oh em gee, it's a blog

Have we met?

2009-10-20T08:49:00.001-04:00

Dedicated readers of this blog might be under the impression that I am frequently asked out by complete strangers, particularly on public transit.

Please let me assure you that this is by no means the case.

(on a unrelated note: Hi Dad, welcome to my blog!)

There was one incident recently, however, that I think you all might appreciate:

I went out in Beacon Hill with some friends a few weeks ago and happened to run into an old coworker. I'm pretty awful about keeping in touch, but I was genuinely happy to see her, and feared it would be rude not to say hello.

We had only just begun exchanging pleasantries when someone interjected, "Aren't you going to introduce me?"

My former coworker looked a little taken aback, but proceeded to introduce me to this guy, let's call him Dave, whom I naturally assumed to be her boyfriend, or at least her date that evening.

After learning some bizarre facts about Dave (if he wins the lottery, he plans to pay off all of his friends' college loans), my coworker abruptly excused herself, saying she needed to catch up with her friends.

I turned back to my friends, assuming that:
a) this Dave character would leave with his date
b) my friends were still there

Neither of those things were true.

Suddenly, the pieces fell into place.

Having failed to make a positive impression on my old coworker, Dave had moved on to me. My attempt to reconnect with a colleague had just been crashed by Some Guy at a Bar.

There was a bit of forced small talk while I attempted to strike a balance between "polite" and "very much looking forward to going back to sit with my friends".

It is surprisingly hard to find middle ground between those two extremes.

Then, apropos of nothing, Dave announced:

"You're pretty awkward, aren't you?"

You have no idea.

Cherry blossoms are always in season

2009-10-19T08:27:00.000-04:00

I've been getting a little bit of flack for the length of my posts lately, so, I'm sorry if this blog has been a great burden on your literacy and attention span.

(See what I did there? Yeah, I pulled a Pepsi.)

But, to show that I can take a little constructive criticism, (and because I was already going to do this anyway), let's try something a bit different this time around.

As I mentioned a few posts back, my friend Outi J. was kind enough to help me put the decal I bought for my living room. It was a process.

We began with a blank canvas:

Cut once, measure twice, right? We moved this around a couple of times before getting started:

We have lift-off! This seemed a lot more exciting before we had done any of the branches:

It's a good thing real trees don't actually grow like this. Also, note the yellow squeegees.:

More branches! Getting them to line up was a challenge:

Done! This picture is horribly blurry, mainly because I lost interest in trying to get the top piece to match up. You can't even tell, can you:

Look! Petals! That I had the privilege of putting on one by one, and then rearranging when I got frustrated by how much it didn't look like the picture on the website. Note that I have taped up said picture at this point, so much rearranging and gnashing of teeth has already happened:

Getting this to look like these petals were actually being blown by the wind was a challenge. One that I had not yet succeeded at:

I took some time off, and spent the next two weekends sticking petals to my wall until I got fed up:

After three weeks, I had something to show for myself:

And to think, I'd been worried about not having enough petals:

Meeting the neighbors

2009-10-18T14:23:00.000-04:00

The joy of having successfully purchased and transported my new furniture was slightly diminished by the realization that I would now have to put it all together, by myself.

Saturday afternoon, I decided to start small and put together the nightstand first.

When that took several hours longer than I had anticipated, I gave up and went to bed.

Thankfully, my friend Tony M. took pity on me the next day and volunteered to help me put together some of the larger pieces.

After several more hours of wooden dowels and instructions without any words, I had a dresser and a TV stand.

It's been about six weeks now, and neither of these have fallen apart yet, so many thanks to Tony for his help.

Having sent Tony on his way, I decided I should begin to unpack. Feeling a little overwhelmed by the number of boxes and all the furniture that still needed to be put together, I decided I'd tackle things in order of importance. First: clothes.

With all the packing leading up to my move, I didn't have a lot of time for other things. Things like laundry. So before I could unpack all of my clothes, I first needed to clean a bunch of them.

If you follow me on Twitter, you may know that cleaning was a big part of my move-in experience.

I refuse to believe that I am the only person who doesn't think the words "broom clean" are intended to be taken literally when they're included in your lease. These words are, essentially, mutually exclusive.

Sweeping your apartment does not make it clean.

The floors were in desperate need of a good vacuuming, so I decided to kill two birds with one stone: while I was at the laundromat, I would run my Roomba vacuum in the living room.

To make sure Roomba didn't stray from the living room (and run out of battery before anything actually got cleaned), I shut the door to the bedroom, and the door between the living room and the kitchen before leaving to do my laundry.

I arrived at the laundromat to find that the least expensive washers were $5 a piece. They were also pretty small, so there was no way I'd be able to fit everything in one load. That seemed pretty high to me, but, I didn't have a lot of options. I got a little plastic card (the only way to pay for the washers) for $3, and then added some money so I could actually clean my clothes.

As I waited for the washer to work it's magic, I marveled at the number of people showing up and doing their laundry on a Sunday night.

There were way more than I had ever seen at my last laundromat. Didn't they know they were getting ripped off? If they drove just two more miles, they'd be able to do their laundry for half the price and have free wifi. This place was ridiculously overpriced and I couldn't even watch Hulu or write up a blog post for you guys.

Clearly, I was in a mood. When I moved my clothes from the washer to the dryer, however, all became clear.

The dryers are free.

I have since realized that the words "Free Dryers!" are plastered all over the outside of the building, but I'd somehow missed all of that.

After what seemed like ages and ages of folding, I returned to the apartment. It was now just after 9PM and I was eager to begin unpacking so I could go to sleep.

I opened the front door of my apartment (this opens directly into my kitchen) and smiled a bit. Here I was, in my new apartment, every article of clothing I owned was now clean. It was going to be a good week.

I turned the doorknob of the door into the living room, looking forward to finally having a clean floor.

Only, the knob wouldn't turn.

Dumbfounded, I tried harder. Perhaps it was just a little stuck?

No. No, it wasn't stuck, it was locked.

That's when I discovered that, bizarrely, each of the interior doors in my apartment has a doorknob that actually locks. Not just little pop-button locks that you can unlock if you have one of those long pin things. No, actual locks that require keys.

Keys! Brilliant. I had keys, keys that had let me in the front door. Surely these keys would all work for the interior doors as well.

Surely my landlord would not have let me move into this apartment without a full set of keys!

The key to the front door slid into the lock, but it wouldn't budge.

I began to panic. It was my second day in my new apartment and I had managed to lock myself out of every room but the kitchen.

I went back into the hallway. The rooms in my apartment were not always connected, so when you walk into my house, there are doors leading off the hallway that open into the bedroom, the bathroom, and the kitchen, respectively.

This was helpful during the move in process, but in the interest of space, I decided to place my bed up against the wall with the door into the hallway, effectively blocking the door.

Still, I knew my keys worked in the bedroom door, perhaps I could open it enough to squirm through - then I'd be able to open the other doors on the other side.

Of course, I'd forgotten that all these doors that open into the hallway have deadbolts. Naturally, I'd bolted them all the first night I moved in, never thinking that I might need to break in to my own apartment. Silly me.

Things were getting desperate now. I tried all of my keys in the bathroom door, but none of them fit.

I ran back into the kitchen and stared at the door.

I remembered a story my parents told us about when we were kids.

We were traveling and either my sister or I had locked ourselves in to the hotel bathroom (I can't remember which one of us this story is about, but I fully admit that it sounds like something I would do).

My parents couldn't get whoever it was to unlock the door, and they, naturally, began to panic. My father called the front desk, explained that he had a three year old who'd locked herself in the bathroom and they assured him that they would "send someone up".

Some period of time passed, but no one from the hotel had arrived. My father decided this constituted an emergency situation, got out his Swiss Army knife, and took the door off at the hinges.

My sister and I are both alive and well, so clearly, whichever daughter was responsible survived the experience. The hotel was a bit mad about the door, I think, but my father convinced them they ought to respond a little faster next time.

I didn't have a Swiss Army knife. In fact, all of the knives I had were made of plastic, but I could probably find, or buy, something to help me take the door off its hinges.

Then I realized the hinges were on the other side of the door.

I was officially out of ideas. There was nothing left to do but go upstairs, introduce myself to the woman who is somehow related to my landlord, and ask her if she had a key.

I knocked on her door and waited. No response. I knocked again and explained, as best I could, who I was and what I was doing there.

She opened the door, her four year old son by her side.

Great, I was locked out of my apartment at 9.30 on a Sunday night, and now I'd woken up a four year old in the process.

I explained, "I'm Marie, I just moved in downstairs, and I'm locked out. Sort of. I can get into the kitchen, but I shut the door between the kitchen to the living room and I didn't realize it was locked, but it is, and now I can't get in to the rest of my apartment."

That's kind of a lot to throw at someone, especially when they don't really speak your language.

"I'm sorry, I don't understand. I will call my sister, you talk to her."

She dialed, spoke something in Mandarin, and handed the phone to me.

Turns out, her sister is the person who occasionally answers the phone when I call my landlord. Near as I can tell, the woman on the phone is probably my landlord's wife, making the woman who lives upstairs from me his sister-in-law.

But really, I have no idea.

I explained the situation again, growing more and more concerned that this evening was going to end with me sleeping on my kitchen floor.

"Ok, put my sister back on the phone."

"Ok"? Was there a plan now? Was there something to be done? Or was she just going to relay the information to her sister?

They talked for a bit more, and the sister walked down the hallway and unlocked one of the doors. She looked around for something, and then emerged with a small box full of keys.

We're talking at least 50 keys here. Maybe more.

I was delighted. It would be a daunting task, testing each of these keys, but surely one of them would fit.

I moved forward to take the box off her hands, but she had a different plan.

She and her four year old son came downstairs, with the keys, and proceeded to test each of them in the door while I hovered off to the side.

To my dismay, she seemed to be pointing the keys at the lock upside-down and then rejecting them out of hand when they didn't fit. Each time, as she was about to discard the key, I would flip it over and ask her to try it again.

We repeated this process about 20 or 25 times. I was starting to feel sick and beginning to wonder if I would need to call a locksmith. Or if locksmiths even worked this late on Sunday evenings.

I heard a noise, and the door shoved open.

I just about melted onto the floor with relief. Then, I may or may not have jumped up and down, screaming.

My landlord's sister-in-law handed me the key, clearly puzzled by my behavior, and my desire to be let in to a room that didn't even have anything in it. She and her son went back upstairs, and I brought my laundry through the living room.

I approached the bedroom door and had a moment of panic, was this one locked too?

Thankfully, the door opened with ease.

Of course, at this point, I was way too keyed up to think about sleeping. So, I proceeded to unpack my clothes, and compulsively organize my sock drawer until midnight.

Turns out it was actually a pretty good week, too.

Moving Day

2009-10-06T22:31:00.001-04:00

(For what it's worth, I actually drafted this post on August 31st...)

As many of you are probably aware, I recently moved to a new apartment. I could use that (and a few busy weeks at work) to explain why I left you completely without blog posts for the last 30 45? days, but I think we should move past excuses and look to the future.

The upside of moving, it turns out, is that it created many blog-worthy memories that I will do my best to regale you with.

Before we dive into those, however, I'd like to thank a few people who were incredibly generous with their time and upper body strength:

Dan V.: has helped me move everything I own twice in the past two years. I don't know if this qualifies a person for sainthood, but it probably ought to.
Katy E. and Dan P.: helped me move the day after they got engaged. And they brought me flowers!
Darius K.: met me at IKEA with his own car, just in case all the furniture I had to buy wouldn't fit in the back of my Toyota Tacoma. Not only did he put up with me at IKEA, he also put up with me on the drive back from IKEA. That he even had to put up with me on the drive back from IKEA, given that we were in separate cars, should say a lot. But more on that later.
Tony M.: voluntarily helped me put together not one, but two pieces of IKEA furniture after I had a melt down and cried during brunch. Brunch! My favorite meal of the day.
Emily G. and Outi J.: came over on a Friday night and helped me put together more IKEA furniture. Then we ate Chinese take-out while sitting on my floor because we didn't get the chairs put together by the time the delivery guy showed up. Outi gets mad props because she came over a few weeks later and helped me put a decal of a tree up on my wall. Again, more on that later.

Last, but certainly not least, I have to thank my mom. She drove up and back from Virginia in a 36 hour period, brought me a bunch of amazing stuff, put up with me when I was a brat (this, for 24+ years, not just those 36 hours) and made my empty new apartment feel like an actual home in about a million ways, small and large.

So, on with the show!

I was apprehensive about the move, because one always seems to have more stuff than anticipated. Turns out the real issue was actually that I didn't have very much stuff at all.

Here is a general summary of what I had to move:

a bed
a chair
clothes (many)
a teeny tiny bookcase
a smattering of books (truly, an embarrassingly small number of books, particularly for an English major)
miscellaneous cook and bake ware

And here is a brief list of things I did not have:

everything else

Needless to say, I had some shopping to do. Like any good 20-something in the city, I knew I could get almost everything I needed from one of two places: IKEA, or mom and dad's basement.

Knowing that I would need to make an IKEA run, I asked Dan V. to book our Ziptruck from Friday evening to Saturday evening.

Moving is probably not the most exciting way I've spent a Friday night, but I can assure you it isn't the least exciting way I've spent one either. With all the great help, my stuff made the migration in under 3 hours and by midnight, I was happily scrubbing cat hair out of my shower.

I foolishly set up my cable & internet install for Saturday, unwittingly boxing myself into a bit of a tight schedule for the next day. I needed to get to IKEA, get my furniture, get back from IKEA, unload the furniture, drop off the pickup truck a few miles away, and be back at my apartment by 2pm on the off chance that the Comcast guy showed up at the early end of the range they'd given me (2 to 5PM).

Since IKEA opens at 10AM, I figured I'd need to be in an out in two hours.

If you've never been to an IKEA, that probably seems reasonable. If you have, you know that they could have filmed Terminal at one of those stores and it would have seemed just as plausible.

I should probably mention that the weekend I moved (just before September 1st, the busiest move-in day here in Boston) was also the weekend that New England received a surprise visit from Tropical Depression Danny. I say "surprise" because, even though we knew it was coming by Thursday, it's generally not normal for hurricanes and tropical storms to hit Boston.

Friday night, the rain was fairly mild. It was really more of a mist.

Saturday, however, the rain came down in earnest.

So, off to IKEA I went. Rainboots, raincoat, and tarp in tow.

I was, in retrospect, incredibly well prepared and with Darius's help and superior cart-steering abilities, we were in and out well within the necessary time frame.

Darius, with his engineering degree, seemed like exactly the type of person you would want to have with you when you need to secure a bunch of flat packed, particle board furniture under a tarp, in the back of a pickup truck.

Turns out, however, that few things can really prepare a person for dealing with me when all of the shiny new furniture I've just purchased is protected from the elements by nothing more than a piece of plastic and some rope. Maybe you have to go to graduate school for that sort of thing.

After two and a half attempts at securing the tarp, we left the safety of the IKEA parking structure and headed out into the storm.

If you haven't made this trip before, it's a pretty straight shot: two relatively brief trips on major highways, and a bit of time on some local roads.

The thing about highways is that they're great when you're looking to get somewhere quickly.

When you have six pieces of furniture you just spent your paycheck on, however, speed is not actually the top concern. Particularly not when you're driving through the throws of Tropical Depression Danny.

A few minutes after we merged onto the first highway, the tarp started billowing up behind me. At first, I thought: this is normal, this is what tarps do, this is how air works, this is all just a physics problem.

Then I remembered that it was pouring rain, all that stuff was mine, and high school physics frequently made me cry.

I called Darius. Our conversation went something like this:

M: Darius, is it supposed to be doing that? I'm worried that the rain is getting under the tarp.
D: No, it's fine. This is normal.
M: Are you sure? Because the tarp really looks like it's about to fly off the back of the truck.
D: It's tied down. This is just how it works. If you'd feel better, we can pull off at the next exit and check it out.
M: No, I'm sure you're right. It's fine. I just want to get home.
D: Ok. Well, I'll call you it looks like things are getting out of control.

I hung up, took a deep breath, and thought about the worst thing that could possibly happen.

It's helpful, I swear.

In this case, the thing I was most afraid of was the furniture being ruined. Obviously that would have been upsetting, but buying new furniture, while painful, wasn't going to kill me.

I'm just coming to terms with my new reality, a reality in which I don't terribly fear the prospect of buying this furniture all over again, when my phone rings.

It's Darius! Surely he is calling to tell me that things are not so bad.

D: I think we should pull over at the next exit.

Or not.

By this point the next exit turns out to be the next major highway we need to take, so we merge onto 95 (I'm really freaking out now) and drive a few more miles before we get to the first exit.

I pulled into the parking lot of a gas station where Darius and I proceeded to spend the next five minutes adjusting the tarp and the furniture underneath it. I took solace in the fact that nothing was ruined yet and did my best impression of a person who is not freaking out.

Darius can attest to my poor impersonation skills.

With the tarp retied, and the best action plan we could muster (drive. If this happens again, cry, then turn around and drive to Home Depot), we headed back to the highway.

I'm pretty sure no one has ever been as happy to see the Big Dig as I was that day. It was a beautiful cavern, protecting my poor little particle board from the vicious elements. And it didn't collapse on me, or anybody else, so it was probably a good day for the Big Dig too.

We arrived back at my apartment a little under an hour to spare and unloaded the furniture as quickly as can be expected when you're moving furniture in the pouring rain and one of your moving partners is me.

Having established that every piece of furniture survived its brush with Tropical Depression Danny, we hightailed it back to Central Square to drop off the Ziptruck.

Since I wasn't the one who picked up the truck on Friday night (see: Dan V., aka St Daniel), I found myself at a bit of a loss when the time came to return it. After sitting through typical Saturday afternoon traffic (this should not be a thing!), we found the parking garage pretty easily.

