A Blog After My Own Heart
posted by Marla at 11:22 AM
0 comments
Thursday, June 17, 2010
Friday, December 18, 2009
Wednesday, June 03, 2009
On that note, I hate the word knapsack.
I've been cleaning out my work e-mail, which is taking forever because there are literally thousands of them, both personal and work-related. The good thing is, they are in large part hysterical, and they also serve as a journal of my life so I don't have to keep one on its own. The bad thing is, there are thousands of them.
I found this one, which I enjoyed and thought I'd share with you. I sent it to myself on October 23, 2007, just after I'd gotten off the train and came into the office. The subject line is "Oogy couple." For very obvious reasons, I wanted to remember these people.
She has a long skirt on and is carrying an oversize orange leather shoulder bag, one that doesn't look like there's much in it. He's wearing a leather jacket slung over his shoulders, but his arms aren't in it. He's wearing black and blue checked cotton wrestler pants, but he's slight and older, and he's carrying a backpack. She asks him, "Do you want to hold this?" He asks her to repeat. She holds out her jacket. "This is heavy. Do you want to hold this? Do you want to put it in your knapsack?"
Um, duh.
He says, "Well, no, I don't want to, but you're asking me to, so I will." He keeps saying he doesn't want to but he will. She passes it over. I look up. It's a jean jacket. She's carrying a giant heavy shoulder bag but won't carry her jean jacket. He seems to despise her.
We get on the train. There are only single seats scattered here and there. She sits in an end seat, and he sits next to me across the way. There's plenty of room, but he sits practically on top of me, and his leather jacket is poking me. He crosses his legs and starts grading English essays. He smells like glue.
I found this one, which I enjoyed and thought I'd share with you. I sent it to myself on October 23, 2007, just after I'd gotten off the train and came into the office. The subject line is "Oogy couple." For very obvious reasons, I wanted to remember these people.
She has a long skirt on and is carrying an oversize orange leather shoulder bag, one that doesn't look like there's much in it. He's wearing a leather jacket slung over his shoulders, but his arms aren't in it. He's wearing black and blue checked cotton wrestler pants, but he's slight and older, and he's carrying a backpack. She asks him, "Do you want to hold this?" He asks her to repeat. She holds out her jacket. "This is heavy. Do you want to hold this? Do you want to put it in your knapsack?"
Um, duh.
He says, "Well, no, I don't want to, but you're asking me to, so I will." He keeps saying he doesn't want to but he will. She passes it over. I look up. It's a jean jacket. She's carrying a giant heavy shoulder bag but won't carry her jean jacket. He seems to despise her.
We get on the train. There are only single seats scattered here and there. She sits in an end seat, and he sits next to me across the way. There's plenty of room, but he sits practically on top of me, and his leather jacket is poking me. He crosses his legs and starts grading English essays. He smells like glue.
Labels: eavesdroppings, New York, work
posted by Marla at 3:57 PM
0 comments
Friday, April 03, 2009
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.
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.
Labels: health, philosophical whatnots, pop culture, weather, work
posted by Marla at 9:05 PM
3 comments
Thursday, August 07, 2008
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.
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.
Labels: health, pop culture, randomness, work
posted by Marla at 12:47 PM
3 comments
Thursday, July 24, 2008
But I might go back off pizza. I think I just don't like the stuff.
On Friday, after four months of waiting since he was hired, Josh's paperwork went through for his job. This means the City of New York finished their background check, processed his paperwork, approved his employment and put him on salary. He's all set. No more temping, yay excellent benefits, the professional transition from working in the music industry to going back to school to looking for a job in the nonprofit sector is over for him. Biggest relief ever.
Also on Friday, about an hour after Josh called to tell me his hiring went through, I got an e-mail that Stacy, my very oldest and dearest friend since we were six years old, gave birth to her first baby, a healthy, gorgeous boy. She did this after a 31-hour labor. Without drugs. A startling physical accomplishment if I've ever heard of one. She's incredible. Also, she's a mom. Amazing.
Also on Friday, after believing I'd had a dream in which my very favorite news anchor, Sue Simmons (well, my favorite news anchor next to Pat Kiernan; my heart belongs to Pat Kiernan), announced that the FDA had lifted the tomato ban, I found that it was actually true. So after not having touched them for weeks because I've had salmonella before and I do not want it again, I ate my first tomato. It was positively orgasmic. Not eating tomatoes was much more difficult than I thought it would be, and I was deeply impressed by a food discipline that I have never exhibited with any other cuisine in my life, save for not eating a slice of pizza for 12 years and not touching red meat since 1994.
Also on Friday, the bad karmavators — two elevators at the end of my office's elevator-bank hallway that some of my coworkers believe bestow bad luck onto anybody who rides them that day (as proven by the Early 2008 Olsen Twin Fashion Police Debacle) — never once opened for me. Usually they are the only two elevators that ever open when I want to go anywhere (usefully, up or down), and no matter how long I wait for another elevator to come, it's always those two that I'm destined to ride. Not on Friday.
Friday was the best day ever.
I bought a lottery ticket.
I lost.
That's OK. My husband has a salary. I can eat tomatoes. Every ride I took basked in my good luck. And my best friend is a mother.
I win.
Also on Friday, about an hour after Josh called to tell me his hiring went through, I got an e-mail that Stacy, my very oldest and dearest friend since we were six years old, gave birth to her first baby, a healthy, gorgeous boy. She did this after a 31-hour labor. Without drugs. A startling physical accomplishment if I've ever heard of one. She's incredible. Also, she's a mom. Amazing.
Also on Friday, after believing I'd had a dream in which my very favorite news anchor, Sue Simmons (well, my favorite news anchor next to Pat Kiernan; my heart belongs to Pat Kiernan), announced that the FDA had lifted the tomato ban, I found that it was actually true. So after not having touched them for weeks because I've had salmonella before and I do not want it again, I ate my first tomato. It was positively orgasmic. Not eating tomatoes was much more difficult than I thought it would be, and I was deeply impressed by a food discipline that I have never exhibited with any other cuisine in my life, save for not eating a slice of pizza for 12 years and not touching red meat since 1994.
Also on Friday, the bad karmavators — two elevators at the end of my office's elevator-bank hallway that some of my coworkers believe bestow bad luck onto anybody who rides them that day (as proven by the Early 2008 Olsen Twin Fashion Police Debacle) — never once opened for me. Usually they are the only two elevators that ever open when I want to go anywhere (usefully, up or down), and no matter how long I wait for another elevator to come, it's always those two that I'm destined to ride. Not on Friday.
Friday was the best day ever.
I bought a lottery ticket.
I lost.
That's OK. My husband has a salary. I can eat tomatoes. Every ride I took basked in my good luck. And my best friend is a mother.
I win.
Labels: food, friends, pop culture, the hubs, work
posted by Marla at 12:01 AM
1 comments
Tuesday, June 17, 2008
Unexpected Conversation #986
Hm.
Well? Hm.
Okay:
Last night (this morning) at 3 a.m., after putting the magazine to bed and awfully ready to put my wobbly old self to bed, I headed out of the office. On my way through the lobby, I passed a maintenance man whom I'd never seen before.
"Good night," I said.
"Hey, baby," he said.
I walked a few more paces, and then I heard:
"WAIT A MINUTE. What are you doing?"
I turned to him. "I'm going home. Long day."
He looked mystified. "Now, look. You can't even be 30 yet, right?"
Oh, bless him. "I'm going to be 34 next week. But thank you!"
He nodded to me in appreciation. (A note: This has been happening to me a lot lately, and I can't tell you how grateful I am. All the old friends with whom I've recently reunited on Facebook who've said I haven't changed since high school, strangers on the train, my coworkers who've asked me if I was 25, the manicurist who scowled at me two weeks ago while asking me to take off my wedding ring because she thought I was 19 and too young to be hitched ... I salute you. I'm feeling this next birthday in my achy, achy bones, and your love has lifted me higher. Of course, my theory for all this is that it's not that I look so young naturally, but that I still dress like a college student.)
Anyway.
"Come here," he said, gesturing me toward him. I stood next to him. "Listen: the next time you're here because they," he gestured to the ceiling, i.e. upstairs to my office, "keep you here and you're working late at night and exhausting your natural self, here's what you gotta do. The next time you have a day off or you take a vacation, and you better take a vacation, you walk around naked. I don't care how you do it. Whether you get out of the shower or what, sit your natural self down and watch TV, eat a meal [pantomimes eating soup, mayhaps], whatever, you do it. Just do it naked."
I played along. "What makes you think I don't do that already?" I said.
He chuckled. And then: "And while you're doing that, take your natural self over to your couch and sit down and fart, and if it smells, look up at God and say thank you."
Hm. Not sure how to respond to that one.
"How did I do?" he asked. He meant as a comedian. And I, his gassy audience.
"Excellent, sir," I said. He shook my hand and introduced himself. I introduced myself and went home. When I climbed into bed almost 45 minutes later, a half-asleep Josh asked what time it was.
"3:38," I said.
"Okay."
"A guy with a dustpan on a stick just told me to thank God if my fart is smelly."
Whoosh, his eyes opened fast. "WHAT???"
"Such a weird day. 'Night."
On a totally different note, who's with me: Sex and the City, most unnecessary film ever? Discuss.
Well? Hm.
Okay:
Last night (this morning) at 3 a.m., after putting the magazine to bed and awfully ready to put my wobbly old self to bed, I headed out of the office. On my way through the lobby, I passed a maintenance man whom I'd never seen before.
"Good night," I said.
"Hey, baby," he said.
I walked a few more paces, and then I heard:
"WAIT A MINUTE. What are you doing?"
I turned to him. "I'm going home. Long day."
He looked mystified. "Now, look. You can't even be 30 yet, right?"
Oh, bless him. "I'm going to be 34 next week. But thank you!"
He nodded to me in appreciation. (A note: This has been happening to me a lot lately, and I can't tell you how grateful I am. All the old friends with whom I've recently reunited on Facebook who've said I haven't changed since high school, strangers on the train, my coworkers who've asked me if I was 25, the manicurist who scowled at me two weeks ago while asking me to take off my wedding ring because she thought I was 19 and too young to be hitched ... I salute you. I'm feeling this next birthday in my achy, achy bones, and your love has lifted me higher. Of course, my theory for all this is that it's not that I look so young naturally, but that I still dress like a college student.)
Anyway.
"Come here," he said, gesturing me toward him. I stood next to him. "Listen: the next time you're here because they," he gestured to the ceiling, i.e. upstairs to my office, "keep you here and you're working late at night and exhausting your natural self, here's what you gotta do. The next time you have a day off or you take a vacation, and you better take a vacation, you walk around naked. I don't care how you do it. Whether you get out of the shower or what, sit your natural self down and watch TV, eat a meal [pantomimes eating soup, mayhaps], whatever, you do it. Just do it naked."
I played along. "What makes you think I don't do that already?" I said.
He chuckled. And then: "And while you're doing that, take your natural self over to your couch and sit down and fart, and if it smells, look up at God and say thank you."
