Chicago - Day 1

D and I arrived in Chicago after an issue with the plane's "battery" (oy) that caused a two hour delay. I didn't mind. I was out cold despite the Dramamine's being non-drowsy. Plus, I needed some sleep after not really getting any that week (stress, fighting, sad, etc.) and after having woken up at 6:00 to get to Neward on time for the flight.

When we landed we experienced a bit of travelling-with-someone-else stress when we couldn't decide if we should take a cab, take a shuttle, take the train, etc. I'd assumed that D, who was in charge of the plan, knew where the hotel was and could therefore predict what would be best, but he didn't know where it was. He called, and we determined that taking the train would be best, although we couldn't tell how far a walk it would be from the train station to the hotel.

I was getting a bit crazy because my bag was heavy and because I hadn't eaten and it was 1:00, Chicago-time. Not knowing when I'd be able to get some food was enough to drive me nuts, but I tried to hold it together. I want D to be happy, and his happiness has been revealed to be completely dependent on my own.

We hopped on the train.

Reason #1 Chicago is Awesome: Public transit. WOW. So easy and cheap to get a visitor's pass. So clearly marked. So few crazy people.

We soon realized that Chicago is very compact. If you looked at the map you'd think that it was pretty huge, but I guess we are New Yorkers and now attribute New York Scale to all things.

D asked if we could be moved to a high floor once we arrived at the hotel.

Reason #2 Chicago is Awesome: The girl at the desk said "Well, I have something on the 35th floor if you'd like." Easy.

We ran upstairs, dropped our bags, gasped, ooh-ed, ahh-ed, "I can't wait to take photos when we get back AFTER WE EAT SOMETHING."

We devoured some Chicago deep-dish and stopped over at the Museum of Contemporary Photography where, coincidentally, my favorite photographer had some photos showing! Woo!!! We tried to get tickets to Wicked (I knew there was no chance), then to the symphony (I didn't know the pieces so I exercised my veto power), then got super super ridiculously awfully cold, so we headed back to the hotel. The room was small, but we didn't care, because:







These buildings are apartment complexes. I adore them:





D cleaned the windows on the other side of the room so I could take more photos:



We walked even higher up the stairwells:





We just stared and stared and stared:



The sun went down:



We'd read in Time Out Chicago that there were going to be fireworks along The Magnificent Mile (magnificent for its shopping!), but we didn't know where they would be. I was feeling a little sluggish after flying and starving and being generally disoriented, so I said "Maybe can we just stay here and hope to see them from the hotel?"

This turned out to be the best option possible, as the fireworks were right outside the hotel:



We were literally right on top of them:



I've never been on top of fireworks before. The whole hotel was shaking:



After the fireworks and after my nap (woo!), we set out in search of steak and cheese. Steak for D, and cheese involving Mike Ditka's bar. Heh. We found an amazing restaurant that had an entire section of its menu devoted to potato! Super fancy, super good, super worth the many many many dollars we spent. We then went to Ditka's because we figured it was the most tourist-y thing to do, where they did not have ciders so D said "Let's get out of here." We ended up at a bar on the 96th floor of the Hancock Tower, where the best view, I must admit, was from the ladies' room.

Then we went back to the hotel, stared out the windows some more, and completely passed out.

They Went to Chicago To Feel Better...

... and it worked.

My time in Chicago was spent:

Continuously marvelling at my boyfriend's uncanny sense of direction. The man cannot be lost. It is impossible. He has superpowers.

Marvelling, then, at the fact that D is afraid only of the one thing that I am not afraid of, which is heights.

Looking out windows and saying "I could do this all day."

Discussing what makes a city a good city. Then, of course, debating what traits the perfect city would have, discussing ease and method of public transportation (above ground trains are the bestest), use of space, cleanliness, brightness, homogeneity of architecture (he said "I prefer gritty, this is too sterile"), kindness of people (he said "Sometimes it's not good for people to sugar coat things. At least New Yorkers tell it like it is" to which I responded "Why do I need to be told how it is by a complete stranger behind a cash register?"), proximity to water and mountains, diversity, etc.

Saying "This is my favorite city" to one another, over and over again.

Saying "I'm having so much fun!" to one another, over and over again.

Remarking that this was the first time we'd ever gone away, just us, and how it's actually quite nice, isn't it?

Declaring "We should do this more often!" and then listing various cities in the middle that we've never been to that need to be seen to compile data about the perfect city, such as Detroit, Indianapolis, we should perhaps visit Wisconsin, etc. etc. etc. "We will take more long weekends!" "We should visit every city that has a Cereality!" "We have to go to Europe soon soon soon please could we maybe just plan to?!"

Looking up and whispering "This is so beautiful." He kept saying "How do they keep it so clean?" and then "It's because in New York City there's SO MUCH corruption."

Having my guard be down, noticing that I live now with my guard up and wanting to be a person who has the capacity to be friendly to strangers.

Realizing that a Friendly City is not a place I've ever lived.

Not missing New York City at all.

Wanting to live somewhere entirely new.

Wanting to share entirely new things with D all the time. There's something sweet about experiencing something for the first time at the same time, even if I'm always confused and he always knows exactly what's going on. I love sharing the awe and the panic and the newness.

Gasping at how little natives of Chicago wear when its ridiculously cold outside. "Open jackets in the snow? Are these people insane?" "They are not even wearing hats!" "It's not actually that windy... but damn is it cold."

Etc.

Photos forthcoming...

Crash? NO!

Speaking of Paceys and Joeys, is it not the best thing ever that a Dawson's Creek alum was nominated for an Oscar? How adorable did Michelle Williams look post-baby in her yellow dress? Sigh. I thought she was prettiest.

And yes, I did in fact watch The Oscars while in Chicago. When D proposed going away for the weekend, I said "Only if I am able to watch The Oscars from our hotel room in the sky."

D, who has never seen The Oscars, agreed. Bless him.

Some thoughts:

1. Michelle Williams = prettiest.

2. John Stewart was great. I thought he was irreverent and wonderful. Others seem to disagree, but I don't care. He had me laughing out loud.

3. Naomi Watts looked awful.

4. Selma Hayek is ridiculously gorgeous and I therefore hate her.

5. I was psyched that Phillip Seymour-Hoffman won, although I felt bad for Heath Ledger. He really did do a great job. It was an amazing year for movies.

