confidence with the razor" unlike his confidence with the scissors. I think I may try to razor the underside just to see what happens and if it messes up so be it. It can't be worse than this.
---
Re: garlic bread. At the family style dinner last night, E and I ordered the individual serving of garlic bread. When it arrived, it was burnt.
What do you do in this situation? Clearly whoever prepared the garlic bread (in addition to the waiter) knew that it was burnt and still decided to serve it to us. This leads me to think that perhaps it is supposed to be burnt. But why?
It's a weird situation, because basically in order to get edible bread, I'd have to be like "I don't know if you've noticed, but, um, this is totally wrong."
So of course I said nothing.
---
Re: Oscar-nominated Live Action Shorts, alternatively known as four shorts involving death and one involving a supermarket with naked women.
Short 1: A psychologist, who finds out he has brain cancer and therefore six months to live, decides to start telling his nutty patients the truth about their problems.
Short 2: An old man, aftering discovering that his wife is dead, makes preparations for her burial on their old, secluded farm.
Short 3: Annoying people work in a supermarket and there is nudity. Lame lame LAME.
Short 4: A little boy appears to a young man, claiming to be his son. (There is a dead wife in this one as well).
Short 5: After his wife dies, a man has to journey home by train, where he encounters a woman whose son has just died and an obnoxious young man whose mother has been murdered. There is a suicide in this one, as well as an exploding cow and a bunny that gets its head blown off with a shotgun.
Right.
Bizarrely, only one of these was actually sad. Go figure.
---
Now I should work.
Until tomorrow...
I didn't change out of my pajamas until 5pm on Saturday, and that was only to get the mail. I ate a breakfast burrito (thanks, D!), scrambled up some eggs for PW, heard LBF's weekend news, squealed at MG's news, watched the end of The Island which I'd slept through the previous weekend at Brother's (and oh how I wish I hadn't wasted those precious minutes on chase scene after chase scene - it started off so promising with the torturous exploration of the status of the soul in clones!), played piano, wrote and recorded a song, watched the bonus features of Strangers With Candy and was therefore giddy beyond comprehension.
On Sunday I watched Far From Heaven (gorgeous), ate oatmeal, spent entirely too much money on makeup at Duane Reade (why why why must it be so costly to be pretty?) after freaking out about my appearance (I loathe you, PMS, for making me insane), replenished supplies of milk and eggs and apple juice and orange soda and butter and havarti dill cheese, talked to JQ and learned that I am still confused that he is a father and was even more confused when my mostly-joking suggestion that he buy my parents' house was met with the enthusiastic sigh of possibility, went to D's house after demanding that he cut my hair (more on this later), went for family style heaping plate of pasta with E (more later), saw death-obsessed Oscar-nominated live action shorts at Cinema Village (more later), had rainbow sherbet in a red cone and then devoured D's uncharacteristic candid words of affirmation/affection.
---
Re: my hair. I got my hair cut two weeks ago at the Aveda Institute. I was pleased with my $18 haircut for about a week, but the centimeter that has grown since made the haircut completely unworkable. I had the sort of day yesterday when I would look in the mirror and think "How can others even dare behold a sight as hideous as you?!" I was pulling on my hair and trying to put it up, put it down, put it somewhat up, etc., and there was nothing that could be done. I called D hysterical and said "Can you cut my hair tonight?"
He agreed. I know what you're saying. You allowed a BOY to cut your hair? I was desperate, folks. Desperate! I needed it OFF MY HEAD that instant. Were it not for him, I'd probably have cut it all myself and would have cut my face in the process given how urgent things seemed.
For the entirety of our relationship, D has offered to cut my hair. He cuts his own hair, and does quite a lovely job. He is great with his hands. He paints, he builds, he makes lamps and candleholders (that ignite), he puts things on walls, he makes furniture, he is to be trusted with all things aesthetic.
Of course I've been reluctant. I'd rather spend money (not tons) to know that I will look pretty for a couple of weeks.
He took the scissor and began to cut and I was like "What are you DOING!?" and it occurred to us then that D has never even SEEN a woman's hair being cut. He just cut it in a straight line. It looked like a shelf.
"No, you're supposed to cut at angles, like this," I said, and cut some of the front, but even when I cut it at an angle, it still looked like a shelf. "And don't do such big chunks at once! You're supposed to do small portions!"
"No, I know what to do," he said, "And I don't understand what you're talking about. I'll just give you the standard bowl cut. It will look good!"
