Overheard on the train last week

Do not pass go. Do not collect $200.

I commute to work every day via public transportation (read: the subway) (read: I swore I was done doing the whole subway thing) (read: misery -- but it could be worse; I could be riding the bus). I could go on at length about how much I detest public transportation, and how much I loath commuting in general, but I'll admit it's good for one thing: Eavesdropping on people's conversations. Yes, I'm one of those subway riders who will take out her pen and paper and begin transcribing, verbatim, exactly what you're saying to your friend sitting next to me (except I'm stealthily covert about it; you'd think I was writing out a grocery list if you were actually paying attention). In other words: continue talking, people. You give great fodder for characters in future books.

In fact, these conversations are one of the reasons that compelled me to buy a Droid smartphone two days ago (the other reason? I needed something for private use at work, but that's beside the point). Never, in my wildest dreams, did I think I'd ever own a smartphone. I'm not a texter, and I've always used my old-school cell phone for what it was intended for: talking. But since my handwriting looks like rabid chicken scratches when I attempt to keep up with the nearest chatter/compose any sudden story ideas I get on the way home, I needed something more stealth and streamlined.

...Something I could use to transcribe one such conversation that I overheard last week:

SCENE: 5:15pm. Subway car barrels beneath the SF Bay en route home from the city. Two college freshman (or sophomores, I wasn't sure) are seated next to me, chatting loudly about their lives and places in the world. Middle-aged men and women, peering over their opened books and Blackberrys, study them as they speak. Me: incognito next to them, wearing big black sunglasses (though we are in a tunnel), reporter's pad and pen clutched in hand, waiting for conversation to continue....

Girl 1 (dark-haired a la Bella Swan from Twilight, in hipster clothing, and insists on ending every sentence with a higher inflection, as though she'd tacked a question mark to each one of her sentences):

"...I don't know though? There are, like, a lot of negatives to wanting to be on Broadway? And, like, that's why I'm afraid of double-majoring, but, like, I know that interior design is a good fallback major. I haven't really researched it, like, that much...but, like, I think I'd like it? It, like, looks really fun? Plus we're still, like, in college so I still have, like, a couple more semesters to change my mind."

Girl 2 (blonde, in similar hipster garb, strangely shares her friend's higher-inflection-at-end-of-each-sentence syndrome):

"For our generation it's, like, so competitive? In my mom's generation just, like, going to, like, college would, like, get you a job afterward, you know? I, like, wish that was still true? They had it, like, so easy?"

Girl 1:

"Like, I envy those people who, like, knew what they wanted to do as early as high school and, like, studied it in college? Like, I wish it could just be easy like our parents' generation, you know?"

Girl 2:

"I wish I could, like, fast forward to the part in life where I already have, like, a nice car and, like, a house and everything? But I'm still not, like, sure about my major? I just, like, don't know what I want to do for the rest of my life. Like, I can't make that kind of decision. It's so...like...permanent."

Girl 1 nods and they smile at each other, sharing a moment.

At the next stop the doors opened and they stepped off, clutching their Urban Outfitters shopping bags and iPods and cotton hobo bags with witty environmental sayings printed on them. And suddenly, to all those middle-aged people in that subway car, the future seemed at once dizzying and terrifying.

Best. Business Card. Ever.

(image via Above the Law)

What better way to make light of an otherwise awful situation than one single, perforated line? Well played, James A.W. Mahon.

The Nana and moving day

Today is moving day -- again!

It's hard to keep up with my nomadic lifestyle but to recap we've been staying with my grandma (aka "The Nana") while figuring out where exactly we should live in the Bay Area (read: waiting to see if I got that one dream job. Wah-wahhh. With that offer off the table not only can I now breathe easier, but I can live practically anywhere in the region.) Since all our earthly possessions are just down the street in a public storage locker we decided to stay local in Walnut Creek and recently found an adorable one bed/one bath apartment in the heart of the downtown area, which means I'll end up spending copious amounts of money window shopping and imbibing often at Nordstroms slash H&M slash all the other cute stores and restaurants that are basically 500 ft. from my new front door. (In the inimitable words of Rachel Zoe: "I die.")

Though I'll only be one freeway exit away from my nana, I'm a little sad about leaving since living here for the past three weeks has been more hilarious than I expected. Why? Because I realize, staying here, that my 84-year-old grandma is essentially the Fruit Cake Lady:



Perhaps everyone's grandmas are like the Fruit Cake Lady and it's just dawning on me now, but there is something highly comedic about a sweet old lady who tells it like it is. No nonsense, no bs, no concern for political correctness. I guess when you get to a certain age you simply don't give a damn anymore -- and I love that. The shock factor is magnificent.

Take last week when hilarity ensued in the form of her two shitza-poo puppies, who she took out in her car to run errands with. As nana was in TJ Maxx cruising the home goods aisle, one of the puppies ended up getting into her container of medicine in the front seat and ingesting all 30 pills. The dog (of course) needed its stomach pumped and all my nana had to do that evening to describe the day's events was plop the empty, chewed-up, orange pill bottle on the dinner table with her shaky hands in front of J and I. This was followed up with a comment from her about the "damn" dog being suicidal.

And this is how it's been. Over the last three weeks my nana has uttered dozens of gems, but unfortunately I can only remember a few that made me laugh out loud:

On methods of eradicating Bluejays from her garden:

"If I had a shotgun he wouldn't be so happy, plopping around in that bird bath. We've got too many Bluejays in my garden."

On Justin Bieber's performance on the Today Show:

"Who is this Bee-bur person? He looks like a little girl. Frank Sinatra would be turning over in his grave if he could see this."

On Christina Aguilera's performance on the Today Show:

"Well I don't know about you but I think she looks like a tramp. Who wears their underwear outside their pants? A tramp..."

On Marilyn Monroe:

"She was pathetic."

On sleeping with a 12-gauge shotgun (my late grandpa's gun) next to her bed every night:

"I hope I never have to use the thing. I've never shot a gun before, but the world is a dangerous place. You never know."

On an obese young women in a tight, short dress walking past our lunch table:

Muttered under breath: "Oh honey. That dress is doing absolutely nothing for you."

On whole-milk ice cream she insisted I eat:

Me: "This scoop probably has, like, 1,000 calories in it..."

Nana, after a brief pause: "So what. It's milk. It's good for your skin."

James Franco, literary prodigy

Laughing all the way to the bank.

So I'm not sure how I feel about James Franco's short story, "Just Before the Black", in Esquire. Annoyed is probably the right word. Why? Because I'm sure J-Dog queried it hundreds of times like every other writer has to do, before Esquire decided aloud one day:

"James Franco? Never heard of him, but let's give this kid a shot. He's got no real literary credits to his name besides an MFA from Columbia, just like countless others that we reject on a daily basis, but his story has spit-shined promise. I especially like this line: 'I poke the knife at him, at his fat stomach, lightly poking it with the tip, but he's wearing a puffy North Face jacket, so it doesn't stab him.' It's artsy and hip. Readers will love the prose of this relative unknown."

Now I don't want to be one of those angry faceless people behind this pitchfork-wielding Internet mob that's out for Franco's blood, but the whole thing kills me. Kills me. And here's why: Just because you're a well-known actor doesn't make you a writer worthy of being published in Esquire. Or being published, period. Based on that magazine's track record of rejections not even many good writers are worthy of being in Esquire (present company included -- we admit, we still have a lot to learn).