6. Which is probably why Good Night and Good Luck didn't win anything.

7. But that is ok because they gave The Oscar to The Cloone to make up for it. I have nothing to say about George Clooney other than sigh. And more sighing. I love that straight men have crushes on George Clooney. I love that Oscar Winner George Clooney used to be on The Facts of Life.

8. Reese Witherspoon never fails to cute me to death.

9. Crash!? WTF?!?!? I am still in denial about this. Not even Don Cheadle could save that one. That was actually one of my most-hated movies of the year. It was so obvious. It beat the audience over the head with every little thing. It has been done. It's nothing new. It's nothing!!! I hated that movie! I am so so so so very very very very upset.

10. At least Ang Lee won. He, too, is too cute to handle.

11. The short film I wanted to win did not win, but I understand why the Irish one did (the one with the bloody bunny).

12. Keanu Reeves. Oscar presenter. I have no idea. I think its safe to say that we will never be saying something like "I love that Oscar Winner Keanu Reeves starred in Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure."

13. I feel bad for Munich. It was such a good movie, and in any other year it would have cleaned up.

14. I will always be in love with the guys from The WETA Workshop.

15. Felicity Huffman has obscenely straight teeth.

16. On the topic of makeup - how do these women (or, how do these women's makeup artists) apply makeup so as to look like they are not wearing any makeup? Miraculous and beautiful.

17. Dolly Parton - whoa! She's so difficult to look at yet her personality is adorable. I just don't know what to make of her. I also don't know what to make of movie interpretive dance. I thought they weren't doing that anymore!

18. Rachel McAdams is so irrelevant. Why did she get to host the science/technology pre-Oscar ceremony!?

19. The guys who made Wallace and Gromit: Curse of the Were Rabbit won, and they were wearing matching absurd ties, and came prepared with little matching absurd ties to put on their Oscars!

20. Random movie genre montages. Right.

21. I think Crash only won because it is set in LA. Hmph. Stupid academy.

22. Watching The Oscars in Central Time is way easier than watching them on the east coast. They ended early! I never once thought "Oh my god I have to work tomorrow will this ever end?" Then again, I didn't have to work the following day so perhaps that's why I didn't care.

Regardless, it was a lackluster evening. Lots of lame-ish not-quite-celebrities like Jessica Alba. I wasn't as interested in the show as I was in the cheese and crackers and wine I consumed while watching from bed. Ah, hotels and your large beds and TVs without static.

Talking

I read Talking It Over by Julian Barnes on planes this weekend. It is the same story told from the perspectives of the three characters involved. It, as literature tends to, revolves around fidelities and infidelities and pain and things changing. It was agony. I think it resulted in the many nightmares I had while in Chicago.

There were two points I found particularly interesting.

The first was located during one of the male character's accounts. He said that people are part of one of two groups - entertainers and audience. He said that members of the audience don't appreciate how hard it is for the entertainers to entertain. He said that it broke his heart a bit when he couldn't make his wife laugh, and how he resented her since she had no idea how difficult it is to entertain.

I had two thoughts about this:

1. Does it break D's heart when I don't laugh at his jokes? (a rare occasion) Sometimes he tries too hard, and trying to me is not funny. Natural and witty humor is, to me, the best kind. I think D is really, really, obscenely, wonderfully funny. This is one of the things I love most about him. I love that he is silly. He once asked "Do you still think I'm funny? It seems like you don't anymore." I said "I don't think you're as funny when you try to be. I think you're funny when you're not rehearsed. When you're just being yourself." "You probably, then, don't support my stand-up comedy aspirations." "I do," I said, "Because I support you and everything you want to do. I just don't always, well, support people who want to be noticed."

2. Which brings me to the second part. If the entertainer has chosen to entertain, or the entertainer so desperately wants to be noticed, why is he/she being a martyr about it? Those of us in the audience are perfectly fine being here, disappearing into the masses, not being seen. There's no reason entertainers have to entertain, other than their needing some sort of affirmation from the rest of the world. I guess, then, that's sort of sad, and maybe what the character meant was that it's hard for him to get his worth from the reaction of his wife?

I don't know. I love funny people. People in the audience are drawn to this sort of person because we are not funny, we are not noticed, and we are in awe that people can possess this sort of desireable personality. Most of my friends are clever, witty, effortlessly hilarious people. I just don't want to be responsible for someone's self esteem that is based on joke-telling ability. Not that I think D's feelings are hurt. And I pretty much always laugh. But the book got me to thinking - is he being funny for me?

Point the second: the female character discusses love, and said that there is being loved (which is secure and fabulous) and there is being adored (which is passionate and being truly known and being truly understood). Passion can never last, but it is so hard to walk away from.

I wrestle with this. I am a person that has given into passion and I have to admit that it was the most wonderful thing. I miss it, often want it again, and know I'm never going to have it again. I know that this is the right thing, though, because I know that it only results in disaster, heartbreak, and utter ruin.

Which is why the Joeys will always end up with the Paceys of the world, because ultimately safe love is what can be sustained.

No Longer Exists

I called Mother from a cab on Friday night, after visiting a coworker who is in the hospital. I was calling to tell her that D and I had spontaneously decided to go to Chicago, and that I'd be leaving the following morning at the crack of dawn.

I don't know why I was calling. I guess I wanted to make sure that she had ample opportunity to worry about the flight. Additionally, it would be weird to talk to her this week and to tell her about my weekend. I think she would feel left out not knowing that I was taking an unplanned vacation.

While we were talking, she said "Oh, I keep forgetting to ask you, did you know this guy MF?"

"Yes."

MF was somebody I went to middle and high schools with. He was a nice guy. He wore a baseball cap all the time. He had small eyes. He wasn't in my classes or in my group of friends, but he was around. I knew him. You know everyone in a small town, especially when your class size is 108 people. I hadn't thought about him since high school.

"He died."

"WHAT!?!?"

"They mentioned it in church and then I read his obituary in the paper. He apparently was living in Franklin, alone, his parents still live in Medway, and he lost his battle with a long illness."

I thought about MF all night.

It is weird to hear your Mother mention the obituary of someone your own age, who you knew, who was part of your life every single day for seven years, who no longer exists.

It is weird because I didn't even realize I had any neurons associated with MF, but the minute she said "he died" I crumbled.

Freak accidents are one thing, but illnesses? I kept thinking of MF battling cancer all by himself in his condo, unable to marry or have a girlfriend because he felt too bad about it. I thought of him with some sort of weird blood disease, painful and isolating. I thought of him decaying. What kind of illnesses do 30 year old people die from other than cancer? I don't even know.