"No, please, just TRY angles."
"Trust me."
It's not terrible, but it looks like a four year old cut my hair because it is straight lines. Combined with the pre-existing shorter layers. No angle, no body, just pilgrim-bowl cut on the bottom and fun, nice-looking layers on the top. People at work were like "So... you... um... you got a hair cut?" When I told them that D cut it they were enthusiastic, but nobody said "Oh my god your hair looks amazing did you get it cut?"
Sister suggests that I cut it with a razor, but D said "I have no confidence with the razor" unlike his confidence with the scissors. I think I may try to razor the underside just to see what happens and if it messes up so be it. It can't be worse than this.
---
Re: garlic bread. At the family style dinner last night, E and I ordered the individual serving of garlic bread. When it arrived, it was burnt.
What do you do in this situation? Clearly whoever prepared the garlic bread (in addition to the waiter) knew that it was burnt and still decided to serve it to us. This leads me to think that perhaps it is supposed to be burnt. But why?
It's a weird situation, because basically in order to get edible bread, I'd have to be like "I don't know if you've noticed, but, um, this is totally wrong."
So of course I said nothing.
---
Re: Oscar-nominated Live Action Shorts, alternatively known as four shorts involving death and one involving a supermarket with naked women.
Short 1: A psychologist, who finds out he has brain cancer and therefore six months to live, decides to start telling his nutty patients the truth about their problems.
Short 2: An old man, aftering discovering that his wife is dead, makes preparations for her burial on their old, secluded farm.
Short 3: Annoying people work in a supermarket and there is nudity. Lame lame LAME.
Short 4: A little boy appears to a young man, claiming to be his son. (There is a dead wife in this one as well).
Short 5: After his wife dies, a man has to journey home by train, where he encounters a woman whose son has just died and an obnoxious young man whose mother has been murdered. There is a suicide in this one, as well as an exploding cow and a bunny that gets its head blown off with a shotgun.
Right.
Bizarrely, only one of these was actually sad. Go figure.
---
Now I should work.
Until tomorrow...
A Successful New York Event Organized By Me, At Last!
Bench Buddy said "I think you secretly hope that nobody shows up to your birthday party so that you can be emo about it."
"No! I want people to come to my birthday party! My fears are based on last year's party, when most people I invited from NYC did not come, and did not even bother to tell me so!" My fears are also based on various birthday parties throughout time being snowed out or foiled by things such as chicken pox.
Last year's birthday party was a bit of a disappointment. Yes, my real friends came (a friend from Boston, a friend from Philly, a few friends from NYC) but most of the people I invited, who were merely good acquaintances since I hadn't yet settled in, failed to even mention the invitation.
I didn't invite those acquaintances this year, as I removed myself from any and all activities involving these people after the birthday party last year.
This year, unlike last year, was a raucous success. It was so much fun that I successfully forgot that I had turned, ahem, 30.
Brother arrived from Princeton at around 6:00 pm. I tried to sneak in a nap beforehand at D's, but D, believing himself to be locked out of his apartment (long story), woke me up about three minutes after I'd finally fallen asleep with doorbell rings and frantic banging on windows. The three of us ate dinner at a Mexican restaurant on 6th Avenue where the waitress was a Jedi in training.
Brother: I'll have the blah blah blah salad.
Waitress: Do you want chicken on that salad?
Brother: I'll have chicken on that salad.
D: I'll have blah blah blah meal involving steak.
Waitress: OK, but wouldn't you rather have the special?
D: I'll have the special.
Me: I'll have the blah blah blah potato thing.
Waitress: That's small. Wouldn't you rather have the blah blah blah?
Me: No, thanks, that'll be fine. And I'll have plantains on the side.
Waitress: Do you want a drink?
Me: No.
Waitress: You want a margerita?
Me: No.
Waitress: The margaritas are very good.
Me: No.
Jedi is the nice way of saying "pushy." She is not good for the weak of mind, or, in this case, male.
D brought some sort of vitamin-C energy boosting powder thing to put in our waters at the restaurant. This stuff is a miracle concoction. Neither D nor I, despite having had a mere three hours sleep the night before, were at all tired.
Brother was feeling flu-ish, and wasn't sure that he'd make it to the party. We went back and forth, trying to decide if he should nap at D's, nap at my place, just go back to my place, or go back to Princeton. He was finally convinced to come to HiFi. I hoped that our journey through the frigid air of New York would provide a miracle cure. If it didn't, I was nearly certain that karaoke would heal.
