It's November 13th

How did that happen?

I have no photos to share--the date-remembering impulse took the day off for Veterans' Day, apparently. I can tell you that I went to work, ran in the dark, had leftover brown rice and acorn squash for dinner, and watched Bones one and a half times. So, you know. Aren't you sad you missed THAT?

She said you're like a disease without any cure

I went to the doctor today. My right eye has been acting funny lately, messing up my worldview a bit--being the freckliest girl in the world, it is unsurprising that I would have a tiny mole on my lash line, rubbing up against my eyeball and making me inappropriately teary, but that doesn't make it less uncomfortable. It's just another day in the life of the temperamentally-skinned. Thanks, genetic legacy!

Luckily, I have Kaiser health care, the kind where I call the advice nurse at 9:30 and they ask if I'd rather have the 10:15 or the 1:30 same-day appointment. I show up and flaunt my eyelid to my GP and to the opthalmologist's assistant; flaky-mascara lecture and eyeball-numbing glaucoma test notwithstanding, we all seem to agree: as terrifying as the intersection of opthalmology and dermatology sounds, minor surgery may be the way to go, here. Soon, the opthalmologist himself shows up. He looks around, resists the urge to flip my eyelids inside out like a junior-high boy, and shines a few lights in my eyes. He hmmmmms to himself. He looks at me.

"Well," he says, "We're going to hold off on the mole. At least until the conjunctivitis clears up."

Let me translate that.

PINKEYE.

I am twenty-nine years old, and I HAVE PINKEYE.

This is actually not that surprising; it seems like, in this world, you're either a pinkeye person or you aren't, and I most definitely am. I was that kid in preschool who practically bathed in eyedrops (but never got good at taking them--even now, I am a reluctant eye-dropper on the very best of days). For whatever reason, I'm conjunctivitis-friendly. It's nice to know I'm accommodating to all, don't you think?

In my (extensive) pinkeye experience, this'll all blow over. I've got eyedrops and ointment(ultra-thick eyedrops: AWESOME, UNIVERSE) and a check-up appointment for Monday; even going without my contacts seems to be keeping the ick at bay. Until then, I'm just trying not to start a Swine Eye epidemic. That would be embarrassing.

Side ponytails, unite!

When I was a little girl, my brother Ben and I had a club. We were the Tiger Club (tigers being both intimidating and pleasingly stripey), and mostly I remember having meetings via flashlight in Ben's closet, and plotting to build periscopes out of hand mirrors and paper-towel rolls, and always having to make up a new secret handshake because we'd forgotten the old one. Our parents inexplicably would not let us get a tiger to be our mascot; when I was six or seven, we eventually bargained them down to a turtle (practically the same thing anyway, you know) for which we saved up for months and then changed our club name to match. As you do. Scooter the turtle, I will have you know, was a fine and noble mascot for many years, and I think taught us all a lot about the joys of heat lamps and live crickets.

Last week, I picked my brother up at the airport--he's back in the States after five years abroad, and local to me for the first time since middle school. Thus begins the longest, most awesome Turtle Club meeting ever! He's so excited to be back in the land of pork and uncensored movies, and I am so excited to have him here for general bothering/fun-having purposes, even if it means driving him to every furniture store in the greater DC area until his apartment is furnished (I have a car; he does not). You can guess what we did this weekend.

So what I mean to say, I guess, is this: If you come to DC and it does not seem quite the same as it was, if it seems slightly more awesome and yet also slightly more weird, think of us, and know that the Turtle Club is hard at work.

Now, if we can just find enough hand mirrors, we can finally finish those periscopes.

12 of 12: October

Heyyyyy, it's that time of the month again. So to speak. For all info and background on the 12 of 12 project, see Chad Darnell's blog; it's his baby.

And here we go:



8:45 - Waking up gloriously late. Thanks, Columbus/indigenous peoples!




9:34 - Making the morning admin rounds for the newly launched Austenacious; my assistant sleeps on the job.




10:22 - Stopping by the cathedral on my morning run.




10:25 - My favorite place on the cathedral grounds, the Bishop's Garden.




12:47 - Um, lunch. IT HAS FRUIT IN IT, OKAY? Don't judge me or my baked goods.




1:39 - On the bus to Georgetown.




2:01 - Taking myself to the movie show: Whip It, which I liked very much. It did not, however, help resolve my inner conflict over roller derby (in which I dig the derby culture, but also dig my bone structure as is).




4:04 - In Georgetown, waiting for the bus back up the hill.




4:25 - In line at Giant, where I didn't even bother to track down a basket. Note: hand-carrying frozen peas around will eventually make your hands cold.




5:53 - Working on an original pilot script. Anybody know any agents looking for fresh TV-writer blood?




7:20 - Magic risotto, starring peas and zucchini and a whole lot of parmesan. Time-consuming, but it keeps me fed all week.




9:41 - Skyping with my friend Carly, whom I've known since birth and who is now super-adorable and thinking of becoming an English major. I approve.

That's all, folks! See you all next month.

Introducing Austenacious

I have a new website. Maybe we're not fully ensconced in the 21st century yet--there are no cards for this, no "it's a site!" banners, no candy cigars to hand out. Instead, we have frantic networking and checking of Google Analytics, which is plenty entertaining to a new website owner, but it somehow lacks a certain je ne sais quoi.

Meet Austenacious, where the women are accomplished, the men are smoldering yet virtuous, and nobody ever gets mocked for being a great reader (or, for that matter, for taking pleasure in a great many things).

This is a labor of love--or, really, a labor of friendship. Brainstorming began with Christine and Heather before I moved to the East Coast, and our slogan, "Jane will keep us together," has proven true: we have the full inboxes and the hours logged on Skype to prove it. We think Jane would have liked what we're doing: reading and watching and thinking and talking and laughing and definitely, definitely eating, and looking at her works with the required sense of humor. We certainly like it.

So now you're invited to look around: check us out, join the discussion, leave a comment, tell a friend! (Especially that last one: the internet is a big place; getting the word out is tough.)

Welcome.

A perfect size six, with eyes like the Pacific Ocean

So, here's some crazy news for anybody with a) two X chromosomes and b) a birthdate between 1977 and 1985: Diablo Cody is adapting the Sweet Valley High books. What?! Now?! This is just one big swirling eddy of emotion for me.

First of all: Diablo Cody. Good writer; potentially obnoxious person. I liked Juno, after the first ten minutes, and I've heard pretty good things about her show The United States of Tara. So, no complaints creatively. But last year, I read an article in the New York Times--maybe in the magazine?--about Cody and three of her friends, a sort of girl-screenwriter cabal, who traipse around Hollywood and drink in the morning and wear matching jewelry and occasionally write stuff. The article was completely annoying and pretentious, and made them seem completely annoying and pretentious, and although I would like desperately to have my own cabal of girl-screenwriter pals with whom to traipse around Hollywood (less so the morning drinking and matching jewelry), it did not make me love her in the way that it was probably intended to. Mostly, it made me want to throttle her and then take her existence and her Oscar to retool as my very own. So you'll see why she and I have a rocky relationship.

Now. Sweet Valley High. These books were off-limits to me as a kid, but I sometimes read them anyway (sorry, Mom!), a depressingly Elizabeth Wakefield act of rebellion. I was especially into the crazy multi-generational super-special ones that followed the lines of the girls' ancestors: remember the one with the horsey circus chick, and her daughter the flapper? More recently, I often played the Sweet Valley High board game with my college roommates; we'd fight over who got to be the twins, and who got stuck with snotty Lila, and then we'd all steal each other's boyfriends. I think there were special outfits involved (for the game pieces, not for us). Special times, those long evenings arguing over who needed whose Science Club equipment. Now, I mostly get my SVH fix through The Dairi Burger. But it's a thing. I mean, really: does the love of the late-80s pre-teen book series ever really go away?

It seems to me that this combination is a brilliant but dicey one. To make it really work, it'll have to be utterly biting--deeply familiar with and specific to the Stepford reality of the books--which places it above the heads of kids today, who haven't read the series and wouldn't get the humor. As an alternative, they can try to update it in setting and/or tone, in which case it might either miss the original tone of the books, completely fail to address the hilarious lack of self-awareness in the books, or both. (The second one is unlikely: Cody's sense of irony is probably stronger than her sense of smell.) So it'll have to be a very careful operation: mean enough--in a tough-love kind of way; after all, Cody is a fan--to satisfy the old-school Sweet Valley fans out there, but friendly enough to attract younger girls who don't know anything about, for example, the time Jessica stayed out All Night Long and was maybe raped by a guy named Scott and his pet mustache. I'm not saying it can't be done, and I'm certainly not saying Cody's not the woman for the job. If anything, she's probably exactly the right woman for the job. But if it doesn't go well, if it isn't pitch-perfect, it could be a disaster for all. And everybody knows there are no disasters in Sweet Valley.

Par-tay

So, you may have heard that I went to New York again last weekend. It was great--Sarah and I spent some (okay, maybe a lot of) time at The Strand, and we saw Bye Bye Birdie. We sat in coffee shops and talked about all sorts of deep and life-changing things--the depressing trend from suspenders to belts on men, why Neil Patrick Harris is our (well, mostly her) favorite...you know, the usual.

And then this happened:









Turns out Sunday was Broadway on Broadway, an enormous free concert in Times Square featuring a number from each of the musicals either currently open or about to open, a total of twenty-one segments. We watched them all, started planning our exit strategy--like people leaving a baseball game after the seventh inning--and then: the skies opened up. With PAPER.

This is why I like New York: getting on the Bolt Bus on a rainy Friday afternoon, did I expect to find myself in Times Square in an absolute blizzard of colored paper? No. No, I did not. And yet, there I was. I'm still picking mysterious confetti out of bags and pockets. (Also, as Sarah commented, any [obviously mental-illness-induced] future desire to spend New Year's in Times Square has officially been dispatched: confetti party minus the frostbite! WIN.)

12 of 12: September

I feel like the occasional weekend 12 of 12 makes up for all those entries when it's a random Wednesday and I'm all, "Hey! Guys! Look at these pictures of my cat!" So much the better, then, that this month there's weekend travel involved: a much-planned, much-discussed sort-of-birthday-but-really-just-because trip to New York with Sarah.

As always, credit/blame for any and all 12 of 12 madness goes to Chad Darnell.


8:17 - Morning in "my" room--my cousin's old bedroom, which I adore--at my aunt and uncle's house.




11:38 - On the Metro North train to Grand Central with Sarah, watching the Bronx go by and eavesdropping on the people around us.




12:00 - The main hall of Grand Central never ceases to amaze. I love it for its green, astrology-themed ceiling and for its flippy schedule boards and for its excellent signage. Also for the time I saw a huge crowd of little girls in matching Jonas Brothers concert t-shirts corralled by the world's two most long-suffering mothers.




12:27 - Sarah (right) and I (left) met up with Lauren (middle) for lunch as part of Lauren's continuing mission to introduce me to every delicious and/or Broadway-relevant restaurant in the Theater District.




12:40 - The girls had normal food. I had comically large nachos.




2:13 - The holy grail of New York bookstores. Haul: The Final Solution, by Michael Chabon; When You Are Engulfed in Flames, by David Sedaris; a small and beautiful letterpress edition of the love poems of Pablo Neruda; and a Strand bag.




3:36 - Still there, in the half-price basement. You don't hurry through eighteen miles of books, okay?




5:06 - On a rainy day in the Village, what could be better than a window seat and some (admittedly not very chocolate-y) hot chocolate? Sarah agrees.




6:11 - I hereby declare this the best 12 of 12 ever, simply by virtue of PUPPIES! at a pet store on Christopher St.




7:34 - Back uptown for Bye Bye Birdie, still in previews. Verdict: John Stamos is unreasonably good-looking and wears suspenders very well; Gina Gershon should not be singing in public, period; Bill Irwin is not as famous as his talent indicates that he should be. In other news, I continue to think that being a Broadway chorus member must be the most fun job of all time.




11:03 - Stage door from afar, which is what happens when small talk with famous people is unappealing (Me: "BFFs or nothing!") or when you'd just rather not spoil the illusion of your favorites (Sarah: "But what if Bill Irwin isn't nice? Even if he is singing 'Happy Birthday' to that girl?").




11:50 - Seven whole grains on a mission or no (apparently their ad campaign on This American Life made an impact on me?), I do appreciate Kashi's presence in my hour of dire hunger. Thanks, Kashi!


Thanks, New York.

Finding Don

This isn't mine, but I want to help out, especially today.

From Sars:

OPERATION FIND DON

Don: A (Very Very) Brief History

Don is a man I met on September 11, 2001. Don and I became "disaster buddies," and ever since, I've wanted to thank him for hanging out with me and helping me keep it together — but I haven't seen or heard from him since we parted ways late that morning.

What Don Looks/Looked Like

Don is an African-American man. I would estimate his age at between 25 and 35 on that day — probably not younger than that; possibly older, but not much. That means he's 30-ish to 40 now.

Don is between 5'9" and 6' tall, and probably weighed 160-180 pounds. (I suck at estimating men's weights.) In any case, at that time Don had a fit build — not pudgy, not skinny, well put-together.

Don had short hair and a goatee at that time. I do not recall any jewelry; he may have worn a watch, I don't remember. No glasses.

Don had on a grey windowpane-plaid suit and was carrying a black soft-sided briefcase.

Don didn't really resemble anyone famous, except Blair Underwood around the eyes a little bit.

Other Possibly Relevant Facts

Don and I met in the lobby of the Bank of New York building, located roughly at Wall Street and Broadway. We left the bank together at approximately 11 that morning.

Don lived at that time in Jersey City, or thereabouts — he took the ferry to Jersey City to get home, from a slip somewhere around Hester Street on the west side.

Don had come into the city that morning via the PATH train, and had gotten off at the World Trade Center stop. He had come into the city for work, but I don't remember whether his business that day was actually at the WTC complex; I don't believe it was. If he had gotten separated from any work colleagues, he didn't mention it. I don't know what he did for a living, and I don't know if his job was based in Jersey City or in lower Manhattan, but I got the impression that he was in the city for an errand or meeting, and that he didn't regularly commute in.

As I said, I don't recall a wedding ring; Don did not mention a wife or any other family at that time as far as I can remember.

Don's birthday is September 11. No idea what year, but based on my estimate of his age it's probably in the late sixties or seventies.

Why You Should Care

Because it's a mystery, a puzzle, a story that needs an end. Because Don is everything good and friendly about the world. Because I owe him my thanks, and possibly a cold beer. Because it's his birthday.

What You Can Do

Do you know anyone in Jersey City, or anyone who lives or works near there? Have you heard a story like mine — secondhand, thirdhand, on someone's journal? Do you recall reading or hearing anywhere about people who ran for the Bank of New York, walked uptown a bit, and took a ferry to New Jersey? Post in the comments, or email me at sars at tomatonation dot com.