Of course, the Zipcar parking spaces weren't right by the entrance like I expected them to be. I drove up and around each level, got to the top, turned around and started winding my way back down, frantically looking for anything that looked like a Zipcar (where's the big green logo when you need it?) and watching all the while as the minutes on the clock ticked by. Finally, I found the Zipcar parking area, returned the car, and ran out into the rain to find where Darius was parked.

I had 20 minutes left to get back to my apartment and, for a moment, actually thought that taking the T would have been faster than driving. Darius assured me this was not the case though, and we took some kind of short cut back to Somerville.

Five minutes into our return trip, with fifteen minutes to spare, my phone rang:

"Uh, hi. This is Comcast. I'm here to set up your internet. Are you home?"

Awkward at the beach

2009-08-03T11:01:00.001-04:00

I've got a story to tell you guys, but it's going to have to wait a bit because I'm very busy being awkward at the beach today.

The fabulous Kalika S. and I are having a Gatsby-esque experience, there are hats and biplanes and hotels that look like something out of an Agatha Christie novel. What more could one ask for?

Enjoy:

Go Mad Men yourself

2009-07-28T14:06:00.005-04:00

I have a bit of a post to write up about Mad Men, and I'm going to do my best to get it written up tonight (if I can bear to be conscious in my un-airconditioned apartment), but in the meantime, I encourage you to go Mad Men yourself: www.madmenyourself.com (if you haven't already). It's really more fun than it ought to be.

Unfortunately, it doesn't really change much. Turns out I'd still look like an over-caffeinated nerd:

Interviews can be awkward

2009-07-24T07:13:00.002-04:00

No, I'm not going anywhere (in case you've been reading this blog with the heretofore unmentioned goal of employing me...hey, stranger things have happened!). Actually, in case you hadn't heard, we're hiring.

So I've been talking to some folks on the phone this week, which is sort of unusual when you work for the internet. Unexpected things happen.

Especially when you work in Downtown Crossing.

For anyone unfamiliar with Boston, Downtown Crossing (DTX) is a bit of an odd place. It's sort of a shopping destination, but not the "I want to buy something expensive" kind.

There are also lots of offices, pawn shops, and food carts.

A few years ago, some developers had this great idea: they bought the old Filene's building, a fixture in DTX, and decided to rebuild it. The first level would have retail shops, then there would be some prime office space, and at the top, luxury condos with beautiful views of the city.

(that's the Filene's building, on the right, with the flags)

Now, anyone who has ever been to DTX can understand why people who can afford luxury condos were not interested in living there.

Needless to say, the plans never came to fruition and now there is a just big hole in the ground. It's a source of embarrassment for the mayor, who encouraged these kinds of projects, and if you subscribe to the "broken window" theory, it's certainly not doing the city any favors.

In an attempt to make good, the mayor has initiated a series of events designed to "revitalize" Downtown Crossing.

Mostly, they have to do with live music. This month, we're being treated to "Jazz Wednesdays". Apparently, whoever booked yesterday's act told her it was "Showtunes Wednesdays", but that's hardly even the point.

Right at the beginning of one of my calls, the singer began belting out something from Hello, Dolly. She had what I believe you might call "pipes".

My coworker began laughing uncontrollably in the other room.

It may very well be the case that none of this was audible on the other end of the phone line, but it all happened right at a break in the conversation. I had another question all ready and raring to go, but my brain was still processing the sudden influx of noise and several seconds passed in silence before I could make sense of it all.

Phone silence is often awkward, but in interview settings, I feel it reaches peak awkward potential.

I apologized, explained the scenario as best I could, and carried on with my question. The rest of our conversation went off without a hitch.

Fortunately for me, it was also my last call of the day.

Unfortunately for everyone in Downtown Crossing, "Jazz Wednesday" carried on for some time after, but at least I was able to turn to my headphones for protection.

Context is king

2009-07-23T07:18:00.000-04:00

A few weeks ago, I was out in Brighton visiting with my friends Katy E. and Dan P.
They're delightful people and really the only reason I set foot on the Green Line anymore.

Around 10 or 10.30, I decided it was probably time for me to head home - I had an hour T ride ahead of me, after all.

Either the day had been nice and the evening turned cool, or it was just another day that I failed to dress appropriately for the Boston weather. Either way, I was standing on a deserted stretch of Comm Ave, clutching my umbrella and regretting my sundress.

After waiting for the T for a few minutes, I saw a man walking towards me. He was wearing a long black trench coat, dark clothes, and a black fedora.

In high school, he would have been one of the drama kids and we would have been friends.

But this wasn't high school, and he didn't look like the BC and BU kids walking by.

I was on alert.

He walked past me, waved to the outbound T driver, and continued walking up the street.

The whole scene struck me as a bit odd, but my thoughts quickly returned to the unpleasant weather and my desire for an inbound train to arrive.

A few minutes later, however, he came back. Same black trench coat. Same fedora. I was concerned. Where had he come from? How had he somehow looped around the T stop without my seeing it?

As he approached, I started to get nervous. He clearly wasn't waiting for a T, he had waved the last one off. Our little section of Comm Ave was pretty empty, nothing was open, there was just the T stop, and me, standing there.

As he came close, I saw his face. It was rounder, more boyish, than I remembered.

And that's when it hit me.

Of course they were not the same person.

They were two separate men. Hasidic Jews. Just walking home from temple because it was the sabbath.

How many awkward points is that?

The return of awkward

2009-07-22T18:40:00.002-04:00

Look! Here I am, writing a blog post!

Some of you have been haranguing me about the lack of blog posts these past few months. The rest of you have simply stopped reading. Fair's fair and all that.

I'm actually writing this blog post on my iPhone, while waiting for some water to boil on the stove.

Yup, you read that right. Stove.

Later, I'll also be using the microwave.

I know. I'm so high-tech.

The catalyst for this post was not actually to tell you all about my brilliant new adventures in cooking (they're really more adventures in reheating at this point), the awkward moment that sparked this post is actually related to Twitter.

It's almost hard to believe, isn't it?

You guys all know that I'm a big fan of Twitter; I find out about a lot of interesting things (like Amazon buying Zappos, for instance), plus there are some funny people hanging out there, too.

I also follow quite a few local people, most of whom I don't actually know and it's led to a number of conversations with friends wondering if we unknowingly interact with the people we follow on Twitter. What if that obnoxious person on the T is a Twitter-follower? What if my gym-nemesis is someone whose tweets I actually like?

But the big question is often: If I ran into someone from Twitter on the street, would I recognize them?

Let me tell you: the answer is yes.

Yes, you will recognize them, especially if you are like me and have a such a strong memory for faces that it often makes other people uncomfortable.

See, the answer for me is "yes", but for you (and for the person I ran into on the street today) there's a good chance that the answer is "no."

Hence, the return of awkward.

The person I ran into today is someone I've followed for a while, we've even exchanged a few emails. Yet I was still completely at a loss for words. What does one say?

I've gone to a handful of tweet-ups and the introductions usually go something like this:

"Hi, I'm @someonesuperfunnywhohappenstoliveinboston"
"Oh, hi! Nice to meet you. I'm @eyemadequiet. No no, "I" like "e-y-e". Yeah. No, you don't know me. That's cool."

I'm totally comfortable not being "big" on Twitter, but imagine having that conversation, randomly, with a stranger on the street, someone you're 90% sure you know from the internet.

That 10% just kills me.

At any rate: it was nice to meet you, @lefauxfrog. Those are some nice headphones.

The Summer of Vegetables: An Inauspicious Beginning

2009-06-09T21:09:00.001-04:00

I was recently bemoaning the fact that I haven't had anything awkward to write about in, well, months. I'm pretty sure one or two of you have been bemoaning that too.

That's why, after I finished hyperventilating, I was actually pretty excited about the events that transpired this evening.

Here's what happened:

Today was my first day picking up my CSA (Community Sponsored Agriculture). I've bought half a share in a farm, which means 4 to 8 lbs of fresh vegetables every week between now and October.

At my pick-up site (in Harvard Square, naturally), I stuffed my Whole Foods Market canvas bag with a head of lettuce, some bok choy, spinach, mescalin greens, a parsnip, a small basil plant, and a container of strawberries. Also a loaf of french bread.

On the ride home I planned my lunch for tomorrow (salad) and decide I'd make life easy and have the same thing for dinner. I was feeling generally pleased with myself, basking in the glow of that smugly self satisfied feeling you get when you're doing something so good.

By my count, this whole CSA business is good for:

My health. So many leafy green things!
My wallet. So much cheaper than the grocery store.
The environment. All organic. (Plus I'm picking it up in that canvas bag.)

This last one is important.

Upon arriving home, I decide to lay all the vegetables out on the counter so I could take a picture for my other blog. (Can't seem to upload pictures on my Mac right now. Coming soon!)

The basil plant was sharing a bag with the box of strawberries and since they both seemed a bit delicate, I decided to remove them first.

Right as my hand was going into the bag, I noticed something moving. Of course the first thing to come of my CSA would not be a delicious bite of strawberry. No, instead, I was rewarded for my do-goodery by a dark brown spider that appeared to be 150% legs.

As it crawled out onto the counter, I dropped the plant and ran out of the room.

Hyperventilating.

The thing about hyperventilating, for those of you who've never done it, is that once you start, it's sort of hard to stop. Even (especially?) when you know you're being absurd.

Safely ensconced in my bedroom on the other side of the apartment, I hyperventilated for about a minute.

Yes. Really.

Then I grabbed the best bug-killing shoes I own (Vans) and returned to the kitchen. Briefly concerned that my foe may have ventured back to the safety nest of my precious produce, I was quite relieved to find it, stationary, in the middle of the kitchen floor. He was no match for the heavy rubber soles of the Vans.

Preparing the salads became an epic challenge after that. Every leaf had to be investigated and scrubbed. Bags had to be eyed suspiciously for a good 30 seconds before I could stick my hand in. Anything that moved was suspect. Once again, I contemplated the value of pesticides.

Perhaps it's more of an ironic beginning than an inauspicious one, but I'm hopeful that next week's CSA adventure will look a little less like a panic attack.

I've got secrets up to here, love

2009-05-13T08:23:00.006-04:00

I cannot stop listening to "Secrets" by Jenny Owen Youngs. My Wednesday gift to you is this video:

Now, go be nice and buy Transmission Failure on Amie Street. It's only $7 and they're donating $1 per album to The Smile Train.

What's not to love?

25 letters?

2009-05-04T15:11:00.002-04:00

Let me begin this post by saying that I am very much an Apple fangirl. They make shiny, pretty things that perform beautifully and simply. They're also a lot of fun.

This story begins a few weeks ago (as usually). I was getting drinks with a friend, we were chatting about music. He mentioned an upcoming concert at Boston's newest music venue: The House of Blues.

It got me thinking about how rarely I go to concerts anymore (remember that Ted Leo adventure? Yeah.) I decided to check out the scene, as it were.

I was shocked to discover that two of my beloved bands from high school would be playing at the very same House of Blues. Jack's Mannequin and Matt Nathanson: a 14 year old emo-girl's dream come true.

I was equally shocked to discover that tickets for this nostaligia trip were going to cost me $35 a piece. It was going to be hard enough to convince someone to join me for this guilty pleasure concert, I knew the price tag made it impossible and abandoned the idea.

Last night, I realized that for the price of the "convenience fee" on one ticket, I could buy the latest (...from 2007) Matt Nathanson album to supplement my collection.

For a mere $7.99, I was able to download the album and rock out to my emo heart's content. Wonderful.

At least, it was wonderful.

When I attempted to add the newest album to my iPod Shuffle, it seemed perpetually syncing. I ejected and tried again. Everything seemed to work; all the songs showed up this time. I called it a night.

Up and at em this morning, got everything together, grabbed my Shuffle and I'm ready to hit the gym. I skip through a bunch of tracks trying to get to my new album. I caught an "L" track (Little Jackie, maybe? or Lucky Boys Confusion?), switched it out of shuffle mode and clicked through to the M's.

Only there were no M's.

Before I knew it I was listening to "The King of Carrot Flowers".

I clicked back and forth in disbelief. How could this be? In a fit of nostalgia, I had added every single Matt Nathanson track I own onto my Shuffle. A few choice tracks by the talented Messrs. Vanderslice and Darnielle should have rounded out the M's nicely (e.g. This Year)

My iPod Shuffle is either protesting my music taste, or the letter M.

Or you know, Apple is trying to force me to update my hardware.

I'd consider it if they'd consider making earbuds that don't suck.

All you need to know

2009-04-17T09:54:00.003-04:00

This morning my mom called me a walking disaster, my coworker and I have agreed that I am the sickest healthy-person we know, and I'm currently sitting in my office without shoes on, and no sock on my left foot.

This is, unfortunately, an awful lot like last week.

You can't text message break up

2009-03-24T13:53:00.001-04:00

My commute from Davis Square to Park Street took about an hour this morning.

For those of you unfamiliar with the route, that's six stops on Boston's Red Line. The MBTA calculates this should take about 15 minutes.

No joke:

While I've never had it go quite that well, 10 minutes per stop was a bit excessive.

I got on the T this morning with what seemed like a thousand of my closest-Davis Square friends. There were so many of us that by the time the train reached Porter, no one could even get on. Lots of grumbling and unhappy faces on the platform, but they'd be laughing all the way to the bank in a few minutes.

We spent a decent amount of time in the tunnel between Harvard and Central before the T conductor (operator? driver? what do we call these people?) announced that our train was experiencing mechanical problems and would be disabled at Central. This proved to be a bit problematic because there were already quite a few people in Central Square waiting for the T and the platform did not have much room.

Never a big fan of crowds, I made a beeline (oh, the puns...) for the wall and assessed my options. I could:

Wait.
Venture above ground, hop on the 1 bus and take the Green Line from Hynes.
Scare up some breakfast in Central Square and return to the T station after the situation sorted itself out.

Naturally, I decided to wait.

I took out my phone to entertain myself and suddenly remembered that my phone has a camera. I know, it's almost hard to believe I work in social media.

Feeling extra passive-aggressive, I took this picture:

and sent it to twitter via TwitPic:

Satisfied that the world now knew of my misery, I focused on not having a panic attack and finding the best place to stand so as to actually get a spot on one of the next trains.

Success was mine by the time the third train came through the station and we zipped along towards Kendall Square.

The rest of the commute was largely uneventful, though I fear I may have made a fellow passenger extremely uncomfortable when I reached around him to hold onto the frame of the door while we crossed the Longfellow bridge.

In my heightened state of awareness to the T's problems, I became concerned about the possibility that the "Do Not Lean On Doors" signage actually meant something. Namely, that the doors might open in transit.

Fortunately, the doors held and I arrived at work to find that my photo (and annoyed tweet) were being featured on UniversalHub.

I feel as though I have transitioned. Instead of using my twitter account solely for snarky comments about the Downtown Crossing Partnership, I am now a Citizen Journalist.

Now, if only I could figure out how to use twitter to make citizen's arrests, I think I'll be all set.

Oh, and I know it's ridiculous to try and break up with the T. What are my alternatives? It's not like I'm actually going to learn how to ride a bike.

Awkward Recap

2009-03-17T19:30:00.005-04:00

It's been a while since we've done one of these. Well, it's been a while since I've written anything here at all, but that's besides the point!

Let's get started:

On my birthday, the cashier at Starbucks blurted out, "I like you--I like your sunglasses. They're very stylish." I said, "Thanks."+3 awkward points.
Later that day, my sunglasses broke. 0 awkward points, many sad points.
Last weekend, a man approached me in Davis Square and asked me to point a tiny squirt gun at him and pretend that he was robbing me. He looked like he might actually rob me. I declined as politely as I could, given the circumstances. Then I had to stand next to him for two minutes and wait for the light to change. +7 awkward points.
One of my coworkers thinks I'm a pirate. +2 awkward points. Or is it awesome points?
Speaking of twitter, someone I follow that I've never actually met thinks I work too much. Maybe I shouldn't tweet from the office so much+2 awkward points.
After having dinner with friends on Saturday (including the lovely Claire M., Katy E., and Dan P.) I was asked out for a drink by a boy I met on the T. +3 awkward points.
He had green hair. +2 awkward points.

No, I did not go out with him. Don't be ridiculous.

Eye Washing in Public

2009-03-03T19:31:00.004-05:00

So, my left eye has been bothering me a lot lately. It's been irritated for a few weeks, but started getting worse yesterday.

Of course, today it's been driving me crazy, which probably has a lot to do with the fact that I've been thinking about it constantly.

Eyes are a bit of a touchy subject for me, namely because I find them absolutely disgusting. Minority Report was a traumatic experience.

They're also a bit confusing from a medical standpoint. Do you go to your doctor when something is wrong? Do you go straight to your optometrist? What's the difference between an optometrist and an ophthalmologist anyway?

Eternal questions, really.

After gritting my teeth and bearing the torture that is self-administering eye-drops for two whole days, I decided to brave WebMD's symptom checker to get some ideas about what my first steps should be.

Folks who know me personally (as a bit of a hypochondriac), or professionally, can attest to the fact that I should really never use WebMD.

For the first time ever, the symptom checker didn't convince me that death was imminent. Probably because I just skipped over that entry that said "Shingles".

Feeling oddly comforted that this was something I could handle on my own, I stopped off at CVS before the gym this morning to pick up some different eye drops. While perusing the completely overwhelming eye-care section, I came across a nifty little package of eye wash solution.

It came with six little vials of eye wash, and a neat eye-washing cup. It was only $6. Clearly, it was the solution to my problem.

After I made this purchase, I realized that the vials contained purified water with a teeny-tiny bit of salt. How this is different than pouring a bottle of Dasani on my face, I'm not really sure.

Never one to be deterred by over-priced health remedies, I vowed to wash my eyes while I was getting ready for work.