Hm. Not sure how to respond to that one.
"How did I do?" he asked. He meant as a comedian. And I, his gassy audience.
"Excellent, sir," I said. He shook my hand and introduced himself. I introduced myself and went home. When I climbed into bed almost 45 minutes later, a half-asleep Josh asked what time it was.
"3:38," I said.
"Okay."
"A guy with a dustpan on a stick just told me to thank God if my fart is smelly."
Whoosh, his eyes opened fast. "WHAT???"
"Such a weird day. 'Night."
On a totally different note, who's with me: Sex and the City, most unnecessary film ever? Discuss.
Labels: pop culture, randomness, the hubs, work
posted by Marla at 11:13 PM
2 comments
Thursday, April 03, 2008
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.
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.
Labels: grammar, health, philosophical whatnots, weather, work
posted by Marla at 2:35 PM
1 comments
Monday, March 24, 2008
Sock it to me.
The first thing I did when I got to work this morning was start up the freelancers' computers. We bring in a team to close the magazine every week. They sit in a cluster in a large "pit" behind my desk, which also accommodates fact-checkers and interns.
While I was logging into a computer two desks away from two chatting interns, I caught wind of their conversation:
FEMALE INTERN: I mean, I'm almost 22. I'm gonna be 22 soon.
MALE INTERN: Yeah.
FEMALE INTERN: I've only been turned away once. In Vegas. But, like, it sucked, but I could just go somewhere else, you know? I wasn't 21 yet, so. It doesn't always work.
MALE INTERN: Yeah, I know.
FEMALE INTERN: It's just a problem because, like, I still have some friends who aren't 21 yet, so if they can't get in, it's like, we have to, you know, go somewhere else. And, like, the fake doesn't always work.
I'm going to be 34 in June. I felt aged. It reminded me of an incident about two years ago when another editor and I had to explain to an intern what Dallas and Dynasty were. What is a life without the shoulder-padded Bob Mackie rainbow that is Alexis Morrell Carrington Colby Dexter Rowan, I ask you? With the pot of Krystle at the end?
And yet, some part of me wanted to chime in about my old fake ID, and how the person whose ID it was was 5-foot-6, had straight brown hair, brown eyes, was super-tan and lived in Florida. (I'm 5-foot-3. I have blue eyes. Curly hair. Pasty. Detroit.) And it worked every time. Once I turned 21 and renewed my license, the same bar that had been letting me in for two years with my fake started asking me to sign my name to test its legitimacy before they'd let me pass through their hallowed gates. Did I mention the bar is called The Landshark? ("Candy Gram.") Anyway, it never really mattered anyway, for in East Lansing, Michigan, you can get past any door if you have boobs and a working knowledge of beer pong.
Ultimately, what right did I have to attempt to relate to the trials and tribulations of the early-twentysomething set? In contrast, this is a conversation I had with Lisa this weekend, just before we headed out to see Aretha Franklin in concert:
ME: I know I'm getting old, because I'm so glad she's playing Radio City. There's seats.
LISA: Oh, you know how I feel about seats. I hate standing shows. Remember when we saw Crowded House last summer? You were all, "Let's go stand in the middle!" And I was all, "Ugh."
ME: Radio City is carpeted, too. So if we have to stand, it's cushy.
LISA: That's what I'm talkin' about.
Did I mention I saw ARETHA FREAKIN' FRANKLIN this weekend? At Radio City Freakin' Music Hall? Oy, was it divine. The Queen walked out in a dress that was a veritable kiln explosion, all black and silver foofy beaded tulle that she still managed to navigate behind the piano so she could play it. And Aretha moved and belted and Queened her way around that soul — and CISSY FREAKIN' HOUSTON was one of her backup singers! a backup singer! — and that voice effortlessly rose from inside of her, letting her man know that he better respect, that she's not his fool, that she may have lost her heart but she still has her head, and then, the night before Easter, she took us to church, and holy crap, Aretha. I don't know if I've mentioned it here on this forum, but I've truly believed for years now that, while I may be Jewy Jew Whitey on the outside, I'm Aretha on the inside. The whole thing made me unreasonably happy at a time when my life is, well, let's just say I've been challenged and I need emotional release.
And as expected, Aretha took care of us. We got to sit and rest. And when we stood, our feet were cradled. And I felt ageless and my tone-deaf voice soared and I was sitting next to a guy who looked exactly like Nile Rogers but I didn't want to ask him if he was indeed he, and Aretha saved my old, temporarily songless soul.
While I was logging into a computer two desks away from two chatting interns, I caught wind of their conversation:
FEMALE INTERN: I mean, I'm almost 22. I'm gonna be 22 soon.
MALE INTERN: Yeah.
FEMALE INTERN: I've only been turned away once. In Vegas. But, like, it sucked, but I could just go somewhere else, you know? I wasn't 21 yet, so. It doesn't always work.
MALE INTERN: Yeah, I know.
FEMALE INTERN: It's just a problem because, like, I still have some friends who aren't 21 yet, so if they can't get in, it's like, we have to, you know, go somewhere else. And, like, the fake doesn't always work.
I'm going to be 34 in June. I felt aged. It reminded me of an incident about two years ago when another editor and I had to explain to an intern what Dallas and Dynasty were. What is a life without the shoulder-padded Bob Mackie rainbow that is Alexis Morrell Carrington Colby Dexter Rowan, I ask you? With the pot of Krystle at the end?
And yet, some part of me wanted to chime in about my old fake ID, and how the person whose ID it was was 5-foot-6, had straight brown hair, brown eyes, was super-tan and lived in Florida. (I'm 5-foot-3. I have blue eyes. Curly hair. Pasty. Detroit.) And it worked every time. Once I turned 21 and renewed my license, the same bar that had been letting me in for two years with my fake started asking me to sign my name to test its legitimacy before they'd let me pass through their hallowed gates. Did I mention the bar is called The Landshark? ("Candy Gram.") Anyway, it never really mattered anyway, for in East Lansing, Michigan, you can get past any door if you have boobs and a working knowledge of beer pong.
Ultimately, what right did I have to attempt to relate to the trials and tribulations of the early-twentysomething set? In contrast, this is a conversation I had with Lisa this weekend, just before we headed out to see Aretha Franklin in concert:
ME: I know I'm getting old, because I'm so glad she's playing Radio City. There's seats.
LISA: Oh, you know how I feel about seats. I hate standing shows. Remember when we saw Crowded House last summer? You were all, "Let's go stand in the middle!" And I was all, "Ugh."
ME: Radio City is carpeted, too. So if we have to stand, it's cushy.
LISA: That's what I'm talkin' about.
Did I mention I saw ARETHA FREAKIN' FRANKLIN this weekend? At Radio City Freakin' Music Hall? Oy, was it divine. The Queen walked out in a dress that was a veritable kiln explosion, all black and silver foofy beaded tulle that she still managed to navigate behind the piano so she could play it. And Aretha moved and belted and Queened her way around that soul — and CISSY FREAKIN' HOUSTON was one of her backup singers! a backup singer! — and that voice effortlessly rose from inside of her, letting her man know that he better respect, that she's not his fool, that she may have lost her heart but she still has her head, and then, the night before Easter, she took us to church, and holy crap, Aretha. I don't know if I've mentioned it here on this forum, but I've truly believed for years now that, while I may be Jewy Jew Whitey on the outside, I'm Aretha on the inside. The whole thing made me unreasonably happy at a time when my life is, well, let's just say I've been challenged and I need emotional release.
And as expected, Aretha took care of us. We got to sit and rest. And when we stood, our feet were cradled. And I felt ageless and my tone-deaf voice soared and I was sitting next to a guy who looked exactly like Nile Rogers but I didn't want to ask him if he was indeed he, and Aretha saved my old, temporarily songless soul.
Labels: childhood, friends, pop culture, work
posted by Marla at 10:43 AM
3 comments
Wednesday, March 12, 2008
Processing cheese
These are some conversations I've had lately:
ME: [to self] Oh, Simon Monjack. Where were you when I was single?
JESSICA: I feel like Simon Monjack is the guy who keeps a sandwich by the bed just in case he's hungry. Like, he just rolls over and eats.
ME: Ooh, you know what kind of sandwich it is?
JESSICA: What kind?
ME: Bologna! With cheese slices.
JESSICA: EW! Cheese slices!
ME: Yes. Kraft Singles. Bologna and Kraft Singles.
JESSICA: Sometimes our conversations disgust me.
JOSH: [looking through one of my high school yearbooks] Holy crap! What is going on with that girl's hair?
ME: Those were some impressive 1991 mall bangs.
JOSH: Her hair is so big.
ME: You wanna see big hair? I'll give you big hair. [flips to page with giant photo of self reading the high school newspaper] There. That's some big hair.
JOSH: [quiet, pondering] Hey, you were really pretty back then.
ME: "But you're really fug now!"
JOSH: You know what? [leaves room]
The big, big, beeeeeeeg news is that Josh got a full-time job. Really. He's been temping since he graduated in June and has been working at the same place for four months now, hoping they'd take him on salary. And huzzah, they did! AND he's working for the city, so yay benefits! And pension! We may be in financial distress for the forseeable future, but damn if we won't have a sweet retirement. I told him that if he ever moves away from working for the city before he gets his pension, I will have a pack of wolves hunt him down. So we went out to celebrate (have you ever had chocolate chip bread pudding with hot fudge and vanilla ice cream? well then, you've never tasted heaven) and had this conversation:
JOSH: The first thing I thought of when they told me I got the job was, We can have a baby now.
ME: Well, not now now.
JOSH: But you know what I mean.
ME: What if the baby chokes?
JOSH: What?
ME: What if the baby chokes? What if the baby crawls over to the cat food and eats it and chokes? Or a quarter? What if the baby chokes on a quarter? Your change is always falling out of your pockets.
JOSH: Um —
ME: We need to take CPR classes. And I think I should learn how to make clothes.
JOSH: You're crazy.
I've neglected to mention how sublimely happy I am for him. And for me. And how proud I am, because he's worked his shiny little tail off to get to this moment. When he got that job, everything changed. We slept until 6 p.m. the next day because we could finally relax. Nothing is hypothetical anymore. It's such a big deal that I couldn't hold my body upright for an hour after he told me. So instead I bought a really cute green dress that Josh has no idea is a gift from him to thank me for supporting us while he went back to school and changed careers. Thanks, Josh! Cute dress!
ME: [to self] Oh, Simon Monjack. Where were you when I was single?
JESSICA: I feel like Simon Monjack is the guy who keeps a sandwich by the bed just in case he's hungry. Like, he just rolls over and eats.
ME: Ooh, you know what kind of sandwich it is?
JESSICA: What kind?
ME: Bologna! With cheese slices.
JESSICA: EW! Cheese slices!
ME: Yes. Kraft Singles. Bologna and Kraft Singles.
JESSICA: Sometimes our conversations disgust me.
JOSH: [looking through one of my high school yearbooks] Holy crap! What is going on with that girl's hair?
ME: Those were some impressive 1991 mall bangs.
JOSH: Her hair is so big.