And if you are in fact Don? Well, don't just sit there. Show yourself. My mom's friend swears you were an angel and she'll keep believing that shit until I can prove otherwise.

Suggestions? Clues? Conspiracy theories? Send 'em my way. I'll add any new information as it comes in.

In short: Don. He's still out there. And he's another year older.

Update, 2009:

The latest news is that there is no news; if I hear anything, I will let you know, but I haven't heard anything…and it's starting to look like I won't. I don't think I would recognize Don if I saw him on the street, anymore; I doubt he would remember me, especially now that my hair is so different.

It's also possible that Don does not in fact want to be found, or that he's in the Yukon or something, but I've done the paid name/birthday searches and I've hoped that six degrees of separation would loop around, and I still haven't turned him up.

Thanks again to everyone who's mentioned it on sites they run or frequent, or to friends of theirs in the media, and to everyone who's sent words of support. I appreciate it. If you hear anything, or you want to mention it on your blog, please feel free — you never know.


Anybody know anything? Pass it on.

Remember me to Herald Square

This post started out as a grab-bag post about the book I'm reading (Lolita) and the website I'm starting (watch this space for details!) and how I subsist entirely on tomatoes and chickpeas in the summertime--essentially, all the reasons people hate blogs, if people do in fact hate blogs--but it turns out that I mostly wanted to talk about New York. (And anyway, my love song to chickpeas is really only posting for the sake of posting. You're disappointed, I know.)

I took myself to New York for my birthday weekend--I met up with my friend Lauren and saw my new favorite piece of absurd legally dubious feminista musical theater, 9 to 5: The Musical. This may be like the time I started to see deep philosophical meaning in 13 Going on 30, but I loved it: talented women working together and loving it, dance-y production numbers, soaring girl-power ballads, truth about women and work and friendship and love, and Dorothy Hamill haircuts, all with music and lyrics by Dolly Parton, who is really just a walking, talking lesson in talent and work and grace and really enormous everything, isn't she?

And if all of that weren't enough, I propose that if Allison Janney wore a white suit every day, men in sparkly-pinstriped suits really WOULD follow her around everywhere, singing her praises and dancing in formation, like so (...wait for it, ignore the quality, and enjoy the rest of the clips):



We also improvised a walking tour of Lauren's (former, but still adopted, and hopefully again someday) stomping grounds on the Upper West Side: a stroll through Riverside Park, a bit of shopping, the low-down on which famous people live where, a stop for ciders in one of the ubiquitous neighborhood pubs (a book from which DC could stand to borrow a page or two: ARE YOU LISTENING TO ME, DC?). We did not meet any of the fictional characters who clearly inhabit that corner of the city (Liz Lemon, meet Joe Fox!), but there was much friendly chatter and making of small memories, and that is maybe the best thing you can hope for in a city like New York.

Even if New York weren't the most fun you can legally have on the East Coast, I think I'd have to go there periodically just to eat. That city's got FOOD. Every time I go, I find something new that I can't live without: enormous buttery jammy hamantaschen, or the hot spinach-and-goat-cheese croissant-y thing at the Israeli place we ate at after the show, or the cinnamon babka I bought at Zabar's--known to non-locals as "the Upper West Side grocery store in You've Got Mail where Meg Ryan has no cash," and to everybody else simply as "heaven"--and ate all week as birthday/breakfast cake. I suspect this is why New Yorkers walk everywhere: they wouldn't be able to move if they didn't. Too much good food just lying around, waiting to work its deliciously sinister magic.

So it's finally happened: I've become one of those people with "I Heart New York" stamped on their consciousness--perhaps not enough to ever live there full-time, but enough to dream about how I could, if I wanted to. (This is probably why I don't: people who live in New York, who can claim to be New Yorkers, don't dream about it--they move.) The good news is that, even as I dream wistful dreams of Jewish bakeries and eighteen miles of books, I'll be back--this weekend, to be exact, and then at least once (possibly twice) in October, and then for Thanksgiving. I'm so glad; I wouldn't want to leave it alone yet. We're just getting to know each other.

Making stuff

I made risotto tonight. I did it partly as silent treatment on the script I'm working on (giving it a taste of its own medicine--YEAH, SCRIPT, I'M TALKING ABOUT YOU), but also because I bought zucchini at the Saturday farm stand that has apparently opened across the street from my apartment. And really, in August, when it's 90 degrees and 85 percent humidity outside and in, why wouldn't I want to stir rice on a hot stove for an hour?

I used to make risotto all the time--in the way that some people keep on hand the ingredients for, say, a quick spaghetti sauce or a grilled cheese sandwich, I decided awhile back to make sure I was always stocked up (a little risotto humor for you, there) on rice, onions, chicken stock, and white wine. It's a time-consuming staple--about an hour, start to finish--but it's versatile, one batch keeps me fed for a long time, and it comes with a pleasing sense of Making Something. It's you and the rice and some cooking music and a glass of that wine, like a little starchy kitchen party. And as a bonus, there are few greater motivations for getting through the morning than pulling a Tupperware full of cheesy ricey goodness out of the work fridge. I rarely use a recipe anymore--it's pretty standard, no matter where you look--but I used this one to confirm my quantities after my time away. Delicious.



I also pinned a sweater to the floor this weekend--at long last, I finished the February Lady Sweater, and for lack of a better place to block the lumpy-bumpies out of it, I laid it out on a few layers of towel/bath mat/carpet in the living room and pinned it into submission. All seems to be going well: it's almost dry, the inexplicable short side has lengthened out just fine, and Sherlock has done an admirable job of not batting at the pins. Vintage buttons are on their way via Etsy. Weather-wise, I won't be able to wear it for another month, at least, but all indications are that this may bypass "teachable moment/objet d'art" and go straight to "wearable garment." I call this a win.

12 of 12: August

Welcome 12 of 12: Central Oregon Edition! I'm working in Corvallis for the week, taking advantage of Tillamook ice cream and non-oppressive Northwest summer weather. In the mean time, for more 12 of 12 madness, check out Chad Darnell's blog. It was his idea.

Onward:


7:54 - Okay, I deviated from routine, a bit. I was half-dressed before I remembered the date, and may in fact be wearing makeup already. Sue me. Next month: bedhead and eye boogers, promise!




8:36 - The OSU football stadium directly across the street from my hotel.




11:20 - The fatal e-mail: Cinema Hype's parent company has gone out of business, effective immediately. Blah blah blah, writing; what is this "paying to go to the movies" of which you speak?




12:27 - Some schools have gargoyles; OSU has...beaver door handles. So, about the same on the gravitas scale?




12:34 - The student union Panda Express, where a) my beloved tofu and eggplant no longer exists, and b) the mixed veggies are not vegetarian. You just think about that for a minute.




4:40 - The Lace Ribbon Scarf in Berrocco Ultra Alpaca, ripped out and re-started on the plane due to self-compounding errors. Better now.




6:33 - Central Park. Not the one you'd think.




6:42 - Waiting for a train as I wander downtown Corvallis in search of food that is not beer.




7:11 - Victory! Adorably artsy pizza pub American Dreams, where the fresh tomatoes are not so much "cooked" as "warmed by pizza." Still good.




7:43 - I don't think there's anything I can possibly add to this. It's just that, whatever you thought about central Oregon, YOU WERE RIGHT.




8:45 - At a work event, having been thoroughly welcomed to the Uzbek portion of the evening. And I don't think "welcomed" means anything legally binding, though it seems that I'm pretty excited about it even if it is.




9:24 - And a complementary good night to you, too, Hilton Garden Inn.

Waiting

30th Street Station, Philly, la la la. Train to DC is one hour late--which is not quite long enough to take the subway downtown, have lunch/browse the used bookstores, and come back. And so I say thank you, Cosi, for your free internet while I sit on this bench and listen to the Departures board go flipflipflipflipflipflipflip.

In any case, it's too bad that my office is expecting me tomorrow; the urge to run the other way, to hop on the train to New York or maybe Boston or maybe anywhere else, is screwing heavily with my judgment. (I did, for about 37 seconds, consider a day trip to New York--arrive by noon, head home around dinner. But it's raining, and my suitcase and laptop are not going to a) carry themselves home or b) disappear temporarily.) Or I could blow it all off and stay here in Philly, which I now love for being artsy and beautiful and ugly and confident in its own awesomeness. DC feels, in comparison, like a place that does not totally believe in itself.

The good news: restlessness is, at this juncture, acceptable. I leave Tuesday for four days in Oregon and then a quick weekend trip to California. Any discontented energy can easily be absorbed by the jumping up and down going on in my soul, "work" trip or no.

Ah, well. I think I'm going to have some lunch and find a bag of Herr's potato chips. When in Pennsylvania, and all.

The birthday list

In my family, holiday wish lists are kind of a big deal. They're a ritual of sorts: twice a year--T minus one month at Christmas and birthday--you'd better know what you want, or risk pointed e-mails and/or probing phone calls and/or the traditional threat of receiving only a blow-up raft on Christmas morning. We consider it a helpful gesture (for the gifters) and an insurance policy (for the giftee), and we don't mess around with it.

As a kid, my list was really more like a wish spreadsheet: Item (purple hoop earrings), Location (Claire's or similar), Price ($9.00?), Notes (Really really really want these!!!). My brother still divides his into categories: Books, Music, Movies, Miscellaneous. My dad just calls his "Cool CDs," knowing that letting us all loose in the Classical section of Best Buy without a guide is only asking for trouble, not to mention the wrong edition of The Four Seasons for him.

August is my birthday month--meaning I'm running late already--and in a sense, this year's list is not that hard. It's not like I don't want things. I wouldn't, for example, say no to interchangeable circular knitting needles, nor would I turn up my nose at a pretty and functional enameled Dutch oven, the Nigella of the cookware world. My Etsy Favorites is full of adorable things, and I'm happy to give my username and password to anybody looking for some whimsical gift ideas.

But there's a certain point where the list stops being about cookware (I'm so old, you guys) and starts being about all the things I really want but that don't wrap well--the things that aren't things, or that are things, but my family can't provide them without spending lots of extra time in their secret science lab/villainous lair. And I wouldn't want to put that kind of burden on them, you know?

And so I present my Alternative Birthday List 2009 (What I Really Want):

Extra hours in the day
Woman of Leisure status
Functioning teleportation device
Time speeder-upper/slower-downer device
Adoring and efficient literary agent (preferably television, but open to alternatives)
Daily clothes/hair stylist (Tim Gunn or similar)
John Krasinski in hot pursuit

And, of course, World Peace.

But I still wouldn't mind the Dutch oven.

Requiem

Today we say goodbye to a pair of old friends--friends that have carried me, supported me, and made me look good in the clutch. My friends are tough and forgiving. They're never out of place. They also turn the bottoms of my feet black, which you'd think would have stopped by now.

I bought this pair of Reef skinny-strap flip-flops in May of 2001. I've worn them every day, March to November at least. They've been to Turkey, to Austria, to Croatia, to Slovenia, to Italy. They're bicoastal. They've been to Disneyland at least five times. I wear them with jeans and with shorts and with dresses and with my PJs. They get wet, they get dusty, and then they get muddy; they go through rivers and into lakes and along beaches. They have, due to some miracle and also to the strength of my toes, never been dropped off of a roller coaster and ended up on the roof of some amusement park outbuilding. They are magical flip-flops. Were I Jewish, I would consider nominating them for some kind of holiday: eight years from one year's worth of black foam! As it is, I'm thinking of having them bronzed.

Thanks for the memories, flops.

And to the new kids in town, welcome. You've got some big shoes to...

Never mind.

12 of 12: July

12 of 12! 12 of 12! 12 of 12!

For more on this photographic phenomenon (sorry about that; it's late)--origins story, more entries, etc.--see Chad Darnell's blog. Until then, here we are.



8:51 - Up.


8:52 - You know how they say pets and pet owners begin to look alike...?




9:17 - Writing in bed. I've got friends visiting this week--lazy mornings let them sleep and give me some down time. And now you know my anti-social pretending-to-be-accommodating secret.




10:52 - Big trucks, puffy clouds, and overwhelming greenery: I-95 to Baltimore.




12:50 - Camden Yards before the Baltimore-Toronto game, our third major-league game this week (following Washington-Atlanta and Philadelphia-Cincinnati).




12:53 - Meet Paul and Alison, good friends to myself and also to baseball.




3:00 - The world's largest ballpark soft-serve, slightly licked. (The day was hot; the walk from the ice cream stand was long.)


4:31 - Root root rooting for the home team. It worked. Score: Baltimore 4, Toronto 2.




7:13 - I was in this entirely for the pineapple-jalapeno salsa, but the rest of it turned out to be spectacular as well. Well done, Surfside! Your yellow rice and lime sour cream are delicious!




8:08 - Hanging out on the roof deck at Surfside, waiting for the temperature to drop. At all.




9:15 - Packing my favorite very wrinkly sundress for a quick overnight to New York, so as to see Jon Stewart tape and possibly have other adventures with the friends.




10:32 - We come full circle.

Take me out to the ball game

I've been going to a lot of baseball games lately. My college roommate, Alison, is visiting, and one of Al's life goals is to attend at least one game in every major-league park in North America (awww, Toronto!). So far, this means that I may also be attending at least one game in every major-league park in North America. We visited my "hometown" Nationals on the Fourth of July and the Phillies last Wednesday, and we're hoping to work some magic, just by virtue of our presence, at the Orioles' game today. Also, to not exacerbate the sunburn situation.

One of my favorite things about major league baseball is the seventh-inning stretch. My muscles are a fan, of course, but mostly I just like that somebody took a look at baseball and said, "You know what this sport needs? More public singing!" And what do we do? Forty-five thousand, fifty thousand, sixty thousand people stand up in an enclosed space and sing a song about baseball. Loudly. In a not-very-convenient key.

I also approve of the 00s retro-modern trend in baseball: all these old-fashioned logos and fonts and multi-million-dollar (billion-dollar?) stadiums are killing me with how cute they are. To wit: Am I a Phillies fan? Not really. Do I see myself attending more Phillies games in the future? Barring some totally unexpected life change and my very own rowhouse in the Old City, the chances don't look good. Do I want one of those adorable, girly Phillies t-shirts with the little stars over the Is? LIKE YOU WOULD NOT BELIEVE. (And any team that does not wish to inspire this kind of association should probably stop dotting their Is with tiny stars, don't you think? It makes me think the guys on the team also pass notes in class, braid each other's hair, and use the term "MFEO" a lot.)

On the other hand, I would like to offer a short PSA to baseball players and those who dress them. Are you ready? Here we go: The new(-ish) long pants in baseball are appalling. Do not wear them. So baggy! So messy-looking! So unflattering! Why look like Barry Bonds in long pants when you can look like Curtis Granderson, my Detroit Tigers baseball boyfriend, with your socks up? I will never understand the shift. Please redress.