Perhaps my standards for Esquire are too high, but they reject tens of thousands of incredible short stories every year from gifted people that deserve an honest shot, and then Jamsie-poo, with his famous last name and movie about Pineapples, can waltz up to the front of the line and cut in front of Those More Talented just because he's got name cred and once played some dude in a Spider-Man movie. It reeks of self-importance and entitlement and I can't stand it when that sort of thing happens with line-cutters at the DMV, much less with a well-known publication. I know, I know: This is the way the world works, I should just suck it up and get used to it, which would be easier for me to do if his story was actually...well...good. I love being pleasantly surprised when someone can wear more than one hat well. But I would call this story a Fail, and I'm disappointed in Esquire for perpetuating Jamsie-poo's narcissism.

Sure, J-Loco is worth his weight as an actor (it can be argued that his portrayal of James Dean was incredible), but a writer he is not. Granted I'm no literary critic, but I've read a lot in my life and feel I'm entitled to an opinion. Reading over "Just Before the Black" and wanting to give it an honest shot wasn't enough to make me ever want to pick up anything Franco-penned again.

I think Sady Doyle over at Salon.com summed it up perfectly:

"... Although James Franco is Salon's Sexiest Man Living of 2009 for good reason, and one of our most valuable Bizarro Celebrities, no one should excuse Just Before the Black. ... The word "gap" is used so many times in this story – in relation to teeth, road barriers, windows. I don't know if it's an intentional motif, or if I just figured out where James Franco shops.

"It's true that, as these things go, James Franco is both interesting and crush-worthy. Unfortunately for him, he is also famous – which is the adult equivalent of being very handsome at a small liberal arts college, in that people will continually tell you that you are great whether or not it's true, and let you get away with far too much. They will, for example, publish your terrifying short story in Esquire. (Or in a book! James Franco will soon publish a book.)"

Yes, Jamestastic has a book deal.

It'd be one thing to accept it as kitschy gimmick -- Lauren Conrad's ghostwritten novel "LA Candy" is the first thing to come to mind. She wrote it "all by herself" within a "two-month span" and a month or so later it was already going to press. Most of us familiar with the publishing process can see through this and take "LA Candy" for what it is: Yet another piece of memorabilia to complement LC's burgeoning celebrity empire. As hard it is for me to admit there is a place for the "LA Candys" in our celebrity-obsessed world.

But the opposite is true with Jamsie-poo. Unlike other celebrity works, "Just Before the Black" is meant to be looked at with a critical eye, in a magazine that has historically produced quality prose and writers. J-Loco does deserve some credit -- he wrote it all on his own without employing the ubiquitous ghostwriter that lurks behind so many celebrity works -- but it still sucked and we as readers aren't supposed to think that. It's not meant to be laughed at as a joke, or cast-off with an eye-roll as a publicity stunt to add to his growing brand. It's supposed be taken seriously. The beginnings of a literary career. And how far it got, laid as ink on Esquire's precious real estate no less, is what is laughable. I think there's a line for just how much crap we can be spoon-fed. What's next? Lauren Conrad writing a piece for The New Yorker?

I hope I haven't spoken too soon...

Boy devastated by father's anti-"single lady" sentiment

Behold the scene when a father flat-out crushes his son's dreams of being a "single lady" alongside his two sisters, effectively ostracizing him as a young male from any future Beyonce sing-a-longs. I think a pair of Dereon jeans is in order:



Even more hilarious is the girl in the middle in the awkward glasses, arms crossed, glaring at the camera with the wisdom of someone far older than her seven years of age. It's like watching a "freedom to choose" advocate in the making. Priceless.

[Gawker]

Bad predictions to keep in mind

So I stumbled across a few lists of "bad predictions" recently and not only did they make me laugh at how short-sighted they were, but it was also an amazing reminder that no one person is an authority on what's possible.

Take my writing. I've been much more amused than depressed over getting a handful of my short stories rejected by magazines; for some reason the rejections have only motivated me to write more, like I want to inundate editors with my prose until they realize what they keep passing up. More story ideas keep popping up out of nowhere, and more notes are constantly scribbled down when a story begins taking shape. Part of me wonders if my manuscript getting rejected by lit agents slash publishers will spark the same determined fortitude and amusement since writing a novel takes a lot more blood, sweat, and tears than short stories, but I have a feeling I'll take even those rejections in stride.

After reading these bad predictions I'm reminded that droves of "gate keepers" in our world lack vision. (This is where I recommend you read "Atlas Shrugged" if you haven't already.) And just because these gatekeepers hold the keys to the fashion world/tech world/publishing world/legal world/art world/science world/any world really, does not make them the be-all, end-all judge of your work's value or potential. According to this list, if people stopped creating post-rejection we would have no computers, radio, telephone, FedEx, commercial airplanes. The list goes on and on:

• "This 'telephone' has too many shortcomings to be seriously considered as a means of communication. The device is inherently of no value to us." -- Western Union internal memo, 1876.

• "The wireless music box has no imaginable commercial value. Who would pay for a message sent to nobody in particular?" -- David Sarnoff's associates in response to his urgings for investment in the radio in the 1920s.

• "We don't like their sound, and guitar music is on the way out." -- Decca Recording Co. rejecting the Beatles, 1962.

• "So we went to Atari and said, 'Hey, we've got this amazing thing, even built with some of your parts, and what do you think about funding us? Or we'll give it to you. We just want to do it. Pay our salary, we'll come work for you.' And they said, 'No.' So then we went to Hewlett-Packard, and they said, 'Hey, we don't need you. You haven't got through college yet.'" -- Apple Computer Inc. founder Steve Jobs on attempts to get Atari and HP interested in his and Steve Wozniak's personal computer.

• "I think there is a world market for maybe five computers." -- Thomas Watson, chairman of IBM, 1943.

• "There is no reason anyone would want a computer in their home." -- Ken Olson, president, chairman and founder of Digital Equipment Corp., 1977.

• "The concept is interesting and well-formed, but in order to earn better than a 'C', the idea must be feasible." -- A Yale University management professor in response to Fred Smith's paper proposing reliable overnight delivery service. (Smith went on to found Federal Express Corp.)

• "I'm just glad it'll be Clark Gable who's falling on his face and not Gary Cooper." -- Gary Cooper on his decision not to take the leading role in "Gone With the Wind."

• "Who the hell wants to hear actors talk?" -- H. M. Warner, Warner Brothers, 1927.

• "With over 50 foreign cars already on sale here, the Japanese auto industry isn't likely to carve out a big slice of the U.S. market." -- Business Week, August 2, 1968.

• "There will never be a bigger plane built." -- A Boeing engineer, after the first flight of the 247, a twin engine plane that holds ten people.

• "I have traveled the length and breadth of this country and talked with the best people, and I can assure you that data processing is a fad that won't last out the year." -- The editor in charge of business books for Prentice Hall, 1957.

• After Fred Astaire's first screen test in 1933, the MGM testing director wrote a memo saying, "Can't act. Slightly bald. Can dance a little." Astaire got the memo and kept it over his fireplace.

• At the start of her career, Barbra Streisand was rejected repeatedly by directors because they said she simply wasn't pretty enough.

• "A cookie store is a bad idea. Besides, the market research reports say America likes crispy cookies, not soft and chewy cookies like you make." -- Response to Debbi Fields' idea of starting Mrs. Fields' Cookies.

• "... Overwhelmingly nauseating, even to an enlightened Freudian … the whole thing is an unsure cross between hideous reality and improbable fantasy. It often becomes a wild neurotic daydream … I recommend that it be buried under a stone for a thousand years." -- Publisher on Vladamir Nabokov's "Lolita".
  

• "I'm sorry, Mr. Kipling, but you just don't know how to use the English language." -- Editor of the San Francisco Examiner to Rudyard Kipling.

When a cheap haircut goes wrong

A few days ago J got a haircut that went horribly wrong. In an effort to save money -- and ignoring my requests to cut his hair myself (this is where I point out that I'm pretty good with scissors and a comb) -- he went to the nearest Hair Cuttery. Big mistake.

