Blah Blah Blah Pregnancy Blah Conversation Hearts

I really need to get over this whole Not Wanting to Blah Blah Blah About the Pregnancy on This Blog thing. Because you know what? When you're pregnant, the only thing you can think about is the pregnancy. Even if you try not to. Even if you're hell-bent on not being That Woman. Because the second your mind rests (if it rests), the baby kicks you. Or rolls onto a nerve and gives you sciatica. Or you drop something onto the floor and you spend 10 minutes staring at it, hoping it will levitate because you can no longer bend over to pick it up. Or you get an e-mail reminding you that your fetus is the size of a rutabaga or, oh yeah, now's the time to find a pediatrician, and then you completely freak out because Oh my god, how did I get to the point in my life when I have to find a pediatrician?!? Because I haven't wanted to be That Woman Who Only Talks About the Baby, just like how I didn't want to be That Woman Who Only Talks About Her Wedding, I haven't been writing, and I don't want to do that either. So I'm just going to get it out of the way.

This whole experience is just weird.

About eight weeks ago or so, Josh and I were lying in bed. I looked up and asked him:

"How do you think I'll handle labor? Be honest."

He paused, his face desperately trying to go blank.

"Be honest."

He sucked in a breath. "Honestly? I see you wigging."

"Wigging!"

"You told me to be honest!"

"OK, OK. Wigging."

"You know, you're not always very good with stress. I really think you should get the epidural."

"Well, how do you think you're going to be when I'm in labor?"

"I'll be supportive and I'll be there for you."

WHATever.

So I vowed at that moment that I would show him. I would labor in a calm, stoic way, utilizing all my strength and womanly power, using my body in the way only a woman can (or, women and the Pregnant Man can) to bring my child into the world.

And then a week later, I found out that (TMI alert!) the placenta was covering the top of my cervix, thereby leaving no way for the baby to get out, and not only would I need a c-section, I wouldn't even be allowed to go into labor at all because contractions would cause excessive bleeding.

And there I'd been, thinking I had any control over any of this science project. Silly, naive little girl.

I was distraught. I really wanted to know what labor felt like, even if I did end up taking the epidural. And complications from the condition, called placenta previa, range from mild bleeding to hemorrhaging, which can lead to bed rest and early delivery. I was told I couldn't lift anything heavy, stress my body in any way with too much physical or emotional activity, or have sex.

"It sucks," my doctor told me. "I know, it sucks."

"You're not kidding," said my vagina.

And then five weeks after the diagnosis — after I'd accepted what was happening in my innards and that, hey, scheduling a c-section is pretty convenient because I'll know when my last day of work will be and I can get my nails done and have dinner with my husband and then walk into the hospital where they'll remove my baby and boom! I'll become a mother — I went in for another ultrasound, and it looks like the placenta moved away from the cervix and I'm no longer at-risk and can have a natural delivery. This is actually rather common, the placenta does move in most cases, but my doctor didn't think mine would and I was told pretty much not to hold my breath. So I was shocked and thrilled. But, of course, after a moment of, "Yay! I can go into labor!" I have since felt, "Oh, shit, I have to go into labor."

I am terrified.

Josh and I took a childbirthing class. It was great, but oh my gosh, I am freaking out. Wigging, as my dear husband would say. My dear husband who was right. I'm wigging.

It's all part and parcel of all the things that have been occupying my time for the past three months. See, when you find out you're gestating, you don't do anything. You can't believe it's happening, you can't feel anything, you don't look different, you just sort get really annoyed that the apple you just ate made you puke on the subway platform (I don't want to talk about it). And then, all of a sudden, it's your third trimester and you panic because you have no idea how to shop for a crib and you swear you're so unprepared that your newborn is going to end up sleeping in the sink.

So you research.

And research.

And research.

Because you have no idea what you're doing. And you want to make sure that whatever you're doing, you're doing it right, because you think that doing it wrong could be the difference between a beautiful bonding experience and a Consumer Product Safety Commission recall.

You just go mental. But now we're through with the "stuff" stuff. We've done the class and put ourselves on day-care wait lists and registered for all the doodads and picked out Comfy's stroller. All we have left to do, really, is wait — wait for the furniture to arrive, wait for the baby to arrive, and hope we calm down in the process. Of course, while all of this has been happening, we've had contractors in the apartment painting the joint, replacing the bathroom ceiling, hanging fans and a patched-up kitchen cabinet door, regrouting the tub, blah blah blah. The apartment is completely torn apart and everything is coated in dust, but man, is this cathartic. The paint is fabulous! We're reorganizing everything! For years, I've been visualizing all porn-like the revamping of this place, and man, I am sa. tis. fied. Although I did have a moment last week when Josh and I went to sleep in our freshly painted blue bedroom and I looked at the walls, all dreamy and undersea, and said, "In eight weeks, a baby is going to be in here. What are we going to do with this baby?"

My problem is is that I've had too much time to think about all of this. Ultimately, there's no way to know how things will go. There's no way to know what we'll really need. There's no way to know who this baby is going to be and how we'll all relate to each other. And painting the bedroom walls blue isn't going to make for a well-adjusted child, and spending a month researching organic mattresses won't make my baby sleep through the night any sooner. We just have to go with it. So I've just been sitting back and feeling the kicks and the hiccups and watching my sweaters thump back and forth with the motions of my occupant. In the past couple days, Comfy has taken up residence in my ribs, which is not the most comfortable feeling but it's kind of amazing to think, "That thing that's preventing me from hunching over? That's a foot." When I tried to move Comfy the other day, I felt a body part for the first time — an elbow or a knee — and it was so little, and for the first time, I really felt excited more than scared or overwhelmed. Also, since you have to do everything they do in movies because movies are always an accurate portrayal of major life changes, I put some headphones on my belly and let my iPod shuffle do some magic. The result? The kid loves the Supremes. Which makes sense, being half-Detroit and all. Makin' mama proud.

(That said, I have not recharged my iPod in three weeks because I only remember to do it at work, and the electrical outlet for my charger is under my desk, and I can no longer bend over to reach it.)