After exercising and getting cleaned up, I stood at the sink in the very crowded locker room of my gym and dutifully poured half the vial into the eye cup and put the cup right up to my face.

This is where things began to go wrong and my pathetically fragile logic process began to show.

For reasons that remain unclear, I had assumed that the purified water would be staying in the cup and my eye would just be blinking it up.

Obviously, this $6 eye cup does not hermetically seal to one's face. Obviously, the Platonic Ideal of an eye cup does not create an air-tight seal, as that would probably be damaging.

Of course, neither of these things were obvious to me at 7 this morning.

Not until after I took that crucial last step of tilting my head back. I was focused so intently on rotating my eye like the instructions told me that I was completely taken aback as eye wash poured down my face and all over my shirt.

The upside is that I wasn't wearing silk, cashmere, or some other fabric that you might not want to pour water on.

The downside is that my eye still kind of hurts.

The Hat

2009-03-02T19:38:00.006-05:00

In case you spent the day under a rock and away from all forms of media, I'll just bring you up to speed by telling you that the only newsworthy thing that happened today (according to Channel 7) was that much of the East Coast was covered in snow.

Setting aside for a moment the injustice that Boston's birthday-week gift to me appears to be weather, let's focus on more crucial elements of this snowstorm, namely, what did I wear?

This is a favored topic of mine, mainly because I have finally figured out the formula for Winter Success in this town (Sleeping Bag Coat + Boots + Hat + Tights + Skirt + Cashmere = Impenetrable Fortress of Warmth).

Today, despite it being the second day of March, I trudged forth in the snow looking something like this:

My facial expression in this picture roughly approximates how I was feeling at 6.30 this morning.

The main feature here, of course, is my ridiculous hat. Do I look like a Russian/Serial Killer/Bear?

Yes.

Am I warmer than you?

Yes.

It is not surprisingly, however, that the man across from me on the T tonight spent his commute home alternating between staring at me and pretending to read his travel book about Puerto Rico.

Sorry to be the bearer of bad news, pal, but even if you are going to Puerto Rico, you still live here, in a town that requires Serial Killer Bear Hats* in March.

On a side note, if you wore canvas shoes or rode a bicycle anywhere in New England today, you are most certainly a hipster.

*NB: Obviously a better name is needed. SKBH is a lousy acronym. The comment section is open to your ideas.

Awkward at the beach

2009-02-18T19:53:00.003-05:00

I recently returned from a lovely Valentine's mini-break! It was like something right out of Bridget Jones, except that I was with my mom.

But, in all other aspects (namely, ridiculousness), it really was like something out of a movie.

Depending on your point of view, this story begins in one of two places:

In the summer of 2006, a number of men were arrested in London for attempting to bring liquid explosives on to airplanes traveling from the UK to the US. Wikipedia refers to this event as the "2006 transatlantic aircraft plot" but I believe that most of us remember it as the day that air travel became absolutely dreadful. It was also a boon for industries that produce and package small quantities of liquids.
Alternatively, you could see the resulting events as actually my fault. In which case, the story begins on Saturday, February 14th during a pre-flight trip to CVS.

You see, my mini-break was to a lovely island off of Florida's Gulf Coast.

If you can't tell from my photograph, and you're one of four people who reads this blog that hasn't actually met me in person, I have roughly as much pigmentation as a ghost. The foundation I buy is called "Aspen", which I believe is marketing code for: "If we called this 'Albino', no one would buy it."

Even in February, a trip to Florida without sunscreen would be extremely ill advised for someone "with the map of Ireland all over her face."

Because of my obsessive need to be prepared, I decided to stop at CVS the morning of my flight to see if they had any sunscreen in 3 oz containers. This way I could bring sunscreen with me (in the event that the entire state of Florida mysteriously had a shortage) without having to deal with the unseemly hassle of checking a bag.

When I found this, however, I thought I'd struck gold:

A sunblock stick!

I was overjoyed by it's non-liquid state. I happily shelled out $7.99 for this wonder and tossed it in my suitcase.

I was now prepared for every aspect of my trip. I had forgotten nothing.

Since my flight arrived on Saturday night, I didn't actually get to hit the beach until Sunday morning.

I woke up to a landscape that appeared to be the set of the Pirates of the Caribbean movie you all know is coming, even though the trilogy is complete. It was warm, but there was fog and haze everywhere.

My mother was not deterred. We were here. At the beach. In Florida. It was not going to walk itself.

As I diligently applied my sunscreen stick, I began to notice a few drawbacks. Namely, that it doesn't spread, so you have to use quite a bit of it. While I'm sure the folks at Neutrogena considered it a "feature" that the sunscreen goes on dry and clear, it does make it a bit hard to tell when you've missed a spot.

Nonetheless, I persevered, covering my bikini-clad self with 30 SPF magical goodness. My mom made sure to get my back, I put some 45 SPF on my face and we were good to go!

Now, read the sentence back again.

Yes, on the cloudiest day of the year, my mother and I had decided to walk the beach in nothing but our bathing suits.

I felt awkward about this, but my mother assured me that everyone else would be in their suits. Plus, I had not thought to bring any kind of beach cover up. Mainly because I never go to the beach and therefor don't actually own any beach cover ups.

I briefly considered fashioning one of my skirts into a cover up, but decided I'd rather wear my bikini than look like I was trying to hide a pregnancy.

We arrived at the beach and, sure enough, there were people in bathing suits! Also in shorts and sweatshirts, but those people were obviously natives who still think that 70* is "cold".

The plan was to walk up the beach to The Sandbar, where we would dine (on the beach. In our bathing suits) and then walk back.

Now would probably be a good time for me to remind you all that I am secretly a 74 year old with hip problems.

For the first part of the walk I entertained myself with my iPod shuffle. Then I moved on to the amusing things I could tweet after eating at a restaurant where shirts and shoes were not required.

Then I gave up and realized that walking barefoot in the sand is not exactly a great idea for someone with hip problems. This was about an hour into our walk. Because of the fog, we had no idea if we were even close to the restaurant.

After a few futile attempts to stretch out my aching hip flexor, my mother graciously agreed to walk back to the condo with me. From there, we would shower, change, and drive to lunch. Obviously not an ideal plan, but it seemed plausible.

20 minutes into our return trip, I begin limping, and whining in earnest. I tried putting my flip-flops on to see if the extra inch of foam would help.

My mother, feeling bad and concerned that she might cripple me for life, suggested we walk on the sidewalk. I figured she meant some heretofore unseen sidewalk that ran between the beach front houses and the beach.

No.

She meant the sidewalk. Of the main road.

Please picture, if you will, my mother, barefoot, in her tankini, walking down the street behind me, in my bikini.

Now picture all of the cars driving by us.

And everyone around us fully clothed.

This is the stuff of nightmares, folks.

My hip, however, was feeling much better than it had on the beach, and my mother was reluctant to return there since my pace had now picked up considerably.

Finally, we ran out of sidewalk and I convinced my mother to return to the beach. We snuck through the private entrance behind some fancy condos. My mother announced that if we got caught, she would claim "emergency", which, apparently, is a legal defense in the state of Florida.

This was clearly an emergency.

Back on the beach, clouds had gathered and the wind picked up. In an effort to appear good-humored, I mentioned that I was relieved to be back on sand, away from all the gawking drivers.

My mother laughed, said, "they were all gawking at you" and then added,

"At least they weren't holding up signs. You know: 7, 7, 8."

I cannot decide whether I should be pleased, disappointed, or just plain horrified that my own mother thinks I'm about a 7.5.

Either way, we did make it back to the condo, we had lunch, and I can still walk. So if you set the bar low enough, the afternoon was a success.

Save for one thing.

Later that evening, as I put on my pajamas, I caught my reflection in one of the three (no joke) mirrors that were in my bedroom.

Despite my intense preparation and the profound lack of sunlight, I still managed to get sunburned.

In five, gash-like, stripes down my back.

I currently look like I just barely survived a fight with a tiger.

So thanks for getting my back, mom!

Another website?

2009-02-11T15:52:00.004-05:00

I know what you're thinking. How could I possibly start another website when I can barely manage to keep this one up to date?

Maybe it's a harebrained idea, but I thought it would be useful to have a place where I could write about the sort of things I'm doing for work. Out of respect for the three and a half people who read this blog on a regular basis, I didn't want to inundate you all with social media mumbo jumbo.

That being said, if social media mumbo jumbo sounds like your bag, go check out my new site:

http://marieconnelly.com/blog

It's a work in progress, so please be kind. and gentle.

For those of you anxiously awaiting some news about my awkwardness, I've got two posts in my head and one promised guest post coming up! I guarantee that February will bring more awkward into your life than January did.

A Grand Slam

2009-02-03T15:02:00.003-05:00

Welcome to a new feature here on oh em gee, it's a blog: Awkward Guests. I know I'm not the only person that awkward things happen to, so consider this an open invitation to submit your own stories of awkwardness!

I can't promise you fame or fortune, or really even more than a handful of readers, but I can promise some iron-clad anonymity, if that's what you're looking for.

Today, I present you with a blog post written by my dear friend, Kyle K. You'll note that Kyle is in graduate school, and therefore, uses much bigger words than I do. Words that Firefox does not think are words, even. But I Googled them, so I'm pretty sure he's not just bluffing.

Without further ado...

On the occasional day I wake up before noon, my morning isn't complete without three things:

1. Reading HuffPost

2. Spending the time between links making fun of Joe Scarborough

3. Breakfast

Having completed 1) and 2), I opened the fridge and stared into it for a few minutes to see if anything popped out at me. That's when the best news possible (on MSNBC at least) came from the TV: Denny's was giving away free breakfast! I didn't have to eat mealy apples or whole wheat bagels or anything!

So I packed up the newspaper and drove to the nearest Denny's - there was a line out the door - and already this wasn't looking good. I deplaned and stood in line anyway, and that's where I met Kev. Kev told me all about how he had been waiting about 20 minutes out in the cold, but it was all worth it, because he was getting two free eggs, two free pancakes, two free sausage links, a free slice of bacon, and didnt have to leave a tip.

Lucky for my dignity and toes, I was lazier than I was hungry, and so took my Detroit News and headed home. Kev could stand in line all he wanted; I wasn't letting myself get caught in that honeypot. I decided to make my own special breakfast.

Arriving back home, I busted out some utensils, and proceeded to start down the path of tasty treats. That's when Eddie, the latest addition to this morning's little dramatis personae, came a-knocking.

Leaving my freshly poured pancakes to brown, I answered the door, and was leid by a dozen questions regarding the exterior of the house, with "I'm not tryin' to sell you nothin'" as the colorful flower that hides the knot.

Glassine thoughts of new gutters and energy-efficient windows shattered as I caught a whif of burning pancakes. Eddie invited himself in as I rushed back to the stove. In a valiant effort to save the blackening biscuits, I burned my finger.

This all happened in two or three fluid moments - Eddie had not stopped talking yet - but in a conniptive flailing of betrayal at the pan which had promised me breakfast and rewarded my trust with a burn, I batted one of the pancakes at Eddie, who narrowly avoided the doughy projectile by the same margin that I narrowly avoided a lawsuit.

Laying at his feet, between him and the door, the pancake served as a nice microcosm of the larger obstacle breakfast had posed all morning. Merciful Eddie left the house and me to my failure with an uncharacteristic silence. Standing in pain amid the smoldering ruin of Bisquick and Teflon, I reflected that things did not look so bad. Sure, Denny's had failed me, Kev and Eddie were no help, and it looked like mealy apples were in my future, but - you know what? - I hit that pancake out of the park.

You don't really want to know what strangers think of you

2009-02-02T19:29:00.002-05:00

I will be the first to admit that I am often curious as to how I'm perceived by complete strangers. Maybe this is because I have a habit of making random observations about people, so I just assume everyone else does too.

Whether or not that's true, I gained valuable insight into all of this last Friday morning.

I was walking through Harvard Square on Friday, heading towards the T. Due to the recent barrage of weather, there was snow, slush and ice pretty much everywhere.

On the whole, Boston is pretty good about getting the snow cleared and making the city more or less traversable. It's not unusual, for instance, to see trucks carting snow out of the city (like this).

Sometimes, in their zealous plowing efforts, we end up with snow mountains.

I encountered one such mountain in Harvard Square.

It was at least 7 feet high and had made a small avalanche into the sidewalk, leaving three large snow boulders in the middle of the walkway.

I cannot stress enough that this was truly an impasse. There was no way to go around to the left because of the snow mountain, and no way to go around to the right, because there was a building. Never one to go backwards, I decided to work my way over the obstacle course using three small footholds that had been placed there by past adventurers.

As I crossed over to the other side, I looked up to find a large man laughing at me. He said something, which I didn't hear the first time around because I was too busy rocking out. Headphones removed, I asked him to repeat it.

He was barely able to contain himself, he was laughing so hard.

Then he said,

"Looks like you've still got a little tomboy in ya!"

So apparently, complete strangers think I look like a huge priss.

At least now I know.

DC brat

2009-01-29T21:44:00.003-05:00

Every once in a while I am reminded that growing up with two parents working for the US government might be considered unusual outside of DC, Maryland or Virginia.

These are the moments that make me a DC brat.

I offer the events of this evening as an example:

At 9.22pm, I received a text from my good friend Claire. Having exchanged messages earlier in the day, I imagined her text would be something along the lines of "OMG can it please be Friday already?!".

Instead, I opened and found this:

What is the difference between the NSA and the FBI?

Pause for a moment and ask yourself, "If I had an immediate need for the answer to this question, who would I ask?"

You would want someone who:

is always near her cell phone.
you know has nothing better to do on a Thursday night.
would know the answer.

Right.

Setting aside the embarrassing fact that I am obviously the person to contact in such a situation, let's move on to the ridiculous way in which I responded:

Text Message 1: (sent: 9.25pm)

Technically, NSA isn't supposed to spy on Americans. Also, they do more code breaking/math type things, while FBI does the breaking down doors thing.

Text Message 2: (sent: 9.31pm)

Sorry, a more complete answer is that NSA does a lot to protect US government info (on computers) while trying to get at other government's secured info. Hence, cryptologists.

Text 3 Message 3: (sent: 9.34pm)

Final NSA trivia: They employ more mathematicians than any other organization in the world. So, why do you ask?

Funny, she never got back to me about that last part.

A perfect ten

2009-01-27T10:41:00.002-05:00

Sorry for leaving you all high and dry these past few days. Fortunately, my life continues to be ridiculous, so I have something to write now. We'll call this an awkward recap, but we'll do it in reverse order.

Saturday Night: + 10 Awkward Points

Saturday afternoon I texted my friend Darius K (of "My Bologna Has a Middle Name" fame) to see if he wanted to get some coffee. Since Darius is know for being "the guy who wears orange", I thought it would be funny to wear the only orange article of clothing that I own, a sweater I recently purchased from J Crew.

It had the added benefit of actually being clean.

When I arrived at Diesel to find Darius in a bright orange fleece, I realized that we were now Those People Who Match and my attempt at humor had taken an abrupt turn towards the embarrassing. This is not an unusual pattern, now that I think about it.

Fortunately a man came in after us talking to the two stuffed animals (raccoons) in his shopping bag, so the good folks at Diesel had bigger fish to fry.

We left Diesel to scare up some dinner--not an easy prospect at 10.30 anywhere in Boston. After assessing our options, we headed over to Rosebud Diner.

I was all excited about having breakfast for dinner, until the waitress berated us in the most round about way possible for taking up a booth and not actually ordering two full meals. My punishment for this offense was being served the worst waffle I've ever had. It was like a big Eggo, with none of the things that occasionally make Eggos fun to eat (the crispiness, the fact that they pop out of your toaster, etc).

I walked home contemplating this awful "meal" and listening to my new favorite song, "Balboa".

Now, a point to be made about New England: People here like to call things "squares".

Everything is a square. Two roads meet and a sign is put up in honor of a local veteran. The intersection is deemed "Lt Colonel Collin Patrick O'Donovan Square".

It's also worth noting that this sign will take the place of any street signs.

Likewise, when five roads meet, this area will also be deemed a "square".

Harvard Square is a sprawling mess, it is not a shape of any kind. Davis Square, likewise, is more of a death trap than an "intersection" or a "square".

Which brings us back to Saturday night.

As I attempted to cross "the square" to get back to my apartment, I rushed across the street in an attempt to take advantage of the rare opportunity to cross two streets in one go. What the big hurry was, I still have no idea.

The boots I was wearing at the time lacked any kind of traction whatsoever, so it really wasn't that much of a surprise when I took to the the street like it was a slip and slide.

That's right. No black ice or alcohol involved, my legs just flew out from underneath me and I landed on my right hip and my wrists in the middle of Davis Square.

The fall was so spectacular that a nearby group of hooligans were prompted to inquire after my well being. I nodded, said I was fine, and limped back home.

As you might remember, I have some experience with falling down.

I got to my apartment, wrapped a bag of frozen stir-fry vegetables in a towel, and then crawled into bed with it. Realizing I was too keyed up to sleep, I watched last week's episode of House. It's all about being in pain, so that really took my mind off things.

On the plus side, I managed to come out of this experience relatively unscathed. Sure, my wrist feels a little funny, but thanks to the expansive and puffy nature of my sleeping bag coat (which cushioned my fall), I don't even have a bruise to commemorate the occasion.

Maybe Yelp loves me after all

2009-01-19T18:36:00.005-05:00

When my friend Rob told me that he couldn't write this blog because "things like this don't happen to him", I laughed.

Surely these sorts of things happen to all of us, right?

Either my life is more awkward than I thought, or someone from Yelp (Leighann, I'm looking at you) read my post last week because I got singled out for some special attention today:

That's me on the lower right with the "Review of the Day". For when I reviewed my dry cleaners.

Yeah.