Now I'm not one of those girls who shuns all low-end haircut shops. Supercuts, Great Clips ... call me brave but I've tried all these firsthand out of sheer curiosity and found results to be surprisingly good, not bad. Contrary to popular opinion, I don't think an amazing hair cut -- for men or women -- needs to cost $50 to $100. I've had expensive cuts in this price range that have been worse than $20 ones and made me nauseous at having dropped bank on such a hot mess. (On the flip side when my $50 hair cut turned out fabulously there was no better feeling.) So my disclaimer is that I'm not a hair snob and not all Hair Cutterys suck. But the Hair Cuttery J walked into for a clip recently was downright ghetto, to put it mildly.

I sat near the entrance on a bench and watched him take his seat inside. From the outside everything looked fine. The shop seemed busier than usual, but nothing was out of the ordinary, other than the fact that they made him swipe his card before his haircut, something about them "closing the register soon". Totally suspect. Of course J is a consummate tipper, so naturally he left a 20% tip on his card before even getting the haircut (which kind of negates the whole idea of a tip since it's to reward service, right?) *Smacks face with hand when thinking about it*

Well, J went in looking like Shaggy and 20 minutes later came out looking like "Guile from Street Fighter":
(His words, not mine.) J looked like he wanted to kill someone with the 15-pound hardcover lawbook he'd been lugging around.

"I'm never, ever going back in there," he said through gritted teeth.

"Uh, you look like Krusty the Clown," I responded. What else was I supposed to say?

"The whole time the lady cutting my hair was mumbling things under her breath, like she had better things to do than cut my hair. And look -- SHE GAVE ME A '90s FADE!" he said, turning around and pointing at the bottom of his neck. "I look like Vanilla Ice!"

Try as I might to commiserate there was only one thing I could say: "You do!" I said, doubling over with laughter.

He turned back to face me and seeing how angry he was just made me laugh harder. I mean, if it was a tattoo or something, I'd probably be a bit more sympathetic. But it's hair, people -- it's not like it wasn't going to grow back. Plus, I was getting too much satisfaction from the fact that it appeared J had finally reached his breaking point here on the East Coast. I'd reached mine long ago (I believe it involved an incident with public transportation and me losing it on a subway platform). It was nice to finally be in good company.

The whole way home J was silent, white-knuckled and gripping the steering wheel, mumbling something about how it looked like "someone put a hexagonal hat on [his] head." Needless to say once we got home he spent 10 minutes in front of the bathroom mirror fuming at the atrocity he'd actually tipped for before he placed a hair of scissors in my hand and told me to fix it. Asap. So I fixed as much as I could and though the fade needs a little time to grow out he no longer looks like Krusty the Clown slash Guile slash like he's wearing a hexagon hat. In fact, it hardly looks like ever he got a bad haircut in the first place, thanks to his amazing and talented wife (ahem).

Next time he promises I can cut his hair, but I told him I'd only do it now if I get a 20% tip in advance. (What I didn't tell him was said tip would come in the form of watching a Real Housewives of OC marathon with me, but he'll find that out soon enough, my pretties!) All that matters is standing in the bathroom, the color back in his face, we shook on the deal.

A bout of bad luck

I wouldn't call myself superstitious. Yes, I may believe in ghosts (including creepy sets of twins who stand at the ends of long hallways and ask me to come play with them), but I can walk under ladders and pass black cats and open umbrellas indoors and none of it bothers me. Old wives tales, I say.

Yet I'm starting to think that our new apartment in Maryland has come replete with not only high amenity fees, but highly bad luck. I'm talking really bad, considering-going-out-to-the-backwoods-of-this-Okie-state-and-doing-some-crazy-voodoo-to-cleanse-the-place bad.

Consider the following:

Exhibit A: The move from hell.

Need I say more?

Exhibit B: The cookie cutter incident.

In the real world, finding a heart-shaped cookie cutter a day before Valentine's Day would be as easy as cherry pie. In my current, cursed world finding said cookie cutter became a full-fledged medieval quest of sorts, teeming with talking dragons and evil warlocks horrendous traffic conditions and potholes the size of small foreign countries. Our Korean-made steed was up for the trek, though, of what would become the most extraordinary search of my life for something so extraordinarily ordinary.

After the nearest Target was cookie-cutter-less, J and I found a neighboring mall 5 miles away on our Garmin. Thinking there had to be a Crate and Barrel or Williams-Sonoma or some sort of kitchen appliance store at said mall we drove the five miles. Three hours later of traffic that would put LA's to shame, we finally arrived at the mall ... and there were no kitchen stores. Silly us for assuming there would be, I suppose. They're only as ubiquitous as a Twilight fan in a Hot Topic slash Wet Seal slash Claires slash Chico's.

We scoured the mall, going into each anchor department store. Nothing. J was a trooper through it all. When even I was ready to throw in the towel (it was my idea, after all) he pursued through the course. Come hell or high water his wife would have heart-shaped pancakes for Valentine's Day or else. After feeling like Frodo and Sam Gamjee on a mission to cross Middle Earth for one annoying little errand we found a second Target nearby that had exactly ONE heart-shaped cookie cutter misplaced in the tupperware aisle. After searching for the better part of a day we snatched it up with delirious eyes and hissed about how it was our preciousssss.

Exhibit C: The Valentine's cake incident

As day turned to night on Valentine's Day J ducked out to Safeway to buy me roses and a fancy chocolate cake "pick up a few things" for dinner.

Unfortunately I did not witness this hilarity go down, but after J got back he was walking across the parking lot when he slipped on black ice ... and everything in his hands went flying (everything including a case of about 6 bottles of wine). He landed hard on his back as bottles of wine went rolling down the parking lot, the bouquet of roses flew off to the side and the chocolate cake went through a quick spin cycle inside its plastic case. Thankfully all the wine bottles remained unscathed and, after they were finished laughing at him, various neighbors chased the bottles down the hill to give back to J.

"Here. There was supposed to be a white chocolate heart on top. I just can't catch a break," he said, as I opened the front door and he handed me what looked like cocoa-colored diarrhea in a plastic cake container.

I suppose the silver lining was that though the cake was indiscernible from a bad bowel movement it was still delectable.

Exhibit D: The baguette incident.

I had cut half a baguette for our fondue dinner that night. Halfway through our meal I took out the other half to slice, put what I didn't use back in the bag ... and it fell straight through the otherwise intact bag onto the floor. The entire half of the freaking baguette. For some inexplicable reason the bottom of the plastic bag just fell open. J and I looked at each other -- thinking of course -- as the baked good bounced off our kitchen floor.

Exhibit E: The hypochondriac slash health-code violation incident.

Since we moved into our new apartment last week the back of my throat has been feeling weird. Not like the I'm-about-to-get-a-cold-weird, but like the I-think-I'm-inhaling-asbestos-slash-black-mold-weird. Not good, kemosabes. Not. Good.

Exhibit F: The "I'm going to make you pay $15 for a bottle of Turning Leaf wine" incident.

Trader Joe's does not sell wine in this state. Apparently there is nothing "merry" about Maryland.

We gawked at the TJ's cashier when he told us that only a limited number of grocery stores get alcohol permits in "these parts" -- and Trader Joe's is not one of them. Neither is Safeway. We checked the ghetto Giant near us and they have a pathetic excuse for a wine aisle that consists of overpriced bottles of vino that should normally be no more than $5 to $10. A $12 bottle of Bella Serra? You've got to be kidding me. And I don't know what kind of peyote you're smoking but back in my day Arbor Mist strawberry zin cost no more than a whopper jr. with fries. I should know. There was a time when I routinely dabbled in both.