I told D about it. I said "Someone from my class died. This is so weird. My heart is broken and I don't know why." I told him that Mother read his obituary in the newspaper.

"Does your mother make a habit of reading obituaries?"

"No, she probably just saw it because it said Medway or because it said he was 30 years old. She probably thought of me, because I'm 30 years old." And I'd just called to tell her I was getting on a plane which, of course, freaks Mother out.

"I wonder if he's a 'beloved c-nt,'" D said, referencing my favorite episode of Curb Your Enthusiasm wherein Larry David's friend prints an obituary for Cheryl's aunt, and accidentally mispells "aunt." Ah, such a good episode, but being mentioned at such an inappropriate time.

"Dude, he's dead," I said. "This is serious," I said, evoking our new relationship policy wherein I say "this is serious" when I want D to take what I am saying seriously and not make jokes or deflect the topic.

I appreciated his attempt to lighten the mood, and it's not like MF was a good friend of mine. D had no reason to think that I was traumatized.

But I was, of course, because I am me, and have too many feelings.

Wierd, though. I keep thinking about it every now and then, and I just can't even grasp what I'm thinking. Obituary for someone I went to middle school with. Weird.

The Guiltiest Pleasure of All....

... is Smallville.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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...

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!

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'll Wear Chucks for the Rest Of My Life

Date: 2.25.06
Genre: Musical-esque



Description:

It's been a long time since I've wrote a song. My intention with My Mundane Life In Song was to have a song blog. The only text would be related to the songs, and everything I thought blog-worthy would be in song form.

Needless to say that didn't happen, and since the selling of my beloved keyboard (yet another reason to resent NYC - darn you rents and space constraints!), I've been less inclined to record. My piano is out of tune, the audio I get with my internal mic is atrocious, and piano alone isn't very appealing when the artist sucks at arranging.

On top of this, I have been feeling, well, mundane lately. Nothing exciting has been happening. When I first moved here there were zany things happening on a daily basis. Now that I am settled (in NYC and with life in general), I feel like I have little to say, little inspiration. I must admit that I secretly hope for bad moods to help me with ideas.

As you well know, my one-track mind has lately been devoted to age.

Hence the song.

Notes: piano is so. out. of. tune. I think this is due to the fluctuation in temperature in the apartment. Second, I think this song would be much better on guitar (hint hint hint!). Third, this song is actually a re-make of a song I wrote for my ill-fated musical. The original version is a more up-tempo bickering scene between a boy and a girl in a vintage clothing store. Fourth, I love the bridge oh-so-much-more than the rest of the song. I may actually take the bridge and make a separate song out of it.

Lyrics:

All girls reach an age when they start to compare
The size of their ass and the greys in their hair
To girls who are younger than them
To girls who remind them of when
Time didn't matter and the fellas came callin'
When ultra low rise didn't make them start ballin'
Those were the days
I could have my way

The clock is ticking, I can't relax
Options are scarce, I'm afraid that's a fact
I cringe when I ponder short hair
I know I need an adult coat to wear
The era of Converse must draw to a close
It's not terribly mature to postpone
Growing up
I hate it but

The thoughts of karaoke that once danced in my head
Have been replaced by baby shoes
And closet space
And stackable washers and dryers
And mortgage rates
And pots and pans
And plans
And indie bands
There are so many red shoes to buy
There are so many restaurants to try
There are so many nights left to cry

I'll keep my hair long even when its
Crazy white wires that are prone to fits
I'll go to shows 'til I'm 85
I'll wear Chucks for the rest of my life
Changing careers, having a husband and offspring
If these things all happen they will be frightening
But I won't crumble
Because the 30's are fun!

Cornichons

Prior to my complete and utter meltdown last night, D and I went to Artisinal for fondue, fondue, and more fondue. When we told the waiter that we wanted fondue for dinnner, he seemed perplexed. "It's usually an appetizer." He suggested we order two different ones, which seemed a good idea. After he left, D and I looked around the restaurant (which, incidentally, was obscenely loud) to see how big the fondue would be, and were surprised to see that not many people were eating fondue.

"How could you come here and not eat fondue?" we each wondered aloud.

We ordered the fondue with fingerling potatos, crudite, and apples. It is ordinarily served with a bread basket/person, which we, of course, didn't know when we ordered.

Our two fondues and multiple plates of dipping options did not fit on the table, but we did not care, because WOW! I preferred the Muenster special fondue while D preferred the Artisanal Blend.

The crudite was amazing - perfectly sized pieces of broccoil, red and yellow bell pepper chips, fancy carrots, and best of all, cornichons! Are cornichons not the best thing ever? I could eat 1000 of them in one sitting. We both ignored the cauliflower.

We then rushed to the 6 train to head downtown to see Measure for Pleasure, which was D's birthday gift to me, at The Public Theater. Of course the 6 didn't come forever, so we ended up running into the theater with about 30 seconds until showtime which explains why I think Philip Seymour Hoffman probably saw me. I didn't have time to gawk.

I knew little about the play aside from D's mentioning it offhandedly last week, when I responded with "That could be cool," and that one of the actors from The Pillowman had a prominent role.

It was, basically, a modern play written in the style of Shakespeare that takes place back then but is ripe with modern tendencies, such as "Talk to the fan." There were women dressed as men, men dressed as women, unknown parentage, etc. My only complaint was that it did not shy away from sentimentality.

Wayne Knight was in it. It was weird to be seated three feet away from Newman. His body is looking weird these days - he is no longer skinny (someone said he had gastric bypass surgery that did not take?) but his legs are.

Michael Stuhlbarg, the actor from The Pillowman , was amazing.

We rushed home to see the end of skating, just in time to see Sasha Cohen (not to be confused with Sasha Baron Cohen of Ali G) fall on her ass twice. I have to admit that I was perversely pleased as she is not my favorite. I was hopeful for the other American skaters, because they have better attitudes.

I spent the remainder of the night freaking out about being 30. Tears, angst, distress, and disgust prevented me from getting to sleep until 5:00 am. I even, gasped, wrote down thoughts with a pen! I haven't done that in three years or more. I am hoping to find some lyrics buried somewhere in the incoherent 4:00 am hysteria. I can barely function today. I am going to have to drink some Red Bull to make it through the party tonight. I will also have to nap, which I will do shortly, because I am 30 and am an old lady and need my sleep!