ME: You wanna see big hair? I'll give you big hair. [flips to page with giant photo of self reading the high school newspaper] There. That's some big hair.
JOSH: [quiet, pondering] Hey, you were really pretty back then.
ME: "But you're really fug now!"
JOSH: You know what? [leaves room]
The big, big, beeeeeeeg news is that Josh got a full-time job. Really. He's been temping since he graduated in June and has been working at the same place for four months now, hoping they'd take him on salary. And huzzah, they did! AND he's working for the city, so yay benefits! And pension! We may be in financial distress for the forseeable future, but damn if we won't have a sweet retirement. I told him that if he ever moves away from working for the city before he gets his pension, I will have a pack of wolves hunt him down. So we went out to celebrate (have you ever had chocolate chip bread pudding with hot fudge and vanilla ice cream? well then, you've never tasted heaven) and had this conversation:
JOSH: The first thing I thought of when they told me I got the job was, We can have a baby now.
ME: Well, not now now.
JOSH: But you know what I mean.
ME: What if the baby chokes?
JOSH: What?
ME: What if the baby chokes? What if the baby crawls over to the cat food and eats it and chokes? Or a quarter? What if the baby chokes on a quarter? Your change is always falling out of your pockets.
JOSH: Um —
ME: We need to take CPR classes. And I think I should learn how to make clothes.
JOSH: You're crazy.
I've neglected to mention how sublimely happy I am for him. And for me. And how proud I am, because he's worked his shiny little tail off to get to this moment. When he got that job, everything changed. We slept until 6 p.m. the next day because we could finally relax. Nothing is hypothetical anymore. It's such a big deal that I couldn't hold my body upright for an hour after he told me. So instead I bought a really cute green dress that Josh has no idea is a gift from him to thank me for supporting us while he went back to school and changed careers. Thanks, Josh! Cute dress!
Labels: childhood, food, friends, pop culture, randomness, the hubs, work
posted by Marla at 4:38 PM
3 comments
Monday, March 03, 2008
These haikus, so mean/We're on the Highway to Hell/Making fun of kids
About two weeks ago, I wrote a haiku:
Britney, why so sad?
You still have your Mercedes
To kill people with
Granted, she was in the hospital at the time, receiving necessary care and medication — and not driving. But still, I felt inspired — even nostalgic, if you will. So I wrote a poem that's so six weeks ago. I hope you enjoyed it.
You see, working at a celebrity magazine, we are on the front lines of star fashion, gossip, business deals, and overprivileged babymaking. An environment such as this and the bizarre hours we operate call for serious survival mechanisms. My survival technique of late? Inappropriate poetry.
Case in point: one Dannielynn Hope Marshall Anna Nicole Smith Marshall Smith Mexia Birkhead Smith, who just underwent eye surgery to correct strabismus, commonly known as "lazy eye." (An ailment the Garfields know a thing or two about. Hott!) Lisa and I got a little punchy, it's a long day (my schedule today is, roughly, 10 a.m. until borderline-sunup tomorrow), and in a fit of solidarity with the pains that poor little Dannielynn faces under the watchful eye of the media and the famewhoring paws of her father, we decided to offer the tot some syllabic guidance. The sweet thing needs all the help she can get, and I truly mean that from the bottom of my cold, jaded heart. Herewith:
The Smith Girl: Haikus and Eye Goo
(I started it with an e-mail, Lisa responded, and we took turns from there)
Dannielynn Birkhead
Who, what are you looking at?
Cross eyes: confusing
Little Dannielynn
My unsolicited advice
Is to look nowhere
Little Birkhead child
Look not upon your father
Or anywhere else
With those googly eyes
A famously dead druggie mom
And name, kid, you're screwed
Frosted tips, fish lips
Cameras in the O.R.
Flee your dad! Dickhead
We were fortunate to receive a contribution from Lisa's friend Peri:
Left eye equals: "trailer"
Right eye equals: "park"
Kid's destiny
Since I'm sensing a theme, here's another, for a new thread:
Paris, your stink-eye!
Is it your odor that makes
Your face go like that?
Feel free to contribute. This is nothing if not a forum for all you creative types.
Britney, why so sad?
You still have your Mercedes
To kill people with
Granted, she was in the hospital at the time, receiving necessary care and medication — and not driving. But still, I felt inspired — even nostalgic, if you will. So I wrote a poem that's so six weeks ago. I hope you enjoyed it.
You see, working at a celebrity magazine, we are on the front lines of star fashion, gossip, business deals, and overprivileged babymaking. An environment such as this and the bizarre hours we operate call for serious survival mechanisms. My survival technique of late? Inappropriate poetry.
Case in point: one Dannielynn Hope Marshall Anna Nicole Smith Marshall Smith Mexia Birkhead Smith, who just underwent eye surgery to correct strabismus, commonly known as "lazy eye." (An ailment the Garfields know a thing or two about. Hott!) Lisa and I got a little punchy, it's a long day (my schedule today is, roughly, 10 a.m. until borderline-sunup tomorrow), and in a fit of solidarity with the pains that poor little Dannielynn faces under the watchful eye of the media and the famewhoring paws of her father, we decided to offer the tot some syllabic guidance. The sweet thing needs all the help she can get, and I truly mean that from the bottom of my cold, jaded heart. Herewith:
The Smith Girl: Haikus and Eye Goo
(I started it with an e-mail, Lisa responded, and we took turns from there)
Dannielynn Birkhead
Who, what are you looking at?
Cross eyes: confusing
Little Dannielynn
My unsolicited advice
Is to look nowhere
Little Birkhead child
Look not upon your father
Or anywhere else
With those googly eyes
A famously dead druggie mom
And name, kid, you're screwed
Frosted tips, fish lips
Cameras in the O.R.
Flee your dad! Dickhead
We were fortunate to receive a contribution from Lisa's friend Peri:
Left eye equals: "trailer"
Right eye equals: "park"
Kid's destiny
Since I'm sensing a theme, here's another, for a new thread:
Paris, your stink-eye!
Is it your odor that makes
Your face go like that?
Feel free to contribute. This is nothing if not a forum for all you creative types.
Labels: friends, pop culture, work
posted by Marla at 5:29 PM
8 comments
Sunday, January 27, 2008
Quote of the Weekend
Long story longer:
Stacy was in town for a night on Friday while she was en route to a business trip in Israel. She lives in San Francisco now and is 14 weeks pregnant, so for her own comfort as well as for a dose of awesomeness, she finagled a layover in New York. We spent the night catching up — let me tell you, it's mind-blowing when your closest friend since you both were six years old is about to become a mother — and she told me about a convention she went to this month.
In the weeks leading up to the convention, she began to get a little worried. The guy organizing the event sent e-mails in which he kept using cheesy mountain-climbing metaphors ... metaphors you never want to hear in a business environment for fear of migraine-inducing eye-rolling. I started referring to him as The Crampon Guy. There was, apparently, lots of "I look forward to reaching the summit with you" type blather. Ugh. That's worse than getting one's ducks in a row and being on the same page. Stephen Covey is probably rubbing his palms together, whispering, "Brilliant!"
Turns out, the convention was extraordinary. They hired a motivational speaker to lead it (it was far better than that sounds), and the man climbs treacherous mountains and skis down them, as one does. There were all these interactive problem-solving activities using scaling Mt. Everest as a metaphor for team-building, trust and risk. Again, it was executed much better than it sounds. Stacy said this success was entirely at the hands of the speaker himself: He was charismatic, kind, intelligent, attentive and approachable.
"Marla," she said, "you should have seen him." She took a deep breath. "Oh. My. God."
"Hot?"
She gasped. "He was ... he just ... he ... Marla, he's our type."
"Dark?"
"Uh-huh."
"Lanky?"
"Yep."
"Good teeth?"
"The best smile ever. His eyes glittered. He's tall and wiry and has great skin and he's Australian, so the accent."
"What's his name?"
"Shane."
"Oh. I don't like that name."
"Yes, but — "
"The name kind of ruins it."
"Yes, but, OK: If you have that hair and that smile and you're that tall and perfect and have great hands and are so charming and have that accent, your name could be Asshole and I would still love you."
She has a point.
She comes back through New York on her way home in about a week. We intend to discuss the creation of a prototype of a man named Asshole who is hugely appealing to women. We think we can pull it off.
Stacy was in town for a night on Friday while she was en route to a business trip in Israel. She lives in San Francisco now and is 14 weeks pregnant, so for her own comfort as well as for a dose of awesomeness, she finagled a layover in New York. We spent the night catching up — let me tell you, it's mind-blowing when your closest friend since you both were six years old is about to become a mother — and she told me about a convention she went to this month.
In the weeks leading up to the convention, she began to get a little worried. The guy organizing the event sent e-mails in which he kept using cheesy mountain-climbing metaphors ... metaphors you never want to hear in a business environment for fear of migraine-inducing eye-rolling. I started referring to him as The Crampon Guy. There was, apparently, lots of "I look forward to reaching the summit with you" type blather. Ugh. That's worse than getting one's ducks in a row and being on the same page. Stephen Covey is probably rubbing his palms together, whispering, "Brilliant!"
Turns out, the convention was extraordinary. They hired a motivational speaker to lead it (it was far better than that sounds), and the man climbs treacherous mountains and skis down them, as one does. There were all these interactive problem-solving activities using scaling Mt. Everest as a metaphor for team-building, trust and risk. Again, it was executed much better than it sounds. Stacy said this success was entirely at the hands of the speaker himself: He was charismatic, kind, intelligent, attentive and approachable.
"Marla," she said, "you should have seen him." She took a deep breath. "Oh. My. God."
"Hot?"
She gasped. "He was ... he just ... he ... Marla, he's our type."
"Dark?"
"Uh-huh."
"Lanky?"
"Yep."
"Good teeth?"
"The best smile ever. His eyes glittered. He's tall and wiry and has great skin and he's Australian, so the accent."
"What's his name?"
"Shane."
"Oh. I don't like that name."
"Yes, but — "
"The name kind of ruins it."
"Yes, but, OK: If you have that hair and that smile and you're that tall and perfect and have great hands and are so charming and have that accent, your name could be Asshole and I would still love you."
She has a point.
She comes back through New York on her way home in about a week. We intend to discuss the creation of a prototype of a man named Asshole who is hugely appealing to women. We think we can pull it off.
posted by Marla at 7:43 PM
2 comments
Friday, December 28, 2007
Who's ready for a long weekend?!?
Because this is the kind of day it's turning out to be so far:
1. One of the reporters and I got into a conversation about Jamie Lynn Spears (but of course) and how, in a perfect world, there's no reason she should have gotten pregnant because she has all this money and access to information at her disposal. I mean, dude, use a condom; heard of 'em? So he says,
"Yeah, but come on, she's Louisiana white trash."
"She should just name her kid Cletis and let him man the Tilt-a-Whirl. Just be honest about who you are, you know?"
[he laughs] "The Tilt-a-Whirl! I love the Tilt-a-Whirl! I don't think I've ridden the Tilt-a-Whirl since I was at Neverland Ranch."