There's really no other solution than to cross state lines bootlegging moonshine in our Hyundai, and so we did. My life is now some weird hybrid of Smokey and the Bandit meets Sideways, where we cart not Coors, but two-buck Chuck Merlot from Virginia up into Maryland from a Trader Joe's near the beltway.

Exhibit G: The "let's trash our planet" incident.

My apartment building has no recycling. And it's not like this is some privately owned five-unit bungalow complex. This is a 20-story “luxury” high-rise, with thousands of tenants who apparently toss thousands of plastic bottles and cans into the one trash dumpster near the back. Just thinking about this makes me feel as speechless and flustered as Tim Gunn on Project Runway when that rockabilly chick Kinley sassed him on national television and all he could do was stand there glaring at the ceiling as he muttered some incoherent gibberish and kept readjusting his crossed arms.

I'm not a tree-hugger; I'm not a big fan of tofurkey; and the only thing granola about me is what I buy in cookies at Mrs. Fields in the mall (though I do admit to having a love affair with a certain pair of leather Birkenstocks, but it was 1995, people. Back then even scrunchies were acceptable.) For what it's worth though, not recycling is not an option for me. I mean, seriously, what decade is this? The '70s, pre that PSA with the Indian guy by the freeway and his single tear elicited from people throwing trash out their car windows? No, it's 2010, and this is Washington DC, not Guangdong.

To a Californian this no-recycling bit is about as blasphemous as saying there are no fire exits located in the entire building. Just the idea of casually tossing my diet coke can in the trash makes me cower a bit in fear that either God will smite me or I'll attract bad karma and end up disfigured in some horrible car crash. Well, I refuse to let that happen if I can help it; I like my facial features where they are thankyouverymuch.

So I've been painstakingly taking the extra steps to save all my recyclables in my tiny shoebox of a studio kitchen to later transport to some yet-encountered (and possibly non-existent) recycling center nearby. I'm all about helping the planet, but the thought of bad karma alone is enough to make me do crazy things.

Snowpocalypse 2010 (or "The Move From Hell")

So I told myself I'd never utter such a stupid nickname for a pending snowstorm after I saw the the term "Snowpocalypse" sprout up on Twitter and the local news. I've lived in Boston, people. And let me tell you, you "hardcore" DC-ers haven't begun seeing snow until you're enduring blustery Nor-Easters with 5-degree windchill on what feels like a weekly basis.

"Ha! What idiots," I said to J over the phone the night before our move. "They're only forecasting a foot of snow and people are acting like it's Armageddon. People are so dramatic sometimes."

We'll show them, I thought. We'll move in it, as planned. Because we're renegades like that and nothing, not even inclement weather, can stop us in our tracks.

Oh how I was wrong.

Turns out the word snowpocalypse was an apropos way of describing the current conditions. And that saucy minx of an anchor I was watching on Channel 5 Local News? You know, that Ron Burgundy-wannabe with the frosted tips who looked like he'd spent way too much time at a hair salon slash tanning booth? Well he wasn't kidding when he said this was going to be a "doozy" of a snowstorm.

We woke up bright and early Friday morning and though the sky was a bleached white, there was nary a snowflake in sight. "I knew it," I thought, satisfied that I hadn't bought into all the hype. "We'll get a few flakes, people will panic, it'll be over before we know it."

Fast forward to a few hours later: J and I are sitting in our little Uhaul truck near the top of a snow-covered hill somewhere in DC, our back wheels furiously spinning, our truck going...nowhere.

J and I had just dropped off the first of two trips of furniture slash boxes. It took us two hours to unload the truck up in Maryland (thankfully this included all the big stuff like our couch and bed) and we were back on the road at around 8pm, navigating the 15-mile maze of DC streets to get back down to Arlington, Virginia. The sun had set hours ago; the snow and wind were picking up. No trucks were out plowing or salting the streets. The streets, in fact, hadn't even been prepped for the forecasts. Our truck kept sliding all over the place, but it was too late to turn back. We were exactly halfway between our two apartments, and we'd left Lola down in Arlington. We had to go back for the rest of our stuff, if not just for the furry little white kid.

So there we were, sliding sideways on a hill in an empty Uhaul truck. J stays cool under pressure, but I see it as an opportunity to play out my inner actress.

J (his hands white-knuckled on the steering wheel): "GREAT. We're not moving. We're stuck. I knew this was going to happen..."

(silence)

Me: "TURN ON THE HAZARDS."

J: "What? Why are you shouting?"

Me: "Oh. I don't know."

J: "You were just waiting to say that, weren't you?"

(We laugh and peer around in the cab for something, anything, to help us. I'm not sleeping in a rental truck in the middle of a blizzard, no matter how comfortable these vinyl seat cushions are. I grab our empty 7-11 paper coffee cup, taking off the plastic lid as I hand the cup to him.)

Me: "Here. Start digging behind the back tires with this. I'll use the lid."

J: "Um, no? That won't do anything. The problem is there's ice under this snow. Nothing's been salted."

(Meanwhile the snow is picking up outside. I sigh loudly, like Sundance irritated that Butch Cassidy is -- once again -- being the "realist", and run outside to the rear right tire near the curb, using my foot to clear out some snow in front of it. I hop back in.)

Me: "Try that."

(He gasses it, the tires spin till we slide a few more inches and finally bump against the curb. We use the curb, as our tires are burning out, to inch up the hill. This, we thought, could take all night.)

Suffice to say, it didn't. We finally reached the top of that hill. The worst was behind us but it was just as scary (dare I say, exhilarating?) through the rest of DC. Down Constitution Ave., past the White House. It was desolate and empty and eerie, like we were on the set of The Road -- except there was no pushing of our wares in grocery carts or wearing of shoes fashioned out of trash bags. For all I know we could have been partially driving on a sidewalk since everything, I mean everything, was covered in a blanket of white.

Finally we crossed the Potomac River into Arlington and had one, final, steep hill to climb near the Air Force Memorial. J zig-zagged the steering wheel up the entire thing as the back tires spun out incessantly, leaving behind jagged tracks that looked like the pattern across Charlie Brown's shirt all the way up the snow-covered road. But it worked. We made it. We slid up as far as we could into our Archstone parking lot and rolled into an open space. J inspected the truck few minutes later and realized WHY we had such traction problems: The back tires were bald. The front ones -- the ones that zig-zagged us up that hill -- were fine. Sigh.

It took us 2 hours to go 15-miles. By the time we got back to Lola and our nearly empty apartment it was 9pm. Though I wanted to try and make a go of it with a second load of boxes, J said it just wasn't happening. Carpet picnic, anyone?

That night we set up a bedsheet and our down comforter on the floor, listened to the news on the radio and played Blackjack. (For anyone interested, I won. Muwahaha.) Oh and sleeping on the floor really isn't that bad, especially when you're using a shared seat cushion as a makeshift pillow.

We woke up the next morning and the conditions were even more severe. And the move? Well here's how the next few days of the snowstorm went down:

Day 2 (Saturday): Arlington. Completely snowed in. Conditions are abominable. Snow is blowing sideways, everything is covered in white. The main road by our apartment is completely unplowed and overrun with people bundled up and walking to CVS to get their fix of Swedish Fish and other gastronomic delights they forgot to stock up on. After a few hours of packing we join them. The rest of the day is spent packing, but this -- true to form -- always takes longer than usual.

Nighttime. Still snowing. We're exhausted...and cold. Heater has stopped working. Cold Domino's pizza is not helping our mood. We stand huddled in kitchen over oven to keep warm.

Snow eases up around evening. We must dig giant Uhaul out before snow turns to ice. We have no shovel. An hour later I'm convinced you haven't lived till you've used a plastic office trash can to dig out a vehicle. But they only go so far. J grabs a particle board from an Ikea desk we're leaving behind and digs the entire truck out with the 1' by 3' board. Bare-handed. This takes him about two hours.