Oddly enough, my ROTD (as it's called on Yelp) was the subject of some talk.

Money quote:

HOW does the review of the day work. I have 31 votes, which puts me a few ahead of todays ROTD, but i'm still not shown. Is it because my review was done in New York?

But seriously folks, being the ROTD on Yelp was definitely a good way to start off my week and I spent the whole day bragging about it in my gchat status message because my obsession truly is unhealthy.

Say my name, say my name

2009-01-14T20:04:00.011-05:00

I'm a pretty big fan of Yelp.

If you didn't know that already, I'm just going to assume you're new here.

If you did miss all the warning signs, here are some of the ways you could have figured that out:

The widget I've added here on my blog. Go on, scroll down. It's on the right there.

It's in my bio on my company's website:
I've listed it as one of my "interests" on my Facebook profile, before the internet:

I even "became a fan":

Obviously this borders on unhealthy.

Naturally, I've signed up to receive Yelp's weekly newsletters.

For any non-Yelpers out there (go sign up!) the newsletters tend to have a single theme or topic, highlighting different local businesses and featuring quotes of Yelpers who have reviewed those businesses.

I read these newsletters each week with the secret hope that some day a snippet of one of my reviews will be featured. Again, unhealthy. Also, let's be honest, kind of sad.

When I saw this week's newsletter subject, "Do You Shabu?" I thought, "Well, I've only reviewed one shabu-shabu place and there are tons in this town, so this week is probably not my week."

Then I read the newsletter.

After "discovering the shabu cooking style and getting addicted to it," Jeremy K now gets his fix at Shabu Village
. Maria C does too, and guarantees that you'll leave this Brookline spot "feeling very full, but not that oh-God-why-did-I-eat-that? full!"

I did a double take. "Hey, that looks like something I would write. It even has unnecessary exclamation marks!"

Oh. wait.

Yup. Finally got my half second in the limelight and Yelp got my name wrong.

Not only did they get my name wrong, but they picked the one name that I actually, truly hate.

(No offense to all the Maria's out there, I'm sure it looks lovely on you!)

See, when I was in elementary school, no one really believed that my first name was actually Marie. Despite the fact that 85% of the people I meet tell me, "Oh, my sister's boyfriend's cousin's middle name is Marie", the fine folks of Northern Virginia's various grammar schools could not wrap their minds around the final vowel of my name.

I found this extremely frustrating as a child and the situation escalated to the point that my mother was forced to call the school and inform them that my name was in fact Marie, and could they please change that in their records?

They told her the change could only be made if she came in with proof--namely, my birth certificate.

When "But I'm her mother! I know what her name is!" failed to sway them, she gave up. My mother believes very strongly that one should not given in to the unreasonable demands of terrorists.

By the time I was in 5th grade, I'd simply had enough. Like any good pre-teen, I decided to let it all out on my poor, unsuspecting, horrible witch of a math teacher.

"Maria, can you please explain the problem on the board to the class?"

Silence.

I didn't look up at her. I didn't look around. I just stared straight ahead.

We were halfway through the year. My dislike for the teacher and the subject had been well established. If she didn't return those sentiments before our exchange, I'm sure she did after.

"Maria, please answer the question."

More silence.

"Maria, why won't you answer me? You're being very disrespectful!"

"Because that's not my name." I snarked, with a force possessed only by tween girls.

I shall never have that power again.

So thanks, Yelp, for reminding me of glory days.

Go read this

2009-01-14T16:07:00.003-05:00

I promise I'll post something soon, but I can guarantee you it's not going to be anywhere close to this good:

http://keepyourreceipt.blogspot.com/2009/01/nowaycupid.html

I should just give up blogging, really. Enjoy, friends. Have some Kleenex handy because if you don't laugh so hard you cry...well, I'm just not sure that's possible.

Pink is a yes color

2009-01-06T09:12:00.004-05:00

When I was in the 9th grade, we read John Knowles' novel, A Separate Peace, in English class.

A Separate Peace is one of those mysterious books that some people never encountered over the course of their education, while others (myself included), found it assigned to them on three separate occasions (See also: The Prince, Beowulf and Canterbury Tales).

For those of you who didn't have to read (or pretend to read, by the third time around) A Separate Peace, I'll spoil this one little bit for you: There's a character named Phineaus.

Thankfully, he's known as Finny. Finny is the coolest kid in school. He is friends with the narrator, Gene, who is basically the not-quite-popular kid in the popular clique at your high school.

Anyway, there's an episode in the book where Gene finds himself in Finny's room and, naturally, decides to try on Finny's clothes. This is, obviously, a way of "showing" (rather than "telling") the reader that Gene wishes he could be more like Finny. It is also creepy and weird.

My 9th grade English teacher, perhaps afraid that we had somehow missed the metaphor, strove to find some detail of the story that would help us comprehend the fact that Gene wanted to be Finny, and why that was, and how we could tell because he was putting on Finny's clothes.

And thus, the phrase, "Pink is a yes color" entered my lexicon.

You see, Finny wears a pink shirt. A bold, though generally unremarkable thing in 2009, this was perhaps more of a big deal to sixteen year old boys in the 1940s. Though obviously I can't say for certain.

My teacher attempted to instill all of the qualities that made Finny's character "popular" into the color of this one shirt and then pronounced, as if it were a common fact, "Obviously, Knowles picked pink because it is a yes color".

When we blinked at her in confusion, she informed us that when you wear pink, people give you what you want. For this reason, she encourages her husband to wear pink shirts when he has important business meetings. He is always successful because pink is a yes color.

The idea of using your appearance to get things from people is not an entirely foreign concept to teenagers. But we were still not convinced about this whole pink business.

As a means to prove her point, she gave our entire class (indeed, all of her classes) an extra credit "assignment": Everyone who wore a pink shirt to class on a given day would be given 100 extra-credit points.

The logic behind all of this continues to escape me, and I don't recall anything particularly good happening to me on that day, aside from the extra-credit I'd already been promised.

On the other hand, it's been ten years now and every time I put on a pink shirt, I think, "Pink is a yes color".

Then I spend the rest of the day thinking about how if pink really were a "yes color" then things would probably be going differently.

Today though, my cynicism about the power of colors was checked.

Yesterday, I had the most Monday of Mondays. My computer decided to throw a party and invite a whole host of viruses and spyware to come over and play in every corner of my hard-drive.

After an exasperating day of restarts, safe modes and virus scans, I handed my computer over to the amazing Rob S. who had generously offered to take a look at all of the new friends I'd managed to acquire. Neither of us wanted to bet on the odds that I wouldn't need to reformat my hard drive before the saga was over.

But today was a new day. Today, I wore a pink sweater.

The power of pink, and Rob's mad skills, came through in a big way and my computer was up and running, virus free, by this afternoon.

I was so happy I hugged it. I didn't hug Rob, but I am going to buy him a beer.

How to spot a hipster

2009-01-02T12:12:00.003-05:00

Everyone looks like a hipster these days, but since hipster is a dirty word, no one will admit to actually being one. So how do you find a real hipster when you need one?

In order to aid you in your quest (for whatever it is, clove cigarettes, obscure bands, keffiyahs) I offer you these 3 easy steps:

Go someplace cold.
Wait for it to snow.
See who is wearing canvas shoes.

Most people will sacrifice fashion for utility during a blizzard. True hipsters, however, own nothing besides Converse All-Stars, TOMS and maybe some Vans.

While the rest of us are wearing snow boots, rain boots, hiking boots, anything to keep the wet out and our jeans dry, hipsters embrace the weather and get soaked.

If you just can't go another minute without a hand-rolled cigarette, the kid wearing black Chucks in a pile of slush is the one to ask.

Awkward Recap!

2008-12-29T10:47:00.003-05:00

We're long overdo for an Awkward Recap, friends. Here's what I've got for you:

Bought two bottles of tequila with my mom yesterday. We tried to return the first one (Jose Cuervo) after buying the second (Patron), but there was some kind of glitch. Oh, by the way, both of these stores were on a military base. And we never ended up making margaritas. +2 awkward points.
Discovering that while "Bollito Misto" rolls off the tongue when you are talking about cooking class, it actually involves cow tongue when you are in cooking class. +3 awkward points.
I think this post pretty accurately sums up what Christmas Mass was like. +5 awkward points.
At church on Sunday, the priest renewed everyone's wedding vows in honor of the Feast of the Holy Family. It was sort of sweet. Until the couple behind me returned to their seats and the husband announced, "I even showered for you! I must have known we were going to get married again today!" Being single never looked so good. + 5 awkward points.
I had the most awkward dining experience to date, at an Indian restaurant in Reston. You can read about it on Yelp, but I'm going to give it + 3 awkward points.
The sleeping-bag coat has, apparently, become a fixture of my persona. I ran into Professor Coldheart at the T station last week and the first thing he said to me was, "Is this the sleeping bag coat?" I am a little worried that he had to ask. +6 awkward points.
Discovering that someone found my blog because they googled, "how not to be awkward with your boyfriend." +6 awkward points.

Well, that brings us to a distressing total of 30 awkward points for the past week or so.

I really am out-doing myself these days.

In case you were wondering:

2008-12-25T01:32:00.001-05:00

Awkward is almost passing out during midnight mass because you're allergic to incense.

Everyone loves the sleeping bag coat

2008-12-18T10:59:00.001-05:00

I know this because it's become an increasingly popular search term for my blog. Also because some of you contacted me after reading my first post about it to tell me how relieved you were that someone else was rocking such ridiculously unattractive apparel.

Leave comments, people! Share your sleeping bag love with the world! There's nothing to be ashamed of.

Look, I'll be honest, I was a little nervous about donning my sleeping bag coat this year. It's gotten to be a bit too big, it is ridiculously unattractive, and it's a bit of a safety hazard on escalators.

I've been pondering the "ridiculously unattractive" part for a while now. Why did this bother me so much?

It's not as if strangers frequently come up to me and tell me how attractive I am when I'm wearing things besides a sleeping bag coat. No one has ever approached me on the street and asked for my phone number. And it's not like I would ever give my number to someone who did that. I would probably lie and say something like, "Oh, I don't have a cell phone." Even if I was talking on it, that's probably the first thing that would come out of my mouth.

(Side note: I know this true because I once told a guy that I didn't have an email address. I am the worst liar.)

The point is that in a sleeping bag coat, one sometimes feels she might be drawing attention to herself and, despite what you might think, I really really dislike drawing attention to myself.

Yesterday, for example, I was walking down Summer Street to pick up some stamps from the mobile Post Office. As I crossed in front of Macy's, two girls stopped in their tracks to stare at me. They looked me up and down. Then one of the girls shouted to her friend, "Now that's what I need!"

Having voiced her desire, they continued on their way, leaving me standing at the corner feeling like an animal on display in a zoo.

Everyday we wake up, we choose love, we choose light

2008-12-17T11:45:00.000-05:00

Ok, I'm obsessed with this song. I didn't realize that it was used in the iPhone commercials, but I'm sure that my subconscious knew this and that's really why I love it. (Now you know what to get me for Christmas, folks.)

Anyway.

I left my office last night around 10. DTX is eerily empty at that hour. I walked over to Park St and waited for the train. It arrived and I made a beeline for the single seat in the front of the car. Why sit next to someone when you don't have to?

Now, in a just world, to make up for the fact that I was leaving work at 10pm, the attractive guy with the nice jeans and the A4 notepad would have sat down across from me and I would have been able to spend the next 20 minutes enjoying that.

These sorts of things do not happen in my world.

No, instead of Good Looking T Guy, I got to sit across from The Unnattractive Couple. (Secret ballot: nose studs in men.)

These two were generous souls. Clearly worried that the T would reach Charles/MGH and experience an influx of passengers, they decided the just course of action would be to share one seat between the two of them.

For the next 20 minutes I was forced to awkwardly look away as The Girlfriend sat on The Boyfriend's lap and scrunched up his shaved head. It was like watching someone pet a pug, but less attractive and with fewer social graces.

Finally, The Boyfriend got annoyed with this and I got to awkwardly look away as they quietly fought and The Girlfriend made him stand so that she could have the seat all to herself.

Pouting takes up more space than you might think.

Awkward at parties

2008-12-15T08:06:00.001-05:00

My first holiday party of the season was not a wild success.

I was very excited about this party for a number of reasons:

It was being hosted by one of my favorite people.
...who happens to live three houses down from me.
I got to get dressed up in a cute 60s dress that used to belong to my grandmother.
They always have delicious food and drinks. What can I say? I love punch.

When Saturday came around though, I was feeling a little off. The party started at 8 and I was still in bed an hour later, wasting time on the internet. I finally started getting ready around 9.30 and showed up at the party about an hour later.

I was now two and a half hours late for this party that was literally across the street from my house. I planned on using "traffic" as my excuse if anyone asked. Sadly, no one did.

Once I walked in, I realized I was in over my head. The apartment was packed full of people I did not know and it appeared that I had arrived too late to really strike up a conversation with any of them.

I found my friend, put my coat down, found my friend again, got some punch, and then realized the situation was totally hopeless. I was simply too awkward to do anything at this party. I quickly decided that the best solution was to cut my losses for the night and head home. I waited a few moments for a space to clear so I could put my cup down somewhere and then grabbed my coat and set out on the long walk home.

Somehow, this seemed less awkward than saying goodbye.

It wasn't. Particularly when I received a text message from my friend 15 minutes later asking where I was. Explaining my bizarre behavior would have been challenging over any medium, but I found it particularly difficult when there were character limits involved.

All told, I spent about an hour getting ready for a party I spent fifteen minutes at.

I think that might be a new anti-socialite record.

Too busy to be awkward?

2008-12-11T19:19:00.003-05:00

Is it possible that one can become too busy to create awkward situations?

I suppose it depends on how comfortable the people in your life are with Gchat. (Unrelated: You guys know that stuff can be recorded, right? Please contact me before you run for political office.)

Sadly, this might just be a blog post about how I'm too busy to write a real blog post and I hate when people do that. Just go follow me on Twitter, I'm much more entertaining in 140 character pieces anyway! (Really, it's true. A boy practically told me so, and you know what they say about boys: they never lie.)

Truth be told, the reason I haven't been able to share more of my awkward life with all of you is that the sky has fallen on my head at work. Since I actually love my job, this is not such a bad thing.

The sad part about it is that the sky fell because my boss left, and she really was the best boss ever. Even if she did suggest I let my mom set me up with Justin.

Anyway, I'll be starting the holiday party circuit this weekend, so I'm sure I'll get some good stories to dole out over the coming weeks. In the meantime, I hope each and every one of you has an awkward experience at your Office Holiday Party. Please tell me about it once it happens!

A few thoughts on this Blagojevich thing

2008-12-09T15:32:00.005-05:00

Seriously, very few:

This whole thing is crazy. Do people get away with this sort of thing?
Despite coming from a family of government-employees, working for Uncle Sam has generally not seemed very appealing to me. Upon reading this paragraph from the complaint, however, I might have changed my mind just a little bit:

"I am a Special Agent with the Federal Bureau of Investigation (FBI) assigned to the Chicago, Illinois Field Division. I have been a Special Agent with the FBI for over twenty-two years. I am presently assigned to the West Resident Agency of the FBI's Chicago Field office. My duties include investigating corruption of public officials, mail fraud, wire fraud, and other white collar crims. I have been involved in white collar crime investigations for a majority of my career as a Special Agent with the FBI."

Is it a sign that I've been watching too much television that this sort of thing sounds fun and exciting?

Also, I think that jamietie had the best tweet about it:

Ted Leo goes solo

2008-12-08T08:31:00.002-05:00

Much to the amusement of everyone who knows me, I used to have a punk rock phase. I suppose this still might not be amusing to my parents, but it was the tamest punk rock phase in the history of such things, and mainly involved wearing hoodies and begging to be allowed to go to concerts at the 9:30 Club.

About two years ago, I pretty much stopped going to shows. I'm not entirely sure why, but I'll go out on a limb and say it had something to do with my growing aversion to crowds, my shrinking bank account and a never ending pile of graduate school applications.

Every once in a while, I still check Pollstar (an abysmal, but useful, website) to see if anyone fun is coming to town. Almost inevitably this leads me to discovering that the Decemberists will be playing in a week and tickets have sold out.

Last week, however, it led to the brilliant discovery that Ted Leo would be playing in Cambridge on a Saturday night. Tickets weren't available online anymore, but my friend and I got to Central Square early and picked some up at the door.

(For the record, I have never payed $12 for a show before and it's hard for me to describe the radiant joy I felt over not paying Ticketmaster "convenience fees".)

While we were waiting in line (at the bar) to purchase our tickets, a guy walked up to the bartender and asked if he could give her a guest list. Here's a tip for how to act cool in front of celebrities: Don't recognize them.

Ok, it's not that I didn't recognize Ted Leo. I was 99% sure it was him (who else would have a guest list?), but he did look different. He apologized to me for holding up the bartender/ticket seller and I smiled and said something extremely cool, like: "Not a problem".

If I had a brain, I would have taken advantage of the opportunity to request "The High Party." Perhaps he knew this, because he played it anyway. It was something like this:

He actually played a number of tracks off of Hearts of Oak, but only a few songs from his later albums.

While the concert itself was great, I left with two major gripes:

T.T. the Bear's (Place) might be the worst venue in Boston. Maybe it's just not meant to hold bands that are going to sell out, but that seems like a pretty poor business plan if you ask me.
Scenesters, of any age, are ridiculous. The place was packed with people who looked like they'd come out on a Saturday night to stand very very still and listen to music they didn't know at all. A few people got into it when he played "Me and Mia", but that was about the extent of it.

Also, tall people. Why are you always right in front of me?

Those things aside, the show was a lot of fun, and if Ted Leo is coming to your town to play solo, I recommend that you check it out. Maybe he'll even end it on this:

Keep your boyfriend, my alarm clock doesn't snore

2008-12-04T14:30:00.002-05:00

Wednesday morning I finally made it to yoga.