The one thing that has totally, completely, knock-me-over-with-a-boulder shocked me is that I'm now eight months pregnant and I haven't gained a single pound. Not one. I only bought my first maternity clothes last week. I've been heavy my entire life and I was certain I would be the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man by the fourth month. I have had no food cravings, I get full in two seconds, and so as I've been losing weight, Comfy is gaining nicely and I'm just evening out. My body is literally converting into baby. It's not that I'm not eating; it's just different. My body is making all these decisions for me. And this is without extra exercise because I'd stopped doing everything when I was diagnosed with previa; Josh would barely even let me lift my toothbrush. And now I'm just too tired to move. But who the hell gets pregnant and it ends up being the best weight-loss plan they ever knew? So weird. My body long ago ceased to be my own, but this is ridiculous.

(That said, the cleaning lady at work on Monday night asked me how I was feeling, then told me that she couldn't tell from the front I was pregnant, "but I could tell from the back. You have nice, big baby!" I'm sure in some Eastern Bloc countries this is a compliment, and I'm going to choose to take it that way. Even though right now, Comfy's weight is at the 52nd percentile. I have a perfectly average-sized little chicken in there.)

In other news (what? there's other news?), I ate a box of Conversation Hearts the other day that were all misstamped, with whatever legible letters there were hanging onto the bottoms and along the sides of the candy. One said UL TE and another said PPY VE. Such mixed messages, in a box of what is meant to be a sure-thing expression of affection, were so unsettling. Love, you offer no clarity. CK FF.

When the rain washes you clean, you'll know.

Wednesday evening, I walked out of the office with Jann Wenner.

Jann Wenner is the chairman of my company. He started Rolling Stone. He's a music-journalism icon and a legend in the field of magazine publishing.

The only thing I could think of to say to him was, "I like your suit."

Ugh. I am finding that, in my adult years, I am becoming so socially awkward.

Here's what happened:

I ran into him as we were both heading to the elevator to go home. We said hello, how are you, very well thank you, very cordial. There's a glass security door you have to go through, and he got to it first so he held the door open for me. Very chivalrous. I said thank you. But here's the thing: My bag was hugely overstuffed, I'm not thin, and I just felt like I was taking up a lot of space, so my pass-through was clunky and graceless and I think I almost smushed him against the door. I took dance lessons for thirteen years, I can balance in a yoga tree pose for ages, but I couldn't navigate my way through a door past a Very Important Person without practically falling over.

Then there was the awkward stand-in-the-elevator-bank-and-wait minute. The minute that felt like an hour. This is what went through my head while I was standing in the elevator bank with Jann Wenner:

Do I introduce myself?
Do I tell him how much I love my job?
His suit is blue.
Do I tell him that the latest issue of Rolling Stone is really good? I haven't read it. He'll know I haven't read it. I can't lie to the CEO of my company. During a recession. I like the cover. Do I tell him I like the cover?
That's a really nice suit.
Where is the elevator?
Maybe someone he knows will come by and I won't be standing here like an asshole.
Do I call him Mr. Wenner?

We headed into the elevator. Two other people were in there with us. I headed for the back right corner, and a woman stood in front of me and basically backed up to about an inch away from my face. Jann was in the middle and then moved back to lean against the wall, right next to me. This is what went through my head while I was standing in the elevator directly next to Jann Wenner, practically with a mouth full of some strange woman's hair:

That's a really nice suit. I like his suit.

The doors opened, we exited the elevator and entered the lobby. This is what went through my head while I was walking through the lobby a few feet from Jann Wenner:

Do I say goodbye?
It's raining. I should ask him if he has an umbrella.
Do I give Jann Wenner my umbrella?
I hope he has an umbrella.
It's ass-kissy to give him my umbrella. But I think I should offer my umbrella. He's wearing that nice suit and everything.
Do I tell him to have a nice evening?
I wonder if he takes a cab or has a driver.
That would be funny if we rode the subway together.
I'm walking too fast. Does it look like I'm fleeing him? I'm going to get fired.
It's raining.

I spent the next ten minutes running the whole scene through my head over and over again, picking apart moments that could in any way get me fired. I really love my job. I should have told him that. I said nothing to him apart from "thank you" about 35 times. Once I was on the subway en route to my pity party, I was convinced I'd performed at least 10 business faux pas and required job retraining. Ultimately, I didn't know the answer to the big question: Do you talk to The Boss or not? I couldn't think of anything of value to say, so I said nothing. Saying nothing when you're intimidated is better than saying something stupid, right?

And then yesterday, while I was telling my boss about it, he looked up and pointed. And across the office was Jann with a group of people. In that group of people was a blonde woman, middle-aged, with shoulder-length hair. She suddenly smiled at the office, made a big, grand wave, and yelled to all of us, "Bye!" We all waved back, and as one of my coworkers walked past, I said, "Who is that?"

"Stevie Nicks," he said.

Of course. Of course I waved to Stevie Nicks and had no idea I was waving to Stevie Nicks because I couldn't see far enough to tell it was her. Stevie Nicks, who is so mind-bendingly cool that she acknowledged our entire office with one unexpected "bye!" Freakin' Stevie Nicks.

And of course then I froze, and the only song I could think of that had anything to do with Stevie Nicks was "Hold Me," and she didn't even sing lead on it. Christine McVie did. And "Stop Draggin' My Heart Around" is one of my favorite songs, but I totally forgot about that one. If I happened to meet Stevie Nicks, I'd say, "I love 'Hold Me'!" and look like an idiot.

This is why I shouldn't talk to celebrities. And why it was good I didn't say anything to Jann Wenner. Because no matter who I've met (Duran Duran!), who I've interviewed (Susan Sarandon!), who I've been shitty to (Ann Coulter!), who I've worked with (Milton Glaser!), when I'm really intimidated, I freeze. And I never know that I'm really intimidated until I've made a total heel of myself. I forget that I'm a relatively smart, aware, pop-culturally-well-versed individual, and instead I become her.

(For the record, I'm not a total lost cause around The Famous and The Intimidating. One recent exception of The Famous was Christopher Atkins, with whom I openly flirted over the nuances of grammar. Long story. A not-so-recent example of The Intimidating? This is how the conversation went with my former editor-in-chief — a woman with whom I was never, ever confident in conversation, no matter how hard I tried — when I gave notice at my former magazine-of-employment:

Me: So, I'm here because I'm leaving.
Her: Oh, really?
Me: Yes. I'm going to Us.
Her: [shocked I would get another job] Oh?
Me: Yeah, so, this was a great experience! Thanks!
Her: [looking down at a container on her desk] Want a blueberry?
Me: No thanks.)