Day 3 (Sunday): Why is there still so much clutter not packed up? Bobby pins and candles and souvenirs from Rio de Janiero still litter the floor. Our bodies ache from the two and a half hours of shoveling last night. Still more shoveling left to do, but luckily this afternoon a neighbor lets us borrow his snow shovel. Finally ready to start filling up truck, but first it must be turned around so we can get to the rear. Bald tires spin profusely on ice. People keep walking by and telling us we're crazy for moving this weekend. Yeah buddy, thanks for clarifying that. We totes planned all this, you know, because we like making moving thatmuch harder. We're masochists like that. Bastards.

An hour later we finally get vehicle out of spot. Starving. Walk to McDonald's for the second time in two days for dinner. Want to barf at how much fast food we've been eating in a 48-hour period (Domino's: 1, Five Guys: 2, Mickey D's: 2). We finish and walk back. Another three hours later of walking up and down snow-covered steps with heavy boxes and the truck is full. House is still a mess, but I convince J that the rest of our small mound of clutter will fit in our Hyundai tomorrow. He reluctantly agrees.

10pm: Pile into packed cab of truck, ready to head back up to Maryland. The wind has picked up, temperatures are now in the single digits. Tires screech against what is now thick ice. We're stuck -- again -- in our parking spot. I want to die.

11pm: Finally get car out of spot by chipping away at ice under tires with a screwdriver. Poor J's fingers are frozen and red. I get out of cab without gloves to spot the truck as he's backing out. When he's clear he drives away. I pick up a shelf we accidentally left behind in the snow and run after him, not knowing what he's doing.

11:05pm: Fingers are freezing and scaly. Have begun to cry. Can't find him anywhere. Finally spot him at the top of the lot. Turns out he was circling the parking lot, looking for me, too. He said he was just turning around and didn't see where I'd gone. I yell at him. This night can't get any worse.

12:30am: Highways are still unplowed and covered in ice. Takes us another 2 hours to go 15 miles but we finally get up to our apartment in Maryland. The walkway to the rear entrance of the complex is covered in a solid, uneven, pot-holed ramp of ice. The flat-bed cart they loaned us can barely traverse this course. The night has just gotten worse. We pile our things onto the rickety cart, little by little, and J pulls it up the ramp, our things sliding around and off the cart bed. It's official: We now definitely feel like vagrants in The Road. It's about 9 degrees; I can't feel my face.

3:45am: After 27 cart trips the truck is finally unloaded. Should have only taken an hour in normal temperatures. With icey ramp and cold it's taken us a lifetime. We're starving, and oh how convenient: the only place open near us is a -- wait for it -- McDonald's. I reluctantly order a hamburger, and choke as I force down each bite.

3:50am: I look at my nasty, cut, red fingers. Feel like Scarlett O'Hara in the second half of Gone With the Wind, when she makes a dress out of her green curtains to try and con money from Rhett Butler, only to be shot down when he sees her cut-up, blistered hands and says they aren't the hands of a lady. Note to self: Get a manicure after this is all over.

3:51am: Second note to self: There are no manicures in your budget. Slather on some cheap Vitamin E oil when you get a chance and quit complaining.

4:35am: Time for a nice hot shower. Turn water on...high-powered spray spews from shower nozzle like a pressure washer. Feels like I'm being given a prison shower. Skin feels like it is being peeled off with a thousand angry needles. There is only one setting on this nozzle and this is it. Note to self: Buy new shower head.

4:55 am: Bed is not in order. Someone kill me now. Consider passing out on floor, if there was any open floorspace between our piles of boxes to pass out on. There is not.

5:00am: Rip open bags like a crazy woman looking for bedding, toss linens on to mattress, and fade to black.

Day 4 (Monday): Ah, bliss, the last day of moving! Light at the end of the tunnel and hallelujahs and what have yous. The worst is behind us, we think. It has to be.

11:30am: Hyundai is covered in a couple feet of snow from not being moved for two days. We have no shovel. J says he "is not using the board again" and we're off to find a shovel...but every store is sold out. Are you there, God? It's me, Crystal. Please throw us a bone.

12:35pm: Standing in front of the empty shovel wall at Home Depot, we decide to buy a 4-inch wide trench digger. Desperate times call for desperate measures. Trench digger costs $25. I curse under my breath.

1:00pm: J starts digging out Hyundai with all the energy he can muster. Shovel, though not that wide, is more effective than we thought. But I suppose anything would be to a couple who previously used a trash can and a board.

1:15pm: We realize this is going to take longer than we thought. And we have until 6pm to clean slash turn in the key to our other apartment across town. Insert expletive here. I call apartment office, tell them what's going down and they agree to let me drop off the keys in a drop box that night. Crisis: averted.

2:34ish pm: Car is finally snow-free, but only after I shift it in neutral and J wedges himself between our car and adjacent Oldsmobile to push off on our front bumper and roll me away from snow bank. This results in him creating a human bridge between the Hyundai and Oldsmobile, which then results in him landing face-first into the snow once I roll away:Hilarious.

3:10pm: Return Uhaul truck. Ecstatic to finally have the thing off our hands. Now off to Arlington for the last time, to pick up the rest of our things and clean.

4:00pm to 10ish pm: Pack. Even more. Working through our severe exhaustion makes us feel like we are eternally condemned to hard labor, like Sisyphus pushing the boulder up that mountain only to watch it roll down every time. Sometime during this 4-hour block we make a quick trip to McDonald's (again!) for dinner. While we're gone Lola gets into our kitchen trash and eats a whole waxy rind of Swiss cheese. I take solace in knowing that we both ate shit for dinner.

10:05pm: Light bulbs and random pairs of scissors surface here and there; a bride's maid dress I never wore; a barbecue; a Christmas tree stand (which, out of frustration, J later throws off the balcony like a large frisbee into the snow); a giant French clock that I refuse to part with. All these things we didn't account for thinking they'd fit in the car. The clutter is never-ending. As we amass the last of our things in the center of the empty living room we realize we should have included much of it on the truck bed since our Hyundai is so tiny. I want to punch myself in the face (and nickname myself Sisyphus).

10:35pm: I start vacuuming. Vacuum belt breaks. In a perfect world I'd pick up the vacuum cleaner and hurl it through the window, which I start to do but then stop myself. It would come out of my deposit, after all. Floor is in desperate need of vacuuming; most stores are closed. Then it dawns on me -- there's a Target nearby open till 11. Finally, a light at the end of the Godforsaken tunnel. We pile into car and head out, hoping they have the right belt.

11:45pm: Became side-tracked by the Valentine's Day aisle at Target, but we are back home with two vacuum belts in hand. J puts one on; it breaks right away. We're down to last belt. Sweat beads slide down our fatigued faces as we hope this one will stay in tact. It does. Victory.

12am to 3:30am: Cleaning.

3:30am: Start packing car. Yup, J was right. Not everything is fitting. Have to leave barbecue slash bride's maid dress slash Christmas tree stand slash myriad other things behind. Feels like we are literally throwing our money away. Not a good feeling, but hey, at this point we can't even feel our own swollen, blistered fingers. That's not a good feeling either.

3:35am: Lola gets diarrhea. She should have thought twice before giving in to her weakness for Swiss cheese.

4:30am: Car is crammed full. Every square inch is taken up by something, be it a computer printer, bags of clothes, or tubes of gift wrap. J tells me my giant French clock won't fit. I refuse to believe this and shove it in the inch-tall gap over everything in the back. He says if we get into a car accident the thing is taking our heads off. I say I'd rather not have a head then leave my French clock behind. He is speechless. Lola looks at me, then him, probably trying to tell us she'd like some Pepto Bismol.