And also I like the game. With all the hitting and catching and and throwing. For reals.

Wave of the hand

You know, say what you will about the increasingly public nature of internet culture; sometimes, all that consolidation isn't such a bad thing. Like, say, when a crash on your subway line makes the national news? One announcement on Facebook, a little wave of the hand to say everything's okay, and voila. Concerned phone calls down 90%. (Not that I mind concerned phone calls. Thanks for checking in! You know who you are.)

So, no, I was not on the red line train that crashed. All is well, for me.

Also, some day (one hopes July 2), I will use my spare time in ways that do not involve writing a script for a July 1 deadline, or thinking about the ways in which my script for the July 1 deadline is not moving as quickly as it should. Some day!

12 of 12: June

So, who has two thumbs and totally spaced on 12 of 12? This girl!

Except that--lucky you!--there are a good six hours between work and bedtime, i.e. plenty of time to carefully document...my Friday night in. You can't believe it, right? I know. It's like Bridget Jones's Diary, but only the spinsterish parts, and minus the choosing of vodka and Chaka Khan. (Or so you THINK!)




6:04 - Nothing like a good Friday-afternoon bed sprawl to celebrate the coming weekend goodness. Plus, you know. I have a theme going with the whole bed thing.




6:05 - I am, apparently, not the only one excited about this whole "coming home from work/undoing effects of uncomfortable office furniture" turn of events. I strive to be a good kitty pillow.




6:17 - My staple pizza dough, without which I would starve, all kneaded up and ready to sit. I use Deb's recipe, except that I use a full teaspoon of yeast and I'm not nearly patient enough to wait 20 minutes after punching down; the dough doesn't seem to mind much.




6:33 - Walking to Starbucks; talking bus tickets to New York for my friends' epic East Coast visit next month.




6:40 - Starbucks, the only coffee shop within walking distance and, recently, my favorite place to get out of my head apartment and write. PSA: Those new chocolate madeleines = the food of the gods, surprisingly chocolately, and v. good for inspiration (obviously).




7:50 - Much of DC is too flat and/or crowded to give good horizon, but way up here on the hill that is Northwest, there's at least an effort at a sunset. It's nice.




7:59 - Prepped ingredients for my standard pizza--sauceless, Arizmendi-style, because I can more or less handle keeping cheese, garlic, and bagged spinach in the house. Anything else is just icing, or gravy, or something else that doesn't go with pizza at all.




8:07 - Assembled. The dough went a bit heavy--something about the humidity, maybe?--but cheese and garlic cover a multitude of sins.



8:19 - Twelve minutes at 475. Perfect in a way that only perfect (well, perfect except for heavy dough) homemade pizza can be.




8:30 - If there's anything I need beside pizza from scratch, a sleepy cat, and John Hodgman on The Daily Show (segment title: "You're Welcome, America"), I don't want to think about it.




9:12 - Yes, I fold laundry to The Daily Show. Yes, this took me an episode and a half to finish. Yes, it had been sitting (clean) in the laundry basket since Monday. Stop looking at me like that.




10:11 - Spending more quality time with the script (for the Disney fellowship, if you must know); also checking out some music from Amanda's writing playlist, because sharing music makes us better writers. Or something. Maybe she's just really nice. (She is.)



So, wow. Aren't you glad you were here for the play-by-play on sauceless pizza and week-old laundry? You're welcome, America.

A funny thing happened...

I'm watching the Tony Awards, and I can't help thinking that the world would be a much better place if we did more singing and dancing. Preferably at the same time.

Watching the ceremony on TV is a victory in itself, for me. I can't remember the last time--maybe never?--that I made a mental note to watch the Tonys and then actually remembered to sit down and watch them. So, good job there, self.

For fifteen years, at least, I have thought that I would like--in a completely vague and unrealistic way--to be a professional chorus member. (Before that, I wanted to be an actor, with lines and possibly whole songs to myself, but that was before I realized that I may actually have negative stage presence, and a passable singing voice even on a good day.) I don't want a speaking part; I don't want to sing alone in front of anybody that doesn't answer to the name of Sherlock. I just want to dress up, learn complicated choreography, and belt it out with the rest of the group. And, yeah, I know: poverty and competition and years of training and endless drama of the non-staged variety. It can't be easy. But even when it isn't easy, it's got to be at least a little bit fun. They wouldn't be doing it if it weren't.

The opening number for the Tonys is a medley from all of the nominated musicals; this year's ended with "Let the Sun Shine In," first by the cast of Hair and then incorporating everybody else. It was amazing, and knowing as I do the sensation of choral singing, I know what they were thinking. They were thinking, "Dang. We sound good." Which they did, even through 300 miles and my TV set, enough to make me want to help them out with my own mad, imaginary chorus-member skillz. So I've decided to issue an invitation: Broadway, any time you would like me to join you--you know, just for the weekend--I believe I could clear my schedule. Until then, I will be over here in the corner with the Wicked soundtrack on repeat and practicing the three tap-dance steps I know (shuffle, ball-change, fuh-lap! fuh-lap!) over and over. And over. Call me!

Oh, oh, we're halfway there (maybe)

In honor of my six-month anniversary with DC, a list--in no particular order--of things I like about this city:

- Superior hot sandwiches
- Music at the 9:30 Club
- Sarah
- Thunderstorms
- The Lincoln Memorial
- The Smithsonian
- Sherlock
- Being near New York
- Blooming dogwoods
- Adventures with/stalking famous people

Unfortunately, they still can't make a burrito save their lives.

A very long post about TV

For me, this was the last week of the regulation TV season, in the sense that all of my regular shows are officially over until the fall (Mad Men and maybe Parks and Recreation, then, must be the playoffs?). The following thoughts on this week's finales (I'm skipping shows that are already done, like Chuck and Friday Night Lights) were originally written for a slightly different forum, but then I thought, hey. Some of you watch the same shows I do. Maybe you'd like to talk about them. If, you know, you like talking about TV with somebody who thinks about these things entirely too much.

Warning: All of these discussions include spoilers. Don't say I didn't warn you. See? It even says "warning."

Ready? Okay.



Lost: "The Incident"

So, it appears that I totally missed the entire plot and/or significance of this episode the first time around. This is why I need Jeff Jensen in my life: to explain everything to me.

Jack vs. Everybody Else vs. Jughead, I got. I are good with the linear storytelling.

Jacob and the Man in Black? Not so much. So let me get this straight: the Locke we've been hanging with all season...is not Locke. He's the Man in Black masquerading as Locke, as he has apparently masqueraded/manifested as others over the years, in an attempt to kill Jacob. Or, to be specific, to get somebody else to kill Jacob. See, I totally didn't catch ANY of that, and even now I'm not sure about Jacob and who he is, exactly, or what his exact nature is (or what happens when he--whatever he is--is stabbed in the chest by a cranky, deceitful non-leader), but I'm hoping that I'm not alone in that part? We're not supposed to know all of this. Correct?

Anyway.

So, holy catharsis, Sawyer! I've never been all that interested in examining the Jack/Sawyer rivalry--partly because I wasn't sure it would be kind to my former Jack/Kate fan (who, it must be said, died a sudden and unexplained death this season at the hands of my inner Sawyer/Juliet fangirl), and partly because I just didn't think it would be all that interesting--but I loved the contrast between Sawyer's sudden maturity and Jack's total lack of growth since...well, maybe ever, but certainly since he got off the island. All packaged as a good beating, of course. Also, Jack claiming that he came back because of Kate rings false to me, which may be because it IS false, or because it's mushy storytelling (file it along with "Kate loves Aaron!," which I also never bought). Hard to say at this point.

I also thought Juliet's break-up with Sawyer was weak, but that really WAS on purpose, apparently, so...fine. I'm bummed but not surprised by Juliet's death--I figured that, with all the effort they put into making us love her and Sawyer together, one of them had to go, and it sure wasn't going to be him. And he just loved her so much, and all that crying and shouting...man. That was SAD. I think I'm going to miss you and your unreadability, Elizabeth Mitchell, which is progress for us. (But I hear you're in the V TV show, along with Alan Tudyk and Morena Baccarin and some other folks, so good on you.)

And then, of course, the screen goes white, and we just don't know. Rebooted? What does this mean for next January (ack, JANUARY)? Jensen points out that Lost has a symmetrical structure: seasons three and four mirror each other; so do seasons two and five; therefore, season six should match up nicely with season one--which means...flashbacks? A relatively closed storyline? I also very much like one of Jensen's predictions for the final season (basically, everybody's rebooted back to the moment at which Jacob touched them--because he DID touch each of them, physically, in the flashbacks--but with their current consciousness, so that they have the option of changing the future), though it leaves quite a few things unaddressed (Hurley will have already crashed on the island; what about Desmond and Penny?; what about Charles and Ellie?; did Daniel's research serve any purpose for us beside informing the constant vs. variable question?). I don't even know. But I loved this season--I love the Dharmas!--and I'll be ready to come back for the final stretch.



Bones: "The End in the Beginning"

Okay, just to start out: if you have rage over the ending of this episode, I know. I KNOW. It was a cop-out. It was an abuse of an important moment. This should have been a mid-season episode. I get it.

But: I loved it, at least the first 40 minutes or so, and I'm not totally sure I have much of a problem with the last two, either. Does anybody truly think that we're going to spend all of season five with Amnesiac!Booth? First of all: We're not. I'm going with Glenna when I say, two episodes, tops. Second of all: This is Bones! After hiatus, will they even remember that they gave the guy amnesia? I'm calling odds of 50/50.

I think that, in a lot of ways, this was the Bonesiest episode of Bones ever. It was a lot of them doing what they do best: wacky ensemble crime-solving comedy, supplemented by, I believe, surprisingly astute meta on the individuals and dynamics of the Bones universe. The things it didn't do well--say, failing to embrace a key moment in the Booth/Brennan relationship in favor of a lame soap-opera-style plot twist--well, they were pure (Bones showrunner) Hart Hanson, too. Did it make a ton of sense (seriously: nightclub owners)? It did not. Was it pure crack? Only of the whitest, rockiest variety. But, again: Bones. Nonsensical is how they roll. (Which is not to say that we shouldn't have high expectations for our shows, or that showrunners shouldn't be accountable for crappy things they pull; heaven knows I support the smartifying of TV. But, really, we watch this show every week. We know how it is.)

(Also, I would like to point out the history of Bones's season finales, which is to say that season one's "The Woman in Limbo" is really the only truly non-infuriating one. "The Stargazer in a Puddle," from season two is the lamest finale EVER, in my opinion, and last season's "The Pain in the Heart"...well, I actually love it, but we all know how it ends. I'm just saying.)

As far as the Booth/Bones relationship goes, the line that most stuck out for me in this episode wasn't even about Booth, but I think it sums up what they were trying to do: I think the key here is when Alternate Brennan says to Alternate Booth that their nightclub staff is lying to the police because they (the staff/squints) love them (Mr. and Mrs. B)--this is a summing-up of the lab dynamic that has, I think, never occurred to the real Brennan, though that doesn't make it less true. This season has been about Brennan considering love and its place in her life, and I think this episode--this whole novelization of her fake life--is her working out what it would mean for her to love and be loved unconditionally. So it's hyperstylized, and she's different, and it glosses over the many issues we know Brennan has over the idea of entanglement with other people--it's a thought experiment, I think, even more than a straight-up fantasy. And at the end, she's made her conclusion (though she erases the document, which is interesting). And yeah, amnesia; dumb move, etc. But the amnesia doesn't change her decision, or who she is, and so I don't know that it's such a huge setback. In short, if Brennan is indeed the struggler, as pointed out by Gordon Gordon Wyatt a few weeks back, the struggle is over.

(Incidentally, I know at least one person who thinks the love scene at the beginning is, in fact, real--that it's the future of Booth and Brennan, and that we'll see it again in the relatively near future. She has circumstantial evidence--the episode title, for one, but also a few details of the way that scene is filmed and narrated--but...I don't know. Food for thought.)

A few thoughts on the alternate universe itself:

- I buy Married Booth and Brennan, mostly. I thought their chemistry was spot-on: different than crush-y Booth/Brennan, but appropriate for who they might be if they shared a life 100% (as they did here--I loved the implicit trust between them). On the other hand, I'm not sure about the implication of who Alternate Brennan is--can Brennan only be happy, as Alternate Brennan is happy, if she's able to connect with people naturally? I do think that Brennan is capable of sharing her life with Booth, and of opening up to him in the way that a long-term relationship requires, but I'm not sure Alternate Brennan's generalized ease with people worked--unless it was Brennan's idea of who she would become, were she surrounded by people who love and get her. And, you know what, now I'm not even making sense anymore.

- So, somebody must be paying at least a modicum of attention, to get all of those supporting characters together at once. I didn't even catch that Clark's brother, the gang-banger was Angela's ex.

- Subpoint: CLARK! I love him. SO MUCH. Also, he's so cute.

- OH WENDELL. I laughed out loud (LOLed, as I believe the kids call it) when he wouldn't talk to the police. At all. I love that guy.

- I think that if I watched this season chronologically, Booth's relationship with Jared would make more sense. As it is, I have a hard time seeing it as an arc.

- That yellow pencil skirt on Brennan? KILLER. Also, I often object to Brennan's dress-up clothes, but I thought she looked fantastic in her black-with-green-accessories get-up. Cute, cute.

- Is it possible for John Francis Daley (Sweets) to be any more awesome, or to be more graceful about the ridiculous things they make him do on this show? I do not think it is. Also, nice voice, dude. (He really is like twelve, though. Or, maybe, 24. For boys, same thing.)

- Hee, Hodgins is a drunk pulp novelist with a fake Irish accent. OBVIOUSLY. That was awesome.

Okay. Until September, Bones.



The Office: "Company Picnic"

OH. OH. That was so good. I have permanent warm fuzzies on account of this episode.

(...which is probably not a good thing. My main complaint about this season is the loss of their grasp of the tiny heartbreaks of being human--I think the humor has suffered mainly because the little human dramas have suffered. But I'm going to forget that for now and just say !!!!)

Holly Flax, I love you, and I love what you do to Michael Scott, and I love who you are together. And I love it when you rap. And when you do impressions together and crack each other up. And when you are gently sad about each other, but also happy to see each other, and when you make Michael say awesome things like how he thinks you two have a long story (even though you are designing a house with your [very cute] boyfriend in New Hampshire). Holly Flax, please come back, someday, a long time from now, and finish that long story.

And then...well. Jim wore a baseball cap, and scooped Pam up like she weighs twelve pounds (which, of course, she probably does), and then he smiled and hugged and smiled and hugged some more, because: BABY! When the nurse said to Pam, "and there's no chance you could be pregnant?" I was all, "...did they just show us the gun AND have it go off, all in the same act? Sneaky!"