Until Monday...

My Very Own Postage

I have discovered the purchase-your-own stamp of any value machine at the post office. Bliss, folks.

You walk up to the machine, put your reasonably sized package on its scale, press some buttons and voila! A sticker stamp shoots out at you that you have paid for with your credit card.

I am going to become a package-mailing fiend!

Conventions

I like to play this game with The Javitz Center.

Since I live mere blocks away from the popular convention center, I am priveleged to see conventioners en route to and from whatever convention is being held. In my mind I play "Guess the Convention!" and try to deduce people's professions/interests based on their outfits, demeanors, group behavior, etc.

"International Ninja convention!"

"Pastry Chefs Of the World!"

"Human Resources." (That one comes up a lot)

"Sororities of the South!"

Etc.

Today, however, I knew about the convention before even seeing the Fanboys and Fanchicks walking boisterously to The Javitz Center. This weekend is the giant, exciting, zowie New York Comic Convention! I wanted to stop the conventioners and say "Are those graphic novels in your giant briefcase?"

I was also, of course, fantasizing that I would see Kevin Smith outside of my building.

Oops. I mean, I was fantasizing that Kevin Smith would see me outside of my building.

Now It Feels Different

I think I saw Philip Seymour Hoffman last night.

From now on, whenever I have a celebrity sighting or possible celebrity sighting, instead of saying "I saw so-and-so" I will say "So-and-so saw me last night!"

As in "Philip Seymour Hoffman saw me last night!"

Or "Philip Seymour Hoffman had a Leah Lar sighting last night! She seemed so much shorter in person! She was with some really tall guy! She seemed in a rush and therefore unapproachable."

Heh.

I'm really tired today.

It Doesn't Feel Any Different....

... yet.

My Mother called to say "HAPPY BIRTHDAY HONEY! You are now...30!" as she cutely does every year. She calls after the exact time I was born - which was 3:32 pm - to wish me a happy birthday.

I swear she gasped before saying "30."

I wonder if this makes The Parents feel old. Now, when asked if they have children and if so, what are their ages, they will have to say "Our oldest is 30..." and they will be met with looks of horror. The answer to the dreaded next question, "Oooo! Do you have any grandchildren?" will be met with even more horror.

I think 30 hurts because I now officially feel like I might be running out of time. I am running out of time to write my musical, to play open mics (I am too old for this now, I think), to finish a screenplay, to find a new career, to switch into said career, to procreate, to figure myself and everything else out.

Panic.

It's not society anymore. It's not "How DARE society tell me where I should be in my life? If I don't want to married, I shouldn't have to be! How DARE society judge me?"

Now it's "Hmm.... I probably should want to be somewhere in my life, and I think I know where that might be, and since I am not there, I should probably be taking steps to be there. But what are those steps? Wasn't moving from Boston to NYC the big step? Wasn't everything supposed to make sense after I moved?"

I am listening to Everyone's Favorite Physicist's radio show being broadcast from CA, and it is making me weepy. He is an amazing friend and is playing some songs as a birthday tribute (although he did say, on the air, "Wow, it must suck to turn 30"). He's playing Long, Long, Long by The Beatles right now, which I covered in my mid-20's. Hearing all of these songs played together makes me think I've at least figured some things out, such as my taste in music.

Not to mention that I've made some amazing friends along the way. I guess I'm accomplished in that aspect of my life. It's nice that someone can know you well enough to play an hour of music that you love.

Thanks, KC. Thanks for paying attention and for remembering things about me. You rock.

Of course this makes me sad, though, because I miss everyone. I especially miss everyone in MA - thank you for remembering my birthday and for e-cards and cute voicemails and for letting me know that you remember me at all.

I'm having a birthday party tomorrow. I am excited, but it doesn't feel like those delicious times in Somerville when planning a birthday party was fun and easy and exciting because I had my sidekick LBF for support. It doesn't feel the same because I didn't know where to meet for drinks before karaoke because I don't have a favorite bar in the East Village. It doesn't feel the same because the people at the party will be people I know fairly well instead of favorite friends.

Sigh.

On that note, I must leave. D, like last year, has planned a mysterious night for us out on the town. I am excited, because D always comes up with fun things for us to do. I don't know anything about what we're doing, other than it involves a ticket, a seat, and it begins at 8:00 and is not near my apartment.

Until tomorrow...

Edith Frost at Joe's Pub (Alternate Title: All Praise the Adult Rock Show)

I went to see Edith Frost last night at Joe's Pub. D and I made table reservations which involved a $12 per person food/drink minimum, but who cares? We got to sit!

Joe's Pub is awesome. The lighting is amazing, the seats are couches made of velvet, the sound is exquisite. When the opening band was setting up, it was completely and therefore eerily silent.

I ordered a glass of wine and D ordered a raspberry cosmpolitan and ginger ale.

The opening band was torture. I don't understand the choosing of opening bands. On the one hand, I imagine artists want to choose a band that will appeal to the audience, so, in theory, the opening band should be similar to the band you have paid to see. On the other hand, I imagine artists don't want direct competition for their type of music that could result in the audience actually preferring the opening band over the artist they have paid to see. This could be bad.

But why why why tour with a band that sucks!?

Once the torture was over, Edith came out and melted my heart. First of all, she looks like an Edith (or, as D said, she has "the best old lady name"). Second of all, she has the same unruly haircut that I am currently rocking. Third of all, she is not glamorous and therefore adorable. Fourth of all, she was AMAZING. Her voice is crisp and perfect and sweet and pained and wonderful. It was one of the best performances I've ever seen.

What was interesting was that she was accompanied by the members of the opening band minus the lead singer, and they were great too! I kept wondering if the lead singer was cross, hearing his band sound so much better with Edith.

Contributing to the show's enjoyment was, of course, the sitting down on luscious couches, along with being able to see, being able to relax, being served.

And, in customary New York form, when the bill was presented to us we were mortified to see that each of D's two ginger ales cost $5!!! $5 for a little glass of ginger ale!!! Who do these people think they are? We weren't terribly upset since the tickets were only $12, which was a steal.

After the show, I bought a CD from Edith and didn't know what to say. I just said "Thank you," instead of explaining to her how her show was amazing and how I wish I wrote her songs and how she is an inspiration for people like me who are a bit older and who try to write music that sounds like hers.

Sigh. The show made both D and I so happy.

I think I may end up missing New York.