4:45am: Time to drop keys off. We put them in the drop-off envelope and J is about to lick the edge to seal when he sees little hairs and linties stuck all over it. "That's been on the floor. Don't look at me, I'm not licking it," I say. We just want to get the hell out of there. He shuts his eyes, about to lick it anyway and deal with the consequences later, but then decides to just spit on it. Seals perfectly. We drop off and we're outta there.

5:30am: Though it's still freezing the roads are a bit clearer. When we reach our new apartment we leave everything in the locked car and head up. "What if someone steals something?" I ask. "For all I care they can take the car and drive it off a cliff," J replies.

6:00am: Sleep. Finally. End.

So that's my story. Like all good stories it starts with a moving truck and ends with a flatulent poodle. We woke up the next afternoon (yesterday) at about 3pm. J's fingers were swollen and he couldn't make a fist. Our legs were so sore we could barely move; my eyes were puffy from the cold and exhaustion. Not quite conducive to blogging, but we're better today...

Are you afraid of the dark?

So generally I carry a pink case of pepper spray when I walk Lola. And though I've never been attacked, I've always wondered "what if...?" Especially here where muggings are as common as a pair of fake boobs in LA. Usually I won't walk Lola at night unless J comes with, but even then, what would happen if we ran into some roving band of machete-wielding crazies? My little vial of pepper spray would totes not come in handy. Which brings me to what I found yesterday, the perfect companion for a nighttime dog walker slash late-night metro rider slash garbage-taker-outer:

LOL. Terrifyingly brilliant, and in the ranks of Monty Python comedy in that the guy demoing it acts like it's just any another normal invention, like a potato peeler or a high-speed onion chopper. I mean, usually those stocking stuffers in the "men's wardrobe" section of Target around the holidays always have some sort of 5-dollar flashlight doo-hickey (i.e., flashlight slash compass slash beer bottle opener). But with this invention you not only have a flashlight, you've got a SEMI-AUTOMATIC HANDGUN and -- best part of all -- when folded up it fits in your back pocket! I'm dying over here, people. Dying. What's next? A can opener that doubles as a ninja star? Waaaait a second....

Put the Viagra down...use goldenrod oil instead

Day 13 of living in cramped quarters with the MIL. If anything it's teaching me infinite amounts of patience. Or is it just testing my true wherewithal of hippie-dom?

Rozalin Focker, the every-woman MIL.

Some days -- with the aid of hyssop oils and patchouli, walking the miniature stone labyrinth she's fashioned in her 8' by 8' plot of a backyard replete with a Terra cotta fire pit and gurgling table-top fountain -- I ride my natural highs. No drugs necessary. Other times the vibe gets on my last nerve, like when (for some irritating reason) she projects her lifelong desire to be a 1950s-style housewife onto me, convinced that I quit my job to take care of my house and serve my husband. Um, just, no. If anyone does any serving in our household it's my husband to me (foot massages and tea brewing included). But when I tell her I actually despise cooking and cleaning she tells me I will learn to love it, because I'm a woman and I have breasts. (...) Of course I grow annoyed at this assertion, but trying to explain myself is like attempting to teach calculus to a pre-schooler (most likely because she's so romanticized her fantasy of being June Cleaver).

These are the times when I politely excuse myself to the bathroom upstairs, wash my hands for no reason other than to cool down and remind myself to follow the "love & gratitude" adage penned above the faucet. But it doesn't help because all I can think is "Anymore love and gratitude and I will punch someone in the face." Most likely my husband, since he's about an arm's length away at any given moment and, really, if he hadn't yelled at my mother we would never be in this predicament. Yes, I just went there.

But other times it's worth it enough to see J's mortified face light up crimson when his mom pulls out her “Cunt Coloring Book” from the '70s, all about exploring the nether regions of the female form. It's supposed to be art, but all I see is ... well ... you know what I mean. J is so different than his mother, very Mark Darcy with a bit of a goofier side, that I often wonder how he managed to stay that way growing up with such an open, liberal, anti-coffee woman.

When we first arrived at the Zen Den it took me only one morning to realize that there was no coffee in the kitchen. It turned out there was actually nothing caffeinated in the entire apartment.

"Why?" I asked shaking, pilfering through the kitchen cupboards.

“Because she thinks its toxic to your body,” J whispered to me.

“So?” I replied.

After about two days of drinking my MIL's coffee substitute, a 100% caffeine-free root drink called “Pero”, I was ready to pour a few carafes of espresso on my head. As was J, who's typical morning starts with a good, stiff Colombian roast. Starbucks Via, you've come in more handy than I could ever imagine. Along with no coffee there's also no ice and no microwave -- because “the radioactive waves poison the food,” duh. What I would give for an ice-cold Coca Cola and a piping hot bag of microwaveable popcorn. She's also deemed wine, or any other alcohol, a poison so there is nary a Pinot Noir in sight. Because of this J has been sneaking in the occasional bottle of red that we uncork late-night after she's fallen asleep, to enjoy in crystal goblets near the fire pit in the backyard.

I try to write here, but it's nearly impossibly. This post, for example, has taken me about two or three days to cobble together since every time I sit down and open my laptop the MIL begins quoting Rumi out loud and exploring what good karma is all about and before I know it an hour or two has passed and I have no idea what's going on. None.

So last night I stayed up after she and J had gone to bed, finished a good chunk of writing then desperately searched the Internet for any and all illegally uploaded episodes of Keeping up with the Kardashians (since cable is as absent as coffee in the Zen Den). After pages and pages of bogus results I finally found a pirated site so good I'm toying with the idea of canceling my cable when I head back to DC since it has every show I watch. Needless to say I finally reached Nirvana or enlightenment or whatever it's called, headphones in my ears, eyes devouring the computer screen as I chuckled along to the general debauchery of the Kardashian sisters from some illegal Chinese television website. What have I become?

It's like the Summer of Love ... every single day. Which is awesome, but too much of anything in too high of a dose and the novelty wears off. Behold a typical night at the MIL casa:

(Open scene in MIL's small living room. Crystal is sitting nearby at the dinner table reading the New Yorker online as MIL is cross-legged on the carpet, meditating in silence. In the gap between them lies an odd-shaped gourd maraca with a long appendage sprouting from its side. The ornamental gourd/instrument is hand-painted to look like a long-necked duck, the words “love and gratitude” written across its little chest. Apartment is silent; J has gone to run errands with his brother).

MIL: "If a man can't get erect, use goldenrod oil."
Me (confused): "Uh, what?"
MIL: "Goldenrod oil. It works wonders for erections."

(I burst out laughing, amused. Are we really having this conversation?)

Me: "Goldenrod oil?”
MIL: “Yes, goldenrod oil. If your man is tired and having trouble getting it up.”
Me: “What are you supposed to do with it, put it directly on the guy's ... thingy?"
MIL (completely serious): "Yes! Or on his feet. I've read it works in both areas, but I've only tried one."
Me: "Sweet, I'll remember that ..."

(Two hours later, J and his brother are hanging out in the living room with me.)

Me: “So guess what? If you have any trouble down there goldenrod oil is supposed to do the trick.”
J (in embarrassed disbelief): “What?”
Me (laughing): “Goldenrod oil. Apparently it's a legitimate substitute for Viagra. Your mom told me.”
MIL: “Oh yes, it is. Goldenrod is a magical substance.”
J (blushing and whispering to me): “You are such an instigator. You love bringing this stuff up and prompting her.”
Me (whispering back): “No! Ok maybe a little, but it's like hearing a little kid say inappropriate words. It's funny!!”
J: “Yeah, for you.”

It's both hilarious and disturbing when anyone's MIL -- especially yours -- starts discussing the art of tantric sex. True to form J grows bright red when this happens, which makes me laugh even harder. If anything it provides excellent comic relief to the situation with my fam right now.