Anyway, babbling. All of this doesn't apply only to well-known luminaries or persons authorized to authoritate me. I was just invited to a girls' weekend at a friend's country home in May. It sounds like ridiculous fun and I'm looking forward to it, but I'm also nervous as hell. Lately I feel totally off my game conversationally and, even though I feel great when I'm with these women, I don't see them frequently, and I'm hesitant. What will I talk about? Will I say anything stupid? Will they even care about what I'm saying? I shouldn't speak. I just shouldn't speak at all.

Once again, I think all of this is because it's spring. I'm never as needlessly rattled as when nature fucks with me every April. I think it's pretty much consensus, particularly this year, that the transition from an unbelievably long winter into whatever this pseudo-thaw is supposed to be has been uncommonly difficult on the human equilibrium. I've felt off since January, actually, but everybody I talk to has mentioned how this season hath wrought the following for them:

depression
ravenous hunger
complete lack of appetite
total disinterest in and inability to exercise
dry skin
Brillo hair
sudden urges to cry
botched memory
debilitating exhaustion
sleepless anxiety
generalized bloating

Want me to go on?

Is this you too?

Because I think I'm experiencing all of these things at once, if that's even possible. Damn you, environment! Screw you, recession! Why do you make me feel like I'm going through puberty all over again?!? Was it not traumatic enough the first time?!? Gah! Feh! Bleh.

So my confidence has been rocked because I'm putty, and I know it's reflecting in how I move, how I speak, how I write, how I sleep, how I make my decisions, how much I mull over my decisions to the annoyed dismay of many. This drives me insane because I know better. I should know better than to panic since this happens to me every. freakin'. year, though I always forget. I know how I want to feel, and I know how to feel that way. At this point in my life, I know what to do for my mental and physical health and well-being. I know there's no point in me obsessing over all this the way I have been because I'm not that socially awkward, I'm not that crap at conversation, I'm not the train wreck I write myself to be here. I'm just, as My People like to say, fermished. So this is horseshit. I should be able to walk up to Stevie Nicks, tell her I love her haircut, and sing the Tom Petty part of "Stop Draggin' My Heart Around" while she sings her part and we become BFF because she'll be really impressed with my excellent Tom Petty impression — something that, if you're lucky and if we get to know each other a little better, I'll do for you.

The good news is, things are looking up, by virtue of blooming crocuses and daffodils, and with the weather — and the goings-on in me noggin — stabilizing. And also this: This post is about an actual topic, rather than about a) how I can't think of what to write, or b) random pictures of people dressed as pandas. La victoire! C'est une pamplemousse!

Here, this is funny, courtesy of Stephanie.

[I can't even think of a title. Useless.]

I am staring at this blank page. Which is no longer blank because I wrote this sentence.

It's still not encouraging.

This writer's block is killing me. For the past two months, I haven't been able to think of a single thing to write that might interest you. Probably because I've almost forgotten what interests me. I keep thinking, Do something fabulous! Quick! Go to a park and see something hilarious or quirky or drunk so you can write about it and stop boring people! But the good news is, I think I've hit the tail end of my end-of-year blargh, which basically consists of 2 parts frantic work schedule + 1 part sleeplessness x 5 parts not exercising / 8 parts bloating = 1 woman loafing on the couch — except for when she's at work — and not expanding her horizons. Hopefully now that things have normalized, my schedule has regulated, all weddings and babies of the moment are born and celebrated, that's a thing of the past and I can stop using pictures of Crocs superstores as blog-filler. But for now, I regale you with these tales of nothingness:

1. Last Wednesday, I walked 30 blocks, from a doctor appointment to work. This seemed like a very good idea, as I usually walk to work after doctor appointments because then I can pretend that I'm healthy and didn't just get weighed. (And I understand 30 blocks seems far, but you'd be surprised how frequently I do this. New York is very much a pedestrian’s city, and I can often walk that far without even noticing.) I was wearing my pedometer, so it was immensely satisfying to watch numbers go up, up, up. But here's the thing: It was 18 degrees outside. And windy. By the time I got to 25th Street, I couldn't feel my fingertips (wearing fingerless gloves, holding a very large, hot coffee), and by 32nd Street I couldn't feel my entire face. I ran into my office building and headed straight to the bathroom so I could look in the mirror to make sure I still had lips.

2. Not surprisingly, I watched and was thrilled by Barack Obama's inauguration. However, I was less thrilled by the fact that I discovered I’m kind of an idiot.

I don’t work on Tuesdays so I was supposed to be home alone during the ceremony, and the only scheduled blip in the day was a visit from the plumber to fix our radiators. I was kind of bummed, because I think the inauguration — this inauguration — is the kind of event you want to watch with people. (If I’d bothered to watch George Bush’s inauguration, I’m sure I would have done it alone in the dark, under my bed, weeping into ice cream.) As luck would have it, the plumber showed up at 11:30 a.m., so we watched the swearing-in together. He worked through most of the opening rigamarole and Aretha’s hat (as far as I’m concerned, she’s the Queen and she can wear a feral cat on her head if she wants to) while I took pictures of my TV and jumped around the living room. And then we watched the swearing-in together and talked, not so much about our own political beliefs — he was pretty clear about not wanting to go there — but more about the campaign that Obama ran and what we hope he’ll do, knowing he’s going to fuck up but also knowing that he’ll do a lot of good. It was great. Exactly how I wanted to experience this giant, giant moment.