I think that, if any show on the entire planet can make a baby plot work, it's The Office. Also, this means Jim and Pam are sort of going to have a shotgun wedding, in the least shotgunny way possible, and they don't even need to write what Michael's going to say about it, because it's already happening in my head. Also, they were so, so happy, and that makes ME happy.

So: silence. We have not had this kind of silence since "Booze Cruise," back in season two, and it was brilliant, both between Holly and Michael and between Jim and Pam. Well played, Jennifer Celotta and Paul Lieberstein. Silence is hard, and I like you for using it so beautifully.

Um, where was Kelly? OH RIGHT. Off signing her seven-figure development deal with NBC, so that she can take over the world. Mindy, I have these really cute business cards now. Can I please send you one? They have typewriters on them, and they are, in fact, a Thing I've Bought That I Love.

I do not know what to do with the loveliness of this episode, except maybe watch it a lot over the summer.



So that's it. What did you all think?

12 of 12: May

Ah, it's that time of the month...so to speak. Twelve pictures. For news, notes, and origins on 12 of 12, see the master, Chad Darnell.

Otherwise...



6:50 - Up, having followed my new resolution and gone to bed at a reasonable hour. Operation: Not Exhausted All The Time seems to be a go?




7:29 - True story: I recently ditched my eyeliner and blush for a day and went for the patented Rory Gilmore "a little mascara and a touch of Coppertone" look; no fewer than three people asked me if I felt okay. Viva la Sonia Kashuk for Target!




7:40 - I would like to shake the hand of the person who installed full mirrors in my lobby, ostensibly for the purpose of pre-bus last looks. Thanks, person!




7:48 - On the N4. Note to self: Please don't ever have to use these levers. If the window is pointing up, that's probably not great.




8:05 - My favorite Metro ad. Very Animal Planet of them, with the added benefit of actual shoes chewed by the escalators. I love how they're going for the scientific approach...or something.



9:20 - Books I'm considering for an anthology, and must read to determine levels of appropriateness. Working for the government is hard, you guys.




12:57 - Homemade spinach-garlic pizza, apple, generic Honey Nut Cheerios.



1:36 - You know, it's no Lincoln Memorial, but I really like the Capitol. And I really like being able to visit the Capitol on my lunch break.




6:03 - Walking home from the bus through my pretty, leafy neighborhood.




6:40 - At the Wisconsin Ave. Starbucks to get out of the house and work on my spec script for the Disney fellowship. Hazy-but-emerging A plot? Check. Equally hazy but opportunity-laden B plot? Double check. C plot? Um. About that.




9:50 - Meet Sherlock. He is both shy and modest, as you can see.




10:12 - Heaven! (I have low standards.)

Catch you all next month, if not before.

Ha, Universe. HA.

So, apparently emo-ing publicly and at length about writing (or the lack thereof) is enough to get the universe to take notice. In the sense that, in the face of my moaning and fist-shaking, the universe is all, "Fine! You wanna write? LET'S WRITE." And then gives me extra homework. Yay?

Aside from the things I've figured out about the pilot I'm writing, I also discovered--in clicking around for yesterday's post--that it's now open season on the Disney fellowship. Final deadline: July 1. Existing shows only; no original pilots allowed. This means two, two, two scripts at once!

My mission for this weekend, should I choose to accept it: pick a show to spec, and get on it. This could mean Friday Night Lights (but is it too old, and do I have anything to add?) or Mad Men (terrifying to even attempt) or possibly Chuck (which may or may not play to my strengths); it could also mean catching up on something else really fast--Fringe? Do we have a decision on a second season of Dollhouse? What about something more obscure? Time for a hot date with Hulu, I think.

So this is...exciting? A scary busy time crunch (says the girl who wrote last year's submission in six days), but a good scary busy time crunch, I think. After all, there's nothing like a deadline to light a fire under me, and I'm hoping that my two projects will ultimately make each other better--that writing an existing show will loosen me up for the pilot, and that the experience of creating the pilot will make me better at the existing show. Also, I should be more careful where and to whom I grump about my writing woes (thanks for that, by the way--truly, the only person who is less excited about my writers' block than you is...me). Heh.

Why I Write

It has been, if you couldn't tell, a rough couple of weeks for me and writing. If you ever wonder why writers are, on the whole, superstitious about the writing headspace--"mood" isn't right; it really is more like a place--this is why: without devaluing the (hugely important) plowing-through that happens on any long writing project, inspiration is not to be trifled with. Inspiration is moody. It likes to be catered to. It likes routine, except when it prefers spontaneity. You get to know its patterns, and if you do what it wants, it'll make it worth your while.

The spirit comes...and it goes.

Recently, for me, it went.

The logistics are hazy--busy, out of town, blah blah blah etc.--but suddenly, I had a holey outline and a bunch of characters that I couldn't quite hear anymore. The deadline for Scriptapalooza came and went, and although I did submit a script--the 30 Rock spec I wrote for the Disney Fellowship last year, which is still eligible, if not exactly new news--the pilot I had hoped to submit hadn't seen the light of day. It still hasn't. It won't for a while yet. I've tried to be nice to myself about it, to wait it out, to fill up on other people's writers'-block stories. I've scheduled myself time to write, and shown up (and then packed it in early and played around on iTunes instead). There's something to be said for routine, but everybody knows that torture is bad.

And then, today, the whole thing came flooding back, half-new.

I've said it before, and I'm sure I'll say it again: as long as I live, I don't think I'll ever understand how this works. I don't want to understand. It happens when I'm doing laundry, or when I'm crossing the street, or when I'm doing the dishes: I don't know and then I know. Today in a meeting at work, my new colleague told a little story about herself as a child, and there it was--this new character, born twelve years old and mostly whole, who singlehandedly changes the entire tone of what I'm writing. Two possible pilots will, I think, now combine, because one was funny and one was dramatic, and life is like that. It's going to be much more fun (to write and to read) than what I've been hacking away at, and maybe that's the secret. Maybe I lost the fun in my story: a tragedy in every way. I still don't know exactly what's going to happen--some of what I've got will need to be reworked anyway, to make room for what's coming--but the smell of smoking brains seems to be gone. It's the best feeling ever.

Spring, DC

Two lists

Things I Have Not Done Lately:

- Written in this blog (obviously)
- Written anything else to speak of (alarmingly)
- Knitted
- Watched TV except for Chuck and Bones, neither of which will be denied
- Gone to bed on time
- Cleaned the bathroom or the floors

Things I Have Done Instead:

- I have no idea. Seriously. Wherefore art thou, April?
- Gone with church community group to Georgetown retirement home for hilarious conversation-and-singalong time, wherein musical age gap is revealed. All present can sing chorus and first verse of "America the Beautiful," and that's all.
- Attended and enjoyed This American Life Live ("live" in the sense of "at the same time at different theaters"); finally admitted vague crush on Ira Glass. (Ironically, Live re-runs at theaters nationwide on May 7. You should go.)
- Designed and built a website.
- Became hooked on easy and delicious Asian noodle salad; set personal record of finishing package of tofu in two days.
- Got head/chest cold; stopped running; felt like blob; ran anyway
- Replaced The New Pornographers' "The Laws Have Changed" with Bon Iver's "Skinny Love" at the top of iTunes most-played list.

That is all.

12 of 12: April

Extra double bonus points for the twelfth falling not only on a weekend, but on a major religious holiday (...that I celebrate)! This is so much better than eight pictures of my desk, three of my meals, and one (invariably) of me watching Jon Stewart. I hope you agree. Also, I'm out of my photographic element, visiting family in Armonk, NY for the weekend.

For more 12 of 12 info and/or madness, check out Chad Darnell's blog.



7:55 - Happy Easter! He is risen! I, however, am not. Yet.




8:23 - The guest room (slash my cousin's old bedroom) at my aunt and uncle's house. I love staying here.




8:39 - Ready for church. Neither snow nor sleet nor 40-degree weather will keep me from wearing my new sundress, sans nylons, this morning. Little did you know that my feet have mysteriously disappeared.




8:56 - On the road to church with my aunt.




9:02 - Easter lilies. I've always liked how lilies are kind of a messy flower--their pollen gets everywhere.




11:15 - You will know the Presbyterians by the mostly-empty trays of goodies they leave in their wake. (Totally a good reason to go Presbyterian, by the way.)




11:30 - The upside to having church in a gym: after-service hockey! Pots of Easter flowers make excellent goalposts, as any church kid will tell you.




12:03 - It is a truth universally acknowledged that it must be freezing on Easter, but at least we got plenty of sunshine. (Note the complete lack of leaves on the tree, though. Spring is still half asleep up here.)




3:36 - Easter lunch detritus in the kitchen.




4:28 - Checking in on various Easters back home, and wondering whether they'd wait for me if I ran to the airport now. Triple-timing, bicoastal Easter would be awesome, don't you think? Oh, to have spring break again.




6:00 - My portable knitting, the Lace Ribbon Scarf. We're making up slowly after I made a mistake a tiny yarny fight. I may have been giving it the cold shoulder, a bit.




6:42 - After a major holiday, we do just what every red-blooded American family would: sit around with our leftover hors d'oeuvres and our BBC costume dramas and our yarn (well, that part's just me). Doesn't everybody?



Happy (day after) Easter, all. See you May 12 if not before.

Death and...

I think that I need to clarify something for the U.S. government.

I don't mind taxes, in the grand Swedish pseudo-socialist universal-health-care sense. I think the government should provide services to its citizens, not for the 90% of us who are perfectly able to put roofs over our heads and medicine in our medicine cabinets, but for those of us who aren't able to do those things. I have enough, and even if the government isn't the most efficient machine for distributing the money, I don't mind sharing.

But when I say that I don't mind taxes, I do not mean that I don't mind DOING my taxes. That, I mind deeply. I spent all week calling financial institutions and collecting paperwork and checking form numbers and parsing through the exact wording of the tax form. I got them filed, but in response, I'd like to say: Shut up, IRS.

And I'll see you again next April.

I want to go to there

Well, I had a good weekend. I went here.



The sister of a family friend lives on the York River--right on the York River, as you can see--and when she heard I was a writer, she called me up and offered me the use of her family's guest house as a writer's retreat. Wonderful! Sometimes people are just too nice to be believed.

It was a fabulous way to spend a day and a half away--I had the guest house to myself, but an open invitation to hang out with my hosts. I only stayed overnight, but together, we hiked around and played with my hosts' little great-niece and watched the sunset and messed around with the telescope, and then I got up this morning and watched the jellyfish (big red ones!) off the dock while I ate my breakfast.

I even got some writing done in between the wide-eyed exploring, if you can believe it. Laying the groundwork for the pilot I'm writing is proving really hard--I thought I'd be way into the dialogue by now, but I'm still pushing through what happens and when--but I got Acts I, II, and V plotted out over the weekend. It was good to have a place to sit down with this story in a place where my life isn't staring me in the face. I'm so grateful for the time and space, and you can bet I'll be taking them up on their invitation to come back--if I don't tell them and none of you tell them, do you think they'd notice if I slowly moved my entire apartment into the cottage? Shhhhh.

Observations

There was a nun on the bus this morning, in a full habit and everything. She was young. People kept talking to her. I bet she gets that a lot.

I have been lurking around Etsy in search of business cards--because I keep scrawling my information on the backs of receipts and handing them out, and also because handmade paper products are like catnip--and instead I keep running across "mommy cards." Mom's name, "Mom of _____" (ugh), contact info, kid's allergies/fears. Is this a thing now?

Right now, everybody should be watching Chuck and Friday Night Lights. Chuck (Mondays, 8 p.m., NBC) because it is forty-two minutes of spy-hijink hilarity, and because it continues to get better and better every week; Friday Night Lights (Fridays, 9 p.m., NBC) because it is just perfect, all the time, and because you will fall in love with every single resident of Dillon, TX, even the ones that aren't very nice. You can totally catch up on both of these shows before they end for the season; the entire series of FNL is even streamable (legally!) on Hulu, which means you are officially out of excuses.

Also, last week's episode of 30 Rock was a small miracle.

I am thinking about making a professional website for myself--something to put on the cards, with links to my various web presences--but I'm pretty sure I don't really know what that means.

The National Cathedral is the new Lake Merritt: I try to run around the grounds and gardens three days a week, and have scoped out a variety of benches and shady places to stretch out with a book once it's warm enough. I recently went inside for the first time, and learned that they have evensong every day at 5:30. I'm never home from work by then, but if I hurry and then get off the bus one stop early, I think I could catch the second half.

"Orientated" is not a word. "Oriented" is a word. World, please learn this.

Tragedy strikes!

I am so sad, you guys. One of my favorite places in Oakland--one of my favorite places in the whole world--closes on Sunday, and I won't even be there to say goodbye.

I first went to the Parkway Theater before I even lived in Oakland, and I think it was part of why I decided to move there later: any town where the theaters have ergonomic Ikea armchairs and serve food and wine and show old movies on the weekends must be close to heaven, I thought. I later moved just up the street, and went there all the time--with friends, for the late show, or by myself in the afternoon, or sometimes with my crew teammates on a stormy evening. My friend Helen described the Parkway as one of her first friends in California, and I knew just what she meant.

I'd always see people I knew at the Parkway, even before I knew a lot of people in the neighborhood. It was that kind of place. They showed second-run and almost-second-run movies, plus The Rocky Horror Picture Show every weekend night at midnight, and then they had this whole other schedule of events: benefits for local charities and Fright Night double features and weird film festivals and an ongoing series called African Diaspora Cinema. They made their own preview reels, with two of the owners sitting on the couch, talking trash and occasionally including lists of upcoming events. The owners knew everybody.

Also, the nachos were really good.

A few years back, the Parkway's owners opened a second (dare I say nicer?) theater called the Cerrito (conveniently located in El Cerrito, off the Central Ave. exit!); it appears that one's staying open, which is something. A lot of the Parkway traditions will likely migrate up there. But my old neighborhood--by the lake, just where pretty, safe Glenwood starts to unravel into International Blvd. and all that's implied therein--will miss that place. Huge, empty Art Deco theater space aside, the Parkway was an anchor of the community, a gathering place. Now they'll have to go across the street for 24-hour chicken and waffles at Merritt Bakery, or try to cram into the coffee shop that's never open, or maybe we'll hear about a major upsurge in business at the ancient family-owned Mexican restaurant in the next block. But it won't be the same. Those places don't even have raffles!

So, goodbye, Parkway. I loved you well, and I hope to see your spirit somewhere else, someday.

12 of 12: March

Welcome to 12 of 12; for more 12-ish hijinks or more information, see Chad Darnell's blog.

On with the show:


6:50 - Up. In the dark. Ugh.




7:04 - Sherlock = Jimmy Stewart in Rear Window.




7:41 - Not running for the bus, which is always a good sign.




10:30 - I worry that I'm getting into Rachael Ray territory when I say that homemade waffles reheat perfectly in the toaster. Before you know it, I'll be washing and cutting up my veggies right when I buy them, and then coating them in some EVOO and whipping up some sammies. Oy. (They do, though. Toast well, I mean.)