My jaw dropped. "Wait a minute: What?!?"
[nonchalantly] "Yeah, I rode the Tilt-a-Whirl. And the Spider. It was so much fun."
2. Then Stephanie, Lauren and I had this e-mail exchange:
LAUREN: Any fun plans for New Years anyone?
ME: Nothing special. Fabio's going to come over and cook a casserole for us, and then we're going to ice down our apartment floor and skate a little. You?
LAUREN: Going to take tons of drugs and go to a rave.
STEPHANIE: Is Fabio going to make your dinner with I Can't Beeeleeve It's Nut Butter Spray?
ME: Well, I certainly hope so, because that's why we hired him. Plan B was Florence Henderson, who was going to cook with Wesson, but we were really gunning for something buttery and decadent.
LAUREN: Am I the only normal person in this family?
ME: Did I mention Fabio was going to use goose?
3. And now I'm listening to "The Girl From Ipanema" on my iPod.
4. I just realized Stephanie's spelling turns I Can't Believe It's Not Butter into an entirely different product. Heh. Nut Butter. I'm 12.
Happy New Year, everyone!
******
Oh! Stephanie had this dream recently, which I would like to share with all of you, as it's both crazy and immensely enjoyable:
So last night I had this dream that I went shopping at Macys. I was walking around and couldn’t find any decent clothing to fit me. But then, in my hour of darkest despair, I stumbled upon a new section at Macy’s. They had an entire floor dedicated to plus-sized women but the entire floor had a name… Big Momma. Everywhere you went were, I’m serious, tasteful neon signs that said “Big Momma.” Every outfit I could ever wish existed in plus size was there. The clothes were so beautiful and legitimately fashionable. And everything was beautiful made and reasonably priced and tres chic. Everything was decorated so tastefully – in grey silks with lots of candelabras and glass and plush seating. It was like a Fatty Eden.
It did get weird though when the dressing rooms were like dorm rooms, opulent ones at that, and they made you spend the night in your clothes to see if you liked them in the morning. Not a bad idea though. However you couldn’t sleep in the dresses, only in the bustiers (which were really comfortable I may add). And sparkly. And they had really good support.
I think that allowing shoppers to spend a night in new clothes before committing to buying them is genius.
1. One of the reporters and I got into a conversation about Jamie Lynn Spears (but of course) and how, in a perfect world, there's no reason she should have gotten pregnant because she has all this money and access to information at her disposal. I mean, dude, use a condom; heard of 'em? So he says,
"Yeah, but come on, she's Louisiana white trash."
"She should just name her kid Cletis and let him man the Tilt-a-Whirl. Just be honest about who you are, you know?"
[he laughs] "The Tilt-a-Whirl! I love the Tilt-a-Whirl! I don't think I've ridden the Tilt-a-Whirl since I was at Neverland Ranch."
My jaw dropped. "Wait a minute: What?!?"
[nonchalantly] "Yeah, I rode the Tilt-a-Whirl. And the Spider. It was so much fun."
2. Then Stephanie, Lauren and I had this e-mail exchange:
LAUREN: Any fun plans for New Years anyone?
ME: Nothing special. Fabio's going to come over and cook a casserole for us, and then we're going to ice down our apartment floor and skate a little. You?
LAUREN: Going to take tons of drugs and go to a rave.
STEPHANIE: Is Fabio going to make your dinner with I Can't Beeeleeve It's Nut Butter Spray?
ME: Well, I certainly hope so, because that's why we hired him. Plan B was Florence Henderson, who was going to cook with Wesson, but we were really gunning for something buttery and decadent.
LAUREN: Am I the only normal person in this family?
ME: Did I mention Fabio was going to use goose?
3. And now I'm listening to "The Girl From Ipanema" on my iPod.
4. I just realized Stephanie's spelling turns I Can't Believe It's Not Butter into an entirely different product. Heh. Nut Butter. I'm 12.
Happy New Year, everyone!
******
Oh! Stephanie had this dream recently, which I would like to share with all of you, as it's both crazy and immensely enjoyable:
So last night I had this dream that I went shopping at Macys. I was walking around and couldn’t find any decent clothing to fit me. But then, in my hour of darkest despair, I stumbled upon a new section at Macy’s. They had an entire floor dedicated to plus-sized women but the entire floor had a name… Big Momma. Everywhere you went were, I’m serious, tasteful neon signs that said “Big Momma.” Every outfit I could ever wish existed in plus size was there. The clothes were so beautiful and legitimately fashionable. And everything was beautiful made and reasonably priced and tres chic. Everything was decorated so tastefully – in grey silks with lots of candelabras and glass and plush seating. It was like a Fatty Eden.
It did get weird though when the dressing rooms were like dorm rooms, opulent ones at that, and they made you spend the night in your clothes to see if you liked them in the morning. Not a bad idea though. However you couldn’t sleep in the dresses, only in the bustiers (which were really comfortable I may add). And sparkly. And they had really good support.
I think that allowing shoppers to spend a night in new clothes before committing to buying them is genius.
Labels: dirty, family, pop culture, work
posted by Marla at 11:46 AM
2 comments
Tuesday, December 18, 2007
I like big butts. I cannot lie.
This morning, I was telling Stacy this story:
Last night at work, one of our eagle-eyed copyediting freelancers, Steve, caught an inconsistency that almost made it into the magazine. He was reading a headline that had the word A-list in it. Being a hed, the A was capped, as it always should be anyway because you wouldn't spell it a-list, but in this case, list was lowercase. He brought it over to me and the following exchange occurred.
STEVE: Hm. I see that we're lowercasing the l in list here.
ME: Yes. A-list is hyphenated in the dictionary, so even in a hed, the list would be lowercase.
STEVE: But earlier today, we had boo-boos in a hed and we capped both Bs.
ME: [thinking] Oh my gosh, you're absolutely right. I totally missed it.
STEVE: So the second B should have been lowercase?
ME: Yes, because boo-boo is hyphenated in the dictionary. We can still fix it. Thank you so much for catching that. I completely missed it.
STEVE: OK, so just so I'm clear: If a compound is hyphenated in the dictionary and we're using it in a hed, we only uppercase the first letter of the first word, but not the first letter of the word following the hyphen. But if it's not hyphenated in the dictionary, then we cap both first letters.
ME: Yes.
STEVE: For example?
ME: OK. Well, like we said, boo-boo is hyphenated in the dictionary, so in a hed, it would be capital B, little o, little o, hyphen, little b, o, o. But if the headline was, say ...
[pause in conversation while I make up a headline]
ME: If the hed was, like, "Jennifer Lopez Is Butt-Heavy," you'd cap the H.
STEVE: [looking at me funny] OK.
ME: [starting to blush] Because, uh, butt-heavy isn't in the dictionary.
STEVE: [silent]
ME: So, um, the B and, uh, the H should both be capped. So.
STEVE: [grinning slyly] You just made that up, didn't you?
ME: I really, really did.
We started laughing, extolling the truth of the made-up hed, and went about our merry way. I fixed boo-boos. All was well.
So I told Stacy this story, as I've told it to maybe four other people. She said the exact same thing they all said:
"You have to put that on your blog."
I said I wasn't going to, that I much prefer to post other people's witticisms than my own, because I feel that patting myself on the back about how brilliantly hilarious I am is just a little too conceited, even for me, an admittedly conceited person. Aren't I pretty?
"See, though," she said, "you have to post it because it's the epitome of the kinds of conversations you have at work. Most people don't have those conversations at their jobs. Their work conversations go like this: [drops voice] 'Yes, uh, are you almost finished with your PowerPoint presentation?' [pitches voice] 'Almost, I can have it to you in two hours.' [drops voice] 'Well done. When you're finished, just download it to the share drive.' [back to Stacy-self] See? That's what people talk about at work. They don't talk about Jennifer Lopez's heavy butt."
"I guess."
"That was so true, by the way."
So there you have it. Because more than anything, Stacy's use of share drive made the whole thing worthwhile.
What's the most bizarre conversation you've had at work today?
Last night at work, one of our eagle-eyed copyediting freelancers, Steve, caught an inconsistency that almost made it into the magazine. He was reading a headline that had the word A-list in it. Being a hed, the A was capped, as it always should be anyway because you wouldn't spell it a-list, but in this case, list was lowercase. He brought it over to me and the following exchange occurred.
STEVE: Hm. I see that we're lowercasing the l in list here.
ME: Yes. A-list is hyphenated in the dictionary, so even in a hed, the list would be lowercase.
STEVE: But earlier today, we had boo-boos in a hed and we capped both Bs.
ME: [thinking] Oh my gosh, you're absolutely right. I totally missed it.
STEVE: So the second B should have been lowercase?
ME: Yes, because boo-boo is hyphenated in the dictionary. We can still fix it. Thank you so much for catching that. I completely missed it.
STEVE: OK, so just so I'm clear: If a compound is hyphenated in the dictionary and we're using it in a hed, we only uppercase the first letter of the first word, but not the first letter of the word following the hyphen. But if it's not hyphenated in the dictionary, then we cap both first letters.
ME: Yes.
STEVE: For example?
ME: OK. Well, like we said, boo-boo is hyphenated in the dictionary, so in a hed, it would be capital B, little o, little o, hyphen, little b, o, o. But if the headline was, say ...
[pause in conversation while I make up a headline]
ME: If the hed was, like, "Jennifer Lopez Is Butt-Heavy," you'd cap the H.
STEVE: [looking at me funny] OK.
ME: [starting to blush] Because, uh, butt-heavy isn't in the dictionary.
STEVE: [silent]
ME: So, um, the B and, uh, the H should both be capped. So.
STEVE: [grinning slyly] You just made that up, didn't you?
ME: I really, really did.
We started laughing, extolling the truth of the made-up hed, and went about our merry way. I fixed boo-boos. All was well.
So I told Stacy this story, as I've told it to maybe four other people. She said the exact same thing they all said:
"You have to put that on your blog."
I said I wasn't going to, that I much prefer to post other people's witticisms than my own, because I feel that patting myself on the back about how brilliantly hilarious I am is just a little too conceited, even for me, an admittedly conceited person. Aren't I pretty?
"See, though," she said, "you have to post it because it's the epitome of the kinds of conversations you have at work. Most people don't have those conversations at their jobs. Their work conversations go like this: [drops voice] 'Yes, uh, are you almost finished with your PowerPoint presentation?' [pitches voice] 'Almost, I can have it to you in two hours.' [drops voice] 'Well done. When you're finished, just download it to the share drive.' [back to Stacy-self] See? That's what people talk about at work. They don't talk about Jennifer Lopez's heavy butt."
"I guess."
"That was so true, by the way."
So there you have it. Because more than anything, Stacy's use of share drive made the whole thing worthwhile.
What's the most bizarre conversation you've had at work today?
posted by Marla at 3:14 PM
7 comments
Monday, December 17, 2007
Nobody puts Baby in a corner.
I'm having a Patrick Swayze problem today.