Here’s the thing: My plumber is African-American. And as a black man who goes into dozens of homes every day, he probably has dozens of people who are not black looking at him while he works and wondering, What is this historical moment like for him? Inasmuch as when a Jewish person finally gets elected president (Mike Bloomberg? Carl Levin? Winona Ryder?) people will be looking at me and wondering what it’s like for a Jew. Or a woman, when that happens. But I confess: I wanted to know too. Because for me, the inauguration was one of the most moving, exciting, monumental things I’d ever seen, but I will never be able to truly, fully experience the cultural significance of the first African-American president the way an African-American person can. It’s not my experience or my history, and it would be wrong for me to attempt to adopt it simply because I’m American. So I kept thinking, Don’t ask him, don’t ask him, don’t ask him … Because he very obviously just wanted to be at my house to do his job, and then leave to do his job somewhere else because it was no degrees outside and everyone’s radiators were kaput and he was busy and had many, many appointments to keep. And just because he’s black didn’t mean he wanted to talk about what it was like to be black, and it certainly didn’t mean that being black automatically invites stupid questions, even though I understand that being Jewish certainly invites stupid comments from people. (How many times have I heard, “You’re Jewish? But your nose is small!” [True, but my heaving bosom is right off the shtetl.] And, “Why don’t you go to church on Christmas? It’s a national holiday!”) Really, it just seemed like he wanted to watch the swearing-in and then go about his day, doing his work that he’s very good at. He was all business. Ultimately, what was he going to say? “Eh, a black man is president? It’s OK.” ??? Come on.

But because I’m an idiot, I asked anyway.

“Did you ever think you would see this?”

He smiled. “I thought it would happen eventually, but not in my lifetime. Not yet.” He said he thought this changes everything in terms of country leadership, and he’s certain the next president, regardless of race or party affiliation, will be a woman. He humored me, then showed me how the radiators work (down to the distribution of steam and how it passes through the home and oh my gosh I do not understand these things), and went off to his next appointment.

I hope I didn’t ruin the moment for him by putting him on the spot. And I imagine that when Shmuel Ishkabibble or Zac Efron or whichever Jew is the first to be sworn into the presidency, karma will rear its head and someone will say to me, “So! The Jews control the media and the banks, and now the government! My, you Heebs are a resourceful peoples! How does this make you feel?!?” And I’ll have deserved that.

3. Yesterday, Josh and I had this conversation:

Josh: So, I’ve been thinking.
Me: Uh-oh.
Josh: You were supposed to say, “I smell wood burning.”
Me: I will not succumb to cliché!
Josh: But that's my thing!
Me: Cliché is your thing?
Josh: Yes.
Me: How did I marry you?
Josh: Say it.
Me: You can’t make me do it.

4. Also yesterday, I found this very ugly word in the dictionary that describes something (potentially) pretty:

fard: vt to paint the face with cosmetics

5. My cat Tallulah eats from her food bowl with her paw. She doesn't dive in with her face; she scoops it out with her fingertips. Very dainty. The other night, I had a dream that she was eating with a fork.

6. OK, I’m out of material. I’m taking suggestions. You want me to write about [insert topic here because I can’t think of a damn thing]? Let me know. My creative juices have clearly fermented.

The First Annual Marla Garla Song and Poetry Contest

OK, so here's the deal:

I have writer's block.

My friend Scott Who I Love tells me that it's because I'm happy right now, and that could very well be true, but it doesn't address the problem. The bloglem. See? This is what I come up with. I should be ashamed of myself. So it doesn't address the problem of the fact that I seem to be relying heavily on filling this site with random photographs because words and ideas escape me. But I'm happy, so at least I'm not overwrought about it. I'm all, "Words? Who needs 'em! Lalalalallala pretty bird!" And at least my writer's block isn't as debilitating as Dan Brown's — poor Dan Brown, who is shouldering the blame for his entire publishing imprint going kaput because he hasn't produced another Da Vinci Code for Doubleday. Pressure.

So here's what we're gonna do.

When I was in Boston at the beginning of November visiting The Nephew, I had a tendency to sing to him. I sang to him a lot. I sang to him nonstop, I danced and sang to him. I sang this song when I was changing his diaper:

This is what we do
When you make a poo
We clean up your bits
And we clean up your butt
And now you're good as new

I sang this song when he got fussy:

There's no need
To be so sad
You've got a great mom
And you've got a great dad

But because I have writer's block, that's all I could come up with. No second verses, nary another stanza. Stephanie tried to build on the poo song and write one about pee, and it had potential and some clever rhyme patterns, but we just couldn't get it, you know?

Now it's your turn. You don't have to write about poop, you don't have to soothe the savage infant soul, you don't have to rhyme. Just see what you can come up with on any topic you choose, lyrics or poetry, haiku or tofu, and I'll send the one that cracks my shit up the most a prize. So easy! And I don't have to write! Fancy that! And if you do want to write a song for The Nephew, who is exceptional in every way, that would indeed be awesome.

Here, I'll start you off with haiku, my favorite form:

Isn't the blogger
supposed to do the writing?
This chick sucks my ass.

What do you get when you guzzle down sweets?

Here's what's happened to me so far this week:

MONDAY nights are when we close the issues at the magazine. For some reason, I haven't been sleeping at all since last Thursday or so, and I slept maybe three to four hours Sunday night tops despite my ingestion of Tylenol PM. I was basically useless in every capacity at work. However, I was wearing a very cute outfit and was told by several coworkers that I should not be in the office and should instead be yachting. I agreed.

TUESDAY I had lunch with one of my very favorite contestants from America's Next Top Model, Nnenna Agba. It is so only-in-New-York how this all came to be, but suffice to say, Nnenna is a) one of the most gracious, kind, engaging, interesting, and intelligent women I've had the pleasure to meet, and b) is so disarmingly, magnificently beautiful that we were ten minutes into our lunch before my head stopped buzzing. She's lovely and fabulous.

WEDNESDAY, after not sleeping again Tuesday night, I went to Duane Reade to drop off Josh's prescription. The pharmacist said, "Birthday?" And I said, "Seven ... Wait. ... One ... Seven ... [brain blacks out] Two. Oh. Hang on. Two. One ..." (Josh's birthday is in February.) I stood on the train platform thinking I would either pass out or throw up. This is the only time in a person's life when they welcome the stale, acrid breeze lifted by a train passing through a station. Wednesday I was also in receipt of a photo of Stacy's son, Bass, with his first friend, a stuffed bear named Pancake. I found this to be the most pleasing thing ever, and I feel confident that they will be lifelong pals and trade music and ride bikes to the drugstore together.