11:17 - Entering (my own) edits on a book of American idioms, while also re-writing the depressing and/or tawdry sentences included by the author.




5:15 - What is this "spring" of which you speak?




5:40 - Riding the escalator out of Dupont Circle metro. The quotation inscribed on the wall is (apparently) from the Walt Whitman poem "The Wound Dresser": "Thus in silence in dreams' projections....Some suffer so much, I recall the experience sweet and sad,..."




6:37 - Out for a run at the National Cathedral.




6:39 - The gate to the gardens at the cathedral, which I hereby adopt as my extended backyard, for all of my running, walking, basking, contemplating, nature-admiring, and reading needs.




7:40 - Chickpea and pasta soup, my current simple dinner of choice. The key here, as with basically everything else in life, is extra olive oil and double the garlic.




8:05 - Happy times: Hot soup, cuddly cat, Jon Stewart on my TV.




8:47 - Writing about 80's live-action Disney movies for Cinema Hype. I love me some Dwayne "The Rock" Johnson--who doesn't?--but Race to Witch Mountain, I cannot support.

See you next month.

I love it when this happens

Part of my script just opened up. I was at work, entering edits and listening to Dark Was the Night, not really thinking about writing very much at all, and it spoke to me.

"Start with death," it said. "And a potluck."

UM, OBVIOUSLY.

Getting started

It's (pretending to be) spring here--I just walked to the store in flip-flops and I still have all my toes--and so I guess it's sort of right that I'm starting things all over the place.

I'm writing a lot these days, and by "writing" I mean "staring into space with occasional frenzied bursts of typing." I'm working on an original television pilot--original pilots being what get young writers in the door these days, plus the story just had to come out--and coming up with a new TV show is, wouldn't you just know, a tremendous amount of work in terms of creating a universe and then paring down and parsing out what fits into a 42-minute episode. This project is the kind of thing that makes writers write, and also the kind that stops them from writing: the world of my show just comes to me, floods into my brain at the most inopportune times (at work, at the grocery store, anytime actual typing is not possible), and then just looks at me, all coy, when I sit down to wrangle it into five acts and three storylines. "Don't you just want to tell me all at once?" it says, and I do. I love it, and I believe in it, and I can't wait to see it all grown up and heading out into the world. It could give me a little help in this all-important outlining phase, but hey. We're not going to talk about that. It'll come.

So in the midst of my writerly highs and lows, it's a good thing I decided to do something really straightforward, right? Riiiiiight. This purplish thing is my fetal Lace Ribbon Scarf, which is really just a jumble of stitches on US-4 needles. All knitting projects start this way, like working blind, with the future hope of something pretty and springy to wear while I wait for the bus (...which will likely be finished just in time for, say, Halloween, but purple alpaca is timeless and seasonless, right?). But it's like the script: you just have to keep going, believe that the pattern's going to be there (the difference being that somebody else made up the scarf design; I have to make up the script). But, you know. I'm glad I picked that activity to break up the uncertainty of writing.

Welcome to March. Time to make something, don't you think?

Good news!

...my wireless signal reaches to the roof deck!

What Was That?

So, when it comes to music, I'm a lyrics girl. I mean, obviously, there has to be a beat and some kind of melody, and all that; I'm not really up for grooving to spoken-word on the bus, or whatever. But I've never gotten people who say they don't listen to, or never learn, the words of the music they listen to. The lyrics may not come first, but sooner or later...right?

But sometimes, I have to say, the lyrics ruin it all--I was listening to a song the other day, and it's a song of which I've recently become quite fond. It's cute, and funny, and it plays like a sweet little romantic comedy in my head. And then I heard this one line clearly for the first time and was all, "Wait, what did you just say? See, now, you are not nearly as cute as you were ten seconds ago."

(Notice that I'm not telling you which song by which band, so as to not spoil your own enjoyment. I am nice.)

This may happen to me a lot because I listen to a lot of bands fronted by mumbly boys, so that actually learning the words is a kind of continual journey of discovery. Apparently, bad diction covers a multitude of sins; this is, I guess, why we have "Inna Gadda da Vida" and "Louie, Louie." And maybe it's for the best--for all I know, all the cute boppy indie bands I like are singing about kicking puppies and stealing candy from small children, and all I can think is, "Awww, he really loves his girlfriend!"

Go back to your mumbling, boys.

Weekend in

I spent most of this weekend at home. I mean, I did go out--I saw The Reader with a friend; I went for a run; I grocery shopped; I went to church--but mostly I've been indulging my inner homebody and hanging out with the cat. (Don't worry: Glenna visited last weekend to make me get out. Proof here and here!) Let's just say there's something to be said for the joys of a little at-home time, as follows:



This is not a cooking blog. I'm an avid consumer of other people's writing about food (Orangette and Smitten Kitchen keep me in recipes), but...trust me. From a girl who eats either sausage/onion/apple stir-fry or boiled kale as weekly standbys, you don't really need to know what I'm eating all the time.

But then there's this recipe, one I've been using forever, one which never lets me down. This is the kind of recipe you could make when, say, the entire population of a small country is coming to your home, or when you simply own more Tupperware than any normal human should. It's a little time-consuming--brown rice! From scratch!--but it's worth it, especially if you want to have lunch taken care of for the next two weeks, at least.

Curried Brown Rice with Chicken and Apples

1 TBS oil
2 lb. chicken, chopped
3 medium granny smith apples, chopped
2 onions, chopped
6 cloves garlic, minced
2 TBS curry powder
1 1/2 tsp cumin
1/2 c raisins
5 c chicken broth
2 c brown rice
salt and pepper

In a large (no, really, LARGE) pan, heat oil. Salt and pepper chicken, and brown in oil. Remove from pan. Add apples, onions, garlic, curry, and cumin; saute five minutes. Add broth and raisins. Bring to a boil; add rice and chicken. Cover, reduce heat, and simmer until rice is tender, about 60 minutes.

Eat. FOREVER.




I started a new sweater, the February Lady Sweater, a couple of weeks ago, but I've been cruising through it this weekend with the help of Friday Night Lights, Dollhouse, season four of Doctor Who, and (and now for something completely different) Harvey. It turns out that this kind of bulky lace is really fun to knit, and zooms past--all those holes! I despair of the time when it will actually be warm enough to wear this, but others have assured me that the day will, in fact, come.

The victory here is that the in-progress version actually fits; this whole "trying things on" concept is the joy of the top-down sweater. I am not sure that my spatial brain really gets how top-down raglan sweaters work (starting with a single row and ending up with the three-dimensional shoulders of a sweater is clearly magic and has no basis in rational geometry), but I am all for it.

So...there's that. Health food and handknits.

And, in conclusion, a gratuitous shot of the cat:



He has no shame. Ah, well.

Why didn't I think of that?

Things Dove Chocolate thinks I should do or know about love, gathered from the wrappers in one bag of milk chocolate hearts:

- Believe in those I love
- Celebrate family and friends
- Be a little mysterious
- Sleep under the stars tonight
- Listen with my heart
- A gentle touch speaks volumes
- Hold hands firmly, hearts gently
- Discover how much my heart can hold
- Remember my first crush
- Laugh until my heart overflows
- Share a sunset

And one thing I can't really dispute:

- Chocolate. Always my valentine.

Happy St. Valentine's Day to all. (See how I appreciated you just there? This TOTALLY WORKS.)

12 of 12: February

February 12 of 12, wherein I post 12 pictures of my February 12, and lots of other people do the same. For more, see Chad Darnell's blog--it's his baby.

On with the photos!


6:51 - How I feel waking up in the morning when I know I'm off to work.




6:53 - How Sherlock feels waking up in the morning when he knows he's going back to sleep for 18 hours.



7:07 - Taking a minute with Hebrews and my trusty cinnamon-spice oatmeal. Sherlock supervises.




7:48 - I never get tired of the National Cathedral. It's always there, and it never gets any smaller, and that is amazing to me.




7:50 - A sunny morning on the N4. I like my bus commute.




12:15 - Yes, my cup of chocolate pudding is basically bigger than my cup of soup, which is...the proper order of the universe, right?




1:05 - Who has two thumbs, speaks limited French, and hasn't been rained on, snowed on, or frozen to the core once this week? (This girl!)




6:08 - Walking home from the bus in the last moments of daylight.




7:00 - Sherlock takes out the pink feather monster, which is probably very satisfying but also leaves him picking pink fuzz out of his teeth for like a week.




7:19 - Staring blankly at my Confessions of a Shopaholic review for Cinemahype.com.




7:45 - Assembling leftovers of my favorite winter dinner. It's a good thing this stuff's healthy, because I eat it constantly on account of its being totally delicious.




7:55 - For an upcoming writing project, I'm collecting all the jerk things Alex Trebek says to his Jeopardy! contestants. Part of me thinks the Trebek thing's been covered by SNL; the rest of me thinks his supply of smarmy condescension is simply endless. Oy, Trebek. OY.


That's it; thanks for stopping in. Next month: same bat time, same bat channel!

Today on This American Life...

No, I haven't been kidnapped, taken to the Caribbean, and used as bait at a shark-themed amusement park. I haven't run away with the circus as the world's least flexible contortionist. I haven't disappeared from Rock Creek Park, assumed a secret identity, or joined a cult.

I've just been busy. Busy and boring: the supervillains of the blogging world. Did you really want to hear about how my new faux-Aveeno CVS-brand hand lotion smells oaty and yet kind of like barbecued snack foods? Or how I've decided that my true love is a Roomba (Happy Valentine's Day to you, too)? I didn't think so. Also, I've been struggling over my next What I'm Watching post for an embarrassing amount of time. You can blame that, if you want to.

I did go to Borders last night to hear Ira Glass speak. If you're not hip to Ira--and I do mean hip; the audience at this thing was hilarious--you clearly aren't listening to enough public radio. He's the host of This American Life on NPR: a reporter, a storyteller, and a hero to radio fiends with nerdy glasses everywhere.**

The strangest thing was hearing Ira and seeing him at the same time. You have to understand: I spend a lot of time with this guy's voice. I listen to his show all the time--at work, on my commute, in airports, in the car, sometimes when I'm cooking. It's a distinctive voice, a reedy voice, and not really what you'd expect to hear on professional radio in the first place, but it sort of sinks into your consciousness after awhile. And so there I was last night, and the man on the dais opened his mouth, and he sounded just like Ira Glass! I felt like he was lip-synching, and like I should shut my eyes.

It was great, though. This American Life is first and foremost a radio show, but Ira was there to promote the second season of the their recent foray into TV (also called This American Life). He talked about radio and television, and his genuine surprise at the usefulness of visual storytelling. He took questions and told crazy stories--his forte and his livelihood, after all--about the making of the show(s) and about the relationships he forms with his interviewees and about what it's like to look like Rachel Maddow and be a guy. The best thing was his obvious passion for what he’s doing; he clearly loves the stories and the people of This American Life, which is awesome, because I do, too. He was nice, and funny, and I like him even better now than I did before.

I am charmed.

I think I'll go listen to the radio now.





**If you're not familiar with This American Life, let me introduce you to its glory. TAL is an hour-long weekly radio show on NPR (find your local station here), and it tells stories about people. That's it. Crazy stories, funny stories, sad stories, everything stories. Each episode has a theme, and a varying number of stories on that theme--sometimes it's just one long story, if it's a really good one; usually they're in the range of three or four, though one episode is called "Twenty Acts in Sixty Minutes," for obvious reasons. If you've never heard TAL, check it out: you can download it for free on iTunes, stream it for free from the TAL website, or try to find it on the radio. AND! The most recent podcast (the podcast version runs a week behind the live version) is a rerun of one of my all-time favorite episodes, "The Ghost of Bobby Dunbar," which is one of those stories I will never forget. One warning: if you do listen, you may become one of those people who starts every other sentence with, "I was listening to NPR the other day, and..." but it'll be worth every pretentious second.

Are you ready for some football (and social wrangling)?

I went to a Superbowl party last night.

It's funny, when you're far from home, the things that make you realize that you're alone--I didn't care so much about about the Superbowl itself, and have skipped it altogether in years past, but it was the principle of the thing. I didn't have anybody to watch it with, if I wanted to. Which is how I ended up in my ("my" in the sense that I have been there three times now) church basement at 6:00 Sunday night, surrounded by strangers and snack foods.

I think I'm glad I went--I met some people around my age, and a couple of the girls invited me to their Sunday night "alternative" service and to their Monday-night dinner group in Arlington. And there's something to be said for just going, for getting out of the house and making an effort, just to say I did. But man--there is also something about walking into a room and not knowing a single person, and having to make something of it or just stand there and be awkward, that is horrifying. I'd forgotten what that's like, and if I'd given it any thought beforehand, I frankly might not have gone. Which, of course, is totally the wrong tack to take--it's painful, but it's necessary if I want to get a handle on my life here and actually meet some people (so as to avoid this same situation in future). I am pleased with myself for going. I also left during at the beginning of the fourth quarter to go home and recover from the sheer social exhaustion I'd brought on myself (...and to watch The Office; who am I kidding?).

It'll get easier soon. Right? Right.

This is totally going to become a cat blog

Sherlock says,



WAZZAAAAAAAAAAP!

It's only 2001 in kitty years.

Let it be told to the future world that in the depth of winter

So, my motto lately has been, "Sometimes I just don't understand my life." I mean it in a good way--in the best way. I don't understand how I got to be in Washington for this moment in history, but it is (so far) full of surprises and sightings and moments where I just have to laugh at being in the right place at the right time, and that is exactly what I wanted--exactly what I needed?--from this move. I don't even know this city yet, but I am completely excited to be here.

Today was, simultaneously, utterly chaotic and remarkably smooth. My friend Grace and her friend Guy have been crashing in my living room this weekend, and we were up and stepping all over each other for the bathroom before the dawnzerly light (Ramona Quimby? Anybody?) even showed its face. We left the house at 7:00 and hopped on the bus (this after extensive Plan-B/Plan-C/Plan-D-ing, in case my peaceful corner bus stop suddenly turned crazy) and zipped down to Foggy Bottom, where Guy headed for the Metro--he had a standing ticket to the ceremony--and Grace and I followed the throngs towards the Mall. (Incidentally, I kept thinking of that scene in Groundhog Day, where Bill Murray asks some nameless redheaded woman where everybody's going, and she says, like he's a total moron, "To Gobbler's Knob!") There was plenty of space, and we grabbed seated spots on a piece of the WWII Memorial, and waited.