Perhaps it played in the background of a dream. Maybe it was the high winds forcefully thrusting themselves against my windows last night in what seemed like a Nor'easter suicide mission. It could have been lingering pride at my successful stab at the Dirty Dancing movie quiz on Facebook. But I woke up this morning with "She's Like the Wind" in my head and it's been torturing me ever since. Torturing me, and, oddly, lulling me into submission with the syrupy southern lilt of one Johnny "The Reason People Treat Me Like I'm Nothin' Is 'Cause I'm Nothin' " Castle.
I told Kevin that "She's Like the Wind" was putting me in a corner. He asked me if it was the chorus that was slamming my head ("Just a foooooool to belieeeeeeeeve!"), but I told him that it's the line "I look in the mirror / and all I see / is a young old man / with only a dreeeeeeeam" that's looping like a migraine right behind my left eye. Our friend David was with us during this conversation and offered "Mmm-Bop" as a distraction, which made me angry because then I had freakin' "Mmm-Bop" in my head. And then Kevin changed everything:
"You know what I'm singing today? 'Last Christmas' by George Michael. Well, Wham!. That's good, right?"
I paused, thinking. Then I began to bounce. Swayze problem solved.
For the record, "Last Christmas" lasted for eight minutes. And now I'm back to The Swayze. This is not good. The Swayze is like the wind through my tree. Driving me out of my tree. Am I just fooling myself that he'll stop the pain?
See? It does not stop. I go insane.
This has transitioned into another issue, one of Phil Collins proportions. Not long after Kevin provided the Wham! interlude, a conversation about "Against All Odds" segued into the chorus of "Billy Don't Lose My Number" bullying The Swayze out of the top spot in my brain, and I found myself yearning for the wind through my tree again, because the only thing worse than The Swayze's incessant mewing is the bleat of Phil Collins.
So now I'm in hell. All of this has invited every song I've never been able to get out of my head to beat the crap out of each other, gladiator-style, for the glory of being the most annoying tune ever. Currently in the ring is "Sarah" by The Jefferson Airplane (the Danny Zuko to its Kenickie, the nefarious companion "We Built This City") going head to head with "Don't Worry, Be Happy" by Bobby McFerrin. I feel a pummeling about to happen. The whole throwdown is being ref'd by Taco's version of "Puttin' on the Ritz." Fight night takes place in the Love Shack.
Anyway, I don't see why American Gladiators: Shitty Song Edition should end here. Please throw your least-favorite anthems in the ring, and tell me: Are any of them worse than this? (And yes, this travesty has been in my head for a month now. Didn't like her on Top Model, and she's the bane of my existence now. Oy!) You know how it is: Misery loves company.
Perhaps it played in the background of a dream. Maybe it was the high winds forcefully thrusting themselves against my windows last night in what seemed like a Nor'easter suicide mission. It could have been lingering pride at my successful stab at the Dirty Dancing movie quiz on Facebook. But I woke up this morning with "She's Like the Wind" in my head and it's been torturing me ever since. Torturing me, and, oddly, lulling me into submission with the syrupy southern lilt of one Johnny "The Reason People Treat Me Like I'm Nothin' Is 'Cause I'm Nothin' " Castle.
I told Kevin that "She's Like the Wind" was putting me in a corner. He asked me if it was the chorus that was slamming my head ("Just a foooooool to belieeeeeeeeve!"), but I told him that it's the line "I look in the mirror / and all I see / is a young old man / with only a dreeeeeeeam" that's looping like a migraine right behind my left eye. Our friend David was with us during this conversation and offered "Mmm-Bop" as a distraction, which made me angry because then I had freakin' "Mmm-Bop" in my head. And then Kevin changed everything:
"You know what I'm singing today? 'Last Christmas' by George Michael. Well, Wham!. That's good, right?"
I paused, thinking. Then I began to bounce. Swayze problem solved.
For the record, "Last Christmas" lasted for eight minutes. And now I'm back to The Swayze. This is not good. The Swayze is like the wind through my tree. Driving me out of my tree. Am I just fooling myself that he'll stop the pain?
See? It does not stop. I go insane.
This has transitioned into another issue, one of Phil Collins proportions. Not long after Kevin provided the Wham! interlude, a conversation about "Against All Odds" segued into the chorus of "Billy Don't Lose My Number" bullying The Swayze out of the top spot in my brain, and I found myself yearning for the wind through my tree again, because the only thing worse than The Swayze's incessant mewing is the bleat of Phil Collins.
So now I'm in hell. All of this has invited every song I've never been able to get out of my head to beat the crap out of each other, gladiator-style, for the glory of being the most annoying tune ever. Currently in the ring is "Sarah" by The Jefferson Airplane (the Danny Zuko to its Kenickie, the nefarious companion "We Built This City") going head to head with "Don't Worry, Be Happy" by Bobby McFerrin. I feel a pummeling about to happen. The whole throwdown is being ref'd by Taco's version of "Puttin' on the Ritz." Fight night takes place in the Love Shack.
Anyway, I don't see why American Gladiators: Shitty Song Edition should end here. Please throw your least-favorite anthems in the ring, and tell me: Are any of them worse than this? (And yes, this travesty has been in my head for a month now. Didn't like her on Top Model, and she's the bane of my existence now. Oy!) You know how it is: Misery loves company.
Labels: pop culture, work
posted by Marla at 12:42 PM
7 comments
Wednesday, December 12, 2007
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.
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.
posted by Marla at 1:43 PM
2 comments
Friday, December 07, 2007
Texas Chainsaw Massacre was really good, too.
As a copy editor, it's my job to be hyper–detail-oriented. If there's an extra space between words, I have to find it and close it up; if a period after an italicized word isn't italicized as well, I have to be able to spot it and fix the font; if a dangling participle dangles or a person is a that, I have to de-dangle and who-ify. Also, I have to enjoy the word dangle because it's a little dirty.
So it's no surprise that office conversation can border on the crazy where specifics are involved. I'm afraid I got a little carried away on Friday during a battle of semantics, so feel free to tell me if I should have backed down instead of digging in my heels, all petulant and snobby. I present to you The Crazy:
EDITOR: So, I see that you changed zombies to predators.
RESEARCH EDITOR: Yes. Because in this case, they're not zombies.
EDITOR: Why not?
RESEARCH EDITOR: Because zombies are people who die and come back to life. These characters don't die first.
ME: [eavesdropping] Yeah. They're definitely not zombies.
EDITOR: Are people going to know the difference?
ME: Absolutely. Horror-movie junkies are hard-core about the difference between zombies and mutants.
EDITOR: But I feel like if we use predators, people are going to think of pterodactyls or something.
REPORTER: I agree.
ME: That's fine, but we just can't use zombies. They're not zombies. That's what made 28 Days Later so great, that they were people who got infected and mutated. They were still alive.
EDITOR: OK, so can we find some reviews of 28 Days Later and see what we called those characters?
RESEARCH EDITOR: In the movie, they called them "the infected." Or we can call them mutants.
EDITOR: [pauses, thinking] I'd really prefer to call them zombies. I just think it's more clear.
ME: [becoming smug and bratty] My husband is a horror-movie junkie. I just know that they're not zombies. They haven't died.
EDITOR: [calmly] Let's just see what the reviews said.
ME: [walking away, immature, singing quietly to self] They're not zommmmbies ...
First of all, it's good to know that even tedious office arguments are hugely entertaining here because, when it comes down to it, we're nitpicking nomenclature of the undead. This type of conversation is not uncommon where I work. (You should have seen what went down when I tried to delete the word oversize before the word ogre, calling it redundant. I had to forfeit that fight, as I was clearly torturing the editor.)
Second, I admit I took the whole conversation a little personally, because I can't live with who I live with and allow zombie to get into the magazine if the character is not, in fact, a zombie. Josh is a to-the-bone horror-movie fanatic (you should see the titles of the movies he has in his collection — Blood-Sucking Pharaohs of Pittsburgh, anyone?) and he has spent years trying to show me the wonder that is gore. It's not that I don't appreciate the genre; it's that I get so stressed out when I'm scared that I find it nearly impossible to enjoy these movies — except for a few, 28 Days Later being one of them. But I do listen to his proselytizing, so if I had backed down, it would have been as if I haven't learned anything. I would have failed my husband's teachings, and I'd probably never be allowed in the house ever again. More important, appearing as if I have not taken interest in his bloodlust would derail all the Duran Duran Appreciation Efforts I direct toward him, and I just can't have that. After eight years of attempted brainwashing, I kind of, sort of, won: He finally offered to go to one of their concerts with me; I'm not about to toss that kind of success out the window.
"You fought the good fight," the research editor said to me afterward.
"Power," I said.
And really, it's not as if I don't see where the editor was coming from. Generally, when one thinks of the undead, one thinks of zombies. But then my freakish copy-editor brain kicks in, and if someone isn't technically undead ...
This is when being a copy editor is dangerous. We are such specific people — specific-minded, specific in temperament, specific in talent. And it takes a specific type of person not to want to strangle us when we put up our dukes over an em-dash or a colon ... or a mutant. But I think I speak for all copy editors when I say this: We may be nitpicky, but we're never wrong. Never ever ever never. We're always right. And beautiful. And engaging at cocktail parties. And rich.
In any case, for as often as I say, "Pick and choose your battles," you'd think I, uh, would. But lately I find that I don't think so much before I assemble my soapbox and then throw it at a crowd. I think it's all about how, when I'm wiping out in a wave of a prolonged period of stress, I just don't want anybody messing with me, even about little things like zombies and ogres. (Perhaps because, during prolonged periods of stress, I begin to resemble both.)
Just don't call me a zombie. Unless I actually am one. And then, you know, whoo, boy.
So it's no surprise that office conversation can border on the crazy where specifics are involved. I'm afraid I got a little carried away on Friday during a battle of semantics, so feel free to tell me if I should have backed down instead of digging in my heels, all petulant and snobby. I present to you The Crazy:
EDITOR: So, I see that you changed zombies to predators.
RESEARCH EDITOR: Yes. Because in this case, they're not zombies.
EDITOR: Why not?
RESEARCH EDITOR: Because zombies are people who die and come back to life. These characters don't die first.
ME: [eavesdropping] Yeah. They're definitely not zombies.
EDITOR: Are people going to know the difference?
ME: Absolutely. Horror-movie junkies are hard-core about the difference between zombies and mutants.
EDITOR: But I feel like if we use predators, people are going to think of pterodactyls or something.
REPORTER: I agree.
ME: That's fine, but we just can't use zombies. They're not zombies. That's what made 28 Days Later so great, that they were people who got infected and mutated. They were still alive.
EDITOR: OK, so can we find some reviews of 28 Days Later and see what we called those characters?
RESEARCH EDITOR: In the movie, they called them "the infected." Or we can call them mutants.
EDITOR: [pauses, thinking] I'd really prefer to call them zombies. I just think it's more clear.
ME: [becoming smug and bratty] My husband is a horror-movie junkie. I just know that they're not zombies. They haven't died.
EDITOR: [calmly] Let's just see what the reviews said.
ME: [walking away, immature, singing quietly to self] They're not zommmmbies ...