Speaking of the fam we had a good New Year's, though I came thisclose to booking an all expenses paid trip to Cancun next week for my Aunt's bday – then realized my passport is sitting on my nightstand back in Virginia. *Insert deleted expletive here.* My sister, like always, will get to be enjoying the fruits of the spontaneous plans, sunning on white Mexican beaches this next Sunday while I look forward to heading back to the East Coast. *Insert yet another deleted expletive here.* Moral of the story: ALWAYS carry your passport with you. I did for the last couple years, but then after my trip to South America I casually left it on my side table, thinking that with our budget I probably wouldn't be taking another international trip for at least a few months. Stupid me.

So I may not be en route to Cancun in one week, but I've got something even better coming my way. According to the MIL Saturn's moon rises every 28 years and it's the highest form of orgasm. Well guess who's going to be 28 this year? Yep, yours truly.

"It is your time," she told me yesterday.

And to think, I don't even need a passport and an H1N1 vaccine to enjoy this trip.

Merry Christmas

Brought to you by Chris "Christmas" Rodriguez:

Encouragement for the frustrated writer

Keep at it, wildcat. If you do (and you're lucky), you might some day give an interview like this:



It would be payment enough. Just make sure to write your novel in an "obsolete vernacular," wear an eccentric cowboy hat and silently stare off into space a lot when people are waiting for your response.

Writers like Cormac McCarthy Eli Cash never fail to warm the cockles of my heart.

Stewardesses and scribes

This year J and I decided we're going to be a Pan Am airline pilot and stewardess from the 1960s for Halloween. Very Catch Me If You Can. At first I was going to buy my costume, but after doing some research I balked at the prices I saw online -- 50 bones for a shiny and ill-fitting polyester sheath?! Please. I'd rather spend that $50 on something I've wanted forever but couldn't justify the purchase of, say this.

Anyway, I went to the fabric store, spent a whopping $13 total on materials and set to work making my costume. I used some artistic license in terms of the costume's conception (i.e., though the Pan Am stewardess of yore were much more stylish than today's flight attendants, they still wore conservative electric blue pencil suits).


Cute, but such is life in Technicolor. Unfortunately we have to deal with modern-day lighting here, people.

So I decided my kind of Pan Am stewardess would wear a white cap-sleeved blouse tucked into a high-waisted electric blue mini skirt, complete with blue pillbox hat, neckerchief, and signature logo patch pinned to chest. Here are my finished pieces:

I can't take credit for the belt (from an old shirt I bought at Forever 21), but the skirt (above) turned out better than I expected.

This is the best I could do with the patch. Kept super-gluing my fingers together by accident so finally just stopped fussing over it.

I'm most happy about the pillbox hat I made from felt (above).Yes, the last time I worked with felt was 1st grade when I ended up eating half my film roll container of paste. But that was another time. I followed Humble Bumble B's video tutorial on ThreadBanger for this design, then added the three white buttons as a detail to tie the whole costume together.

For J's costume he'll be wearing his navy blue suit that he already owns (tricky, tricky, we know), and pilot's hat and pin that we bought for about $10 total at the Halloween store.

We're going up to Manhattan for the weekend to visit one of my good friends and her husband. They just moved into a new apartment very near Central Park and we can't wait to see them. Apparently I've been told we'll be attending a "Liquor Treat" party on Saturday night (costumes required), which already sounds fun. Revelry will undoubtedly ensue. J's never been to NYC, so let's also hope he doesn't get any ideas about finding a legal job there after our weekend jaunt up north.

In other news the animals will be staying here, but I couldn't resist taking hilarious pictures of them in costume:

A disgruntled Lola.

An oblivious Moneypenny.

Spooky.

And finally, NaNoWriMo is almost upon us! Are any of you kiddies going to partake in November's thirty days and nights of literary abandon? If you have no clue what I'm talking about go here, but if you're a participant you can find me under the username "TildonKatz". (As a Mad Men fan you should get that reference. Period.)

I'm pretty much done with the outline for the book I plan to write in November. It's about an ex-Nazi doctor who flees to Buenos Aires after WWII to start a new life as a cab driver under an assumed identity. Riveting, isn't it? Will he overcome his prejudices? Find redemption? Be caught and extradited? Can we ever really "start all over" in our lives, or do our pasts eternally haunt us? All will come to fruition in November in what I've tentatively titled "In the Hall of the Mountain King." Obviously I'll probably be blogging less next month (50,000 words in 30 days scares even me), but I'll keep you updated. The nearly finished manuscript for my first book will be going into a drawer and not looked at till Dec. 1st.

What are you dressing up as for Halloween?

Your weekly cup of Zoe

"It's so weird to be back in LA." Rachel looks over at Brad (above). "I feel like you literally forgot your pants. I mean, and you have a linen tote bag ..."

Brad: "Hopefully this shoot is a Xanadu and not a Xanadon't."
Rachel, straight-faced and after a long pause: "Do you lie awake at night thinking of the worst jokes in the entire world?"
Brad: "No, they just come to me just before I say them. It's part of my gift."

"Perfume is the final step in getting dressed everyday. It's that perfect finishing touch." - Rachel, on the merits of perfume

"This smells too citrus-ey. I'd like a note of it, but not a whole song."
- Rachel on a potential fragrance

"I used to dunk myself in patchouli oil when I was in college." - Rachel being Rachel

A voicemail Brad leaves Rachel while she's in New York: "Hiiiii Rachel, it's Brad. I hope you're having a good time in New York with Taylor. I know you're probably super busy but I just wanted to let you know that my legs look really, really good in short shorts. Byeeee!"

"This shoot is a Xanadu story taking place in a gym and what we need is a big, hunky beefcake." - Brad, after he and Rachel are disappointed with the effeminate male models they've seen so far

"I really need to find the male equivalent of Jessica Stam."
- Rachel, frustrated

"You could've worn that in Paris, but you didn't get invited."
- Brad to Taylor

"Multi-colored, multi-fabric tranny heel. God knows what. It's absolutely all about the thigh high." - Rachel's final fashion advice for the season

Suddenly, a dark cloud settled over first period...

"The goddamn pen is bluuuue."

A week ago J had a preliminary interview with the Bronx district attorney's office to be a DA. Yes, I just said the Bronx. After the interview (which he said went really well), J surprised me and said he wasn't going to send them his letters of rec like they'd requested.

Me: "What? You're nearly giving yourself an ulcer finding a job. Why wouldn't you pursue this?"

J: "Because though it'd be nice, I think I can do better. That and," he said with mild sarcasm, "I don't think it'd work if we became a bi-coastal couple. I'd miss you too much." (Note: I've told J that if he decides to reside on the East Coast post-graduation, I'll split my time between the East and West coast. Maybe throw in a little extended time in Italy for good measure. No biggie, but apparently it is.)

He looked at peace with his decision (well, as much as one can be who's job hunting with $200,000 in school debt looming over his head) until two nights ago, when we were working on our laptops at Starbucks and he got a call. It was the DA's office, wanting him for a callback interview. And his immediate response when they asked if he'd want to come up and interview with the panel was ..."Yes." Why, I don't know. He didn't even know himself, and kept wondering out loud why he'd said yes. All I could do was shake my head...."this is SO not something Don Draper would do," I thought to myself. J immediately regretted his snap response and said he'd call and cancel, but I told him no.

"Just do the call back. You don't know if you've got the job. Think hard about whether you want it when you get the actual job offer. Until then don't say no," I said, espousing my oft-sage advice. He agreed ... and promptly began looking for possible apartments in the Bronx, emailing me the listings. I couldn't help but laugh out loud across the table from him when I saw the damned things in my inbox.