The instructor was unusually talkative before class and the girl next to me kept looking over at me like she wanted to have a conversation but didn't know how.

Normally I would ignore these sorts of overtures, which is one of things that make people uncomfortable around me in social settings. Yesterday, however, I was at yoga and feeling kind and magnanimous and all of those things that one thinks she is supposed to feel while preparing for some Warrior One.

"It's so early"

Yes, that was a lame opening. In my defense, it's not like I was trying to pick her up at a bar with that line. It's also not like she came up with anything better. She seemed relieved that I had said anything at all, and the words just gushed out of her:

"Ohmigosh, I know!! It's a great class, but it's so hard to get up in the mornings to come here. My boyfriend and I come together. I don't know how people do it otherwise."

You are all welcome to send me cookies for keeping my snarky comments about alarm clocks to myself at that moment.

New spellings

2008-12-03T10:48:00.001-05:00

Saw these two pieces of graffiti on the T this morning:

I <3 youh↓
kyla

and

yaritza & kyla
wuss here
<3
11.08.08
8:41 P.M.

There are a couple of things here that I think are worth noting:

I'm not using "<" + "3" to make the heart that they drew more keyboard friendly. That's actually how it was written, <3.>
Wuss. Wuss.

Not "wuz". Certainly not "was".
Do you think they know that "wuss" is an actual word? A noun?

Youh. YOUH.

Isn't one of the big complaints about English spelling that it is rarely phonetic? Weren't you puzzled by all the extraneous characters when you first learned how to spell "through"? Why go through the trouble of adding a silent "h". I cannot decide if I find this more visually offensive than "u". At least I can understand the logic behind "u".

I suppose what I find most surprising was the deliberate capitalization and punctuation of P.M. when the rest of the note was lowercase.

Lexie, how many T points do you think I get for this?

Welcome your Google Overlords

2008-12-02T08:07:00.007-05:00

I'm a big fan of Google. Which is probably for the best, since Google is everywhere.

I think xkcd illustrated this phenomena brilliantly a little while back:

Of course, if you're interested in the specifics, you should check out Allen Stern's recent article on CenterNetworks. My favorite quotes?

"If you use Chrome, they know everything they didn't already know about your browsing."
"If you use Gmail, they know everything. Yep, everything."
"If you use Calendar, they know where you have been, are, and plan to be."

Does he have a point? Sure. After all, the first sentence on Google's Corporate Information page is: "Google's mission is to organize the world's information and make it universally accessible and useful."

Yes, Google as an entity knows a whole lot about the online population at large. They probably have access to some unsettling information about you. On the other hand, you have to ask yourself how much anyone else cares what you've saved in your Google Docs.

Without getting too English major-y on you, I think the xkcd strip gets at that point that Google doesn't really see things on the individual level. For the time being anyway.

Here's an example from my Gmail inbox yesterday that illustrates this point:

My hysterical friend Claire sent me an email with a link to this article about how the Jane Austen museum has had to formally ban people from distributing human ashes in the author's garden. When I opened this email, the following ad popped up at the top of my inbox:

Based on this ad, we can assume that Google does not know the following things about me:

I do not have a pet.
Cremation creeps me out.
I'm not big on jewelry.
I find basic grammar mistakes a big turn-off.

They might, however, know that I was recently obsessed with Six Feet Under.

Of course, now that I've written about this on Blogger, they know it all.

Anyway, I think we should all just relax and welcome our Google Overlords. I'm sure they'll be nice.

Awkward Reunion

2008-12-01T08:45:00.001-05:00

The reunion turned out to be a good time. Unfortunately, it was nowhere near as awkward as I had hoped.

There were a lot of people that I recognized, but couldn't remember their names. Avoidance seemed the best course of action, and it served me well throughout the night.

I did run into a guy I had dated briefly at the beginning of freshmen year. He was there with his girlfriend and introduced me to her as "his first Real Girlfriend" and then described our relationship as "a learning experience". I suppose that both of these things are absolutely true, though I question their relevance to that particular moment in time.

I decided to extricate myself from the conversation when a fellow classmate showed up to congratulate the ex on how good he was looking these days. It seemed like an impossible situation: if I disagreed or said nothing, it would be rude; if I agreed, I'd be making the situation unnecessarily uncomfortable for his current girlfriend. I'm not entirely sure how just leaving played, though.

I'm having a hard time assessing the number of awkward points to attribute to that situation.

Happy Buy Nothing Day

2008-11-28T17:59:00.009-05:00

Sorry to leave you all post-less. I'm sure you were too busy stuffing your faces to get on the internet. That's cool, I was too. Let the record show that I exerted great restraint and only ate one piece of pumpkin pie. If it was the biggest piece of pie you've ever seen in your life, you can just keep that to yourself.

Anyway, I wanted to get something up here and wish you all a happy Black Friday/Buy Nothing Day (and a belated Thanksgiving, of course).

Black Friday used to be hard for minor agoraphobes like myself to enjoy, but then Amazon came along and now we can all partake in ridiculous, food coma induced shopping sprees. So we can all be thankful for that.

I also wanted to share with you a unique solution to the sleeping bag coat that was presented to me by nishmael:

Here are some choice quotes from the Amazon.com page where this lovely sleeping-bag pajama-mix is available for sale:

"Ideal for summer festivals, lounging around the house, a movie marathon, or summer camping, it's comfortable mobile, letting you move your arms and legs independently, and stand, walk, and cross your legs without trouble."

I'm not sure what "comfortable mobile" means, or what kind of movie marathons these folks think I'm having...outdoors...but ok.

From one enthusiastic reviewer:

"We use the bag mostly for camping in Wisconsin and love being able to walk around the campsite at night and in the morning without being cold and all of the other functionality we get (I play the guitar...ever try playing the guitar in a mummy bag?). The new model, I think they call it the 2nd generation, has an extended zipper down the right side so I can go to the bathroom without taking the bag off...BONUS!!!"

Bonus, indeed.

Ok, I'm going to get ready for my high school reunion now, please nobody buy this for me while I'm gone. Seriously.

Awkward at being a nerd

2008-11-26T09:01:00.007-05:00

You might think, what with my social-media job, my blog, my Twitter account and what have you, that I'm a bit of a nerd. If you know me in real life, then you know that I am a bit of a nerd.

Sadly though, I'm even awkward at being a nerd.

For your consideration, I present a bulleted list detailing my recent foray into video-game-console-ownership:

I came into the possession of a Wii about a month ago. I am still so unfamiliar with it that I just had to Google whether it was "wii" or "Wii".
After making a big to-do of setting up the Wii, I couldn't get the remotes to work. Recalling that the console hadn't been used in about a year, I figured the batteries might be dead and went out and bought a pack of AAs. I then promptly ignored the batteries for three weeks (I assure you, I have not been that busy).
When I consulted Professor Coldheart about which games to buy, he said I should definitely check out the ones I could download. When I responded with a vacant stare, he sighed and informed me that yes, my new-fangled Wii could connect to that mysterious series of tubes, the interwebs.
While I have managed to get it set up with my wireless, my exploration of the store ended when I encountered the phrase "Wii Points".
Having briefly played Super Mario Galaxy while visiting my sister in New York, I decided this would be an excellent first video game for me. On the rare occasions that I'd been allowed to play video games as a child, I always enjoyed stomping on mushrooms. Plus, it's pretty.
Decided that Saturday was The Day, and headed over to East Cambridge (via Slumerville) to check out Best Buy. Arrived and remembered that Best Buy is always overpriced, which is why Super Mario Galaxy was $15 more expensive there than at Amazon.
Gave up, decided to shop for sweaters.
Gave up on sweaters because the only one I liked was $165 and it wasn't that cute. I'm looking at you, Banana Republic.
Stopped in GameStop on the way out of the mall because it was there and sold video games, and I thought perhaps it would be less expensive.
Walked in and had a visceral reaction to the level of creepiness in the air. Found the game used, for $5 less than Best Buy and decided to purchase it as quickly as possible, rather than having nothing to show for my Saturday excursion.
Returned home, determined to have an evening of nerdiness, playing my new video game.
Discovered that I still really, really suck at video games.

All of the "intro" parts of the game had me totally beat. The Princess was being captured by Pirates of the Caribbean knock off ships and little toads were telling me "I think the princess is that way" as I ran around in circles.

It was sadly reminiscent of the only other video game I have any experience with, Mario Kart.

Because of Mario Kart, I was afraid to learn how to drive. I was the kid who spent the entire time getting turned around by the Cloud Man. He pulled me out of the ocean on a number of occasions. Please don't talk to me about that course with the rainbows, still traumatized.

I'm hopeful that I'll have better luck with Mario Kart for the Wii because it uses a little wheel, instead of a joystick. Also because I can actually drive now. I'll keep you posted.

The sleeping bag coat

2008-11-24T09:39:00.004-05:00

I have a winter coat that looks kind of like this one. I call it my sleeping bag coat for reasons that are pretty self explanatory.

This is my second year with the sleeping bag coat, and I've put off wearing it for as long as I possibly could. Part of that is just mental, if I know I've got this super-warm coat that I'm not wearing, that means it isn't really winter yet. Since winter in Boston can last through March, it's important to pace oneself.

The other reason I put off wearing the coat is that it looks absolutely ridiculous. The one I have is, perhaps, slightly less "puffy vest" looking than the one you see here, but only slightly. The added bonus is that it was clearly designed for women much taller than my meager 5'5". If I were two inches shorter, I would not be able to wear this coat. As it is, walking up the stairs without tripping can be a challenge.

This weekend I pulled the sleeping bag coat out of the back of my closet. It was 26* and I didn't see any reason to put on 8 layers just to go to the gym. It was time. I zipped the coat up over yoga pants and a t-shirt and walked out into the world.

As I walked down the street to the gym, I felt superior to all the people walking around me, heads down, huddled into their scarves, wearing hoodies under their performance fleece jackets. I was not cold! I was not wearing a scarf, or a hat, or even gloves! and I was warm!

Over the course of my five minute walk, my superiority disintegrated as I realized that I was basically walking down the street wearing a down muumuu. Suddenly I was Anna in The King and I and all the passersby were ladies of the court, thinking I dressed like that because I was shaped like that.

I'm sure as it gets colder, more people will bust out their hard core winter coats. Then I'll just be one amongst many, a whole tribe of sleeping-bag shaped people, wandering the streets of Boston.

Little things

2008-11-21T14:07:00.006-05:00

This week has been so awesome that I actually tried to go to bed at 7.30 last night.

No, it's actually been fun, I just haven't been able to spend enough quality time with my comforter.

(Side note: If my apartment ever goes up in flames, I'll be grabbing my comforter, my sleeping-bag coat, and the external hard drive with my entire music collection. A life without these things would be unimaginable.)

Since the small amount of energy I have to devote to logical, sustained thought today should probably be applied to the things I'm working on, I'll just leave you with a few tidbits:

Girl next to me on the T this morning was playing Brain Games on her NintendoDS. She was working on the anagrams game. The letters she had to work with were: R G E N O A. I watched as she drew out: O-R-E-G-A-N.
Logged in to my Facebook account this morning to find this: (click if you can't read it)

Because I am obnoxious, I had to twitter (tweet?) about it:

NB: I think Nate Silver is great too, and this made my morning.

Speaking of Twitter, I had a lot of fun explaining that to my mom over the phone last night. When she starts using it, and following me, I'll be sure to post my freak-out here.
Lying in bed last night (at 8pm), I thought: I can't believe I am so tired. I have no excuse for being this tired. How can I not have enough energy to stay up and watch 30 Rock? If I sleep through 30 Rock, I'm not going to understand anyone's Facebook status messages tomorrow. Ohmigod, what if the cold I've been fighting is actually mono?!

So, I'm pretty sure I'm officially a hypochondriac now. As if that was in question after the whole "imaginary bedbugs" incident.

A story for another time.

Look, more thoughts on public transit

2008-11-20T10:56:00.000-05:00

As I was getting on the (very crowded) train home from work last night, I realized that the T during rush hour is really just the Trust Fall, writ large.

If you have never been to camp, or on a ropes-course field trip, or somehow otherwise managed to avoid the Trust Fall experience, it's pretty much exactly what it sounds like:

You stand, either with your back to one person, or in the center of a group of people, and you let yourself fall over. It's all about relinquishing control and believing that the people around you won't let you fall and break your face. Normally, this works out particularly well because everyone is under the supervision of camp counselors or field guides or whatever so even if you're paired with the girl who stole your care-package the night before, you don't actually let her fall on the ground.

On the T, however, there are no field guides.

Yet somehow, it still works out. Yesterday, I was supported by a stranger's backpack. My safety net was a strange man who refused to take off his Foakley sunglasses even though we were in a tunnel, under ground.

I trusted that, even though I was trapped in the center of the train and had nothing to hold on to, if we came to a sudden stop, my fellow travelers would not let me fall. Somehow, this led me to trust that they would not steal my wallet, stick gum in my hair, or do anything else unsavory either.

And they didn't! For the time being, the city of Boston and I have reached an odd, frozen, zen-like peace.

Although I still think that sunglass guy was a little weird.

Boots don't fit me.

2008-11-19T10:59:00.004-05:00

Over the past five years of living in Boston, I've learned that one can only wear so many layers. It is generally not possible to wear two sweaters, for instance.

This is why it's important to have all the necessary cold weather accoutrements. The coat is perhaps the most vital of these, but I'll address that later.

Today, I want to talk about boots. Specifically I would like to talk about how they don't fit me at all.

My mom and I were discussing this on Sunday night, when she encouraged me to do a little economy-stimulating. I explained that boot shopping is particularly frustrating for me because 90% of the time, I can't zip the boots all the way up. She told me she has the exact same problem and made some noises about it being genetic and how our legs are too short.

My mother's legs are shorter than most, so maybe boots hit her calves in a funny place. She's just shy of 5', so that seems plausible. I've got a good five inches on her though, so I'm pretty sure that's not my problem.

I went shopping on Monday night and found a pair of beautiful black leather boots. I was excited. Here they were! My everyday winter shoes! My legs would be cold no longer!

And then I tried them on. Tug as I might, that zipper was not going to budge. The sales associate assured me that they would fit, and that they could be stretched. Call me vain, but I'd rather not buy a pair of boots than need to have them professionally stretched out.

Another associate came by. Oh, those won't fit? Let me zip them for you!

The scene was a bit like when you call tech support and say you can't print and they ask you if your printer is plugged in.

There I was, assuring the sales associates that the boots were lovely and that I would have loved to walk out with them, but that they simply didn't fit. And there they were, telling me that they did fit, I just didn't know how to zip up a pair of boots.

I'm not thrilled by the immediate assumption that the problem can't be that I have fat calves, it must be that I'm just be too stupid to put shoes on.

So I'm sitting there with a very polite stranger holding my leg up by the ankle (no Paint drawing this time, folks). He pulls at the boots. At the zipper. He folds my jeans in closer to my leg.

This zipper is not going anywhere.

"It's really ok," I said. "I have funny shaped calves, a lot of boots don't fit me."
"No, no, no. It's these boots. They are strange."

Right.

For the record, the exact same thing happened with the second pair of boots I tried on.

I am not inclined to blame an article of clothing for not fitting. Sure, some cuts are more flattering than others, but if I try on a size 2 dress and it doesn't fit, that's probably not the dress's fault. It's not because it's a cheap, poorly made dress. It's because I'm not a size 2. (By the way, my diet of Dove Miniatures and frozen pizza is going really well!)

As you know, I'm not at all opposed to being pandered to by retail companies, so I'd like to formally invite any and all shoe manufacturers to pander to me and start making boots for people who have legs that don't resemble those of a stick-insect.

Odds and ends

2008-11-18T07:51:00.002-05:00

Apologies to the eight of you who showed up yesterday hoping for further insight into my awkward, awkward life. I was on my couch, nursing my sore throat and figured it was best to split my attention between the work I was doing from home and the awful music videos on VH1. Did you know that Christina Aguilera and Kid Rock are both still making music?

Anyway. My weekend was super. Thanks for asking.

Sunday night I called my parents to check in and get a bit of a pep-talk. My mom encouraged me to go shopping, because she is worried about the economy. I'm about to single-handedly bail out the Gap. Or maybe J Crew.

During our call, my mom also asked if she could set me up with Justin. While I did not immediately remember who Justin was, I considered that the other individuals my mother has wanted to set me up with include: her optometrist and an Italian waiter who works at a restaurant my parents frequent.

Obviously the answer was going to be no.

When my mom started talking about her gym, and her personal trainer, I recalled that Justin was the guy who tried to out-plank my mom and failed. In all fairness to him, my mom can do the plank for over 8 minutes. This confirms that I was adopted, just like my sister used to tell me when we were kids.

I asked, "Mom, isn't he like, a 35 year old ex-Marine with a buzz cut?" (No offense to Marines, 35 year olds, or people with buzz cuts, seriously)

"He's a former Army Air Marshal," my mother corrected, "And he doesn't have a buzz cut. And he's probably only 26."

Way to sell it, Mom.

Part two: The ER

2008-11-14T08:19:00.004-05:00

Catch up on what happened here.

Being in the Emergency Room in a foreign country is more than enough to make you appreciate that you decided to study abroad in a place where you're (more or less) a native speaker of the language. Since I was broke as a joke (and paying double thanks to the exchange rate), I was also thankful for the VAT tax I'd been paying all along which made the total cost of this ridiculous adventure exactly £0. Well, £15 when you take into account the cab fare.

But first, getting there! After dinner, two friends and I made a pilgrimage to the John Radcliffe Infirmary. It was a bit of a hike in heels, and there was some serious confusion about where the main entrance was (I think we tried to get in through a greenhouse out back), but after some exploring, we were able to find the door. They'd hidden it right behind the huge fountain and rotary driveway...