First of all, it's good to know that even tedious office arguments are hugely entertaining here because, when it comes down to it, we're nitpicking nomenclature of the undead. This type of conversation is not uncommon where I work. (You should have seen what went down when I tried to delete the word oversize before the word ogre, calling it redundant. I had to forfeit that fight, as I was clearly torturing the editor.)
Second, I admit I took the whole conversation a little personally, because I can't live with who I live with and allow zombie to get into the magazine if the character is not, in fact, a zombie. Josh is a to-the-bone horror-movie fanatic (you should see the titles of the movies he has in his collection — Blood-Sucking Pharaohs of Pittsburgh, anyone?) and he has spent years trying to show me the wonder that is gore. It's not that I don't appreciate the genre; it's that I get so stressed out when I'm scared that I find it nearly impossible to enjoy these movies — except for a few, 28 Days Later being one of them. But I do listen to his proselytizing, so if I had backed down, it would have been as if I haven't learned anything. I would have failed my husband's teachings, and I'd probably never be allowed in the house ever again. More important, appearing as if I have not taken interest in his bloodlust would derail all the Duran Duran Appreciation Efforts I direct toward him, and I just can't have that. After eight years of attempted brainwashing, I kind of, sort of, won: He finally offered to go to one of their concerts with me; I'm not about to toss that kind of success out the window.
"You fought the good fight," the research editor said to me afterward.
"Power," I said.
And really, it's not as if I don't see where the editor was coming from. Generally, when one thinks of the undead, one thinks of zombies. But then my freakish copy-editor brain kicks in, and if someone isn't technically undead ...
This is when being a copy editor is dangerous. We are such specific people — specific-minded, specific in temperament, specific in talent. And it takes a specific type of person not to want to strangle us when we put up our dukes over an em-dash or a colon ... or a mutant. But I think I speak for all copy editors when I say this: We may be nitpicky, but we're never wrong. Never ever ever never. We're always right. And beautiful. And engaging at cocktail parties. And rich.
In any case, for as often as I say, "Pick and choose your battles," you'd think I, uh, would. But lately I find that I don't think so much before I assemble my soapbox and then throw it at a crowd. I think it's all about how, when I'm wiping out in a wave of a prolonged period of stress, I just don't want anybody messing with me, even about little things like zombies and ogres. (Perhaps because, during prolonged periods of stress, I begin to resemble both.)
Just don't call me a zombie. Unless I actually am one. And then, you know, whoo, boy.
Labels: dirty, grammar, pop culture, the hubs, work
posted by Marla at 1:35 PM
0 comments
Monday, November 12, 2007
Greetings from Whelmed, New York.
There are some people who do kind things for others out of the goodness of their hearts. Just this morning, I went into the Starbucks in my office building for my Monday dose of frozen mocha crack. Latesha, an exceptionally cool woman who works there, saw me and said, "I have something for you." She disappeared into the back room, came out and handed me a paper bag with my name on it. I opened it, and inside was an aluminum takeout container. She'd placed a white bow on the top, and inside was a piece of chocolate cake with vanilla and coconut frosting.
Is there anything anybody can do that tops gifting someone with a piece of cake? I really don't think so.
She went over to refill the milk pots on the counter. I went over to thank her, and she said, "I like making things. My son doesn't like anything homemade" — he's 12 — "so if he won't eat it, I just like to make things for people I love."
Friday is Latesha's last day, and I'm going to miss her. She's smart, she's a great networker, she's the only person who remembers to make my drink (and she remembers what absolutely everybody in the office orders), she always has something going on, she's raising a prince of a son all by herself, she is always fun and hilarious and composed and never loses her cool when there are 15 people trembling in front of her with caffeine withdrawal.
The cake was heaven.
On the flip side, this is what happens when I decide to do something nice for someone:
My mother has hosted Thanksgiving every year since 361 B.C. She continues to host most holidays, even when not all of us can make it to Detroit, so she's often entertaining for various members of extended families but not necessarily for her own immediate one. So last year, I decided to take on Thanksgiving 2007 to give her a break. It's my favorite holiday (though, oddly, I don't particularly like the food; I have issues with the texture of turkey), so I thought, Hey, bring it on, good times. I had all these plans to start new traditions — ice skating! games! — and test out recipes months ahead of time to cut down on stress leading up to the dinner. I've been really excited about the whole thing.
What the hell was I thinking?
Apparently, unlike Latesha, I do kind things for others because I am clinically insane. To wit:
1. As of this exact moment, the confirmed number of attendees is 20, with another one or two arriving for dessert.
2. I live in an apartment. Where I will have three different waves of family staying with me, starting last weekend.
3. I don't cook.
4. I took on two freelance projects at the end of October that are both due the Monday before Thanksgiving.
5. Our apartment is full of stuff for our stuff that sticks around for our other stuff so all the groupings of stuff can collect dust together in their Stuff Union, which is going on strike until we can guarantee (in writing) that they'll be joined in stuff piles by more stuff to satisfy their stuff quota.
So I decided three things:
6. I'm doing all of this by choice, so I have no right to complain.
7. I'm ignoring point #6.
8. So if I'm going to piss and moan about the whole thing, I should at the very least create some kind of catharsis.
So we're purging the contents of our apartment. Today, Salvation Army carted away eight boxes and two giant garbage bags filled with stuff. We've recycled three garbage bags full of old papers, and we're not finished. I don't think it's made much of a dent, but at least the remaining stuff is shifting, so maybe we can do some design tricks around it, like covering it up with more stuff. George Carlin would be mortified. Even so, it feels good. It was a long time coming.
Josh and I took a giant calendar and color-coded all the whozits and whatnots we have to do before the holiday. We have time for the grocery store and Costco and donating Gwendolyn's stuff (some of which we still have) and deep-cleaning the apartment all mapped out. I'm usually pretty good under pressure, productively speaking, and I'm great with a to-do list for the most part, but I'm not good with sleep deprivation and I'm a whiner despite my intentions not to be, and hence, point #7. Even so, things are pretty much under control, and despite some banana peels along the path (was supposed to see Duran Duran on Broadway Saturday night, stagehands went on strike Saturday morning, show is rescheduled for tomorrow night, that was not part of the plan because ohmygoshfreelance), it will all come together. It will all work out, I will sleep in December, everyone will have a nice time and the food will be good and if it isn't then everyone will laugh about how bad the food was that year Thanksgiving was at Marla's and then it will be over. My in-laws keep offering to have it at their place. It sort of reads like they don't want me to do it, but they say they just don't want me to have to stress out. They're kind people, I believe them, and I've told them that if I'm stressed, it's really no big deal, because who doesn't stress when they're hosting a holiday? Or an average dinner party? Even a little bit? Even if these are events you're looking forward to hosting? The Barefoot Contessa must throw a wooden spoon every now and then, snapping a fierce "Fuck this! Jeffrey! Stir this goddamn sauce! I'm taking a bath! ARGH!"
I keep thinking about people who have babies, who probably feel this way all the time. Harried. Overscheduled. Tired. Energized. Looking forward to bringing family together. Organized (or teetering on the edge of it) out of necessity. Resolute. Or I could look at it this way, as I flirt with martyrdom: This Thanksgiving won't, god-willing, last for 18 years, at which time I would send it to a pricey out-of-state college to finally get some quiet.
I don't have children so it's perhaps an unfair analogy, but when I'm sleep-deprived, I often think about parenting. I think that I have no right to complain (there you go again, #6) because for those who do have kids, that whole state is amped up to a far higher decibel. So until then, should I have some offspring of my own to raid the fridge after Thanksgiving while I sneak in a five-minute nap, I'll share the leftovers with you guys.
And for now, I'll be throwing spoons.
Is there anything anybody can do that tops gifting someone with a piece of cake? I really don't think so.
She went over to refill the milk pots on the counter. I went over to thank her, and she said, "I like making things. My son doesn't like anything homemade" — he's 12 — "so if he won't eat it, I just like to make things for people I love."
Friday is Latesha's last day, and I'm going to miss her. She's smart, she's a great networker, she's the only person who remembers to make my drink (and she remembers what absolutely everybody in the office orders), she always has something going on, she's raising a prince of a son all by herself, she is always fun and hilarious and composed and never loses her cool when there are 15 people trembling in front of her with caffeine withdrawal.
The cake was heaven.
On the flip side, this is what happens when I decide to do something nice for someone:
My mother has hosted Thanksgiving every year since 361 B.C. She continues to host most holidays, even when not all of us can make it to Detroit, so she's often entertaining for various members of extended families but not necessarily for her own immediate one. So last year, I decided to take on Thanksgiving 2007 to give her a break. It's my favorite holiday (though, oddly, I don't particularly like the food; I have issues with the texture of turkey), so I thought, Hey, bring it on, good times. I had all these plans to start new traditions — ice skating! games! — and test out recipes months ahead of time to cut down on stress leading up to the dinner. I've been really excited about the whole thing.
What the hell was I thinking?
Apparently, unlike Latesha, I do kind things for others because I am clinically insane. To wit:
1. As of this exact moment, the confirmed number of attendees is 20, with another one or two arriving for dessert.
2. I live in an apartment. Where I will have three different waves of family staying with me, starting last weekend.
3. I don't cook.
4. I took on two freelance projects at the end of October that are both due the Monday before Thanksgiving.
5. Our apartment is full of stuff for our stuff that sticks around for our other stuff so all the groupings of stuff can collect dust together in their Stuff Union, which is going on strike until we can guarantee (in writing) that they'll be joined in stuff piles by more stuff to satisfy their stuff quota.
So I decided three things:
6. I'm doing all of this by choice, so I have no right to complain.
7. I'm ignoring point #6.
8. So if I'm going to piss and moan about the whole thing, I should at the very least create some kind of catharsis.
So we're purging the contents of our apartment. Today, Salvation Army carted away eight boxes and two giant garbage bags filled with stuff. We've recycled three garbage bags full of old papers, and we're not finished. I don't think it's made much of a dent, but at least the remaining stuff is shifting, so maybe we can do some design tricks around it, like covering it up with more stuff. George Carlin would be mortified. Even so, it feels good. It was a long time coming.
Josh and I took a giant calendar and color-coded all the whozits and whatnots we have to do before the holiday. We have time for the grocery store and Costco and donating Gwendolyn's stuff (some of which we still have) and deep-cleaning the apartment all mapped out. I'm usually pretty good under pressure, productively speaking, and I'm great with a to-do list for the most part, but I'm not good with sleep deprivation and I'm a whiner despite my intentions not to be, and hence, point #7. Even so, things are pretty much under control, and despite some banana peels along the path (was supposed to see Duran Duran on Broadway Saturday night, stagehands went on strike Saturday morning, show is rescheduled for tomorrow night, that was not part of the plan because ohmygoshfreelance), it will all come together. It will all work out, I will sleep in December, everyone will have a nice time and the food will be good and if it isn't then everyone will laugh about how bad the food was that year Thanksgiving was at Marla's and then it will be over. My in-laws keep offering to have it at their place. It sort of reads like they don't want me to do it, but they say they just don't want me to have to stress out. They're kind people, I believe them, and I've told them that if I'm stressed, it's really no big deal, because who doesn't stress when they're hosting a holiday? Or an average dinner party? Even a little bit? Even if these are events you're looking forward to hosting? The Barefoot Contessa must throw a wooden spoon every now and then, snapping a fierce "Fuck this! Jeffrey! Stir this goddamn sauce! I'm taking a bath! ARGH!"