"No, kemosabe, I won't be living in the Bronx. You'll be," I reminded him. (Insert sad J face here.) "I'm a freebird, I don't do the Bronx...or anything that's even remotely close to Yonkers."

Now I've never actually been to Yonkers or the Bronx, but they both remind me of a particularly vile DMX song I used to "bump" in my car during my high school years as I cruised through senior parking thinking I was cool long before I actually was. (It was very Michael Bolton listening to Tupac in Office Space). Anyway before the song starts there's a crass repartee between DMX and his "honey," in which he accuses her over the phone of feigning interesting in other males' appendages and philandering with some unnamed man in Yonkers (in so many words). It will forever be burned on my brain and is now what I associate Yonkers, the Bronx ... heck most of the NYC boroughs with.

After hearing my story and laughing in my face, J thought I was being "ridiculous," and so began sending me Manhattan apartment listings instead.

"I could take the train and commute," he reasoned.

I shook my head. "Did I not just tell you I was a freebird?! Freebirds don't live in Vuh-jin-ya, like we are now, and they don't live in Manhattan either." (Confession: I so wanted to live in Manhattan when I was 21 and still overly obsessed with Sex and the City. Not so much anymore, as my new obsession is all-things Easy Rider.)

"Take me back out West, honey child. I'll even live in LA or Reno if it means we're inching our way closer." Yes, you read that correctly. I'll admit the Reno comment was desperation speaking, but it didn't seem to matter since calling J "honey child" seemed to distract him from the imminent issue.

So J has come to one of the great crossroads in life (that is if he goes through with the second interview and gets the offer): Does he settle and get paid minor ducats at a thankless job, or does he take the risk of holding out and wait for a better opportunity? Too often I think we choose the first option because it's safer and more secure, but does it lend itself favorably in long-term career advancement, or is it simply sufficing as "a job"? Personally there have been times in my career where out of sheer impatience I began blindly applying to anything I was qualified for (within the journalism realm, of course), and jumped at the first offer that came my way. It worked out okay in the first year, but my happiness began to wane the second year -- even with a 15% raise and myriad perks.

I vote he waits for something better. Not just because of my fond memories of DMX and the Bronx, but for his overall happiness and well-being.

Your weekly cup of Zoe

Rachel & Co. in Paris. I should be in this picture. Sigh.

"Look. Black and White. Coco. Chanel. Everywhere. Ugh. Dying."
- Rachel, passing the Chanel store with Brad

"... And those diamante leggings? I hope they're a trend everywhere."
- Brad, during the Ungaro show

"I think I'm going to pass out. I have on Coco Chanel's glasses."
- Rachel wearing Chanel's original glasses as she stares at Brad

"I am obsessed with the Beatles. I did my senior thesis on John Lennon. And I. Literally. Die. for Paul McCartney." - Rachel seeing Paul at the Stella McCartney show

"And all of a sudden," she says at Stella's show, "out comes electric silver dresses and like nubby purple mohair jackets and chunky knits that I just want to put on my body. Right now."

"This is beyond. This is OOC. Out. Of. Control." - Rachel admiring an 800 euro vintage Dior leather trench coat on Brad

"Rachel gets a little aggressive when it comes down to your purchases. She's like a vintage designer couture pusher. Buy it Brad. Get it. (in high pitch voice: 'Cause then I can distract Roger when I buy my coat!')" - Brad, in response

“How about I give you a raise?” - Rachel asks Brad, so he can buy said Dior trench coat and absolve her of shopper's guilt

"Backstage at Galliano is like a cattle herd. Literally, I feel like a cow about to moo." - Rachel

“I would eat this shoe for breakfast, lunch, and dinner.” - Rachel drooling over 12-inch platforms backstage at Galliano

"Platforms are here to stay. Get yourself some stilts, girls." - Brad to the general public

Little-known facts about yours truly

It's that time again, kiddies. Awards season is upon us. Thanks goes out to R. Wallis over at True Beauty who nominated me for a Kreativ Blogger award! This award, as with most blog awards, comes with the ol' post-seven-things-about-yourself provision, then nominate seven other blogs you like to do the same. (Why seven? I don't know.)

Here are my seven facts:

• Even though I usually wish the best for people, I selfishly reviled in some news I heard recently about one of the "popular" guys from my high school that always had straight As, good looks, any girl he wanted (yes, I too liked him in 8th grade) and was destined for Harvard. Oh did I also mention he was a jerk in the vein of Mike Dexter in Can't Hardly Wait? Anyway according to Facebook he now lives in Philadelphia and is going to a third-tier medical school. Double whammy. So petty yet so satisfying. (The immature side of me wants to gloat: "That's what you get for being a prick to me in junior high!")

• I take things too personally most of the time. I can't believe I'm admitting that here, but this post is supposed to be honest, so there you have it. Surprisingly I still consider myself a confident person, I just think I'm too sensitive and definitely too emotional. (Which is hysterical when things go well, not so funny when things go bad.

• Part of me secretly wishes I could try this with my hair, even for just a day.

• When I was a teen, there was nothing I wanted more than to be like Alicia Silverstone in Aerosmith's "Cryin" music video. Two words: Bad ass. How could you not be after bungee jumping off a freeway overpass in LA and flipping your good-for-nothing ex-boyfriend off? Yeah, exactly. Also loved her with Liv Tyler in the "Crazy" music video.

• Though many of you probably think it's tacky, I adore leopard. It's my favorite print and I can't get enough of it. I was never all Liberace with it, but I've definitely toned down my obsession (my comforter, poppasan chair, bikini, makeup bag -- it all used to be leopard. Rowrrr.). Now only the inside lining of my handbag and my bikini are blessed with this print. Ugh, I've become so boring.

• I have an odd fascination with the Kardashians. I have no idea why.

• I might have mentioned this before, but I am deathly afraid of spiders, no matter what size. Every night, the last thing I do before I go to bed is scan the walls and ceiling for any spiders. It's become a ritual. I've actually found some before during my nightly scans and had J smash them after my freak-out sessions over spotting them. My advice to fellow arachnophobics out there? Don't leave any stone unturned ... especially if you don't want to wake up with a daddy longlegs crawling across your face. And if you're single, perhaps it's time to invest in one of these bad boys:
  

Yes, that is a distance bug vacuum. Brilliant.

I love all of you, but since I'm limited to this mysterious number seven, I nominate:

Mandy @ Mandy's Life After 30
Chloe @ Naturally Frugal
Carolyn @ Hang on Little Tomato
Penny @ La Belle Dame Sans Nice
Suzanne @ Tales of Extraordinary Ordinariness
Tamela @ A Brunette Making it One Day at a Time
Kevin @ Something Like That

Your weekly cup of Zoe

I'm elated to see that I'm not the only one who (shamefully?) hearts the hilarity that is Rachel Zoe. Her assistants Brad and Taylor, her penchant for boho muumuus, her interaction with husband Rodger, who's been called "Rod Blagojevich in a Zac Efron wig". Yes, these are all comedic in their own right. But the true entertainment value of her show shines through with her random and oft-clueless quotes on profound topics like life, work, Ashton and Demi, and fashion. (Two episodes ago she mentioned that she "loves herself a sequin." See? Sequins are doable.) As one reader put it, "she's a hot mess, but that's why we all love her."

Anyway, her musings are too hysterical and/or poignant to let fade away into the cable television abyss, so I'll be compiling the best here for a weekly cup of Zoe. Email me if you've got any gems to share and I'll include them.

The new must-have Fall accessory: a Brad.

"Nothing makes a woman feel better than a whole slew of gay men cheering you on, striking poses and just making you feel good about yourself and making you laugh when you're feeling insecure."
- Rachel Zoe