Oh My

It has just occurred to me that today is my last day in my 20's!

Time

I feel like time is an entirely different commodity to me than it is to other people. I have so little time that I am very particular about how my time, when it is available, is spent.

It is hard to explain this to people who have nothing but time on their hands. I get extremely anxious when I feel like my time is being wasted (killed - how can people have time to kill? and then how can they kill it?) or when its allocation is being dictated by others.

I enjoy relaxing, and I try to set aside a certain amount of time each week to be in my apartment, either reading a book (lately magazines) or watching a movie. This being said, I have had two unopened Netflix movies sitting on top of my TV for the last two weeks. How have I not had two hours in the last two weeks? I've also had an unopened New Yorker for two weeks.

On top of this, I haven't had time to make phone calls. I haven't had time to blog. I haven't had time to consider the future, which is up for grabs right now. I haven't had time to blog much or find new music, while others around me have little to do.

I also like to be busy, and lately have been trying to do as much as possible in the city. I don't mind not having time as long as my time is being spent doing wonderful things.

I guess I don't have a very strong sense of obligation anymore. Being removed from everything I used to value has made me selfish. I like being in control of my own life, and value having a boyfriend whose time philosophy overlaps with my own. He does, however, have a stronger sense of obligation than I do, even to my own family. But he also has the ability to engage in obligatory activities and then remove himself from them completely while they are going on. For example, when visiting his family he is able to just leave for hours on end and think nothing of it. He has been known to go bowling by himself, or for long runs, or just walk away in the middle of a conversation to read a book.

When I am visiting my family, that's what I am doing and that will be my focus. I don't feel right about being with someone and then being like "Um, hey, I know I never see you, but I'm going to stop this conversation and read the newspaper." Other people seem to think this is fine. I know that I am the weird one. When I visit with people, and when visited by people, I want to be engaged and get caught up and have conversations and experiences and not kill time.

Granted, reading a book or going for a walk are not time-killing activites. But they are substitute activities. If I could do anything I wanted to be doing right now, would I be reading this book? Would I be watching this DVD? Would I be taking this nap? No. I am only doing these things because they are the only things available to me right now.

When planning for my birthday visit, my Mother said "I don't mind not doing anything," when I suggested different things we might do, like visit the cathedral, take the tram, go to the MOMA, etc.

I said "Well, I do mind."

And then I realized that people think about time differently. I guess I want to maximize each unit of time, whereas others just want the time and don't necessarily need to do anything with it.

I don't know. I guess I am selfish and crazy, but I'd rather be selfish and crazy and absorbing the world than letting it pass me by.

Pillow Fight

Before leaving for NJ to celebrate my birthday with The Family this weekend, I went to Union Square to scope out an alleged Pillow Fight that was scheduled to occur.

I didn't participate because I wanted to test run the new camera outside in the world, and the results were satisfactory. I also didn't participate because of, well, glasses. People with glasses were not allowed to play. Which is fine with me, because I don't think a giant pillow fight with strangers is worth a broken pair of glasses.

The era of digital photography has created this bizarre phenomenon wherein rather than participate in events, people will, instead, make an event out of photographing the event. For example - instead of marching in the Halloween parade this year, I chose, instead, to stand on the sidelines to get good photos, along with everyone else who lives in NYC and has a blog. There were far more photographers than fighters at the Pillow Fight, making it impossible for me to get close enough to actually take pictures of the pillow fighting.

This being said, I could see a lot of the fighting and the feathers covering Union Square (it looked like it was snowing feathers!).

I think the Pillow Fight was most exciting for people who happened to be in Union Square and who came upon the fight accidentally. They were just giddy!, calling their friends on their cell phones saying "Dude, there's a PILLOW FIGHT in Union Square! Awesome!"

So here are some photos of pillows and feathers from Saturday afternoon. Enjoy!

Reservations

Errrggghhhhh.

I hate making reservations. Why? Because I am afraid of commitment. How can I decide TODAY what I am going to want to do on Saturday?

What should I do?

Three options for birthday dinner with The Family, of which I am now, thankfully, in charge.

Please cast your vote today.

Option 1:

Dinner at Babbo, Mario Bitali's place in the Village. The Family does like Italian food, and this will most definitely be a good meal. It may be pricey, though, and is it worth it? Odds are, regardless, a reservation will not be able to be made this late in the game.

Option 2:

Artisanal, the cheese place, which is having fondue month! It's semi-fancy, and bound to be delicious. Mother said "But what would we eat there?" "Fondue." "But what then?" "No, we can just eat fondue as the meal."

Option 3:

Swing 46, a supper club. It's a bit on the tourist-y side from what I understand, but there is a big band and then swing dance lessons at 9:15! And then dancing! This will be expensive and probably not a good meal, but will be a good experience for The Family.

I am torn - delicious Italian food, fondue, swing dancing. Hmmmmm. I wish I had favorites in this city.

Please cast your vote today!

Snow Days

Spent the whole weekend hibernating, looking out the window and saying "YEAH! It's TOTALLY SNOWING! Finally!," watching too much of the Olympics, snuggling, laughing, cleaning, eating snacks and blissfully enjoying forced relaxation while NOT going to Philly to see the Wu pay tribute to the late ODB. Curses.

Allegedly over two feet of snow dropped on NYC. There's barely any left. It will be a warm week and there won't be any remnants of this by next weekend. There aren't the huge snowbanks you'd expect, or buried cars, or snowmen.

If I had to guess, I'd guess that about a foot fell. Maybe it all blew away (it was windy, and there was thunder and lightening! Woo!). Maybe, as M suggested, the city did a really good job clearing it away. But wouldn't there be snow banks? Maybe my concept of two feet of snow is based on two feet of snow that has fallen on top of other snow that was there before, because in normal winters it snows many times and the snow doesn't melt instantaneously. Or maybe two feet fell in Central Park and only a foot fell 1 mile south.

There was an hour and a half delay today at work, but I didn't know. Again curses.

Getting into work was tainted by the usual snow hazards, walking down the sidewalks normally used only to find that there is no exit onto the road. Then you turn around and walk all the way back to find a way out. I think I have devised a good alternate route to get home. And I will go home early because I came in on time.

Which means I must let you go. Hope you all survived the snow! Let me know if you did anything fun.

It's My Birthday and I'll Have Experiences If I Want To

If its my birthday, don't I get to determine how its celebrated? Or do I have to appease others? Do I make demands? Do I make compromises?