Just so you know: If it is 25 degrees outside and you think that your body heat will eventually warm up a granite wall--after all, it's only your butt-print that needs warming--YOU ARE WRONG. We sat on the wall for nearly five hours, unwilling to give up our spot, and I am not sure I have ever been so cold in my life, hand-warmer packets (in mittens and shoes) or no. Foot pain gave way to numbness, which gave way to the pain again, and I half-expected my toes to have snapped off by the time I took off my socks. But: sitting up high was cool, and ideal for photographing the ridiculous hugeness of the crowd, and we could see the Jumbotron just fine. It was worth every second, even though I was sure my underwear was freezing solid.

It was just as well that we'd missed the We Are One concert on Sunday (though it was a source of some distress at the time); they televised it on the Jumbotrons all morning to keep the earlybirds entertained. And then the San Francisco Boys' and Girls' Choruses sang, and Aretha performed looking fierce in that hat with the bow as big as her face, and Yo-Yo Ma and Itzhak Perlman and some other people I didn't know performed the special John Williams piece (called, in my head, "What Spring Sounds Like, or People's Hearts Are Beginning to Thaw"), and it was so fabulous that I was totally okay with my blood freezing in my veins. And I continue to want to be BFFs with Michelle, Malia, and Sasha (Michelle = hardcore for her lack of bundling; Malia = Princess Composure; Sasha = hilarious and adorable just for showing up). And then our new President took his oath of office, and I cried a little, and he gave a really wonderful speech. Did you hear the fire in him? It was all on huge screens, of course, but there was this spot towards the middle, right around "all are equal, all are free, and all deserve a chance to pursue their full measure of happiness," where I thought, "preach it, brother."

After, Grace and I had planned to meet up with Guy and his friends, but meeting up with anybody was clearly out of the question--we couldn't walk (five hours straddling the wall, remember), and neither of us could stop shivering (scary!), and the tide of the crowd just bore us along. (What is it Barbara Kingsolver says about the stream of ants in The Poisonwood Bible? Stick out your elbows and raise up your feet? Not a bad philosophy in this situation; you could probably get halfway to Maryland that way.) We went back the way we'd come, stopping in at the Ritz-Carlton to thaw out and use the bathroom and check our phones, and ended up walking all the way home because we couldn't get a cab or a bus. So maybe there was a bit of a Bataan Death March vibe to the end of the day, but it was worth it. I'm so glad I went. I am so, so proud of President Barack Obama, and so, so thrilled for our nation, and now I can't wait to see what he actually does.

Welcome, Mr. President.

I was there.

...and one more thing:

Why I don't believe in coincidences

Since I moved to DC, I've been looking for a church. I'm spoiled in this area: I've known three churches in 28 years, each unique, but each full of people struggling together, with grace and extreme humanity, to live out the Gospel as they know it. I'm grateful that it's never been that hard, finding the right place to worship.

For awhile, I thought maybe I'd found my place here in DC--National Presbyterian, where the choir is spectacular and the teaching pastor comes from my church in California and I ran into Condi Rice (which I think I forgot to mention)--but it wasn't right. I'm back on the market, so to speak.

This past Sunday, because I had an appointment in Alexandria around midday, I decided to try church in Virginia. The last time I tried this, at a church in Arlington, I got hopelessly lost, missed the service, and decided to go to the mall instead (God knew I needed work pants; He didn't seem to mind). This time, I gave myself plenty of time, printed out detailed directions...and proceeded to get EVEN MORE LOST than the last time. Seriously. It was a nice drive--trees, river, a really interesting program about Sesame Street playing on NPR--but it wasn't church, and I was lost and frustrated and teary anyway over the death of Mr. Hooper. The service had started at 10:30. At 11:05, I arrived (at last) in Alexandria, gave up on actually going to service, and decided to kill a few hours on King Street before my appointment. I was stopped at a red light. Guess what else was at that light? Fairlington Presbyterian Church. Service at 11:00.

Yeah.

I went. It may be my church for the future; it may also be my church just for this week. Either way, I had to laugh, and shake my head, and be grateful.

12 of 12: January

Welcome to 12 of 12 (144 of 12 x 12?) 2009! For the method behind the madness, and other people's entries, check out Chad Darnell's blog. Otherwise, here we go.



6:50 - January Monday, pre-dawn. This is my "over the moon" face.




7:03 - I feel that some savvy marketing person could base an ad campaign on oatmeal as the poster food for people who a) don't go through milk fast enough, and therefore have fridge-door cheese factories, or b) can't be bothered to buy fresh things in the first place. "Oatmeal: For the Single Person in You!" or possibly "Oatmeal: Don't Be Such a Slob."




7:48 - I was running late, but so was the N4. Relief all around.




7:58 - This is the Colombian embassy at Dupont Circle, which somehow always makes me feel like I'm at Disneyland. Sorry, Colombia. Your embassy is just too cute.




9:20 - My two main reference books for today. Did I forget to tell you that I moved 3,000 miles to analyze the use of the American vernacular phrase "dreadful sorry" in the folk ditty "Clementine"? Soon--when the funding comes in--I will move on to the nature of redundancy in "She'll Be Comin' Round the Mountain When She Comes."




9:22 - Who had residual jalapeno oil on her fingers when she tried to put in her contacts this morning? You get three guesses.




11:40 - Brainstorming (male) kitty names. Suggestions welcome.




1:07 - An unsuccessful attempt at a discreet self-portrait taken in the mirrored ceiling of the elevator at work. A total stranger now knows thinks I am a crazy elevator self-portrait-taker.




4:45 - Leaving a tiny bit early to make a 5:15 movie. Note how it is not pitch-black outside. This gives me hope.




7:30 - Sarah and me on our shared quest to see all of the major award-winners/nominees/hopefuls during their season of actual relevance. Subpoint: More bhangra dancing! I need more moments of Bollywood-inspired musical-kinesthetic unity in my life.




8:28 - I am going to skip "too lazy to cook" and go straight to "look at all that whole-grain/high-calcium goodness," and hope nobody notices.




8:35 - I am exhausted from all that...sitting? This is sad. Perhaps cheese and crackers and Stephen Colbert will cheer me up.

Happy January, folks. Stay warm.

Totally worth the trip

YOU GUYS I JUST SAW BARACK OBAMA.

BARACK OBAMA!

He came out of the building across the street, waved right, waved left, climbed up on the step on his Suburban and waved some more, and got in the car. But IT WAS SO FABULOUS. I almost cried. Also, if you want to see some hardcore government fangirl squee, this is the way to go about it--the shrieking in my office was impressive.

At this rate, we will be BFF by 2009, no? Call me, Barack!

True story: there is zero percent work being done in this building right now.

Things you don't want to know but I want to tell you

1. I left my flowered (but thankfully cheap) umbrella on the Metro this morning. Now I have another one (hot pink; also cheap, because of the Metro-leaving-on), but I miss the old one. I really liked it.

2. My toenails are not great.

3. I understand that mushrooms are a fungus that tastes a little like dirt/feet/dirty feet. I like my dirty-feet fungi with garlic and parmesan on a Tuesday night.

A heartbreaking work of staggering genius

I just finished a second read-through of my favorite book from 2008, Haven Kimmel's The Solace of Leaving Early. (Side note: Who has parents awesome enough to come up with the name "Haven"? Especially in 1965 in Indiana?) Actually, it was just the second half--I had finished The Flame Trees of Thika and needed a palate-cleanser before Cryptonomicon, and remembered that I'd wandered through the first half a few months back and gotten distracted. I picked it up again. This is the joy of comfort reading: come and go as you please.

I liked Leaving Early the first time around; I loved Langston Braverman (Ph.D. drop-out, impossible, lover of orphaned girls and her dog Germane, as in "germane to the conversation") and Amos Townsend (minister, doubter, constantly getting tangled in tree branches). But I don't think I saw it and I know I didn't get it. I'm not sure I have a proper grasp now, either, but it's starting to take shape, the mass of mothers and children and loss and gain and belief and backwardness, plus the Virgin Mary (Kimmel went to seminary; she's allowed). I almost want to pick it up again now, as it's fresh in my mind, and try to figure out exactly how it's made, how we get from A to B and end with a scene so unexpected and romantic I almost had to put it down this time around. I wonder if I could get it if I just read it one more time? If I could see the strings twisting together?

In the mean time, I continue to not read Cryptonomicon and have started The History of Love, of which I do not know what to make.

It all began on New Year's Day

New Year's is, as far as I can tell, a Disappointment Holiday, the kind of thing where there's an immense amount of pressure to have the best night of your life (every year, which seems like faulty math to me) and a very few ways to actually have the best night of your life. So you've got to go all-or-nothing: aim very very high or very very low. There's the When Harry Met Sally Manhattan fancy party option, and there's the games-PJs-Dick-Clark option; anything in between seems like a lot of stress for, arguably, not a life-changing amount of fun.

This year, because I have clearly wandered into somebody else's life, I went with Door #1: I met Christine in Manhattan and went to a friend's friend's party. I dressed up like a grown-up, like so:



and ate sweet little hors d'oeuvres-y bits and made conversation with strangers (though we also watched Dick Clark, and Ryan Seacrest waiting for Dick Clark to keel over onscreen, which was sad). It was an aim-high New Year's, and I had a good time, and now I will always be able to say, "Remember the year we got dressed up and went to New York for New Year's Eve?"

I'm not gonna lie: I was ready to shove 2008 out the door. It was a strange year for me, a year of deepening roots and, in many ways, of refined focus, but also a year of discontent. I spent a lot of time and effort trying to rock my life forward, and trying not to lose my mind in the mean time. It worked in the end--in fact, I can barely see this year through the screen of the last few frantic months--but it was desperate and frustrating and generally not my favorite thing.

And so it was nice to wake up on January 1 and see this view from Brooke and Brian's apartment:



At this time last year, I could not have predicted being here--in New York, in Washington, disoriented but enjoying the swirl of everything. I love that I couldn't see the future, and that it's brought me somewhere unexpected--I hoped and prayed and cried out for a surprise, for some kind of rescue, for something to swoop in and pick me up and carry me away, and it happened. I love that I still can't see the future, that I'll never see it, that it'll keep receding like the horizon. I love that don't know where I'll be or what I'll be doing when we hit 2010 (2010!), but I am excited to feel my way through and find out.

Happy New Year, friends.

Strange Fruit, indeed

Instant tears of hilarity, every time.



You can hear the whole essay, along with pieces by Anne Lamott and Sarah Vowell, here.

Stay inside 'til somebody finds us, do whatever the TV tells us

I recently bought a new album, Boxer, by The National. I thought about it for a long time--I acquired their song "Fake Empire" awhile back, and then Chuck used it once this season (along with Bon Iver's "Skinny Love," which is another story altogether, and a perfect confluence of totally different but totally complementary songs), and I found myself listening to it all the time. I decided a mental monopoly was worth $9.99, and bought the album.

First of all, I think I've figured out why I love "Fake Empire" so much. It starts out with this line: "stay out super-late tonight, picking apples, making pies." And, you see, it is exactly the kind of music I would like to listen to as I stay up super-late, picking apples*, making pies. Family and friends will tell you that I am not a late-night anything, and that is mostly true, except: I am a late-night baker. There's something hugely relaxing and hugely satisfying about mixing up some sweets after bedtime (and eating them warm, whatever they are, immediately prior to falling into bed). For this weird ritual, only the best music will do: the most singable, the most groovable, the most a part of me. This album is midnight baking music already. See how cool that is? It's like a little onomatopoeia of life.

Second, I once had a conversation with a friend about the absence of non-tenor pop stars. He was right: the lower registers get the shaft in the pop recording world. Which is why I love The National's frontman's voice: he's a deep, deep baritone, and it's always simultaneously surprising and strangely comforting. I feel like I will listen to this album next time I'm feeling sad, or when I'm trying to sleep in an unfamiliar place. It's a nice feeling, having it even when I'm happy at home, just in case.

You can watch The National on Youtube ("Fake Empire," "Apartment Story," etc.), but I almost think it's better if you can't see them. Turn the videos on, then turn around or something. Then stay up and make a pie, just because.

*Why one would stay up super-late picking apples is unclear--wouldn't they be hard to see?--but I'm going to just go with it.

12 of 12: December

Merry and happy 12 of 12, everybody! This project is the brainchild of Chad Darnell; I just participate, along with lots of other people. Let's ring out the old year with 12 final photos, shall we?


6:50 - Conscious, even though it is dark outside, which seems like an obvious clue that being awake is unnatural. Who's with me?




7:43 - N4 bus to Farragut Square. Friday is a good day to try out new public transit routes (the "where does this bus go?" game): less traffic and less chance of being catastrophically late. I try to take advantage of this.




10:25 - Hopping back on the Metro to run a work-related errand.




10:45 - Foggy Bottom is a funny name, and always makes me think of woot canals. Aaron Sorkin ruined me for this city before I even got here.




10:51 - This is the thing about suddenly living in our nation's capitol: you're walking along, minding your own business, and suddenly, Washington Monument! Right there! And this is the thing about being new: you still notice.




11:32 - I am a now badge-carrying employee of the U.S. government. You can only know how exciting this is if you've ever been escorted everywhere for three weeks of your life.




11:48 - Celebratory pumpkin bread on a celebratory trip to Starbuck's, because I can.




2:44 - This is "Liz takes pictures of her thumbs" month, apparently. I don't care if you're doing work in the middle of a long, dreary Friday. Just put on "Christmas Time is Here" and TRY not to feel a little festive. You can throw your head back and sing with your half-circle mouth, if it helps. (Oh, Vince Guaraldi and Charles Schulz. I heart you guys.)



5:35 - Math problem: I know one person, other than my coworkers, in DC. What are the odds that we end up in the same Metro car at rush hour on a Friday evening? And yet: here is Sarah on the freakishly tall Dupont Circle escalator, wishing she knew how to follow her own directions. She is less blurry in real life.


7:22 - You know, I think that if I had the head-size-to-body-size ratio that Giada DeLaurentiis does, I would go for smaller hair. I'm afraid she's going to tip over, you know?




7:53 - I was going to have pasta with tomato sauce and all of its lycopene-induced benefits. But they were CALLING to me, I swear: "Cheese and garlic! Cheese and garlic!" So, yay, white food?




9:59 - My evening in a nutshell: top-secret (oops!) Christmas knitting, my favorite monkey slippers, and Bridget Jones's Diary, which will never leave me or forsake me. (Hey, I'm exhausted and in a new city, and anyway, nobody gets handknits if I'm out being normal and sociable with all of my nonexistent acquaintances. Friends in 2009, I say!)



Happy 2008, everybody. Thanks for letting me share it with you, and I'll see you in the brand new year.

Just another Monday night

Yep, definitely Monday night. I checked. Just finished Monday. Tomorrow's Tuesday. Sounds about right. And yet, so many moments of happy, all in one night! Only the bullet points can contain my joy:

- Home, clothes changed, and to Whole Foods and back by 6:45

- Whole Paycheck carries both (1) bratwurst AND (2) kale, unlike Giant AND Safeway some grocery stores I could name. (Jimmy Dean's does not a sausage section make, my friends.) And they have a parking garage, and even a left-turn arrow to get you across the scary Wisconsin Ave. rush-hour traffic. It's a wonderland!