Once inside, however, we discovered that the John Radcliffe Infirmary exists mainly to trick and torment injured Oxford students. We approached a man at the front desk who was seriously grumpy. He said nothing to us. We stood there, blinking. Finally, my friend Claire took the reigns and said, "My friend has been in an accident and needs to see a doctor."

Our grumpy gatekeeper replied, "Well, unless this accident impacted her eyesight in some way, we can't help her." It doesn't seem that bad when I type it, but read it with a British accent and some serious snark.

We blinked at him some more. Great, the John Radcliffe Infirmary is secretly an eye hospital. They couldn't fit that in the name anywhere, I guess.

Finally, he informed us that we would need to go to the John Radcliffe Hospital that was about 4 miles away. Did we have a car, he wondered. As if he had somehow missed the American accents that belied our status as visiting students. As if anyone in Oxford proper had a car. "Use the phone to the right there and call a taxi, then!" he barked at us.

After checking our wallets, we decided we probably had enough money for a cab there and back. We arrived at the hospital, and after a bit more "where is the entrance" confusion, walked into the ER where the receptionist asked me for my name, my postal code, and the name of my GP. Then she told me to have a seat and assured me that the nurse would be right with me.

Claire and I sat down, as far from the woman who was coked out of her mind and bleeding everywhere as we possibly could. She had a habit of wandering around, which we discovered over the course of the next 4 hours, so our attempts at distance where unfortunately futile.

The nurse called my name. So soon! I was impressed. She took me back to a partitioned area and asked what happened. We had the following conversation:

"Well, um...I got hit by a bike"
"Motor, or pedal?"
"Excuse me?"
"The bike...was it a motor bike? or a pedal bike?"
"Pedal." Can people walk away from being hit by motorcycles???
"Ok. Have you taken any pain medication?"
"I took some ibuprofen after it happened, about two hours ago."
"Ok, take some more now. Here you go."
"Um, ok. Thanks."
"Are you allergic to any medications?"
"Yeah, Percocet makes me violently ill."
"What's that?"

After we established that neither of us had any idea what the UK branding of Percocet was, she assured me that they wouldn't be given me anything that strong and sent me off to get my arm x-rayed.

There was some kind of fundraiser going on, so there were signs around the hospital that advised patients that staff might be wearing funny hats throughout the day, and if this was disturbing, we should notify the staff member who would promptly remove the offending hat.

My x-ray tech was hatless. I was disappointed.

After taking pictures of my bones, they shuffled me off to another room where I was provided with a Civil War Era Army Issue sling. No joke, this was a triangle of beige cloth that they wrapped under my arm and tied around my neck. I felt a bit like a character in Newsies or something, but the ghetto-sling served its purpose just fine.

This whole time, I marveled at the efficiency of the process. Having never been to the Emergency Room in the States, but having heard many many horror stories, I was quite pleased with myself for getting hit by a pedal bike in the UK instead.

After setting up my sling, they told me to go back to the waiting room until the doctor could take a look at my x-rays.

I should probably remind you that I was still wearing my black-tie dinner clothes, complete with Formal Hall gown (For those too lazy to Google, this is what it looks like, minus the cap). There weren't very many other patients waiting in the ER, but that somehow only made it more awkward to be clacking around in heels.

They failed to mention that we could expect to wait for the doctor indefinitely, so Claire and I struggled to amuse ourself with the BBC telethon featuring d-list British pop stars singing songs we didn't know. Somewhere around 2am we began counting just how much money we had. If we combined our resources, would we have enough money to get some Cadbury's Buttons and still get back to Oxford? We figured we'd be cutting it close, but our hunger, boredom and utter exhaustion needed to be placated, so we decided to splurge.

I'll fast forward a bit because this post is starting to feel as tedious as the actual wait to see the doctor. When I was finally called back, I had a five minute conversation with a physician who could not have been over the age of 23. He said my x-rays were fine, that I should continue taking ibuprofen and wear the sling, but not for too long because then my muscles would actually take longer to heal.

Before I knew it, I was back at the main entrance, trying to get a few pounds out of a broken ATM. We gave up and made a plan that involved dropping Claire off at her college while I waited in the cab for her to fetch the 10 quid she had in her room. While waiting in the cab, the driver looked back at me in the rearview, "So what happened?" he asked. "I got hit by a bike," I sighed. "Ah," he tried not to laugh. "It happens."

All of this happened the evening before my sister was supposed to arrive for her Thanksgiving visit. I got back to my room around 4am and figured I could probably sleep until 10, giving myself a whole hour to get cleaned up (who knew how long it would take to shower with a bum arm?) and get to the bus stop. Her flight landed around 7 at Heathrow, so I figured between border control, customs and the bus ride, I'd be early.

Woke up around 9am to find I had something like 8 million missed calls on my cell from a number I didn't recognize at all. Turns out my sister has super powers and arrived in Oxford two hours sooner than I'd thought humanly possible. Told her I'd meet her at the bus stop, apologized profusely while throwing on what I hoped were clean clothes and running out the door.

Arrived at the bus-stop-coffee-shop slinged and breathless to find my sister sitting with her suitcase, sipping a cappuccino.

"Ohmigod, what happened to you?!"
"It's a long story."

The return of Stroke Man

2008-11-13T19:49:00.004-05:00

I know I promised you guys a follow-up about the ER trip, and it's in the works, (should be up tomorrow morning), but I was too busy having the worst day ever to get to it today.

Instead, I'd like to inform you that fan-favorite, Stroke Man, out-walked me again today on my walk home from Pilates. (For any curious new folks, check out this post from a few weeks ago)

This was really special for me, because I haven't seen him since what was previously the Worst Pilates Class Ever. It got demoted this week because tonight's class has usurped that title.

It's like he knows somehow, and shows up on Holland Street with his vest and his blinking light specifically to mock me.

The best part was that he brought friends! That's right, I got out-walked by not one, but three old men this evening. He was the only one with a distinct lean, or a blinking light, but his pal was also sporting a reflective vest. Just after noticing them, I got lapped by the third guy, who appeared unaffiliated (no vest).

So, yes. I think I'm just going to tag this post with "awkward" and "mess" and call it a night.

What's it like to get hit by a bike?

2008-11-12T08:25:00.001-05:00

Funny you should ask!

Given all the reminiscing this weekend about my time in the UK, and given our new President-elect, I thought today would be a great time to write about nationalized healthcare.

Don't worry, this isn't about politics. This is 100% about me being awkward.

Mid-November, 2006. I was on my way to a black-tie dinner at my friend's college. Since I lived in Cowley, a short walk from the center of town, I made my way down High Street in cute little heels. I was listening to my iPod (as always) and wearing a hat from the Gap that was, in retrospect, probably a bit too big.

I looked both ways (even though it was a divided street) when I approached the intersection I needed to cross. No cars. I stepped into the street.

That's when I heard, more than felt, the bike hit my side. I distinctly remember thinking, "That's going to hurt someone" in the half-second before I realized that it was going to hurt me. Either I closed my eyes, or I blacked out for a second, but the next thing I knew I was lying in the middle of the street and people were staring and gathering around.

My first thought was, "Now would be a good time to close your legs and get yourself out of the street." I shuffled over to the sidewalk without really getting up. I looked up to find someone I vaguely recognized staring at me, asking me if I was okay, if I could move my arm.

Great. The guy who hit me with his bike played for my college's rugby team. Anonymity was going to be much harder than I had hoped.

After establishing that I could move my arm, I stood up, my classmate apologized and everyone dispersed. Somehow, I had managed to fall without getting a run in my tights or ruining my clothes, so I carried on my way to dinner, stopping to pick up some ibuprofen first.

At first, everything was fine. Then, as dinner wore on, rotating my arm became increasingly difficult. I gave up on eating, I couldn't use my knife. By the end of the meal, it was agreed that I should probably get someone to look at my arm instead of just assuming it was fine.

All right, that's enough awkward for one day. Tune in tomorrow for the ER portion of this story.

In case you're feeling cheated, let's do a little recap, shall we? I don't have any pictures, so just try to visualize:

I got hit by a bike. In Oxford. While wearing fancy dress, and formal dinner attire (a Harry Potter-esq robe). I probably flashed an entire street of British people, included the cyclist who I knew. Then I went to dinner anyway.

T vs Subway

2008-11-11T08:01:00.000-05:00

Ok, I know it's probably weird to have as many posts up about public transit as I do, but I spend a lot of time on the T and the people watching opportunities really are too great to pass up, so it's ripe for observing awkwardness.

As you probably noticed, one of the reasons I was stressing about my trip to NYC is that the subway system there is foreign and overwhelming to me. While I understand that logically, it makes a great deal of sense to name each station for the cross street/avenue, I come from places where subway stops have names. Wonderland, Foggy Bottom, Kenmore, Tenleytown...

Somehow, in my head, giving real names to each of these stops somehow limits them. There are only so many names! I appreciate the practicality of using the cross street to name stations in New York, but it makes me feel like, there could someday be subway stops at every cross street.

I think this was probably just because it was the weekend, but everyone on the subway was a tourist. No one knew where they were going. This was oddly comforting.

Since returning to Boston, I've taken the T three times. Each time, at least one person on my car has greeted an acquaintance that happened to get on the same T car. You could argue that this makes Boston too small, but I think it's kind of nice.

Awkward (in NYC) Recap

2008-11-10T18:41:00.005-05:00

I'd like to start off this Awkward Recap with another PSA:

50 is too old to be sloppily drunk in front of strangers.

Listening to said drunk heckle all of the speakers at a pretty formal fundraising event on Friday night: +5 awkward points
Listening to the same man use the words "vixen" and "minx" to describe 20something women who spoke at the event: +7 awkward points
Learning that he was actually quite tame this year: +8 awkward points
Being told "But it's a grid!" no less than 5 times when I expressed my fear of getting lost in the city: +2 awkward points
Watching a group of Spanish kids show off various tricks they could do with their tongues. On the subway at about 1am: +3 awkward points
Updated: Having an allergic reaction to my own perfume and using up (almost) all of my sister's tissues: + 3 awkward points

That gives us a total of 28 awkward points for this weekend alone, folks.

Awkward in NYC

2008-11-07T07:15:00.000-05:00

Depending on when you read this, I may be:

Smooshed up against a bunch of complete strangers on the T.
The grungiest person on the 9am Acela to NYC.
Hoping I didn't forget my iPod charger.
At Penn Station hoping I can find the A/C/E trains.
Getting a tour of Columbia Law.
Eating dinner at the Racquet and Tennis Club.
Wishing I weren't wearing heels.

Anyway, I'll be in New York for a three day weekend/mini Team America reunion. The mix of Brits and Americans is sure to produce some awkward results, and I look forward to sharing that with all of you on Monday. In the meantime, because I am apparently obsessed with public transportation, I'd like to leave you this picture of the cover of the Tube Map from 2005, which is what I think of whenever I go to New York:

5 things I've learned about Downtown Crossing

2008-11-06T16:05:00.007-05:00

Today marks my first week actually working in the city. Here's what I've learned so far:

The clock on the Filene's building doesn't work. It is perpetually stuck at 8.58. This is particularly charming when you get out of the T in the morning and are worried you might be late. Don't worry! Filene's never thinks you're late. This is a mixed bag because sometimes you might be 20 minutes early, but think you're late (panic!) and sometimes you might be 20 minutes late, but think you're right on time.
Lunch will cost $10. I'm trying to get better about brining sandwiches.
People are the same everywhere. Or maybe it's just that the demographics of Central Square and DTX are remarkably similar.
It is never quiet. Particularly not when you work directly across the street from Bath & Body Works, which is trying to lure customers in with classical music. Has this ever worked in the history ever?
On a similar note, Christmas is going to suck. Sure, shopping will be slightly more convenient, but think of the non stop Christmas carols. I'm surprised they haven't started playing them yet. I know the tradition is the day after Thanksgiving, but I've been seen a lot of Christmas decorations for sale already.

Eyes Wide Shut

2008-11-05T10:14:00.000-05:00

Every once in a while, I wake up blind. Ok, not blind, per se, but I open my eyes and everything is extremely blurry.

Growing up, I had 20/15 vision. I was the only one in my family without glasses. While I have glasses now, I only wear them for driving/walking around at night. I've never had to wake up bleary eyed, stumble around, find my glasses, or put in contacts for the world to line up again.

Naturally, the first time it happened, I freaked out. What could have made my vision deteriorate so dramatically overnight? Why weren't my glasses helping at all? Was I having some kind of never-ending optical migraine?

Halfway through the day, I called my doctor's office and they put me in contact with an ophthalmologist. After asking me a few questions she told me to get some eye drops and use them for the rest of the day. If my vision didn't get better by the following day, I was supposed to come in and see her.

I asked her why this was happening. She said, "Well, you probably slept with your eyes open."

Ah, yes.

Creepy fact about me that you probably didn't know (unless you are my sister, in which case I'm sorry for freaking you out when we were kids, Jules!):
Sometimes I sleep with my eyes open. Not WIDE open, I'm told, but open enough that people think I might be awake.

Anyway, it seems that I slept with my eyes open last night, so if you see me stumbling around Boston today, that's why.

Voting in Somerville

2008-11-04T13:51:00.000-05:00

This morning, I voted in-person for the first time.

Because I am completely neurotic, I spent a lot of time worrying about what kind of identification I might be asked to provide. Since I haven't bothered to change my driver's license ($110, come on RMV), I don't currently have any form of photo identification that also has my address. I suspect that pulling out my VA driver's license would have caused some unnecessary confusion and I probably would have been given one of those provisional ballots.

Even though I had mailed in a copy of my pay stub with my registration, I was worried I still might be asked to provide some kind of identification. Better safe than sorry, I followed the Boy Scout's motto and decided to go prepared. Ok, so actually I was over prepared. I arrived at my polling place, registration confirmation, pay stub and passport in tow.

My roommate and I got there around 7.15. The polls had been open for 15 minutes and the line was out the door, but didn't seem that long. As we reached the door, we realized they had pulled a 'Disney World' on us (to quote the guy in front of me), and the line actually snaked down a hallway and doubled back. Everyone was good natured about it, though.

Then, one of the polling assistants started coming around with a sample ballot. We couldn't hear her at first.

"See what it says here? Vote for ONE. Remember when you're filling out your ballot that you can only vote for one candidate in these areas."

She continued along down the line and back again. People grew concerned. "That's disturbing," one woman said. The poll assistant explained that she just wanted to remind us because they had already had several ballots rejected by the machine.

Let that sink in for a second.

Several ballots in bluer-than-blue Somerville, MA had been invalidated (voters were instructed to get another ballot and try again) because people were voting for more than one candidate.

For the record, the only contested positions were for the Presidency, and John Kerry's Senate seat. So I'm guessing that either Somervillians are suddenly feeling ambiguous about John Kerry, or they were trying to elect Ralph Nadar AND Barack Obama.

Anyway, 45 minutes later I cast my first in-person vote. Via felt-tipped marker. I was a little taken aback. I actually looked in the other cubbie beside me to see if there was a felt-tipped marker there too. Somehow, I thought it would be #2 pencil. Well, the rest of it had the feel of voting for Class President, so why not?

There were no ID issues and, thankfully, the ballot machine accepted my ballot. Took my sticker and proceeded to Starbucks to buy myself a soy-chai latte and celebrate Cup Change Day.

Final thought on voting: It is a little weird that I didn't need any form of identification to vote, but I need a photo ID to drive a car, get into a bar after 9pm, or get on an airplane at all.

I'm not complaining or anything, just saying.

Awkward for politics

2008-11-03T09:23:00.004-05:00

I don't write much about politics here, but like most 20somethings I know, I've become a bit of a political junkie in the past two years. So tomorrow is a pretty big deal.

I've been looking forward to reading Chris Cillizza (aka The Fix) twitter as results come in. I'm sure Andrew Sullivan will have some interesting things to say, along with the folks over at The Plank and The Stump. I'm sure CNN's coverage will be inane, but after The Primary Season That Would Not End, I've grown weirdly fond of "The Best Political Team on Television"...They're comforting. In that way that being in a big group of kids you went to college with can be comforting, even if you don't particularly like any of them.

This past weekend I was invited to a party on election night, and now I'm facing a bit of a dilemma. On the one hand, I could spend election night with a bunch of people, have fun, laugh a lot, celebrate. On the other hand, I could spend the election night in my apartment, with the internet. I know this shouldn't be a hard decision, but it actually is.

What are you doing tomorrow night?

Halloweenhead

2008-10-31T14:17:00.002-04:00

8.12 pm: Where are the trick-or-treaters??

5.25 pm: Man dressed as cow.

2.15 pm: This isn't really a costume, but there is a man with a sandwich board that says "REPENT" in Downtown Crossing. He, and a number of his followers, have started chanting "Halloween is Evil! Halloween is Evil!"...

1.21 pm: Lunch was a bit of a disappointment! I expected much more from Downtown Crossing. Saw:

Hipster looking girl with feathers in her hair. Not entirely certain this was a costume.
Sarah Palin #2, wearing a blue jacket, black pants, and Chuck Taylors. Does Neiman Marcus sell Chucks now? She had a few McCain/Palin stickers on her jacket. The guy at the register laughed and then said, "Nobama!"

10.29 am: Got in to work about an hour ago. Saw the following costumes on my way in:

Woman in her mid-50s dressed as a biker chick. (I'm hoping this was a costume, anyway)
Girl on the T with her hair in the Sarah Palin up-do. She didn't have glasses on, and she was wearing tights AND Ugg boots. (I would make a much better Sarah Palin than this girl)
Girl got on at MIT wearing a Renaissance Fair style dress. Long flowing skirt, and sleeves.

So far that's it. I'm sure there will be more going on when I go out for lunch.