I feel like your birthday, especially a big one, is the one day a year on which you are allowed to be a diva, to say "This is what we're doing, everyone, and you have no choice!"

Am I wrong? Do I try to please everyone, or do I create a good situation for me?

I'm so selfish. But you only turn, ahem, 30 once.

Happeeeee

I am home sick from work today, but not because I am super sick (still feeling slightly under the weather, but not dramatic enough to stay home). I am home sick today because I was sick yesterday and worked like a maniac in anticipation of being sick today, therefore getting all of my work done. Which means I would have nothing to do at work today other than stare at my computer and work on side projects, which I would prefer to do from the flannel sheets of my bed.

It is a good idea for me to take a day off, though, as I've been sick-ish for the past week and haven't had time to recuperate. I wouldn't be feeling at all bad now if I'd taken a real sick day last week to recover. I have no guilt.

I should, of course, be sleeping, but the idea of side projects is to enticing. I did a first run through my taxes. NY state taxes are far more annoying than MA state taxes, which are straightforward. I've been doing my taxes online for the past few years (well, not last year, as they were complicated with the move etc.), and its torture because the program calculates your refund as you go through the forms, so you start off thinking "Holy god the state is giving me back $1500!" to "I can't believe they are charging me MORE FREAKING MONEY TO LIVE IN THIS UNAFFORDABLE CITY THOSE BASTARDS!"

More importantly...

I was the happiest I have been in ages last night! D and I went to see "The Pajama Game." Well, D was dragged and I went voluntarily to watch my favorite musical ever.

My love for "The Pajama Game" began in college, when my friends and I went to see the university's production for a mere $5. We went to see everything back then (because everything was $5 for students) and didn't have high expectations. Needless to say we were enamored, and I have been obsessed ever since.

D and I went to a wedding a few months back, and we were seated at a table with an older gentleman who actually writes musical theater. We got to talking about musical theater, singing songs, etc., when I mentioned my love for "The Pajama Game." It is his favorite too! After singing some duets he said "Did you know that there is going to be a revival?" "GET OUT!" "Starring Harry Connick Jr?" "NO!" "Soon?" "DO NOT TOY WITH ME, SIR!"

This is the conversation that precipitated the week-long debate/fight between D and I about my meeting Harry Connick Jr. at a bar and how D would just give up and let me date Harry. I was like "But wouldn't you fight for me?" "No." "If you went out with Kirsten Dunst I would totally try to convince you otherwise! I would try to win you back!"

Of course, convincing D not to date Kirsten Dunst would probably easier, as she is skanky and not terribly talented.

Whereas Harry... meow.

My obsession with Harry predates my obsession with "The Pajama Game." Ever since I bought his album at the beginning of high school...

Things to love about Harry: 1. His voice - it will melt you. 2. His piano playing - retarded. He's been performing since he was 5 years old. 3. His songs - delicious. 4. He's wholesome and not sketchy. 5. His New Orleans accent. 6. His, ahem, looks.

When Harry started acting, I was a spaz. I watched "Memphis Belle" 3000 times.

I never got to see Harry live. I could never find someone to go with, and tickets were always expensive as he tends to appeal to an older, more sophisticated, fur-wearing set. I always regretted not seeing him. I so wanted to see him play piano. Nothing would make me happier.

Lately I've fallen out of love with him, because as you get older you fall out of love with things.

I want to fall back in love with things.

So the tickets went on sale for "The Pajama Game," and they were way too expensive. The least expensive tickets were like $85, and those sold out, which meant I'd be spending $111 to see it.

Initially I thought that was too much money, but as more and more time went by, I got more and more upset about not getting to see Harry. I compulsively checked Craigslist for a spare ticket, thought about what shoes could be purchased with $111 but handling and service charge, and decided that I would just go alone, because it was worth $120 to me, especially since I am turning, ahem, 30 years old.

But then! A miracle! When I first moved here I joined an online service that sells discounted theater tickets!

And they sent me an email! For discounted PJG tickets! For only $60!

I called D immediately, out of breath, and said "Ohmygoddiscountpajamagametickets!" And then "You have to come with me! For my birthday! PLEASE! It would mean so much! I will buy them! You have to come with me! You have to witness me this happy!'

I counted the seconds since the moment of ticket purchase, and last night was the night.

Now. You would think, given how high my expectations were for this, that they would not be met. I could only be met with disappointment.

HELL NO! It was BETTER than I could even dream of.

I think that it was actually the best musical I've ever seen.

Not just because of Harry. Because of everything. Everyone in it was amazing. Michael McKeon was in it and he was hilarious, playing a part he was born to play. The timing was exquisite, it was funny, colorful, creative. The set was adorable. There were giant buttons framing the entire thing, and a pajama conveyor-belt thing at the top of the stage (like the doors in Monsters Inc.). The singing was awesome.

And Harry... oh, Harry.

During the Hernando's Hideaway scene, they added a part where Harry, thank you thank you thank you thank you, PLAYED THE PIANO! Gasp! D said "Now you can say that you saw him play the piano!" D said this when Harry was jokingly playing single notes, but then he burst into an all-out musical number and he rocked the piano harder than I have ever seen anyone rock it live. Oh my god.

I kept thinking "If I had to die at any point up until now, I would like to die right now, because I am truly happy."

At the end, when the cast bowed after the pajama fashion show (and yes, Harry was shirtless! the vapors!), I stood up because a standing ovation was deserved. Everyone in the crowd loved it. It was just pure pajama fun.

The only bad thing was that I had to, well, relieve myself about 10 minutes through Act I. This is the problem with knowing a musical - you know there are no good times to leave because you know how much you love everything. I didn't know if musicals are like the ballet and they won't let you back in once you've left. So I held it. For an hour. Torture.

I knew when Act I was going to end, so I bolted just as soon as the lights were about to go out.

When I returned, I asked one of the ushers what the protocol was. We got to chatting, and another usher came over to elucidate the rules. He said "You're too polite." He then asked the girl usher what she thought, and she said that she was loving it. "I know," I said. "How long were you holding it?" she asked. "Since the second song... but I didn't want to miss my favorite song." "Which is your favorite?" "'There Once Was a Man.'" "Yes!" she said. The male usher then said "I used to hate that number." "No!" we said. "Seriously. It was terrible up until a week ago." "NO!" "Yes! Harry was so stiff. He was just standing there. It was awful."