- Sweet housewarming present from dear friend Stacy waiting in my mailbox. A much-loved book from a kindred spirit is heartwarming, indeed.

- Downright swoony Bratwurst with Creamy Apple Compote. If I die an early death, people, you will know it was the German food.

- Knowing the answer to Final Jeopardy, for once.

- Chuck. How is one to contain oneself with Bruce Boxleitner, Morgan Fairchild, and Dixon from Alias all appearing in one big three-ring circus of geek? I propose an entire episode dedicated to the Elder Awesome dinner party. Here, I'll say it: the Awesome/Bartowski clan eating dinner is plot enough for me. Subpoint: Sarah and her feelings, "whatever they may be," kill me. Sub-subpoint: This show is the best iPhone ad ever. What if someone chains me to the counter of a frozen-yogurt store, huh? What'll I do then? Call for help like a big noisy dork? THAT'S IT. I'M GETTING THE PHONE.

- Having a hotshot techie friend who is not only knowledgeable enough but nice enough to fix your wireless internet over the phone. Thanks, Luke. I would say, "You have no idea what this means to me," but I know you do.

I am warm and happy. Of course, that could also be the wine. Either way, yay.

Message received, self.

Raise your hand if you are at all surprised that, after the last month of my life, I am sick.



Yeah, me neither.

It's my fault. I moved and then drove and then moved again and then started a new job and then had houseguests and then went to the Sondre Lerche show at the 9:30 Club (totally worth it, BTW--I don't care who you are or what kind of music you like, you will like Sondre Lerche), and then my body said OKAY, WE'RE NOT DOING THIS ANYMORE, and so here I am, sniffling and sweating and leaving a trail of Kleenex behind me. It's miserable, but it's not very mysterious.

The good news is that, in a moment of prophetic grocery shopping, I bought a box of frozen, chocolate-dipped bananas the other day. When all other foods seem disgusting, when I simply can't conceive of keeping anything else down, the frozen banana saves all with its cold, tangy goodness. Nice one, self. Keep it up with the therapeutic snack foods.

The other good news is that I'm hopping a flight to New York tonight, heading up to some relatives for Thanksgiving. Of course, this would all be better if I were not in danger of a) passing out in the middle of Dulles International, or b) infecting an entire plane full of people with the plague, but I am excited about seeing this side of the family, about a big Thanksgiving meal (ironic; also, if I'm not eating properly by tomorrow, heads will roll), and about doing whatever it is New York people do as fall turns to winter. It's going to be good times, and I hope your Thanksgivings are also wonderful, no matter what you're doing.

I'm having a banana and going back to bed.

Long haul: Pittsburgh - Silver Spring, MD

PSA: Whatever you have heard about Pittsburgh, PA, forget it (unless you've heard that Pittsburgh is beautiful and amazing; that, you can hang on to). Christine and I have a city crush on Pittsburgh and on Mr. Rogers's Literal Neighborhood and on Luthor Towers the Pittsburgh Plate & Glass building, and potentially on many other things in our new favorite Western-Pennsylvania metropolis.


I repeat: Pittsburgh rules. (This is Station Square, which you can reach by car or by funicular. Funicular!)


The Grand Concourse, train-station-cum-restaurant. So, so beautiful. We ate at the bar.


More of the Grand Concourse. You should see the bathrooms (but the pictures didn't turn out).


Pennsylvania, late fall.

Long haul: Chicago - Pittsburgh

The view of Lake Michigan from Michigan. Or, maybe Michigan City, Indiana? Either way, it's big. And cold. And windy.



I got to listen to Sufjan Stevens's album Greetings from Michigan on the sweetest little Michigan freeway ever. Look how cute!



Oh, Ohio. You're adorable.



Who wouldn't want to live in the Cleve?



It is sad to me that Christine and her lovely friend Jewel are standing in front of the enormous jugs of wine that are fermenting in Jewel's basement in Cleveland, because it is a lot of wine. But she made us Ina Garten's beef stew and fixed my knitting woes, so all is forgiven.

12 of 12: Long-Haul November Edition

Welcome to 12 of 12: Long Haul/November Edition! For details on 12 of 12 and other people's entries, check out Chad Darnell's blog.

A little context for people just dropping for 12 of 12: This is day five of an eight-day road trip across the U.S., part of my moving from San Francisco to Washington, DC for a new job. The twelfth just happened to fall on day of rest in Chicago, which is way more exciting than twelve pictures of me going to regular work, don't you think?


8:47 - Up and at 'em! Not early, but I've earned a sleep-in day.




9:40 - My battle wound from last night's crab-leg incident. Those guys are spiky.




10:25 - Adorable Mount Prospect.




10:37 - The Metra train. If you know me and my unnatural love for public transit, you know how exciting this was. Double-decker commuter trains where you can buy your ticket on the train. It's like Switzerland!



11:48 - Visiting the Bean, my new favorite piece of public art. Who doesn't love this? It's such an easy crowd-pleaser. That's Christine and me down there in the lower left.




11:50 - Me, kaleidoscoped on the underside of the Bean. Would that make it the seedy underbelly?




12:30 - The fancy seventh-floor food court at Macy's, aka The Artist Formerly Known as Marshall Fields. My poor road-food-saturated self was so happy to see the greens and goat-cheese salad I ate.




2:54 - American Gothic. I once saw this sculpted life-size in butter at the Iowa State Fair, though the real thing is almost as cool. Christine tells me I need to work on my "disapproving" face. Apparently I look like I'm going to spit out something disgusting.




5:20 - Giordano's for Chicago-style pizza, with checkered tablecloths and everything. It was delicious, though it appears that Zachary's is a pretty good imitation. So that's a relief.



6:34 - The bridges in Chicago make me feel like I'm in High Fidelity, even at night.



7:02 - We missed the train back to Mount Prospect and had to console ourselves with cinnamon cream cake. Oops.



8:45 - This should be called Portrait of the Easiest Houseguests Ever. Give us our laptops, and we're low-maintenance.


Good day. Nice to meet you, Chicago. Let's do this again some day?

Long haul: Omaha - Chicago

Iowa, basically. (I did get to see some of the red grass Willa Cather writes about in My Antonia, which was cool. This observation has been brought to you by Lit Nerds Anonymous International.)



A note to future road-trippers: Long drive getting you down? Plug your laptop into your car speakers and watch/listen to old episodes of Gilmore Girls. (The keen-eyed and geek-hearted will recognize this as "The Lorelais' First Day at Chilton." We started at the beginning, as one should.) Best time-killer ever.



The mighty Mississippi.



As a reward for our days of hard driving, Christine and I took ourselves and our lovely Chicago hostess out to the (apparently) famous Bob Chinn's Crab House for fresh King Crab legs and dorky photographs. For food porn, see below.



The fork here doesn't really give a sense of scale. These crab legs were huge. And I ate all of them, and I don't regret it at all, because this was a top-ten-worthy meal. Maybe worth driving to Chicago for, and that's saying something.


Tomorrow: A day of rest/museum-hopping in Chicago. Much-deserved.

Long haul: Estes Park - Omaha

So, first things first: the Rockies are gorgeous. Look! Look at the mountains! And then you come around some random bend and there's a whole HERD of elk. Everywhere. Crossing the street behind you, looking all freaked out. (Also, bighorn sheep.) See?













You'll note that all of the pictures here are of Colorado, and that we actually drove across Nebraska as well. This is partially because my camera battery ran out, and partially because the Cornhusker State and I are on what might be considered chilly terms, mostly because of the weather. Like, it might have tried to kill us. Also, a lot of it was in the dark. So we'll have to start the Midwest tomorrow.

Speaking of tomorrow: Chicago! (Assuming the weather is nice, which is a big assumption. We may be doing Winterset, Iowa instead.)

Long haul: Salt Lake City - Estes Park, CO

This was a good day. Truthfully, any day that begins with a waffle-maker at breakfast, continues with the Mormon Tabernacle Choir (live!) and a stuffed penguin from the Shackleford expedition, and ends with soup and bread in a hotel room in the Rocky Mountains can't be all bad. To wit:



The choir. I *guess* they were okay, if you like that perfection stuff. (CAYAC could totally take them, for we are small but scrappy.)



The Mormon temple. I can't go in, being neither Mormon nor male, but hey. They've got a cool golden angel up there, so that's something.



Utah. I kind of expect John Tesh to show up, don't you?



Little America, kitschy mid-Wyoming pit stop extraordinaire. I assume they got the sign wrong; shouldn't it actually read "Real America"?




An actual penguin from the Shackleford expedition, which was supposed to have been live but, uh, failed in that regard. Maybe Little America had something to do with it.



Wyoming. This is the whole thing. But check that weather!


Catch you tomorrow in Omaha.

Long haul: Oakland – Salt Lake City

Today, I left California and became homeless/on vacation/crazy for leaving. Here's what it looked like:







(Donner Lake, where the "People ate other people here!" plaque had, regrettably, been stolen; the old man in the parking lot did not seem totally sure that Christine and I hadn't taken it from under his nose. Like we have that kind of trunk space right now.)











Tomorrow: Estes Park, Colorado (weather permitting), or bust!

The real reason I have to move

After three years, I just reached the bottom of my stack of New Yorkers in the bathroom. Time to go!

Goodnight, not goodbye

I packed up my books today. The books are always the first thing to go when I move, empty shelves the first sure sign of leaving. I'd like to say it's because my library is emblematic of my very presence, but really it's because they're an easy first step--I can box up my books with only half a brain, and suddenly a third of my possessions are taken care of before I've wrapped a single dish or even emptied out my closets.

It's different this time, though, because most of my books aren't coming with me, and it was a strange kind of parting as I pulled them off the shelves, like burying a time capsule. As I sorted and stacked and fit them all into rows, I imagined the moment when I'll re-open those boxes, like a reunion with a whole crowd of old friends (...whom I've stuffed into a box and placed in a non-climate-controlled storage facility for a year or two). I could practically see them smiling at me, showing their pages like teeth. I don't even think they'll hold a grudge for the whole storage thing.

Not everything's staying here; I allowed myself one box of books I just couldn't leave behind. The Austens are coming, and Middlemarch and Jane Eyre; so are 84 Charing Cross Road and Girl Meets God (for emergency comfort reading). I also packed a supply of books I have yet to read--basically my takings from the San Francisco Library book sale, plus a few future book-club selections. I'm still debating the wisdom of leaving The Collected Stories of Eudora Welty here, and can't promise I won't sneak it into my suitcase at the last second; I haven't read much Eudora here, but somehow the move has motivated her. Take me with you, she's saying. You'll want me later. I don't doubt it.

Harry and me

Have I told you all about my love for apartment hunting? Here: I love apartment hunting. I've gotten away from the post-college annual-move phase, so for the last few years I've mostly been finding places for other people, but there is something thrilling to me about the possibility of a new space. When I was little, we'd spend hot afternoons looking at air-conditioned model homes, despite the fact that my parents haven't moved since 1980, and I think the apartment search is just the same sensation: I look at every room and try to figure out where I'd put the furniture and what color I'd paint the walls. I liked, and still like, seeing what my life could look like.

It's a good thing I feel this way, because I'd forgotten that apartment hunting for me is approximately 10,000 times more stressful than when I'm not actually looking to move--I don't know how people do it, if they don't already like checking out empty houses. In DC last week, I looked at basically every type of apartment (brand-new, hills-old, row-house, big building, small building) in every type of neighborhood (Capitol Hill to Arlington; Columbia Heights to Alexandria). I looked at nine places in two days, and at the end could barely a) remember my own name or b) feel my own toes (hello, walking city). It was exhausting, especially after I realized that I had not flown 3,000 miles across the country for an exercise in potential, and that I would actually have to choose a place. To live. By myself.

That said, I am pleased to announce that I've found myself a home base in DC, and that it is a home base beyond what I could have expected. I've signed a lease on a beautiful, furnished one-bedroom waaaay up on the northwest side of the city, a quick bus ride up from Dupont Circle and half a mile from the Vice President's house. Harry S Truman lived in my building, and there's a fantastic view of the National Cathedral from the roof deck (and also, apparently, from my kitchen window when there are no leaves on the trees). After the parade of the iffy, strange, inconvenient, and exorbitant places I saw, this place was clearly it, and I am nothing but thrilled to get to live there (and also to not have to move all my stuff across the country--furnished, remember?). I think my new Sleep Number bed and I will be very happy together.

So that's done, and a huge load off my mind. Now...oh, right. EVERYTHING ELSE.

Things I am realizing about moving to Washington DC

I have no office clothes.

I have no winter clothes.

I should start knitting for myself in earnest.

I am going there, and all of my friends (except Sarah) are staying here.

I can get a cat!

I am spending Thanksgiving in New York, which seems fabulously quaint and East Coasty.

I will miss out on the West Coast Thanksgiving hors d'oeuvres table.

I will have to switch banks.

I will not have to switch medical plans.

I can go visit the Smithsonian, or the Lincoln Memorial, any time.



I'm leaving in two weeks.

Flux, or Why I'd Better Brush Up on The West Wing

So, I was planning on going to work on Thursday. I was. I made lunch (Farro and Roasted Butternut Squash, only I used quinoa); I picked an outfit (jeans and a sweater). I was prepared.

And then, well, the U.S. State Department called, and I told them I would move across the country to work for them instead.

Yeah.

I don't consider myself a thrill seeker (not a fan of heights, falling, 3-D movies, enclosed spaces, or creatures that dart or slither), but I think my friends and family would agree that the past ten days have been mostly fueled by some mixture of adrenaline, reckless hope, and generalized uncertainty. The entire process took one week, including accepting the offer around the time I was supposed to be heading off for my first day at the other job. It just happened, in a good way, the way where it's just so convenient you know it must be right. It's a really good job, a job writing in the English language about the English language--so very Jasper Fforde!--which is a little synechdochic representation of two of my favorite things. I keep thinking that it wouldn't be my life if something crazy and wonderful didn't just happen at the last second, and that I'm not sure I'd change that if I could. I like surprises (...don't quote me on that).

So that's how things are now: trying to picture myself a month from now and finding the image strangely blurry. I'm haunting Craigslist of Washington DC, debating the merits of pod storage vs. movers, exploring strategies for fending off crushing loneliness (a. convince friends to move, too; b. cram all of California into suitcase; c. acquire time-stopping device and teleportation skills), and looking forward to a new adventure. It's fun and stressful and I don't even really know what it means, probably, but I think I am ready to find out. I'm pretty sure it's the right thing.

See you on the East Coast.

(!!!)

12 of 12: October

A day late, but hey, I'm on vacation. What do you want from me?

For the lowdown on 12 of 12, check out Chad Darnell's blog. Otherwise, enjoy.