TMJ thinks we're BFF

2008-10-30T08:37:00.002-04:00

Walking home from the laundromat last night (I know, it's a thrilling and exciting life I do lead), the following thought popped into my head:

"If I just got rid of those back two molars, how much would I really miss them?"

Sadly, the answer was: not much at all.

If you've ever had problems with TMJ, you've probably had similar thoughts. There don't seem to be a lot of great remedies for TMJ. As an added bonus, my dentist comes from the same school of medical thought as my father: "If it hurts, don't do it."

Helpful.

Anyway, things were getting a lot better these past few months. It was like going through a long, ugly break-up. I'd go weeks without hearing (or feeling) a peep. Then out of nowhere, he'd call and I'd feel miserable for days. But now TMJ thinks we're friends and as such, wants to hang out all the time.

All I have to say to that is: pass.

Awkward at yoga

2008-10-29T13:41:00.007-04:00

Every Wednesday morning at 6.30 I go to this Hatha yoga class at my gym. The instructor is awesome and has that super-calming "yoga instructor" voice that just makes you think, "this isn't so bad!"

It's all very relaxing, in that weirdly energizing sort of way.

Today, of course, it was awkward. About halfway through the class, she instructs us to get our towels. "We'll be pairing off to do a quick exercise," she says.

I may actually have groaned. It was like being in high-school Russian class all over again.

There was a brief demonstration of what she wanted us to do. One person was supposed to come up into their downward-facing-dog pose on their mat. Their partner would stand directly behind them, feet on the outside of their feet. The partner would grab the towel, wrap it under the other person's hip joints, and then pull up.

Having a hard time with that mental image? Don't worry! I made a drawing in Paint just for you:

To be perfectly honest, the truly awkward part about this whole thing was having to talk to a complete stranger at 7AM. I kept thinking, "But I do yoga because I don't like talking to people when I exercise..."

Like my friend Sal, I'm contemplating a new career as a misanthrope.

It tastes like Thanksgiving

2008-10-28T10:01:00.003-04:00

This post is a tribute to Starbucks, say what you will about them, they make one fine chai tea latte.

I realize that I'm probably showing my bias here, but guess what: my caffeinated beverage of choice is a soy chai latte. Yes, even Barack Obama made fun of people like me in his speech at the Al Smith dinner. (Watch the video here, if you haven't seen it already)

I first encountered chai at Blackwell's. Maybe it was just homesickness, but my friend and I were delighted to discover something that tasted like Thanksgiving in a land that doesn't celebrate Thanksgiving, and doesn't stock cinnamon in its grocery stores. We dubbed chai "It Taste Like Thanksgiving" and have called it that ever since.

On a day like today, running around on no sleep in the rainy, miserable weather, it can only help.

Weekend Learnings

2008-10-27T08:03:00.002-04:00

I know that "learnings" is only kind of a word...deal with it.

While this weekend was less awkward than I'd hoped it would be (there were some pretty cringe-worthy moments, though), I did gather some valuable pieces of information:

Goth kids still exist.
The didgeridoo is less awesome than you think it's going to be.
Fake blood is made with corn syrup...to make it stickier...
My next door neighbors believe that 8 AM is a perfectly reasonable hour to start construction projects in between our houses.
Just because a cocktail looks like it's comprised entirely of things you like doesn't mean it won't taste like cough syrup.
I don't deserve nice things because I will inevitably ruin them by spilling food or water all over them.
Pumpkins rot. Even the little ones.
Clorox with Bleach is strong enough to kill the HIV-1 virus on contaminated surfaces. (Had no need for this particular use, but discovered it reading the back of the bottle while I was cleaning up after aforementioned pumpkin)
My Roomba (named Roomba, deal with it) can never find its way home. Ever.
Investing in a Scooba probably wouldn't be the most frivolous thing I've spent money on lately.
The radio still sucks.

Not enough awkward!

2008-10-24T08:15:00.001-04:00

It's hard to imagine that things have come to this. I was all excited to write up an awkward recap for you folks when I realized that I had absolutely nothing awkward to report.

I feel as though I've let you down. Over a week has passed without anything remarkably awkward happening in my life. I'm a little confused, to tell you the truth.

But fear not, because there is an entire weekend ahead of me. I will court awkwardness for the next two days and bring you the fruits of my labors next week.

Foiled by the RIAA

2008-10-23T16:51:00.003-04:00

I wanted to ad this new feature to my blog, where I would review music videos. I thought this would be fun because no one seems to appreciate music videos anymore (besides me, and maybe some of you), and I am uniquely qualified for such a job because I watch music videos every morning at the gym and spend the whole time thinking, "Wait, really?"

However, as I began to surf YouTube for the videos I hoped to embed here and pick apart for you, I noticed that many of these videos aren't embeddable! I can only assume the RIAA has something to do with that, since they seem (shockingly) opposed to the idea of people sharing music when no money is changing hands.

So anyway, instead of a fun, Web 2.0-y post where I point out all of the ridiculous things about a Pussy Cat Dolls video (When I Grow Up, if you were curious) I'm going to just send you to watch another music video on YouTube.

I suggest you mute the volume on your speakers because the song is really not something you want to put yourself through.

After you watch it, please come back here and comment if you ever had a high school experience like anything in that video. Am I just getting old? Maybe I was too lame in high school to get invited to all the parties where people poured chocolate syrup on everything in sight? Do 16 year olds watch these videos today and think, "Ohmigod that would be so much fun!!!!" Am I all alone in the land of What Is Wrong With These People?

Inquiring minds want to know.

Keep talking that ca-a-ash

2008-10-22T09:58:00.004-04:00

So I was watching Bravo this weekend (what do you want from me? I'm a 20-something woman with cable, of course I was watching Bravo this weekend) and an episode of The Real Housewives of Atlanta came on.

One of the characters (no, I don't know their names) was shopping at some swanky store. When she went to the register to pay for the clothes, she pulled out a stack of hundred dollar bills, fanned them out, and counted off some obscene number and then handed them over to the girl at the counter.

Seeing this, I was reminded of a very similar scene from an earlier Real Housewives episode (of New York City) where one of the characters is taking her daughter shopping and does the same thing; pays in cash, in hundred dollar bills.

It should be obvious to all of you that hundred dollar bills and I don't spend a lot of time together, so maybe I'm just missing some aspect of life that is obvious to the über wealthy, but I had no idea people carried around wads of hundred dollar bills to pay for their shopping sprees.

Where does this money even come from? Banks do have daily withdraw limits on ATMs, right? Are these women going to the bank every morning and taking out thousands of dollars in cash from their checking accounts? Don't they have credit cards? Or debit cards? Or check books?

So I'm wondering, is this some particular issue on Bravo? Did MasterCard and Visa decline to sponsor The Real Housewives series? (A shocking idea, really, not to want to be associated with such original and elevated programming)

Or is that just what you do when you're really rich?

I suppose there would be worse things than finding out the answer to that question.

Bangs!

2008-10-21T07:33:00.001-04:00

When I was a kid I had pretty much the same haircut I have now, only it cost about $15 then and when my bangs used to get too long, my mom would cut them herself. My mother, for all of her many many talents, is not a hairdresser.

Mom, if you're reading this, I love you! No hard feelings...

Here's a quick lesson in bangs, for those of you who don't have them:

In the UK, bangs are called "fringe". The British think that "bangs" sounds raunchy. This, from the country whose national dish is "bangers and mash." (Just kidding! We all know the real national dish of England is chicken tikka masala.)
Bangs were really popular in the 80s and early 90s...then they became a terrifying thing that you lived in fear might somehow accidentally happen to you anytime you were in the vicinity of a hair salon. Now they are the fashion accessory of choice for hipster girls, and women dressing up as Sarah Palin for Halloween. (See also: Tina Fey glasses)
Even though you cut the rest of your hair when it's wet, you should never ever cut your bangs when they are wet. Ever.

This last point is the one that my mom could probably have benefited from back when I was in second grade. On more than one occasion, she would cut my bangs when they were wet, and they would inevitably end up too short.

Problem solver that I am, I would walk around with my eyebrows raised for a good two weeks, figuring that people wouldn't notice my bangs were too short if I could just move the rest of my face up another inch or so.

Obviously, this didn't work. People just wondered why I was surprised all the time, and I gave myself a lot of headaches.

From the Department of Only in Harvard Square

2008-10-19T18:06:00.003-04:00

Overheard this snippet in between tracks of Real Blasty

"In my house, I have a whole room for rare books. Just rare books. And somewhere in there, I think, I believe I have an original journal of Thoreau's."

Ok, what?

First of all, what the hell else do you have in this collection of yours if you can't quite remember that one of those books is the journal of Henry David Thoreau?

Also, a whole room? Really?

Only in Harvard Square, folks...

Bad hair Friday

2008-10-17T09:53:00.004-04:00

On the T this morning, I saw a teenage boy with "sun-in blond" (read "nasty orange") highlights and a braided rat tail.

a rat tail.

I could do nothing but stand there and think, "irony is dead".

Then, walking to work, I saw a man with an unusual mohawk. He was older and had a bald spot at the crown of his head. He didn't have much hair to speak of on the top of his head, but he was clearly determined to show his dedication to punk-rock by shaving all but a two inch strip of hair coming from the bottom of his bald spot to the base of his neck. Theoretically, I suppose this could have been the bottom half of a mohawk, if he put gel in it.

Instead, it looked like his bald spot had grown a tail. Like he had some kind of pelt on the back of his head.

Not like my hair was great today, but I promise you it was not reminiscent of an animal skin. Plus, I am getting it cut tomorrow!

Stay tuned for the classic "Marie's bangs" story. I'll share another embarrassing moment from my childhood with all of you next week.

Awkward for money: Gallows humor

2008-10-16T08:24:00.001-04:00

The current financial situation isn't really "funny ha-ha" but I'd like to point you to a few things that might keep you entertained, or at least distract you from CNBC and your 401K:

Sad Guys on Trading Floors These guys are a riot. When you think you're having a bad day, stop, visit this site, and look at all of the ridiculous people who are more stressed out that you'll ever be. Then laugh at them!

While you're at it, go ahead and follow Chris on Twitter. (Say what you will about Twitter, but it fulfills my need to have a pretty much constant stream of witty one liners in my life. That's right friends, you've been replaced by internet strangers.)

Strategery Capital. "The People's Hedge Fund" (try not to cry on this one)
Arrington and the TechCrunch team have a great attitude on all of this: September Madness!
Gothamist has the scoop on this weirdly impressive...found art?
I'm not sure Glenn Beck meant to be funny when he explained "how we got into this money mess", but he talks about Tickle Me Elmo, so I thought it was pretty amusing.
If you didn't watch the SNL clip the last time I posted it, go watch it now! Or you can just read about AIG's ridiculous behavior (in a more "civilized" tone) over on Floyd Norris's blog.

(Hat tip to GDW for the Gothamist and Glenn Beck links)

Adventures on the T

2008-10-15T08:55:00.008-04:00

Last night I gave a short talk at the career center of my alma mater (go Eagles). For those of you taking notes, I work in Cambridge, which makes it quite a hike on the T back to the Heights.

I used to have anxiety about long T rides. What if I forgot my book? What if my iPod battery died? What if I ended up smooshed into the train car, head stuck under some stranger's armpit for the entire ride?

These are not wholly irrational fears.

Last night, however, I realized that the T provides plenty of its own sources for amusement, so I need not worry if I'm lacking in ways to entertain myself.

First, in true Central Square fashion, I watched a man get questioned, and then arrested (I think) by the transit police while I was waiting for the T. It was unclear what his crime was, other than being very out of it, and apparently just released on parole.

On my return trip, I realized that everyone on the Green Line looks like someone you know. Maybe that's just what happens when you spend five years living on the Green Line, but seriously.

Then, two girls, clearly aspiring to be MPDGs, got on a BU. I was taken aback by how weirdly identical they were, even though they didn't look that much alike. Same flip flops and pink toenails, Hollister jeans and little hoodies. I got really creeped out when they started picking at each other's split ends. It was like a weird primate ritual you'd see at the zoo, only you couldn't get up and leave when it started to gross you out, because you were only at Blanchard Street...

The final leg of my T adventure last night prompted me to reiterate my previous PSA and issue a new one:

Just because it's October, doesn't mean it's Halloween yet. In fact, odds are that it will be October and NOT Halloween for...oh, pretty much the entire month.

October 14th is too early to be dressed like Pocahontas.

Public Service Announcement

2008-10-13T09:26:00.002-04:00

This came up when I was out with some friends on Friday night, I think it bears repeating:

Leggings are not pants. Tights are even less pant-like than leggings.

That's all for today, folks. Enjoy the "holiday".

Ohmigod are you serious?! Seth and Amy know where the outrage is

2008-10-10T09:42:00.002-04:00

I'm not sure what's up with SNL weekend updates happening on Thursday nights, but I thought this bit was pretty good. Skip past "Fix it!" guy, go about four minutes in and watch Seth and Amy on AIG:

Awkward Recap

2008-10-10T07:45:00.000-04:00

Man, something in the air this week. Lots of awkward flying around:

Looking up from my book on the T and realizing that the same person, of truly ambiguous gender, has been staring at me for the past 5 minutes. Thought, "Is there something on my face?" +5 awkward points
Being invited to drinks by the married, 40-something man sitting next to me at a conference on Tuesday night. While my CEO was speaking. +7 awkward points
Getting asked out to dinner on the T by a guy that I started talking with because I thought he was my boss's husband. +6 awkward points
See my previous post about getting out-walked by an 80 year old stroke victim. +2 awkward points (this was more painful than awkward, but the flashing light...)
Having a discussion with one of my male coworkers about how long the word "vajayjay" has been in the national lexicon. +4 awkward points

Weekly total: 24

That's a record, folks. As a totally unscientific study (given the 3.5 people who read this blog) I invite you to share some of your own awkward moments from this past week in the comments section. Or was it just an awkward week for me?

When hip flexors rebel

2008-10-09T19:54:00.003-04:00

Tonight, on my way home from the world's worst pilates class, I got out-walked by an 80 year old man. He was wearing a safety vest. Complete with a flashing red light. He was tilting dangerously to one side.

So yes, I'm pretty sure that an 80 year old stroke victim left me in the dust.

I limped the rest of the way home and celebrated my shame with a Magner's and an ice pack.

Time zones are less complicated than you might think

2008-10-08T07:11:00.001-04:00

When I contemplated starting a blog, I first poked around for some advice from other bloggers I knew. The one consistent piece of advice I was given was, "Write often. Update Regularly. Stick to your schedule." At the time, I thought, yeah yeah, I know that!

I underestimated the challenge.

So, one of the reasons I haven't been able to give you regular little bites of my awkward life is because I've been doing the recruiting for some focus groups we're hosting at work this week. It's a big time commitment to find people, make sure they're good candidates for the group, and then get them to say they'll show up.

Here's an example of the kind of thing that can happen:

I emailed out a slew of confirmations. The gist of the email was:

Hi, hope you're still interesting in the group! Please confirm that you can make it at 7 PM EST tomorrow!

I thought this was fairly straightforward.

Multiple people in different time zones wrote back to me:

Hey, I'm bad with time zones. What is that in Central/Mountain/Pacific Time?

My outrage stems from two points:

Is it really acceptable to be a grown person, living in the world, and not know how your location in time (and space!) is related to others. I understand if you're not immediately aware of the time zone in say, Burkina Faso or Tuvalu, but just by virtue of watching television in America, shouldn't you be familiar with the phrase: "9/8 central"?
If you were truly unaware of this difference, shouldn't your first reaction be to go and look it up and pretend like you knew all along? That is the beauty of the internet, my friends! Don't know a word someone just used in an IM? GOOGLE IT! Can't remember the first name of some historic/important person? Wikipedia is at your finger tips!

Now, I'm glad that I come across as nice and non-judgmental to people who don't know me at all. But the lack of embarrassment over not knowing time zone differences is mind boggling to me. Seriously, folks.

The unheralded benefits of non-organic produce

2008-10-07T07:56:00.001-04:00

I've got a confession to make (some will label me a heathen and a barbarian, and I will accept this designation with my head bowed appropriately in shame):

I don't always buy organic produce.

"Give me spots on my apples but leave me the birds and the bees. Pleeeease."

You're crooning that at me right now, mocking my heretic betrayal to a fundamental tenet of Massachusetts residency. The RMV probably isn't going to give me a Massachusetts drivers license now, even if I do pay them $110 for the privilege of transferring my perfectly good Virginia license over to their system.

The benefits of eating organic food (produce and otherwise) have been extolled in many venues, so here are a few of the upsides to non-organic produce:

Cost-Organic fruits and veggies tend to be more expensive than their pesticide-treated brothers and sisters.
Size-Regular produce is often much larger than their organic counterparts.
Bugs-Thanks to the chemicals, your non-organic produce should be bug-free.

This brings me to my current dilemma. Saturday morning, I went to Shaw's to buy my groceries. I thought the strawberries looked surprisingly good, and decided to buy some to dip in chocolate and have as a delicious treat.

Last night, I came home from a long day and decided to make the strawberries. I get everything ready, melt the chocolate, wash the berries, and begin dipping. About 6 strawberries into the container, I noticed something green. Horrified, I realize that it's not the stem of one of the strawberries. It's actually an inch worm. Crawling on a berry that I wanted to dip in chocolate.

My roommate points out that "inch worms aren't poisonous." I considered this statement for a moment but ask a crucial follow up question, "Ok, but can they lay eggs?"

The very thought was too disgusting to contemplate and the strawberries went straight into the trash.

If you're going to buy fruit that's been drenched in pesticides, shouldn't you at least get the guarantee that they'll be bug-less? Isn't that the trade off? Sure, you get some remnants of chemicals which are lethally toxic to insects...but you don't actually get the insects.