I'd noticed that Harry was a bit uncomfortable with the dancing so I said "Oh, I thought he did just fine in that number. But he was a little rigid for the swingdancing at the company picnic."

We chatted a bit more, and then I sat down.

Then I thought "Whoa! That guy sort of broke through the 4th wall with that comment... talking about Harry like that instead of the character of Sid... there must be some rule against giving the audience that sort of secret information about the production..." and then "Wait - who was that guy? Clearly he is involved in the rehearsals... what if he goes back to Harry and tells him that some girl thought his dancing was rigid? I will feel terrible!" and then "But he will be talking to Harry about ME! AHHHHHHH!!!!"

D actually liked it. He didn't love it, because he will never love the theater, but he liked it. He laughed a lot and gasped when Harry started going nuts on the piano. He emailed me this morning and recapped that he "had fun at the show." He said he liked it much better than "Spamalot." He is learning! I have to figure out a way to get him addicted.

I bought a Pajama Game magnet because the t-shirt was $30! The soundtrack isn't out yet, but needless to say I will be compulsively checking Amazon for it and then buying it as soon as it is available.

It was perfect.

Well, not quite. The one and only thing that could have made it better is if Harry had been playing the piano, ahem, shirtless.

9:37

Regardless of what time I get up in the morning and what time I leave my apartment, I get into work at 9:37 am.

I am without a watch these days (and forever, because I have decided that I don't need a watch, and now that I am trying to be a minimalist, since I do not need a watch, I will not have a watch) so run into work every day thinking I am really late, but its always 9:37 when I walk into my bay.

Always. If I get up any time between 8:00 and 8:35, I get to work at 9:37. I get to work at 8:59 on Tuesdays because I have a meeting at 9:00, but Monday, Wednesday, Thursday and Friday I start my day at 9:37.

Another One Bites the Dust

M and her husband A came to visit NYC (well, I guess they came to visit ME!) this past weekend. They arrived on Friday evening, the night of M's very important birthday. M and A hadn't seen The New Apartment (which is not so new anymore - I have been living there for 9 months!) and were quite taken with it, which made me happy, since most people say things like "This is so small!" or "How do you live like this?" or, in the case of The Parents, "Why don't you have napkins?" They appreciated the size and the decoration and it meant oh so much. We celebrated the last couple of hours of M's birthday with brownies (thanks to D, god of the baked goods, although some may argue that making brownies does not make one a god, but I would disagree) and different flavors of ice cream and whipped cream and hot fudge and raspberries. We watched some old Star Trek episodes to have something to make fun of, and stayed up late despite 3/4 of the people in the apartment being, ahem, over 30.

On Saturday we threw together breakfast. This was the first time I'd had more than two people trying to eat an actual meal in my apartment and it wasn't terrible, although it was a tight squeeze in the kitchen. A and I then spent far too long conducting detailed experiments with my new camera, comparing lenses and bodies on the computer and then on the TV. I think the conclusion on that day was that it is my computer that is the problem, but the photos still seem fuzzy on my computer at work. But not on the TV. I have no idea.

Eventually satisfied with our results, the three of us headed up to the MOMA to see some of the permanent collection and a mediocre new photography exhibit. We then "shopped" at the MOMA Design Store, where I, as usual, spent a large percetage of the time fantasizing about being rich and therefore being able to have things like cool salt and pepper shakers and toasters.

We met up with D at Eatery, which was crowded and not giving tables to losers without reservations (us). We decided to walk south on 9th Avenue to a decent Mexican restaurant D and I had been to ages ago. We found it (although I didn't think it was the same one) and were pleased to see that it was not crowded.

I said "This feels like being in Buenos Aires!" D, M, A and I spent an entire week going to meals together when we were in Argentina. We hadn't seen each other since, and I got nostalgic.

M said "Complete with good looking waiter..."

"YES!" I said, trying to stifle my drooling.

M and I have nearly complete divergence in taste with regards to what makes a man hot. There is little to no overlap. But the host at the restaurant... dear god... he was Buenos Aires level good-looking, if not moreso. We kept staring at him and I gave up trying to be subtle. I wished to fix him up with my gay friend, who, incidentally, I am so happy to have in my life because today (today is his birthday!, but he, curse him, is not yet 30) he noticed that my hair looked fabulous, which it does, because I spent like half an hour working on it this morning because lately I've been feeling hideous.

On top of having amazingly goodlooking waitstaff and not actually being the restaurant we thought that it was, it had the best burrito ever. How happy am I? Obscenely happy. I can't wait to go back and inhale another burrito.

M, A and I then saw The Producers, which was lovely. The seats were way up there and I started rocking the headache that resulted from one margerita, but it was fun anyway. I can't wait to re-watch the season of Curb Your Enthusiasm in which Larry David stars in The Producers. It will be meaningful in addition to funny this time around.

We watched a bit of Saturday Night Live after D came back. Despite its being actually funny, we, in true 30 and almost-30-year-old style, went to bed before 1 am. (I can't believe that I live in NYC and go to bed this early! When I used to hang out here before living here, I went to bed at like 5 or 6 am every night!)

M and A went to church on Sunday morning while D and I spent some time working on a video project we've been considering. The four of us had brunch at a diner on 34th Street. D then headed off to do D things, A went to B & H to buy filters, while M and I went to Macy's. M found the jeans she's been looking for, rode the wooden escalator, and marvelled at the giant that is Macy's.

A met us just as we began looking at shoes, which was unfortunate since the agreement was that we would stop looking at shoes when A arrived, as A, for some bizarre and inexplicable reason, does not enjoy looking at shoes. We decided to go up to the wedding registry department to look at china (not that anyone is fantasizing about wedding registries, mind you) and then to the furniture department. The three of us fell onto this red couch and M and A said "We love this couch!" and decided that, since the price was right, there was a chance that they could buy it for their grown up house that they own! A claimed that delivery was $5 to $6, so they took a fabric sample and may one day have that couch alongside the lamp they bought in NYC!

Back at my apartment we had snacks and said our farewells. I was sad to see them go because I do not plan to go back to MA any time soon, as I may be moving back there soon enough. Hopefully they will have a chance to visit one or two more times before I am no longer a New Yorker.

Sniff.

Evolution of Cute

I am at work today, though I shouldn't be. I had a bunch of experiments to tend to today that couldn't be neglected. I am trying, though, to get everything done today so that I can not come in tomorrow if I am still feeling bad.