I keep thinking about people who have babies, who probably feel this way all the time. Harried. Overscheduled. Tired. Energized. Looking forward to bringing family together. Organized (or teetering on the edge of it) out of necessity. Resolute. Or I could look at it this way, as I flirt with martyrdom: This Thanksgiving won't, god-willing, last for 18 years, at which time I would send it to a pricey out-of-state college to finally get some quiet.
I don't have children so it's perhaps an unfair analogy, but when I'm sleep-deprived, I often think about parenting. I think that I have no right to complain (there you go again, #6) because for those who do have kids, that whole state is amped up to a far higher decibel. So until then, should I have some offspring of my own to raid the fridge after Thanksgiving while I sneak in a five-minute nap, I'll share the leftovers with you guys.
And for now, I'll be throwing spoons.
Labels: family, food, friends, philosophical whatnots, pop culture, randomness, the hubs, work
posted by Marla at 4:19 PM
3 comments
Monday, October 15, 2007
Ohmygoshpleasehelpme
It's 10:13 p.m. and I still have $#?!@8*% more hours to go at work before we finish and this day has been so slow and the office has been so crazy-hot and I'm not getting any fun e-mails and nobody's gotten arrested and Britney's just sitting around drinking frappucinos and nobody has died or said anything totally stupid and there's nothing for me to read or get addicted to and I've been cruising the Internets all day long looking for something amusing and there's nothing nothing at all to speak of and PLEASE GOD why doesn't somebody just do something that will occupy my attention for the next $#?!@8*% hours because really what is life if other people aren't entertaining you and i'm just too damn hot and uncomfortable to entertain myself and maybe I'm going insane because I'm off for the rest of the week but FOR NOW for tonight please please please make me not so bored and antsy.
So, anyone hear anything fun lately? Do anything interesting? Read a good book? My boss and I sang "The Flame" by Cheap Trick today. That's pretty much all we've done.
Gah.
*****
Yay! In good form, as always, my dear friend Amy heard my plea for amusement and provided. Herewith, her plan:
Here is a topic for your magazine: Ann Coulter is an anti-semitic turdball.
Agreed. Also, crazy assclown. Also, would benefit from sex with a Jew ifyouknowwhatI'msayin'andIthinkyoudo.
Also, here is something interesting. It is the blog of one of Detroit's favorite morning radio personalities, Spike from the Mojo in the Morning Show (who happens to live on my street). He is also an amateur photographer. He got to photograph the old Tiger Stadium last month. Obviously it's in worse shape than the last time any of us saw it, but his photos make the neglect and decay look beautiful. He's a fantastic photographer and I think you would enjoy his work, since you too, are a fantastic amateur photographer. www.radiospike.com
You are too kind. And also, his pictures are fabulous. Definitely worth a look or ten.
Stop being bored!
You totally helped!
If all else fails ... www.tamarackcamps.com to see if there are any old boyfriends on the alumni page.
A dangerous venture. But also, fun. Like I haven't Googled all of them already. But old camp boyfriends are a different kind of old boyfriend, because woods were involved, you know?
And with that, Amy's divine son, Jacob:
So, anyone hear anything fun lately? Do anything interesting? Read a good book? My boss and I sang "The Flame" by Cheap Trick today. That's pretty much all we've done.
Gah.
*****
Yay! In good form, as always, my dear friend Amy heard my plea for amusement and provided. Herewith, her plan:
Here is a topic for your magazine: Ann Coulter is an anti-semitic turdball.
Agreed. Also, crazy assclown. Also, would benefit from sex with a Jew ifyouknowwhatI'msayin'andIthinkyoudo.
Also, here is something interesting. It is the blog of one of Detroit's favorite morning radio personalities, Spike from the Mojo in the Morning Show (who happens to live on my street). He is also an amateur photographer. He got to photograph the old Tiger Stadium last month. Obviously it's in worse shape than the last time any of us saw it, but his photos make the neglect and decay look beautiful. He's a fantastic photographer and I think you would enjoy his work, since you too, are a fantastic amateur photographer. www.radiospike.com
You are too kind. And also, his pictures are fabulous. Definitely worth a look or ten.
Stop being bored!
You totally helped!
If all else fails ... www.tamarackcamps.com to see if there are any old boyfriends on the alumni page.
A dangerous venture. But also, fun. Like I haven't Googled all of them already. But old camp boyfriends are a different kind of old boyfriend, because woods were involved, you know?
And with that, Amy's divine son, Jacob:
Labels: childhood, friends, photos, politics, pop culture, religion, work
posted by Marla at 10:13 PM
1 comments
Tuesday, October 09, 2007
Pictures, Shmictures
Today I feel like reliving my past. So I'm going to relive ... August and September.
The first week of August, Josh and I went to Portland, Oregon, for my friend Halle's wedding to her very lovely husband, Todd. Josh and I were extremely excited: We'd always wanted to go to Portland, and we weren't going to miss out on going to Seattle while we were up there, so it also gave us the opportunity to cross two more states off our We Want To Visit Every State In The U.S. (Even Kansas) List.
On a personal level, I couldn't wait to see Halle and meet Todd. I met Halle in college. We had some journalism classes together and we both worked on the State News, which was the greatest thing I ever did at Michigan State. And then I graduated and moved home, and I sulked, jobless and aimless. And about a month after I moved home, I got a surprise call from Halle, who was working at an ad agency as a copy editor and was looking for a freelancer. That kicked off the next two years of ski trips and canoe trips and nights out dancing and pasta parties and working at a job that could have been utter drudgery if the people weren't so fabulous. Halle rescued me those two years with her immense stores of energy and curiosity, as did another woman who worked with us named Lori. It felt like we did everything together. And Lori also spent quality time with another coworker named Don, whom she eventually married, and they now have three children. Lori is probably one of the most creative wordsmiths I've ever met, unbeliveably creative and talented, and she's a bombshell. And Lori and Don were also going to Portland for Halle and Todd's wedding. I couldn't wait to see all of them. It had been years.
Flying to Oregon was something. I never sleep on planes, and I was out the whole time ... until the pilot made an announcement to look out the windows, and to our immediate left (literally just outside the plane) was Mt. Hood and to our right were Mt. Rainier and Mount St. Helens, all in a neat little row. Having been in elementary school when Mount St. Helens erupted, it always seemed to me hallowed ground, rather mythic, and I was amazed to be flying right past it. An unexpected goal achieved.
We landed in Portland and, the minute we exited the jetway, the scent of Oregon hit us head-on (apply directly to the forehead). Trees. Standing in the airport, all we could smell was the divine scent of trees. We rented a car, turned on the radio, and the first song we heard was, appropriately, a Nirvana one.
The wedding was in a vineyard in Dayton, about an hour or so from Portland. We were staying in a town called McMinnville in the Willamette Valley — vineyard country. We got lost on the way, ended up at the top of a mountain, and faced one of the most beautiful views I've ever seen. For the first time since becoming the proud owner of a digital camera, I was so intimidated by what I was looking at that I didn't take a picture. Bah.
When we got to McMinnville, though, I did take a picture of this:
I knew I would love staying in a place that observed the correct usage of apostrophes.
But then ... zuchinni. (You can click on any of these pictures for larger versions.)
Alas. I still loved McMinnville's charm and friendly locals.
We stayed at the Hotel Oregon, which is owned by the McMenamin brothers, who buy old buildings and turn them into hotels, preserving their historical integrity. The Hotel Oregon had been, among other things, a tavern, and it is now a terrific tourist destination for, among other travelers, UFO enthusiasts. All the funky art around the hotel depicts the interests of its visitors, and each guest room is named for and decorated in the theme of a major player in the building's evolution. Or room was named Leona, which was a steamship. It was quirky and beautiful and homey all at the same time. I would stay there again in a heartbeat. The whole place had such a chill vibe to it.
This is Halle and Todd's wedding. Look at this. Ridiculous.
There were all these little nooks throughout the vineyard. Here are Lori and Don, looking fabulous:
Instead of numbers, Halle and Todd named all their tables after destinations they'd visited. Placecards were attached to corks, and each table had its own card describing the story of Halle and Todd's experience at that locale. So pretty.
Jesus. Look how he's looking at her. Crazy love.
The whole weekend was such a celebration of the two of them, which is what weddings should be, but not always are. This was. Halle is the kind of person who has such an ease about herself, she has an impeccable eye for fashion and style, she has such a dry wit and is so, so smart and beautiful. And she and Todd just fit. It feels so good when you see your friends with a significant other who really fits their lives well. I'm so happy for her. She's also made a terrific life in Portland, where ...
... we headed after the wedding. Such a cool place.
I thought this was a great name for a pizza joint, although it sort of devalues the pizza itself, don't you think?
"Eh, pizza schmizza, I'd rather have the gnocchi."
This is the Hawthorne neighborhood. Excellent shopping. Lots of fair-trade global stores. I love how environmentally and politically aware Portland and Seattle are, though it also reminds you that the rest of the country are dumbasses.
I was so happy to see my friends.
You can't go to Portland and not go to Powell's. We planned our whole day around it. I even booked us at a hotel only a block and a half away from it, knowing we'd be schlepping books back and would have heavy packages (dirty!). But we did have limited space in our luggage, so we were forced to follow this one strict rule: You can only buy a book that you a) cannot find in New York, or b) can find in New York, but is such a great price at Powell's that you can't possibly pass it up. I can't tell you how hard it was to stick to this rule. I wanted everything. Nonetheless, I weeded out about half of what I'd picked out and lugged the rest home. Basically, it would have been worse, but they kicked us out at closing.
Oh, Powell's, even with your lights out and doors locked, you fill my heart.
The next morning, we headed to Seattle. We stayed at the Ace Hotel, where we had deer on the wall and each room has a copy of the Kama Sutra on the bedside table with two condoms. Je love forward-thinking details.
"Did you take a picture of the deer humping?" Josh asked. "You know, for your blog."
"I think my readers will find it," I said. "They're very smart. And also, dirty."
Along the waterfront in Seattle, there is a new sculpture garden and a beautiful green space. One thing that surprised me about Seattle is that it is so green, ethically, but parks in the central areas of the city are few and far between.
These sculptures, using ledges, tables, giant letters and the V of the tree, spell out LOSS AND LOVE.
Also, the red ampersand spins. Very cool.
The next day, we headed to Pike Place Market. It's unlike any other market I've ever been to, maybe because everything was at its most ripe, fragrant, full. You can spend a whole day there and it still isn't enough time. We're still eating halibut that we bought there and had shipped home.