We were 20 minutes late to HiFi (traffic!) but it didn't matter, because nobody was there! The party threatened to be a repeat of last year, but I repressed my emotions so as not to disturb Brother. He didn't need to, in his ill state, see his 30-year old sibling crumble.
Four people showed up to the bar. R was not one of these people, which was confusing as R picked HiFi was the pre-karaoke meetup location.
At 9:00, I decided that I'd go to Sing Sing to see what was going on. Maybe people were there? Were they already charging us for the room even though we weren't in it? Birthday anxiety, yeah!
When I got there, I found only one more member of the party. I convinced the people at Sing Sing to let us start at 9:30. By 9:30, there were about ten people, including R, JG, and Bench Buddy, who were essential karaoke personnel.
By 10:30, there were 20 of us in a room that could fit 10, and we were all going nuts, including Brother, because karaoke heals all.
It was So. Much. Fun. I can't believe I haven't done this before! Sing Sing has something like 30,000 songs. Anything you can imagine.
Newfound respect for Sebastian Bach after destroying my vocal chords on "I Remember You." And newfound respect for yours truly, whose "flow" was ON on Friday night.
Seriously. I destroyed every hip hop song attempted. I don't know what got into me. Maybe turning 30 has awakened some sort of previously latent ability to rap. Like my mutant power's onset was the third decade of life.
I tore apart:
"Drop It Like It's Hot" (Snooooooop.... it's been too long since I mentioned him)
"Me, Myself and I" (De La)
"Nuthin' But A G Thang" (Dre and Snooooooop!)
"Can I Get A..." (Jay-Z et. al)
"Work It" (Missy)
"Jump" (Kris Kross, the best performance of the night)
Additionally, they had at least 200 songs from musicals, including songs from The Pajama Game! Wtf? Does life get any better? How is there Pajama Game karaoke? I sang "Hey There" a la Harry, and it was one of the best moments of my life. I felt like a stage diva! PW and I performed a duet of "Sixteen Going on Seventeen," while Brother and I sang a song from Little Shop of Horrors, with which we were obsessed as children.
I also got to try songs I've been too nervous to try on stage, although I forgot to try "Bandages" by Hot Hot Heat. I did, however, sing songs by The Gorillaz song, Blur, The Foo Fighters , and, of course, Miss Liz Phair.
I was a bit too overwhelmed to deal with monitoring the selections (I figured as birthday girl I'd have ultimate veto power), so 80's were a bit over-represented. But people like it, so who am I to censor?
The bill came out to, drum roll, $567.48!!! This seemed like a lot at the time, , but it's actually not when you consider that we were there for four hours and that's not a lot to pay for four hours of entertainment in the city. It was crazy, though, having that much money in my hands. We came remarkably close to the total by just estimating what everyone owed. I think we ended up being about $30 short, so D put in the rest and I have been making it up to him with movie tickets and dinners. I payed with exact change, which was awesome.
Brother, D and I got back to my apartment at around 3 am and passed out.
Happy!
"No! I want people to come to my birthday party! My fears are based on last year's party, when most people I invited from NYC did not come, and did not even bother to tell me so!" My fears are also based on various birthday parties throughout time being snowed out or foiled by things such as chicken pox.
Last year's birthday party was a bit of a disappointment. Yes, my real friends came (a friend from Boston, a friend from Philly, a few friends from NYC) but most of the people I invited, who were merely good acquaintances since I hadn't yet settled in, failed to even mention the invitation.
I didn't invite those acquaintances this year, as I removed myself from any and all activities involving these people after the birthday party last year.
This year, unlike last year, was a raucous success. It was so much fun that I successfully forgot that I had turned, ahem, 30.
Brother arrived from Princeton at around 6:00 pm. I tried to sneak in a nap beforehand at D's, but D, believing himself to be locked out of his apartment (long story), woke me up about three minutes after I'd finally fallen asleep with doorbell rings and frantic banging on windows. The three of us ate dinner at a Mexican restaurant on 6th Avenue where the waitress was a Jedi in training.
Brother: I'll have the blah blah blah salad.
Waitress: Do you want chicken on that salad?
Brother: I'll have chicken on that salad.
D: I'll have blah blah blah meal involving steak.
Waitress: OK, but wouldn't you rather have the special?
D: I'll have the special.