THURSDAY, today, I am in an uncomfortable Ambien haze in which I feel I've been dunked underwater and I'm floating up Sixth Avenue. To add to the hallucinogenic feeling, I received free candy from two Oompa-Loompas walking through my office, one of whom taught me how to take a photo with a BlackBerry. Five minutes later, I stepped aside so Yoko Ono could pass through a doorway. I am now at my desk, nibbling on my Nerds Rope, "Pop! Goes My Heart" in my head, and I have tickets to see The Police's "last ever" show at Madison Square Garden tonight, and I'm hoping Stewart Copeland hurls himself over his drum kit and beats up Sting because that would be fun and well overdue.

I need assistance in processing all of this. Your suggestions are welcome.

And Oompa-Loompa photo to come. For real.

The Women

Here is an example of when being a crackhead does not work in your favor:

Last night, Tatum O'Neal got arrested for buying drugs. She pulled the whole, "Do you know who I am?" bit, then said she's researching a role as a crackhead. But here's the thing: Tatum O'Neal's history with drug abuse has been well documented, even by the actress herself. So, um, then, wouldn't her life have been research for the role? "So yeah, I'm studying how to be a crackhead for a movie, because being a crackhead in real life didn't really prepare me for this challenge and I want to, um, explore my art." How Method.

It's not like anybody is expected to think clearly while they're buying crack, but really, that was the worst excuse ever. But truly, when it comes down to it, this story is very sad. She was clean for a while. Relapses are heartbreaking because for a while there was hope, and then ... there isn't. Not for a while, anyway.

Anyway.

This weekend was crappy and also delightful:

CRAPPY
Stephanie was supposed to come to town for her second attempt in the past year to see Duran Duran — or, as she's taken to calling them, Nick Rhodes & The Others — but for the second time in the past year, her plans were thwarted. (First time: She made it to New York for the band's show on Broadway, but the morning of the concert, the stagehands went on strike and it was canceled. This time: sick husband. "He better have ebola, for me to miss this," she said.)

DELIGHTFUL
I slept. And slept and slept and slept and slept. For the first time in months.

CRAPPY
With Stephanie in Boston and Stacy — with whom I see Nick Rhodes & The Others as often as possible — in San Francisco, and the fact that the show was in Central Park and it was pouring rain outside, I was totally unmotivated to go at all, never mind find someone to go with me. (A note on this: I have no problem going to concerts by myself. I do it all the time. With certain bands and certain levels of fandom, you sometimes want to go with people who are just as maniacal about the music as you are. Then there are the times when you feel more generous with your fandom and want to bring someone along who isn't as stalker-y as you are but is open-minded. I just wasn't feeling maniacal about anything that night.) I sat on the couch until the last possible minute moaning, "Am I lame if I stay home?"

DELIGHTFUL
Stacy, in true BFF form, took on the laziness-intervention I asked her to stage for me and successfully talked me into going. "Oh, I've been there," she said. "You've seen them a million times. You don't want to get out of bed. You're exhausted and antisocial and you feel blah. But also? Even a bad Duran show is a great Duran show, so you know you'll have an awesome time, and if you find out there was a Finn moment and you missed it, you'll kick yourself." Then she asked me what song I most wanted to hear, and I said "Hold Back the Rain." "Oh, and it's pouring outside? They'll for sure play that!" she said.

CRAPPY
They didn't play "Hold Back the Rain." In the rain! Whatever!

DELIGHTFUL
Concerts really are so much more fun when you're wet.

CRAPPY
Except when everyone puts up their umbrellas and you can't see anything.

DELIGHTFUL
But then the sky clears and people collapse their umbrellas, and everything was smashing. The weather even made the band more human, as evidenced by the fact that the humidity made Nick Rhodes's hair frizz.

CRAPPY
I discovered yesterday while making dinner for some friends that a) despite certain efforts to enjoy cooking, I still stress out like a freak while doing it; and b) this does not bring out the softer side of my temper. This conversation happened:

ME: [looking forlornly at a recipe that called for 4-ounce pieces of chicken when the packages of chicken breasts I had were calculated in pounds] Josh, please help me figure this out. I don't do math and my brain is fried. Should I cut these pieces in half or in thirds?
JOSH: [walks over to help] Well, first of all, you're using the wrong knife.
ME: [glaring at him] I didn't ask if I was using the right knife. I asked you to do the math. I can't do the math.
JOSH: But you asked for my help.
ME: WITH THE MATH. THE MATH. I DON'T CARE ABOUT MY TECHNIQUE. JUST TELL ME WHERE TO CUT THIS THING. I DON'T WANT YOU TO TELL ME I'M DOING SOMETHING WRONG. I JUST WANT TO CUT THE FUCKING CHICKEN.

This did not go over well. Compounded by the fact that I was completely intimidated by cooking for a group of foodies when I am, unfortunately, not one, and I'm completely insecure in the kitchen, this was not my best moment.

DELIGHTFUL
1. I apologized.
2. I realized that I can make pieces of chicken as big or as small as I please.
3. Dinner came out fine. I sort of surprised myself, to be honest, because I got so frustrated that I gave up on using recipes and just threw stuff together and it became something somewhat edible. I've never trusted my cooking instincts, which is why I'm better at baking (specific instructions + specific measurements = good), so the fact that I cobbled together a main course largely on instinct was very reassuring. And if it was terrible, my friends were gracious and complimentary as always, so they left me none the wiser, which is another reason why they're awesome.
4. The company was splendid. Most weeks, I meet up with a group of girlfriends for what we call Dames of Sunday Night. We all bring food to someone's apartment and then watch films from the '30s, '40s and '50s, movies with fast-talking, sharp-dressing broads, very Rosalind Russell. Speaking of whom, last night's flick was The Women. So good.

ALSO DELIGHTFUL
My brother-in-law does not have ebola.

ALSO ALSO DELIGHTFUL
Honestly, people? Ridiculous.

Frazzle Rock

On the elevator this morning, all was awry. There were three of us:

1 (one) man, annoyingly cheerful, also: British;
1 (one) woman, frazzled, announcing that she never should have gotten out of bed this morning;
1 (one) me, also frazzled, also (one-quarter) British

As annoyingly cheerful people tend to do, the man took it upon himself to attempt to introduce The Frazzle to the bright side of life. The Frazzle, of course, was having none of it.

"Come on!" he said. "It's spring! And today's Thursday! Which means tomorrow's Friday! How bad could it be?!?"