For my seriously bug-phobic self, the risk-reward analysis in this situation was incredibly easy. Call it short sighted, but I was going to go with the bug-free produce every time.

Now, I don't know what to do. I don't think I'm going to buy an strawberries for a little while though.

Awkard in high school: The Reunion

2008-10-06T17:55:00.004-04:00

So last week, I'm reading my "news feed" on Facebook and I see that one of my friends from high school has RSVP'd to an event: "5 Year High School Reunion!"

I do a double-take.

I click on the event.

Yes, here is a Facebook event for my high school reunion, apparently scheduled for the Friday after Thanksgiving. A few of my friends have responded with RSVPs already.

I check my inbox. Had I somehow missed the email with this message? I know that Facebook can be a little unreliable with email sometimes... Nope!

I check my homepage in Facebook, is there an invitation sitting there, that I've just missed? Nope...

This, folks, is how I discovered that I had not been invited to my own high school reunion. It's kind of like the time that I got accepted, rejected and wait-listed at the College of William and Mary (another story for another time, but one that solidified my status as The Queen of Awkward at a fairly young age).

I was surprised. And a little bit disappointed. And totally relieved to have an excuse for not attending.

I was also pretty confused. Given my profession, I might be more "social media" savvy that most, but
a. I went to a high school that focused on technology, and
b. We're talking about a bunch of 20-somethings here, knowing how to use Facebook is a pretty much a basic life-skill, ingrained after 4 years of procrastination in college.

By the end of the day, it looks like whoever is organizing the event figured out how to send messages via Facebook because we all got a nice little note regarding the reunion, and the posting of the event without actually inviting 75% of the class. No harm, no foul.

I am a little bit peeved though, because now I might actually have to go. I'm trying to look on the bright side, however. Surely this reunion will provide opportunity for numerous awkward moments. I'll keep you posted.

My bologna has a middle name...

2008-10-02T08:06:00.003-04:00

Apologies for the brevity of my posts this week, it's been pretty insane at work. If I could tell you about it, I would. It definitely registers some serious awkward points.

By the way, awkward points are on a scale of 1 to 10. I'm not sure if that was immediately clear. If something really spectacular happens, I'm sure I could push it up to 11. (Come on, I know some of you are fans of Spinal Tap)

Anyway, today's post is to commemorate a momentous occasion that you should all feel free to congratulate me on:

A tropical storm was named in my honor.

That's right, Tropical Storm Marie has formed in the Pacific Ocean. (You can read this totally uninformative article on MSNBC, if you like)
This somehow seems appropriate.

My dad told me that I should consider this a "special recognition of my special name".

I spent most of my childhood being called "Maria" or "Mary", so I'm thrilled that the name Marie is getting a little bit of attention, I'm just not sure I'm totally ready to join the "any publicity is good publicity" camp.

Fortunately, my tropical storm is not expected to cause any damage, and is merely going to stay out in the Pacific Ocean and "revitalize the area".

I leave you with this: (Serious hat tip to Darius K for his help in tracking down this image)

Signs I might be living beyond my means

2008-10-01T07:23:00.001-04:00

The cashier at Whole Foods asked, "Were you in here earlier?" I had to stop and thinking about it before responding, "No..." He seemed surprised. "What about yesterday?" This question didn't require much thought, "Yeah, I was here yesterday..." Apparently I go to the Whole Foods by my office so often that they recognize me.
I'll have reservations for dinner at 10 Tables for the second time in as many months.
I've added another DVD to my Netflix plan. What can I say, Michael C Hall and Peter Krause (and Six Feet Under) are a lot of fun to watch!

How many awkward points do you think I get for being recognized by a cashier at Whole Foods?

A belated Awkward Recap

2008-09-30T07:28:00.000-04:00

I was going to entertain you all with a post about why Facebook ads don't work, but I'm writing this on Monday night and it's been a long day. Let me bring you up to speed on the awkwardness you've missed this week: (also, note the new feature, negative awkward points for awkward moments that could have happened, but didn't)

Discovering that your upstairs neighbors are not married, or with child, without committing any gaffes by assuming either of these things in conversation with them. -3 awkward points
Sleeping on the floor of a hotel suite because the sofa bed your parents told you would be there turned out to be a leather, bed-less, loveseat. +3 awkward points
Getting completely lost with your family even though you've lived in this town for 5 years and your father grew up here. +2 awkward points
Spending your entire day talking to complete strangers about their experiences with birth control. +5 awkward points
Being friends with your CEO on Facebook, but not your boss. +3 awkward points
Avoiding the temptation to create awkward situations just so you can blog about them. -5 awkward points

This week's total comes to: 5 awkward points. Not bad. Stay tuned for a post about Facebook ads later this week.

Kids these days

2008-09-29T08:34:00.000-04:00

Here's a story about my cousins. We'll call them Amy and Betty. They are fraternal twins. They live in the country.

Amy is talking to my uncle, telling him about her dreams for when she grows up. She says she wants to have a barn. With lots of animals. And a farm, where they grown things. She wants her father to help her build the barn and take care of the animals.

As she's telling this story, Betty turns to her and says, "Get real, Amy. Dad'll be dead by the time we're old enough to have a barn."

She adds, "Forget the barn. I want a cell phone."

My cousins are five years old.

McDonald's new latte commercial: Most offensive ad ever?

2008-09-25T07:52:00.004-04:00

I'm not sure if this is actually the most offensive ad ever, but I'm definitely nominating it for consideration.

It was a bit of a late night last night, so I'll keep my comments brief:

Thanks, McDonald's. As if it weren't frustrating enough that I don't get to be a "real" American right now because I live on a coast and have never been hunting, you just go right ahead and add "literate" to that list.

Also: What's a "paraguay"?

Without further ado, and courtesy of Boston.com (clearly):

Bananas are gross

2008-09-24T07:58:00.002-04:00

Maybe you're wondering what Rob Gordon has with bananas. That's ok. The answer is: not much at all.

Rob does have a lot to do with Top 5 lists, however, being the fictional creator of Top5Records. I'm a big fan of Nick Hornby, High Fidelity in particular. So I bring you, the Top 5 Reasons Why Bananas are Gross:

5. Ubiquitousness
If you like bananas, you might not realize how they're kind of everywhere. But when you hate bananas, you become painfully aware of this fact. Oh, that smoothie looks good? Yeah, too bad it's been thickened with bananas. Oh, you wanted a fruit bowl with your brunch? Yeah, that's going to be about 75% banana. Enjoy!

4. Peeling
Maybe this is just because I find bananas gross to begin with, but really? You're going to make me work to eat this? Plus, when you peel bananas, the peel doesn't separate cleanly from itself. Little spider-web like strands remain. Anything that reminds me of spiders is bad.

3. Smell
Banana is one of those smells that doesn't really go away. You can tell when someone has just eaten a banana. You can tell when someone is carrying one in their purse. The second bananas are ripe, you know. This could be pleasant for someone who doesn't hate bananas, but surely we can all get behind the fact that over-ripe bananas smell disgusting.

2. Taste
These last three are really hard for me to distinguish between, because they all influence each other, but the taste of bananas can be best described as bland, as at worst, bruised.

1. Texture
Far and away the worst part of bananas. Two words: meal worms. Bananas are mealy. They're like a mushy version of the apples you'd get at a Store24.

Ok, all this being said, I've been on a mission this week. I've challenged myself to eat a banana every day. Near as I can tell, bananas have 3 upsides; they're cheap, they're fruit, and they've got a lot of potassium. If you're familiar with the anecdote that prompted this blog post, you know I could use a little more potassium in my diet. Come Friday, we'll see if I still hate them as much as I did at the beginning of this week.

There is no child!

2008-09-23T07:40:00.001-04:00

My landlord is a really nice Italian man. He’s a lot like my grandfather, actually. He used to be a travel agent and now he spends most of his days around the house and in the garden where he grows everything from arugula to sweet peppers.

The last time I talked to him was about a month ago. I was trying to resolve some Drama, and in the process, he informed me that a young, married, couple was moving into the apartment on the 3rd floor. With their child… Those of you who read this post can imagine how I reacted (and perhaps glean how I feel about children in general). Needless to say, I was concerned.

Our previous neighbor had been nice enough. He was a grad student and like most people working on a dissertation, he was both busy and quiet. Who knew what these new people would be like. I could probably say goodbye to my peaceful Saturday mornings.

The move in process was not quiet, and, mysteriously, began around 8pm on a Monday night. Sure enough the screams of a small child emanated from the stairwell as he ran up and down all three flights. We were not amused.

My roommate and I were also a little puzzled. The couple moving in looked young. Even younger than we were, perhaps. We guessed that the child was somewhere between 18 months and 3 years, from the pitch of his shouts.

So I’m talking to my landlord, and I’ve run out of things to say about plants. I mention the new neighbors, “They seem nice”. He agrees, is pleased to be rid of, “the heavy walker” and tells me they are a nice young couple. I nod. “And their child? How old is..he?” (I struggled with this one, but didn’t want to spend so many Awkward Points on a Monday.)

My landlord looks confused. I look confused back. We blink at each other a bit. He tells me there is no child. I blink some more. Hadn’t he told me they were a young, married, couple, with a child? Hadn’t I heard a little boy terrorizing my stairwell?

Apparently this was a nephew!

The New Neighbor approaches the front door and my landlord introduces us. I am relieved that I stopped to have this conversation with my landlord, because it has actually prevented an even more awkward conversation down the line with this guy who looks like he’s still in college, “So how’s your son?” Imagine the blinking.

After returning to my apartment, depositing my newfound cornucopia of tomatoes, basil and cucumbers, I gather my laundry and head back out. This time, I run into the New Neighbor on the stairwell. There is an equally young looking girl with him. He introduces me to her, “This is my girlfriend”. Girlfriend! They’re not married! I can breathe easier about the fact that everyone I know is engaged.

She gives me a look like she knows I’ve called her hypothetical child “it”.

Mourning the loss

2008-09-22T07:33:00.005-04:00

Can you read that? It says:

"Sorry-The Ben's Cookies Store is now CLOSED"

I'm not sure what to do.

There were so many things about Ben's that I loved. The Quentin Blake illustrations. The little store in the Covered Market. The fact that they sold their delicious goodness by weight. The store in Utah that shipped scrumptious cookies to me in the States....

I guess my only option now is to move to London.

Totally ripping off the Weekly Dig

2008-09-19T07:51:00.000-04:00

Awkward Recap:

Calling the new neighbor's kid "it" when I knew full well it was a boy. +2 points (10 points if I call him that in front of either parent)

Calling the police to report a noise violation regarding the Mystery Drummer who, apparently, performs every Wednesday around 6pm. +3 points

Crying at the end of Pilates class because my foot was cramping so bad I couldn't walk and needed the instructor of the incoming class to massage the cramp out of my foot. +7 points.

Total for the week: 12 awkward points.

Tips for next week: Don't drink a Magner's right before going to Pilates. Eat more bananas.

A Central Square moment

2008-09-18T07:30:00.005-04:00

I would like to take this opportunity to introduce you to Central Square, Cambridge. Cambridge, MA is sometimes referred to as "The People's Republic of Cambridge", especially if you're my father. Certain parts of Cambridge (MIT, Lechemere) don't really capture depth of this statement.

That's why I'm glad that I work here in Central Square. Central is ground zero of the People's Republic. Favorite pastimes include playing games like, "Hobo or Hippie?" and trying not to get killed while crossing the street at any of the 15 crosswalks on Mass. Ave.

Collecting "Central Square moments" is another favored pastime, particularly in my office. Usually these moments occur when we leave the office to forage for snacks. On rare occasions, however, the moments come to us. Take for instance, Wednesday evening:

At 6.10pm, I was ten minutes into an important conference call. I was supposed to be taking detailed notes. Suddenly, I hear a loud banging noise. I can feel the floor moving.

Our building just went under new management; did they perhaps invite a rock band to come in after hours to practice? This seems unlikely.

I begin to realize that this is not some kind of parade commemorating a secret holiday that I didn't know existed. (Boston has a lot of them: Bunker Hill Day. Patriot's Day, etc.) No, this is a street drummer. From the sound of it, he's rocking out in the "courtyard" below our building.

I tried to be patient. For about five minutes, anyway. Then I gave in. I couldn't take notes, I couldn't hear the conversation happening on the call, I couldn't think about anything besides this guy, banging the hell out of these drums. I opened up Google and searched for the non-emergency line for the police department. The Cambridge PD had anticipated my needs and the first page that popped up gave the number to call for "noise violations".

I called. It rang once. I almost hung up, the shame of being that guy was profound. Then I remembered that sometimes, when you call the police and hang up, they call you back or come to your location to make sure that you're okay. I decided that the shame of reporting someone for being too loud was probably less than the shame I would feel if the police walked in to my office wondering who called.

"Hi, I'm calling from my office in Central, there's someone outside playing the drums. Really loudly"
"A drum?"
"Um, yeah. Like a street drummer? I can hear it inside my building. It's really distracting and making it impossible to work"
"Ok, well, we'll send someone over to check it out."

I can't get off the call until I give over my name and phone number. Great, now my moment of shame is forever commemorated with the Cambridge PD.

The minutes tick by. The drumming gets, mysteriously, louder. Every once in a while, he stops for a few a minute or two. Then starts up again to a new beat. At least he's mixing it up a bit.

After 35 minutes, it stops for good. Finally. Relief!

Later that night, however, I begin to worry. It's been a very long day and at 9pm, I'm still in the office, by myself. The building is eerily quite and empty. The perfect breeding ground for paranoia. To leave my office and get to the T, I walk out the back of the building into a small side-alley and then get to the street. It's a quick walk, but long enough to make me nervous.

As I'm walking out the door, I half expect to get jumped by the Mystery Drummer. To get beaten down with a pair of drum sticks, only to be discovered the next morning, broken Vic Firth's at my side. Perhaps I should stop watching Law & Order.

The saddest part of this whole thing is that even if I did get beat down with a pair of drumsticks, it still wouldn't have been the most bizarre thing in the Cambridge police blotter the next morning.

Gap is lying to me, and I love it

2008-09-17T07:30:00.002-04:00

Women of the world, we are being deceived.

I've recently been having what one might call a "high class problem": my pants don't fit. I've lost a little bit of weight in the past year and now that the weather is cooling down, the lack of pants is becoming a bit of a problem. Tired of wearing the same jeans every day, and feeling generally pleased with myself, I meandered over to the Gap one afternoon last week.

I figured I'd be a size 8 since my pants from last year were a 10 or a 12. Out of curiosity, I picked up a few 6s, just to see. They fit! I did a happy dance in the dressing room.

Normally, I don't buy jeans at the Gap. I've had some fall apart on me. But these, these were different! These were a size 6! How could I refuse them?

Of course, I suspected that vanity sizing was at work here, as opposed to my "diligence" in weight loss. It seemed just possible enough, however, that I was willing to believe it.

Now, here's where my story gets a little bit absurd.

I wore the jeans once, I washed them. They are now my "baggy jeans". I bought these last week.

Today, I return to the Gap. I had a hypothesis to test. Three pairs of jeans accompany me to the dressing room. Size 4. They all fit. Not perfectly, but they're definitely wearable.

I know I'm not a size 4. I consider mac and cheese a major food group and I own a full length mirror. While I suspected a size 6 might have been pandering, a size 4 proves it.

If I'm going to be annoyed about any of this, it should probably be that Gap is lying to me, and millions of other women; telling us that we're a smaller size in hopes we'll be so delighted that we'll fork over $50 for jeans that cost them nothing to make.

To be perfectly honest, what I'm really annoyed about is that I spent $50 on vanity jeans in a size 6, when they could have been a 4.

So Gap, keep lying to me. I'll be back next time I have $50 to burn on my ego.

oh em gee, it's a blog

Have we met?

Cherry blossoms are always in season

Meeting the neighbors

Moving Day

Awkward at the beach

Go Mad Men yourself

Interviews can be awkward

Context is king

The return of awkward

The Summer of Vegetables: An Inauspicious Beginning

I've got secrets up to here, love

25 letters?

All you need to know

You can't text message break up

Awkward Recap

Eye Washing in Public

The Hat

Awkward at the beach

Another website?

A Grand Slam

You don't really want to know what strangers think of you

DC brat

A perfect ten

Maybe Yelp loves me after all

Say my name, say my name

Go read this

Pink is a yes color

How to spot a hipster

Awkward Recap!

In case you were wondering:

Everyone loves the sleeping bag coat

Everyday we wake up, we choose love, we choose light

Awkward at parties

Recommended Reading

Too busy to be awkward?

A few thoughts on this Blagojevich thing

Ted Leo goes solo

Keep your boyfriend, my alarm clock doesn't snore

New spellings

Welcome your Google Overlords

Awkward Reunion

Happy Buy Nothing Day

Awkward at being a nerd

The sleeping bag coat

Little things

Look, more thoughts on public transit

Boots don't fit me.

Odds and ends

Part two: The ER

The return of Stroke Man

What's it like to get hit by a bike?

T vs Subway

Awkward (in NYC) Recap

Awkward in NYC

5 things I've learned about Downtown Crossing

Eyes Wide Shut

Voting in Somerville

Awkward for politics

Halloweenhead

TMJ thinks we're BFF

Awkward at yoga

It tastes like Thanksgiving

Weekend Learnings

Not enough awkward!

Foiled by the RIAA

Keep talking that ca-a-ash

Bangs!

From the Department of Only in Harvard Square

Bad hair Friday

Awkward for money: Gallows humor

Adventures on the T

Public Service Announcement

Ohmigod are you serious?! Seth and Amy know where the outrage is

Awkward Recap

When hip flexors rebel

Time zones are less complicated than you might think

The unheralded benefits of non-organic produce

Awkard in high school: The Reunion

My bologna has a middle name...