When I was a kid, it was always a huge treat when my mom would bring home Washington cherries, which were only in season during a very specific time of year. They're sweeter and lighter, not as tart, as regular cherries. At Pike Place Market, I had Washington cherries. In Washington. Very meta.
Do I love donut peaches on their own merits, or because they look like butts?
Seattle folks do love their Mariners, and, in particular, Ichiro, of course.
A note on the Seattle Mariners:
Nothing ever has my name on it. Ever since I was a kid and would fall into a tourist trap, I'd scrounge rows and racks of plastic license plates, porcelain bells, rainbow mugs and metal keychains, looking for one that said MARLA. It just didn't exist. There were seven different spellings of Karen (like how today there are nine different spellings of Kayla on those things), but no Marla. So my parents would buy me tchotchkes that said MARIA and they'd draw a little stick on the i. Or, in the case of one very special evening during my youth, my father stopped at Linens 'n' Things on the way home from work. He came home with personalized soaps for everybody: My mom got LINDA, Jen got JENNIFER and Steph got STEPHANIE. (This was before Lauren was born, when, as we like to tell her, we were happy.) My soap? GUEST. I still have that Guest soap as a reminder of the fact that my name is insignificant to life.
So where all of this is going is: In Seattle, I found one! I am now the proud owner of a magnet that says
#1 [Seattle Mariners logo] FAN
MARLA
And you know what? I am. Now I am the Seattle Mariners' very greatest fan. Because of my magnet. That's as good as any reason to like a baseball team, right?
Here's my problem with this little message:
I'm all for reminding people to keep it real, but isn't the point effectively lost when you use a smiley face to encourage others to mature in nature? Just me? M'kay.
We took a tour of Underground Seattle. The Seattle you see today was actually built on top of the original Seattle, which burnt to the ground in the early 1900s. (Something about a careless kid with a soldering iron and a can of kerosene, or some such thing.) Pioneer Square is the oldest neighborhood in the city and home to some of the most beautiful architecture, like this tall building:
Even so, Seattle is just like any other city in that its classic architecture is often crowded out by unsightly modern structures. To wit: Notice the parking structure in front of the building. They call it the Titanic, because it looks like a sinking ship. Understandably, the locals hate it.
It would really be disturbing
if people had tails. Just an observation. What would we do with our pants?
And that picture is pretty much the trip. The coffee. The newspaper. The Josh. The chillin'. The best.
More pictures of August/September regression to come ...
The first week of August, Josh and I went to Portland, Oregon, for my friend Halle's wedding to her very lovely husband, Todd. Josh and I were extremely excited: We'd always wanted to go to Portland, and we weren't going to miss out on going to Seattle while we were up there, so it also gave us the opportunity to cross two more states off our We Want To Visit Every State In The U.S. (Even Kansas) List.
On a personal level, I couldn't wait to see Halle and meet Todd. I met Halle in college. We had some journalism classes together and we both worked on the State News, which was the greatest thing I ever did at Michigan State. And then I graduated and moved home, and I sulked, jobless and aimless. And about a month after I moved home, I got a surprise call from Halle, who was working at an ad agency as a copy editor and was looking for a freelancer. That kicked off the next two years of ski trips and canoe trips and nights out dancing and pasta parties and working at a job that could have been utter drudgery if the people weren't so fabulous. Halle rescued me those two years with her immense stores of energy and curiosity, as did another woman who worked with us named Lori. It felt like we did everything together. And Lori also spent quality time with another coworker named Don, whom she eventually married, and they now have three children. Lori is probably one of the most creative wordsmiths I've ever met, unbeliveably creative and talented, and she's a bombshell. And Lori and Don were also going to Portland for Halle and Todd's wedding. I couldn't wait to see all of them. It had been years.
Flying to Oregon was something. I never sleep on planes, and I was out the whole time ... until the pilot made an announcement to look out the windows, and to our immediate left (literally just outside the plane) was Mt. Hood and to our right were Mt. Rainier and Mount St. Helens, all in a neat little row. Having been in elementary school when Mount St. Helens erupted, it always seemed to me hallowed ground, rather mythic, and I was amazed to be flying right past it. An unexpected goal achieved.
We landed in Portland and, the minute we exited the jetway, the scent of Oregon hit us head-on (apply directly to the forehead). Trees. Standing in the airport, all we could smell was the divine scent of trees. We rented a car, turned on the radio, and the first song we heard was, appropriately, a Nirvana one.
The wedding was in a vineyard in Dayton, about an hour or so from Portland. We were staying in a town called McMinnville in the Willamette Valley — vineyard country. We got lost on the way, ended up at the top of a mountain, and faced one of the most beautiful views I've ever seen. For the first time since becoming the proud owner of a digital camera, I was so intimidated by what I was looking at that I didn't take a picture. Bah.
When we got to McMinnville, though, I did take a picture of this:
I knew I would love staying in a place that observed the correct usage of apostrophes.
But then ... zuchinni. (You can click on any of these pictures for larger versions.)
Alas. I still loved McMinnville's charm and friendly locals.
We stayed at the Hotel Oregon, which is owned by the McMenamin brothers, who buy old buildings and turn them into hotels, preserving their historical integrity. The Hotel Oregon had been, among other things, a tavern, and it is now a terrific tourist destination for, among other travelers, UFO enthusiasts. All the funky art around the hotel depicts the interests of its visitors, and each guest room is named for and decorated in the theme of a major player in the building's evolution. Or room was named Leona, which was a steamship. It was quirky and beautiful and homey all at the same time. I would stay there again in a heartbeat. The whole place had such a chill vibe to it.
This is Halle and Todd's wedding. Look at this. Ridiculous.
There were all these little nooks throughout the vineyard. Here are Lori and Don, looking fabulous:
Instead of numbers, Halle and Todd named all their tables after destinations they'd visited. Placecards were attached to corks, and each table had its own card describing the story of Halle and Todd's experience at that locale. So pretty.
Jesus. Look how he's looking at her. Crazy love.
The whole weekend was such a celebration of the two of them, which is what weddings should be, but not always are. This was. Halle is the kind of person who has such an ease about herself, she has an impeccable eye for fashion and style, she has such a dry wit and is so, so smart and beautiful. And she and Todd just fit. It feels so good when you see your friends with a significant other who really fits their lives well. I'm so happy for her. She's also made a terrific life in Portland, where ...
... we headed after the wedding. Such a cool place.
I thought this was a great name for a pizza joint, although it sort of devalues the pizza itself, don't you think?
"Eh, pizza schmizza, I'd rather have the gnocchi."
This is the Hawthorne neighborhood. Excellent shopping. Lots of fair-trade global stores. I love how environmentally and politically aware Portland and Seattle are, though it also reminds you that the rest of the country are dumbasses.
I was so happy to see my friends.
You can't go to Portland and not go to Powell's. We planned our whole day around it. I even booked us at a hotel only a block and a half away from it, knowing we'd be schlepping books back and would have heavy packages (dirty!). But we did have limited space in our luggage, so we were forced to follow this one strict rule: You can only buy a book that you a) cannot find in New York, or b) can find in New York, but is such a great price at Powell's that you can't possibly pass it up. I can't tell you how hard it was to stick to this rule. I wanted everything. Nonetheless, I weeded out about half of what I'd picked out and lugged the rest home. Basically, it would have been worse, but they kicked us out at closing.
Oh, Powell's, even with your lights out and doors locked, you fill my heart.
The next morning, we headed to Seattle. We stayed at the Ace Hotel, where we had deer on the wall and each room has a copy of the Kama Sutra on the bedside table with two condoms. Je love forward-thinking details.
"Did you take a picture of the deer humping?" Josh asked. "You know, for your blog."
"I think my readers will find it," I said. "They're very smart. And also, dirty."
Along the waterfront in Seattle, there is a new sculpture garden and a beautiful green space. One thing that surprised me about Seattle is that it is so green, ethically, but parks in the central areas of the city are few and far between.
These sculptures, using ledges, tables, giant letters and the V of the tree, spell out LOSS AND LOVE.
Also, the red ampersand spins. Very cool.
The next day, we headed to Pike Place Market. It's unlike any other market I've ever been to, maybe because everything was at its most ripe, fragrant, full. You can spend a whole day there and it still isn't enough time. We're still eating halibut that we bought there and had shipped home.
When I was a kid, it was always a huge treat when my mom would bring home Washington cherries, which were only in season during a very specific time of year. They're sweeter and lighter, not as tart, as regular cherries. At Pike Place Market, I had Washington cherries. In Washington. Very meta.
Do I love donut peaches on their own merits, or because they look like butts?
Seattle folks do love their Mariners, and, in particular, Ichiro, of course.
A note on the Seattle Mariners:
Nothing ever has my name on it. Ever since I was a kid and would fall into a tourist trap, I'd scrounge rows and racks of plastic license plates, porcelain bells, rainbow mugs and metal keychains, looking for one that said MARLA. It just didn't exist. There were seven different spellings of Karen (like how today there are nine different spellings of Kayla on those things), but no Marla. So my parents would buy me tchotchkes that said MARIA and they'd draw a little stick on the i. Or, in the case of one very special evening during my youth, my father stopped at Linens 'n' Things on the way home from work. He came home with personalized soaps for everybody: My mom got LINDA, Jen got JENNIFER and Steph got STEPHANIE. (This was before Lauren was born, when, as we like to tell her, we were happy.) My soap? GUEST. I still have that Guest soap as a reminder of the fact that my name is insignificant to life.
So where all of this is going is: In Seattle, I found one! I am now the proud owner of a magnet that says
#1 [Seattle Mariners logo] FAN
MARLA
And you know what? I am. Now I am the Seattle Mariners' very greatest fan. Because of my magnet. That's as good as any reason to like a baseball team, right?
Here's my problem with this little message:
I'm all for reminding people to keep it real, but isn't the point effectively lost when you use a smiley face to encourage others to mature in nature? Just me? M'kay.
We took a tour of Underground Seattle. The Seattle you see today was actually built on top of the original Seattle, which burnt to the ground in the early 1900s. (Something about a careless kid with a soldering iron and a can of kerosene, or some such thing.) Pioneer Square is the oldest neighborhood in the city and home to some of the most beautiful architecture, like this tall building:
Even so, Seattle is just like any other city in that its classic architecture is often crowded out by unsightly modern structures. To wit: Notice the parking structure in front of the building. They call it the Titanic, because it looks like a sinking ship. Understandably, the locals hate it.
It would really be disturbing
if people had tails. Just an observation. What would we do with our pants?
And that picture is pretty much the trip. The coffee. The newspaper. The Josh. The chillin'. The best.
More pictures of August/September regression to come ...
Labels: childhood, dirty, food, friends, grammar, photos, pop culture, sports, the hubs, travel, work
posted by Marla at 10:37 PM
7 comments
About Me
- Name: Marla
- Location: Brooklyn, New York, United States
When I was in third grade, I went through a phase where I'd write my name on my papers faster than I could think it. So I'd end up being Marfield Garfield or Marla Garla for the day. Alas, Marfield Garfield just doesn't quite fit as an e-mail address ... and thus, Garla. Just another attempt to make things in life fit.
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