Having just dropped a pile of magazines on the subway and slammed into two (2) walls due to lack of sleep and coffee, I was about to punch him in the face until The Frazzle stared at the elevator ceiling and said under her breath:

"There are more suicides in April than during any other month."

I almost kissed her. Spring has always been the hardest time of year for me. Growing up in Michigan, you'd think I'd be taken down by Seasonal Affective Disorder with a wallop every winter, paralyzed by a lack of sunlight. But as far back as I can remember, until only the past couple years, I would spend the entire month of May crying in bed. I have no idea why this was, but my body chemistry would stage a coup against my brain and all my innards would sing a rousing chorus of "Dysfunction Junction" until mid-June.

I don't think all seasonal malaise necessarily exists in a vacuum; currently, there are certainly things happening in my life acting as catalysts for feeling like crap, as opposed to the more automatic crap-onset of my youth. I suppose in the past, spring was always change — end of the school year, adjustment to a new schedule, saying goodbye — and I feared change. These last few years, I found myself petulant because of not enough change. Perhaps being a cynical and indignant East Coaster Via Northern Midwesterner, I'm not meant to experience too much sunlight. And that's probably also the British in me, as my constitution necessitates that I protect my pasty pallor from the elements. But I know people have it rough this time of year.

Some people just get burned by too much sun.

It's not just me. I'd be willing to bet you feel this too: You're not sleeping, you feel a little bloated, you finally got rid of your cold but your stomach's upset, you're in a really foul mood. It's everywhere. And as my friend Heather reminded me today, misery loves company. So let's all share our own personal elevators with The Frazzle, and boot that cheesy "Looks like you've got a case of the Mondays!" English fella to the curb.

(Just to prove a point, Webster is laughing at me. I looked up indignant in the dictionary to make sure I was using it properly, and here's what it said:

indignant: to be indignant; filled with or marked by indignation

Suck it, Webster.)

The only thing that cheered me up today was when Jessica said to me, as our breakfast-time conversation was winding down, "I'm sorry I interrupted your melon."

How do you feel today? If you feel splendid, let us know, but please refrain from cheering up Les Miserables. We're armed.

Is this happening in your office, too?

The Chorus of Infection? Everybody has this crappy illness that's going around. It's a new symphony called Sick, in Three Parts: The Nose, The Throat, The Eyes — A Musical Interlude Through Unending Dryness.

Just now, one of my coworkers met with another coworker while she was having a coughing fit. During one brief pause, I cleared my throat to avoid a coughing fit of my own. She began coughing again, and during another brief pause, another coworker blew her nose. I cleared my throat again, and then coughed. The first coworker resumed her coughing, then walked away, as the coughing slowly faded out.

It was simply melodic.

For the overture, I may incorporate the lilting sounds of lip balm being spread across my mouth, and then a soft sigh, as it no longer matters how much lip balm I apply or how much I drink, my mouth has been dry for two weeks.

Fin.

If you have a problem discussing mucus and poop, don't read this.

All right, people. This is getting ridiculous. The Phlegm is back. I never get sick twice in a summer.

It's barreling through my system all freight-trainey, though, so five days into it, I'm already where I would normally be (tiptoeing through the coughing-fit stage) during Week 2. So that's good. It was pretty much brought on by a fabulous but frantic run through the Pacific Northwest, in which I saw two cities I've always wanted to visit (Portland and Seattle) and saw a dear friend marry a great guy in a seriously picturesque Willamette Valley vineyard, but then there was the scant sleeping and the delayed flying and the two-and-a-half-hour taxi odyssey home in the remnants of the Freak Rainstorm 2007 that shut down nearly all of the city's freeways. And then there were two nights of Crowded House shows that followed (which, please, I'd drag my fangirl self to if I had some gaping head wound or a tail or something), and my body just said, "That's it. I'm going to liquify now." So here we are.

This all leaves me feeling weary but contemplative, mostly because I'm making noises and all-around imploding from the face in public. It makes me think of all the most disgusting things I hate doing in public but can't seem to avoid right now:

1. Blowing my nose
2. Coughing (if it's more than three coughs and there are innards involved)
3. Throwing up (that would be Friday, in the bathroom at work — not at my desk, thank god for large favors)

Fine, this might seem gross to you. You might wonder why I'm talking about this on The Internets. But be honest: You have a method for picking your nose undetected in public. At some moment in time, something more substantial than just spit has shot out of your mouth during a conversation with someone you had a crush on. You move your shopping bags/purse/backpack/other stuff-carrying device around your body so you can pick a wedgie in a crowded department store. You quicken your pace as you walk away from your farts on the sidewalk. You pull a hair out of your head to floss a poppy seed from between your two front teeth before going back to your table in a restaurant. You sniff your pits in the car. I know you do this. Stop hiding. Stop pretending that smell isn't your stank foot odor wafting from under your chair. We all have grossness that we all, at some point or another, have to take outside the safe fart zones of our homes.

At work, there are very few private offices with doors. Most of us sit in cubicles with half-walls that come up just above the waist. I thought I'd hate it, it certainly limits personal phone calls, but perhaps for that reason I secretly love it. My coworkers are very cool and the open format comes in handy during hectic closes, when communication is essential.

But on days like today, everyone can hear me coughing up my lungs. Everyone who walks past looks straight at my nose and makes mental notes that it's crusting off my face. I've stopped ducking under my desk to blow my nose, but the bathroom is SO far away that I'm just out in the open with my snot. Today, I am the Gross Girl In The Office. I know I'm not contagious, and I'm finally at the point where I can hold a thought and be productive so it's not obscene for me to be at work. But it's obscene what's crawling up my esophagus when I cough.

When I hit 30, I turned a corner in many avenues in my life. Family neuroses didn't get to me so much. I accepted my body (not fully, but more than I ever had). I got better at letting things go. I weeded out the unhealthy relationships in my life. And I started pooping in public restrooms. This is something that, until that point, I avoided at all costs, only did under extreme physical duress. And then I turned 30. And I got tired of stomachaches. So maybe that's why I feel my Interoffice Coughing Fits are invasive, but they're human, and I can't feel embarrassed by them, even if the Office Douchebag comes by and says something like, "Sounds like you got yourself quite a problem there, eh?!? Hahahahahahaha!"