---

I got home last night at about 6:00 and started to watch March of the Penguins and kept falling asleep.

This is mainly due to my being sick, but is partially due to March of the Penguins being extremely boring. Everyone loved this movie and I don't understand why. I liked it, but it was just ok. Nothing special. Why the enthusiasm? Anyone? Anyone?

There were cool things, things I didn't know about penguins, things that are difficult to believe, as in "Wow, penguins are nuts." I am a fan of the animal documentary, so I appreciated it on that level, but am glad that I didn't pay $10.75 to see it.

I kept thinking, while I was conscious, about the evolution of "cute." I understand why we are preprogrammed to think that human babies are cute. But why do we also gush over other baby things? Those baby penguins were so cute I couldn't handle it. And why are we programmed to think that little furry things are especially cute? Maybe so we know that they are harmless and don't attack them? But wouldn't primitive humans rather dine on harmless, little, easy-to-capture fuzzy things than gigantic, meatier, things that could kill them? Maybe its an instinct to protect us from killing baby things and then being attacked by the baby things ferocious parents. Or, maybe primitive man didn't hunt things that could kill primitive man so there wouldn't have to be a bias towards the harmless. It's just an interesting phenomenon... why humans want to touch furry things... and why we want domesticated animals. Ew.

---

I'm feeling a bit better today than I was yesterday, but I can't remember if I mailed back March of the Penguins or not. I swear it was in my bag, but I have no recollection of dropping it into the mailbox. Did I? Would I have been coherent enough this morning to remember? This is crucial as I want another movie by the weekend, but if I didn't mail it I may be too late. I definitely won't remember to look for it tonight when I get home from the theater, so hopefully I was with it enough this morning to mail it but not with it enough to remember that I mailed it.

---

On top of not remembering if I mailed the DVD, I felt like it took me three hours to walk to work this morning. You know when you're feeling sick your sense of time is weird? My walk from the train to work is about 5 minutes, but it felt like eternity.

---

While I was walking, I was pondering my changing taste in music again, and wondering why this happens to people. I always thought I'd be immune to a change in musical taste, that I'd be into hip hop and indie rock type stuff forever. As time goes by, I tend towards more sedate music. I'm still listening to new things constantly, but what I would have liked even a year ago seems too abrasive for me now. I don't have the ability to find good hip hop, because it is harder to find and there is less of it and because most of it is average. It requires patience, which is something else I am losing over time. I am afraid that I may one day say "Can you TURN THAT NOISE DOWN!?"

---

This makes me nervous, because what if I stagnate? What if I reach an age where I stop listening to new music, and I just listen to everything I listened to whenever I stopped caring about newness in my life? This happened with dance music... I am forever frozen wanting to dance to the songs I danced to from 1997 - 2002, with the occasional early 90's rap tune thrown in there.

I think this happens to people... like parents, for example, do not buy CDs. They may have bought CDs of things they once had on tapes or records, but its not like parents are reading Spin magazine.

---

Then again, my parents didn't have things like Pitchfork (not that I read Pitchfork, but I'm just using it as an example) to keep them aware of music. It was harder for people to find out about new things. Music didn't get around so easily, so instantly, so quickly, and there was probably less of it. Maybe this means that our generation won't stagnate musically, and that we'll constantly be aware of what's going on.

We may just not like they way it sounds, though, because our tastes are apparently genetically programmed to change over time.

---

I think I am going to take some Dayquil, and then I am to celebrate PW's birthday with a long lunch.

Innate

I finally saw a show at the Bowery Ballroom last night. After spending some quality time catching up and consuming perishables, D and I arrived just in time to hear Death Vessel. I have been listening to this album non-stop since I bought it in December. It's in my top 10 already. He was amazing - he performed solo and had the entire audience captivated. During Low's set, I signed the Death Vessel mailing list and was all awkward because I didn't want to start gushing.

I was dangerously close to being like "I am so affected by your music" or "You have no idea how many times I have listened to your CD" or "I don't really understand how I existed prior to hearing your music" and "Your music was already a part of me before I heard it! It's, like, innately there."

Instead, I snuck up and scribbled my name and email address on the list and made sure not to make eye contact, because I may have melted.

His Name Is Alive was next. I had mixed feelings about this portion of the show. D is a huge fan and has seen them numerous times, but admitted that he didn't like all of the shows because their musical direction changes so often and so dramatically. I have decided that His Name Is Alive is an awesome live band. I liked them live far better than in recordings.

Throughout their set, I started obsessing over getting a hair cut. I need one, desperately, and prior to last night hadn't thought much beyond "I should really find somewhere to get a cheap haircut." Last night was the pivotal moment when I could think of nothing else.

I kept thinking "My hair is too freaking long" and "I have the worst haircut here" and "Where do all these hipsters get their hair done?" and "How do they afford these haircuts?" and "Why does their hair do what they want it to?" and "My head is so heavy with this hair!" I was so depressed. I wanted to bury my head in ugly shame. I then became obsessed with having my hair colored, and thought about that instead of listening to music. I looked at every girl and her hair style and color, trying to figure out what to do and how to finance it. I had grandiose ideas!

Every now and then I'd realize I wasn't listening, and would try to think about something other than the sweet moment tomorrow when I would call Aveda and hear that their haircuts are inexpensive.

My body also started rebelling during His Name Is Alive. My lower back started aching, my feet were killing, and my shoulders and upper back were in immense pain because I was leaning over the balcony in this weird position. I kept shifting back and forth, trying to get comfortable, but couldn't. I wanted to sit on the floor, or on a couch, or offer the guys at the sound board $100 to let me sit with them.

When Low came on, I was exhausted and in extreme discomfort. So was D. His legs and back always hurt when he stands for extended periods of time. Prior to last night, I never had a difficult time standing for hours. I think it may be because we stood for hours on Thursday. Although I don't think it works like that.

This is the first time I've seen Low, which is a travesty. I really should have seen them before this, when I was younger and could stay up late. By midnight I was exhausted and couldn't hear the music over my catatonia. D and I went downstairs and sat on the couch, and within three seconds I feel asleep on his shoulder.

This being said, Low is awesome. Not the best band to see while tired, but still awesome. I think Low is a band best seen from a seat. There really need to be adult rock shows.

My body is still killing and I am sick (I have been on the verge of getting sick for about a week and I think its officially happening, so I am going to go home now and crawl into bed, enjoy its softness and watch some penguins. Awww yeah.

Until tomorrow...