Me: I'll have the blah blah blah potato thing.
Waitress: That's small. Wouldn't you rather have the blah blah blah?
Me: No, thanks, that'll be fine. And I'll have plantains on the side.
Waitress: Do you want a drink?
Me: No.
Waitress: You want a margerita?
Me: No.
Waitress: The margaritas are very good.
Me: No.
Jedi is the nice way of saying "pushy." She is not good for the weak of mind, or, in this case, male.
D brought some sort of vitamin-C energy boosting powder thing to put in our waters at the restaurant. This stuff is a miracle concoction. Neither D nor I, despite having had a mere three hours sleep the night before, were at all tired.
Brother was feeling flu-ish, and wasn't sure that he'd make it to the party. We went back and forth, trying to decide if he should nap at D's, nap at my place, just go back to my place, or go back to Princeton. He was finally convinced to come to HiFi. I hoped that our journey through the frigid air of New York would provide a miracle cure. If it didn't, I was nearly certain that karaoke would heal.
We were 20 minutes late to HiFi (traffic!) but it didn't matter, because nobody was there! The party threatened to be a repeat of last year, but I repressed my emotions so as not to disturb Brother. He didn't need to, in his ill state, see his 30-year old sibling crumble.
Four people showed up to the bar. R was not one of these people, which was confusing as R picked HiFi was the pre-karaoke meetup location.
At 9:00, I decided that I'd go to Sing Sing to see what was going on. Maybe people were there? Were they already charging us for the room even though we weren't in it? Birthday anxiety, yeah!
When I got there, I found only one more member of the party. I convinced the people at Sing Sing to let us start at 9:30. By 9:30, there were about ten people, including R, JG, and Bench Buddy, who were essential karaoke personnel.
By 10:30, there were 20 of us in a room that could fit 10, and we were all going nuts, including Brother, because karaoke heals all.
It was So. Much. Fun. I can't believe I haven't done this before! Sing Sing has something like 30,000 songs. Anything you can imagine.
Newfound respect for Sebastian Bach after destroying my vocal chords on "I Remember You." And newfound respect for yours truly, whose "flow" was ON on Friday night.
Seriously. I destroyed every hip hop song attempted. I don't know what got into me. Maybe turning 30 has awakened some sort of previously latent ability to rap. Like my mutant power's onset was the third decade of life.
I tore apart:
"Drop It Like It's Hot" (Snooooooop.... it's been too long since I mentioned him)
"Me, Myself and I" (De La)
"Nuthin' But A G Thang" (Dre and Snooooooop!)
"Can I Get A..." (Jay-Z et. al)
"Work It" (Missy)
"Jump" (Kris Kross, the best performance of the night)
Additionally, they had at least 200 songs from musicals, including songs from The Pajama Game! Wtf? Does life get any better? How is there Pajama Game karaoke? I sang "Hey There" a la Harry, and it was one of the best moments of my life. I felt like a stage diva! PW and I performed a duet of "Sixteen Going on Seventeen," while Brother and I sang a song from Little Shop of Horrors, with which we were obsessed as children.
I also got to try songs I've been too nervous to try on stage, although I forgot to try "Bandages" by Hot Hot Heat. I did, however, sing songs by The Gorillaz song, Blur, The Foo Fighters , and, of course, Miss Liz Phair.
I was a bit too overwhelmed to deal with monitoring the selections (I figured as birthday girl I'd have ultimate veto power), so 80's were a bit over-represented. But people like it, so who am I to censor?
The bill came out to, drum roll, $567.48!!! This seemed like a lot at the time, , but it's actually not when you consider that we were there for four hours and that's not a lot to pay for four hours of entertainment in the city. It was crazy, though, having that much money in my hands. We came remarkably close to the total by just estimating what everyone owed. I think we ended up being about $30 short, so D put in the rest and I have been making it up to him with movie tickets and dinners. I payed with exact change, which was awesome.
Brother, D and I got back to my apartment at around 3 am and passed out.
Happy!
Twent...er... 30
Heavens to Betsy!
I just called to respond for this movie-viewing focus group thing that's happening on Wednesday night. You have to answer demographic-related questions, and when asked my age I said "Twenty-ni... oh man. I mean 30."
Ugh.
I just called to respond for this movie-viewing focus group thing that's happening on Wednesday night. You have to answer demographic-related questions, and when asked my age I said "Twenty-ni... oh man. I mean 30."
Ugh.
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