OK, confession: My Most Embarrassing Moment

It was at summer camp. I was about eight years old. My bunk went to the nature center to look at the frogs and snakes and turtles, and then we sat in a circle and the nature specialist showed us how to make three-legged stools. The nature specialist was accompanied by a junior counselor who was sooooooo cute. Never having been one of those girls who thought boys had cooties, I was enamored. He sat next to me, so I convinced myself he was in love with me. The circle was silent except for the calm voice of the nature supervisor. I felt the heat off the junior counselor's body. I knew he wanted me. I felt like the most desirable eight-year-old on the planet. I felt he was my future. I felt his longing. I felt his passion. So I farted.

It was silent enough where it wasn't heard around the circle, but it was loud enough where he heard it. He was the only one who heard it. He looked at me, and the only way I could save face was to cover it up. So I did what any quick-witted, sharp-minded young intellectual would do: I started making fart noises with my mouth, psuedo-raspberries, sort of in song, as if this was something logical to do during any three-legged-stool-assembling instruction.

"Pfft. Blrrrrpt. Fffffftttt."

People, I'm going to blow my nose wherever I want to, as loud or as messy as I want to. I have nowhere to go but up.

Three Weekends, Three Islands

As we close out of July, may I say, it has been waterful. Ba-dum-bum.

If you stop reading this blog because of that, I'll understand. Also, if you want to see any of these photos in more detail, just click on them. A blown-up version should load on your screen.

ISLAND #1: CITY ISLAND, NEW YORK CITY, JULY 1

Some of you may recall that I've mentioned I'm not the greatest athlete. Having been thus far irreparably scarred by gym class, I still think in terms of my middle and high school's timing requirements when I work out. (They were called Presidentials. Is that national, or did my school district just call it that to imply that if you couldn't run a mile in whatever minutes or do 60 situps in whatever minutes, you were unpatriotic? As the Fat Kid In Gym Class, I was terrified of and humiliated by Presidentials. There wasn't a Presidential in dodgeball, so I never did well.)

So pretty much since the very second I met Josh, I've been begging him to take me to batting cages to teach me how to hit a ball. I feel that this is the one athletic feat I must overcome in order to feel like a complete person. Our first spring together, he took me to Rye Playland, where there's a slight fatal-accident problem and also where they filmed Big, although those two characteristics are unrelated. There had been cages there, but when we got there they had been long closed. So we rode the log flume instead.

That was in 2000. Seven years ago. That's a lot of begging to hit a freakin' softball to nobody.

This year for my birthday, he surprised me and took me to the batting cages at Turtle Cove Golf & Baseball Complex, located in the Bronx just across a bridge from City Island. City Island is a small island with the air of a New England fishing community. You feel a million miles away from the city, the food is delicious, and it has a lot of character. On our way home from a road trip to Maine five years ago, we stopped to have dinner on City Island because we weren't ready to go home.

The trains were, of course, completely screwed up, being a Sunday. When the J train finally came



we sat across from Fanny Pack Man.



The cages were great. The stalls all opened to the same common space



where a guy ran after the balls with a golf club and putted them into a hole where they'd re-enter the machines and shoot out at you and oh my god I'm 12 because that whole thing sounded so dirty.

Also dirty?



I am thrilled to say, dear reader, that not only did I hit the ball, it went forward. And sometimes it went forward with a certain amount of force to go farther than two feet in front of me. I was thrilled! I conquered my Gym Trauma! I was kind of good! I wasn't the worst batter there! Elation!

We took the bus to City Island afterward for dinner. Pretty!



And then we walked. The island is replete with lots of old mom-and-pop businesses. There was an antique store that looked like it opened at the beginning of the Paleolithic Era





for all your duck and disembodied steering wheel needs.

There was also this:



I know I've never written about my Doll Thing. I don't like talking about it, it makes me very upset, but it should be obvious from this picture that they are evil and want to eat your head:



"Coooooome with us. BE one of us! Drink tea with us out of wee teacups! We will eat your head!"



"You will be squished like us! Squish squish squish! Joiiiiiiiin us!"



Let me be clear: I do NOT like dolls. But it was a great birthday.

ISLAND #2: FIRE ISLAND, NEW YORK, JULY 7 TO JULY 9

Josh's aunt and uncle have the most excellent beach house on Fire Island, which is off the coast of Long Island. It's 32 miles long and roughly a half-mile wide, though where the house is, it's only about a quarter-mile wide. There are no cars. You don't have to wear shoes. The house is directly on the sand dunes overlooking the beach on the Atlantic Ocean. We sit on the deck for three days, watch the waves, and do absolutely nothing.





It's heaven. I have a theory that one weekend there adds roughly six months to your life. It's the only place in the world so far where I truly feel I can relax. Bliss.

Because there are no cars, visitors (and the few year-round residents) schlep their stuff to and from the ferries in Radio Flyer wagons.







Here are some of the things you find when you walk around Fire Island from town to town:



Anthony Rapp! Judy Gold! But not together!

Most homes on the island have fencing to keep out the deer, who roam freely in public spaces.





And every time we go, Josh does his "If it's an island, how did the deer get there?" bit. And then, "I'm not predictable. I'm consistent."







Stuck to the side of an electrical box:



General, all-around beach deliciousness:















ISLAND #3: MACKINAC ISLAND, MICHIGAN, JULY 12 TO JULY 15

My mother turned 60 on July 1. This notable event was commemorated with an entire-family trip to northern Michigan. To make this happen was nothing short of a miracle, as there are now 10 of us living in four different cities with various work schedules and other roadblocks that make getting all of us in one place near impossible.

Which is why it was important to have Thomas on our side:



The drive from Detroit is about four and a half hours. Josh and I rode up with my youngest sister, Lauren, and her boyfriend, Wes. Lauren just turned 23, but when she was 12 and getting ready for her bat mitzvah, my two other sisters and I tortured her with what our speech at her party would be. In essence, we told her we would:

1. Dress in green sequins so we could
2. do an interpretive Dance of the Frogs with
3. temporary tattoos of the Golden Girls up and down our arms highlighted by
4. Rue McLanahan displayed prominently in our armpits.

So I bought Lauren this for her 23rd birthday:



I'm not sure if Rue had any assistance writing this tome, but if she had a ghostwriter, that person was certainly the turd in the English class punch bowl.



The book, uh, could have been better. I'll just say that. Perhaps I'll ask the ghostwriter to meet me out on the lanai to discuss this over Rose's Gerfleurgeneurgen cake.

We stopped at a 7-11 for gas, Simpson's Squishies, and, unexpectedly, a vat o' meat substitute.



Heh. Beef Stick.

We went to Harbor Springs for dinner. It's one of the many beautiful towns at the top of the Michigan mitten.

The fam:



From left: Stephanie's husband, Josh; me; my husband, Josh (and yes, it's often confusing in conversation); Lauren's boyfriend, Wes; Stephanie; Lauren; Jennifer's fiancé, Brian; Jennifer; Dad; Mom



The first morning, we had breakfast at the Flap Jack Shack.



I had the grilled wi-fi. It was divine.

Lauren works in PR and one of her clients is the Leelenau Wine Cellars, a winemaker in the Leelenau Peninsula, located at the tip of the pinkie of Michigan's mitten. Along the way, we got lost. So we stopped here to chat with the helpful folks at OnStar:



If more companies used the last letter of their company name as part of their acronym just so they can spell a word that they probably shouldn't want prospective customers to associate with their business, and then filled their marquee with some jacked-up text that makes sense to no one, it would be incredibly confusing but a lot fabulous.

This is the area around Leelenau Wine Cellars' tasting room. Spectacular.







We were invited to visit the impressive vineyards and processing plant where they make the wine.









Afterward, we drove to Traverse City to catch the last day of the National Cherry Festival.





While we were there, they were setting up a stage for a live performance by none other than ... Kellie Pickler. The Romantics and Marshall Crenshaw were also slated to play during the course of the festival, so I imagine many medleys of "What I Like About You" and "Some Day, Some Way" filled the skies of Traverse City. Sadly, we missed the cherry seed spitting contest, so Stephanie took it upon herself to fill the void. A splendid arc, ifidosaysomyself.



A bank in Charlevoix:



We all assumed they're open from 12:01 a.m. Monday until 11:59 p.m. Friday night. And that, my friends, is DEDICATION.

Ever since I can remember, my mother has played mah jongg on Monday nights. She's played with the same women (lovingly nicknamed the Auntie Mahj Ladies) for years, and they always have the same food spread at every game: veggies and dip, M&M's, Twizzlers, and Brach's chocolate-covered raisins. So on this trip, Mom taught us how to play mahj, and Steph brought along the candy. An excellent time.





I managed to win without understanding a single thing about how to play. This is not reflective of my mother's teaching ability at all. She was a great mahj teacher, but I just think I'm really bad at it. I'll stick to euchre, which I'm also bad at but at least I can play without raising my hand every two seconds and saying, "I don't get it."

Our last full day was spent on Mackinac Island, located in Lake Huron between the upper and lower peninsulas of Michigan, in the shadow of the Mackinaw Bridge. (If I go into the spelling and pronounciation here, my head may explode. But there is an explanation, I swear.) The bridge is the longest suspension bridge in the world, and it's the dividing line between lakes Michigan and Huron. The island itself is a well-preserved historical relic that was established back in the 1600s. Like Fire Island, there are no cars, but there are a lot of bikes, horses, cheesy T-shirt shops and places to buy fudge. Though visiting Mackinac Island was a major part of my youth, I hadn't been there since my 20th birthday, and I didn't remember it being this beautiful. Anyway, to borrow from the Fug Girls:

GARFIELD FAMILY THEATER AT THE MACKINAC ISLAND FERRY DOCK:



JEN: (in front) I did it! I won! I did it!
LAUREN: (behind Jen's shoulder) What, who won? What did you win?
JEN: Oh my gosh! I won! I'm the Cherry Festival Queen!
BRIAN: (next to Jen) Hang on, I have to call my family. They're never gonna believe this.
DAD: That's my daughter over there! The Cherry Festival Queen! Whaddya know, would you look at that? My own daughter!
MOM: Jen, I hate to tell you this, but if you're going to be Cherry Festival Queen, you should probably put on some deodorant.
LAUREN: Hey, I can't see! What did she win?
BRIAN: Guys? You're never gonna believe this! Guess what happened to Jen?!
JEN: I get a tiara! Woo hoo!
WES: (behind Lauren) This is SO awesome. I bet we get all the cherries we can eat for, like, a year cuz we know her.
LAUREN: Would someone please tell me what she won?!
JEN: I get to be on a float! Isn't that the coolest? Woo hoo!!!
WES: Lauren, ask her if she gets benefits.
JOSH: I don't know any of you people.

The bridge:







This dog is wearing a sundress.



Before the dog was moved to its next destination, it was strapped to its owner in a pink-and-white gingham doggie frontpack and a pair of pink sunglasses was put on its head.

I am not kidding.

I've mentioned in the past how I feel about this. So I need say nothing else, other than the fact that I shall be praised for my restraint in not posting the full close-up photo of the dog in all its refinery, as it also depicts the owner, and while I think her judgment is ... in question, I don't want anybody to track her down and throw kibble through her windows for putting shades on her pet.







The Grand Hotel boasts the longest porch in the world.



They also ask that you pay $12 to walk the grounds if you're not a guest. Um, I'm totally sitting on my couch right now for free, so. If I add a couple cushions to the end of the couch, it would be really long, so.

After the island, we drove across the bridge to the Upper Peninsula because none of the boys had ever been there. There isn't much to do in that first town on the other side ... until you find the Mystery Spot, of course.

This place is amazing. It's in the middle of nowhere, and apparently, the guy who claimed the middle-of-nowhere land had some surveyors come out to his property so he could see what he had. None of their tools worked properly, and they found that the land sat above an iron ore deposit or some such thing. You walk to this place and your balance is off, you get dizzy, and even though regular instruments indicate items are level, everything is crooked and off. You can do things like this



and feel like you're standing perfectly straight. (Granted, the structure was built crooked to illustrate the shift in balance, but everything is level.)

While you're at the Mystery Spot, you can also walk through a maze



and play miniature golf.



It was an excellent time.

And then I came home and bought a pair of jeans in a size I haven't worn since college. Mystery indeed.