8:10 - Conscious, at a reasonable time and everything. Hooray for Sundays!




8:25 - Reading in bed: the reason weekend mornings were invented? You decide. (Almost done with The Name of the Rose. Long, but I do know more about the papal history of the 14th century than I did. Plus, murder! So there you go.)




8:42 - Apple-cinnamon oatmeal: official poster food for people who can't keep up with buying milk.




9:15 - Project Runway on the TV. I wish Tim Gunn would come over and help me get dressed every morning; I feel like he'd be the perfect combination of encouraging and matter-of-fact.




11:13 - Leaving church.




12:20 - Brunch at Lakeshore Cafe, where I always manage to convince myself that the tomato-spinach Eggs Benedict counts as health food. Not a good precedent.




1:17 - Packing for L.A. Sweaters? Shorts? Who knows? (Turns out sweaters were the right choice. The Santa Ana winds don't mess around.)




3:56 - The Altamont Pass windmills, as in, "I was born into the life of windmillery." Heh.




3:57 - More of the Altamont.




6:33 - Dinner, McDonald's, Kettleman "City", with my friends and ride-givers Sue and Will.




8:15 - Dark. I-5 somewhere in Kern County.




10:54 - Made it safe and sound! Hanging out at Kendra's house.

Good day. Next month: November! (Already?)

Weekend update. Can I be Amy Poehler?

So, I could tell you what I've been up to this past week, but then I'd have to kill you. Or, well, not exactly kill you. More like...I just can't tell you. Because this is the internet, and people read things. We'll just say that things are in flux. All will be revealed later, like when I'm better informed (I was going to say "less confused," but that's probably wrong) myself. How's that for vague?

What I can say is that yesterday was my last day working at Key. There are lots of things I'll miss about Key: the consistently delightful people, the crossword-puzzle lunches, the killer Halloween costumes, the willingness to party at the drop of a hat. They're good people doing good work, and I feel honored to have been a part of their quest to help all students get math. But there was such a long period where leaving felt, simultaneously, like the only feasible thing and a complete impossibility, that actually having a last day was thrilling and somehow unbelievable. I don't think I really understand, even now: you mean I'm not going back?

I can also say that I've been knitting--wrist-warmers for a friend in New York--and that I passed the 400-page mark in The Name of the Rose, and that I went to the library today and chickened out on getting the DVD of Psycho. Tell me honestly, people: Should I watch this movie? Think of someone you know with a low tolerance for scary things (say...me). Would you tell that person to watch Psycho? What if that person told you she'd be calling YOU when she's afraid to hop into the shower? I did get Rebecca and North by Northwest, and put Rear Window and The Man Who Knew Too Much (because of the Jimmy Stewart) on my Netflix queue--we'll see how many I get through before Halloween. Do you think that all of these non-scary Hitchcock movies might somehow add up to the street cred of one actual scary Hitchcock movie?

And I can say that I did some shuffling on my links list; I added Sarah's new blog and someone I don't know but like already, and took off Dinosaur Comics, even though I still like them. Mostly, I miss Things I've Bought That I Love. Like, I get that Mindy Kaling is off writing and acting and being famous--some show about people in an office somewhere, if you like that kind of thing--but I need to know how she's spending her absurd amounts of money. I am bereft without her insights on products I will probably never wear, use, or eat (though I did try to get the kind of red licorice she likes from Trader Joe's--they didn't have it, but I did get hooked up with another brand that's amazing, so...win!). COME BACK, MINDY. (Wow. That was not supposed to end with begging.)

And I can say that it's fall here, suddenly. Thursday, it was summer. Friday, the wind changed and the trees dropped all of their leaves and the air is clear clear clear. I broke out my down vest last night, but it was premature. This is California. It's not that cold.

Thanks for your patience. Hey, see you tomorrow! For the 12th! Or, rather, today.

The facts are these

Yesterday was the most-anticipated day of my TV season, the day when Pushing Daisies finally came back. If you think I hadn't been waiting, not very patiently, since December--or was it late November?--for my favorite new show to return, we clearly don't know each other that well. Because, really, who doesn't love a sweetly morbid mystery show about waking the dead and making pies?

If you know what I'm talking about--and I know there are at least a couple of converts reading--you're probably psyched. If not, you have homework. Check it out: Wednesdays, 8 p.m., ABC (or Thursdays and ever after on ABC.com; their video streaming is excellent, unlike a certain peacock-affiliated network I could name). Otherwise I may simply never stop talking about it, and then you won't want to read anymore, and then where will we be?

If you need a primer to the rules and canon of the show, I've gushed about them (with handy video!) here. If you just need a little encouragement, here are some reasons I love Pushing Daisies, and perhaps you should, too:

It looks amazing.














("Do you ever feel like all the oxygen's left the room?")

I would never watch a show on the basis of looks alone--I need personality, a sense of humor, and long walks on the beach--but the creativity and elaborateness of the visuals on Pushing Daisies consistently sweep me off my feet. It's vibrant; it's colorful; it's symbolic. And if it's an endless parade of decorative eye-patches you seek, or mermaid-shaped Burberry luggage for a pair of synchronized swimmers, the art direction, set dressing, and costuming here won't let you down.

It uses acrobatic language.

There are lots of motor-mouthed shows out there, and I pretty much like them all, but I can't think of another show that takes quite this much joy in what my college professors would call "formal experimentation": rhyme, alliteration, repetition, symmetry, onomatopoeia, simile, metaphor. This show trips off the tongue.

It's creatively romantic.





Meet Ned and his alive-again girlfriend, Chuck. They can't touch without consequences both fatal (for her) and heartbreaking (for him). Couldn't they simply wear gloves? Probably, but where's the fun in that?

It has the morgue dude.



He doesn't have a name or a backstory, but he had me at "You got some kind of shifty goin' on?"

It has Emerson Cod and Olive Snook.



He's a sassy P.I. who knits when he's nervous (he finds the stockinette stitch especially relaxing) and likes counting his money in the bubble bath. She's a former jockey who serves pie, insists on chit-chat, and sings sad songs in the Pie Hole at night. Together, they are hilarious and magical.

It's like nothing else.

This is the crux of Pushing Daisies: it borrows from a million places and is, in the end, nothing like any of them, or like anything else you've seen. Take a little bit of Roald Dahl, a little bit of Amelie, a little bit of Alice Hoffman, a little bit of your favorite pop-up book, a little bit of Alfred Hitchcock. Mix them up, make something happier and sadder and more gorgeous and more intensely metaphorical than you really thought you could. And, well, there you go.




P.S. The season-two premiere was awesome. How many bee puns--verbal and visual--can one writing staff squeeze into a 42-minute show? OH WOW SO MANY. I loved it.

It's a new dawn, it's a new day, it's a new life

Do you know that song? "Feelin' Good," by Nina Simone? It's about freedom. My brother introduced me to it awhile back, and I've been saving it ever since. I had this plan that on the day I got a new job, I would play it for myself and think, "This is exactly how I feel."

Yesterday, I played the song good and loud.

If you know me at all in real life, you know that I've been job-hunting for a long, long time. In some ways, I've been fortunate--I'm not unemployed, I'm in my chosen field, and I truly can't imagine that I'll find a better group of people anywhere else. In other ways, it's been a slog, a drain on hope, and an increasingly heavy weight on my psyche. And so to feel suddenly light, to know that I can finally move forward, is a huge and wonderful thing. I get to do something new!

Freedom is mine, indeed.

It's the most wonderful time of the year

Treasures from the Friends of the San Francisco Library book sale:

Angels on Toast, Dawn Powell
My Home is Far Away, Dawn Powell
Second April, Edna St. Vincent Millay
The Light of Faith, Edgar A. Guest
Last Tales, Isak Dinesen
Dress Your Family in Corduroy and Denim, David Sedaris
Local Girls, Alice Hoffman
A Girl Named Zippy, Haven Kimmel
The Archivist, Martha Cooley

The Edna St. Vincent Millay isn't nearly as gorgeous and pristine as last year's copy of The Buck in the Snow and Other Poems, but I figure the two of them can be friends, and it can live out its golden years in peace (I bring home books the way other people bring home stray animals). The Edgar A. Guest can join them--I don't exactly know who he is (oh, now I do), but it was only a dollar and I liked the inscription on the flyleaf: "To Al, Hearty congratulations and all good wishes from the Marquarns. February third, nineteen twenty-seven."

Other than that, I'm pretty sure I didn't buy anything I definitely won't read, which is always my book-sale mantra. I was psyched about the Powells, after striking out on her last year, and I've been meaning to check out A Girl Named Zippy since I fell for The Solace of Leaving Early, and I am nearly always in the mood for the Alice Hoffman's crazy, sensuous magical realism. My relationship with David Sedaris is a complex one, full of potential and disappointment and hope and NPR, but I am feeling generous towards him these days, and am hoping for a reconciliation. And as for The Archivist, that book and I have been shadowing each other for years. I am psyched to read about love among the stacks, especially since I've always hoped to meet my dream guy when we both want to read the library's only copy of The New Yorker.

What's most interesting about the book sale, I think, is what books do and do not make it there in the first place. It's all about what people are giving away: recent book-club selections and classics they'll never read again. Last year was big for Bridget Jones: The Edge of Reason, which has now been replaced by Songs in Ordinary Time and an absolute heap of Jan Karon. Last year Powell was nowhere to be found; this year she practically leaped off the tables. On the other hand, I was surprised and disappointed to not find a single Jasper Fforde book lying around, nor a copy of the newest Michael Chabon (The Yiddish Policeman's Union), or even a plain old David Copperfield. They must be good--people are hanging onto them.

Now what? I guess I should go read. I've got my work cut out for me.

The bright future

I'm watching the Emmys. Yep, I'm the one. I'm not watching them because I think they're particularly in touch with what's good in TV--they're still nominating Two and a Half Men, but not The Wire, so there you go--or because the internet's down and I can't check the InStyle Style Watch, or whatever. I'm watching the Emmys because they make me want to write stuff.

There's just so much cool material out there right now--shows that are concept-driven and writer-driven more than anything else. Mad Men's Best Drama win gave me chills. Barry Sonnenfeld won for directing a kooky, magical, completely unorthodox pilot for Pushing Daisies. Tina Fey just won her third award of the night, and got to pick it up from Mary Tyler Moore and Betty White. Do you think, someday, I could win an award and accept it from a cardboard cut-out of Tina Fey? Because that would pretty much be enough for me.

I'd say that the Emmys wouldn't matter for me as a writer, but that's only half true. Of course I want to have written something that somebody performed and somebody else filmed, and then a bunch of people decided it was worth some crazy heavy golden statue. I can't believe these people get to roll out of bed and put their work energy into characters and plot and all those things that make my stomach flutter, and I'm so, so jealous. I would not object to any of those things. But writers onstage are always a weird thing, and I suspect my presence wouldn't do much to normalize the situation. They always look extremely happy but kind of freaked out, like groundhogs emerging in February, all, "Hey! It's a party for us!...OH CRAP LOOK AT THAT SHADOW." Also, female writers have it rough. It's like a wedding party: the guys head to Tux Hut an hour before, pick something off the rack, wear it, and bring it back in the morning. Actresses, who don't spend their days shut up in conference rooms with tables full of candy and pizza, have custom, designer gowns shoved at them from all sides. The women writers have to dress themselves and look nice without the benefit of a stylist. I'd like to think I'd come out on the winning side of this proposition--again, maybe my girl Tina will continue to wear awesome dresses make writers the new It girls--but it somehow seems like the odds are slim. I've met myself. Not that, you know, I'd let the gown thing keep me home. I do want people to applaud while I look pleased and confused, and then am escorted away by an anonymously glittery girl; I'm just not sure how well I'd deal.

Also, Lee Pace just lost. Do you think he needs consolation? I may be able to help. Call me, Lee!

12 of 12: September

Welcome to September twelve of twelve, also known as 108-120 of 144. Twelfth of the month, twelve pictures. For more on the myth and the madness, check out the master, Chad Darnell.


7:05 - Foggy Fridays are not my best wake-up days.




8:03 - Everything a girl needs for one day at work and two days away. (There is an actual Tivo in that box. And cold pizza in that foil. Never take me backpacking.)




8:05 - What is this Indian summer of which you speak?




8:12 - Illegible Grand Lake drive-by. Approximate transliteration: "Screw the man! Free popcorn Monday through Thursday!"




10:45 - Morning break with misshapen pizza and everybody's favorite papal-history page-turner.




1:06 - More pizza, this time round. With arugula, red onions, gorgonzola, toasted walnuts, and balsamic glaze, and why does everybody keep asking whether I'm in California?




2:30 - Whoever invented Friday-afternoon meetings is not in my good graces. Christine, however, is always in my good graces.




6:00 - Crossing the erector-set bridge on the way to my parents'. We're road-tripping to a family reunion mini-break weekend.




6:13 - At Long's, agonizing over toenail polish and pondering the ideal intersection of cheapness, color selection, and chip resistance.




6:17 - Chugging up the hill to my parents' house, where all attempts to progress past third gear will be sorely resented.




6:25 - Trying to be artsy while Alex a) refuses to sit still and b) ignores me completely. All other behavior would be a betrayal of the species.




6:52 - Ragin' Apricot? Hot Apricot? Nuclear Apricot? Something.

Cast the first stone

My parents gave me a pizza stone for my birthday. This makes a certain amount of sense: they are pizza-stone people. They like a good crispy crust. My family made pizza from scratch every Sunday night when I was little, and, as my mother pointed out, the pizza-making urge has not exactly tapered off for me. I half-live off Trader Joe's Bag O' Dough, part-skim mozzarella, chopped tomatoes, and garlic.

The instructions for my pizza stone call for a 15-minute preheat at 450, then a moving of the raw, assembled pizza from your handy-dandy cutting board or pizza peel (I guess pizza-stone people are also pizza-peel people?) onto the heated stone. And, you know, I'm pretty sure the whole "transfer raw pizza onto super-hot ceramic surface" part of the process seemed suspect from the beginning, but because I am a law-abiding citizen (ha, see how I snuck that in there?) and because I believe pizza-stone makers may know more about pizza stones that I, I decided to follow their clear and authoritative directions.

And now I have a very important announcement to make, for the good of all who read and bake: RAW PIZZA DOES NOT SLIDE. THERE IS NO SLIPPING, SLIDING, COAXING, STRETCHING, OR JIGGLING UNCOOKED PIZZA FROM PLACE TO PLACE. Perhaps this is an American thing. Italian pizza may float across the kitchen, for all I know. Here in Oakland? Less so, and I don't care how much cornmeal you put down. That stuff is sticky.

Which is how we end up with this:



Note that there is not a piece missing from the amoeba pizza. That's the whole thing. Also, if you could see, there are some toppings that were rolled underneath the crust during the move, so that it's not so much garlic-herb as it is garlic-herb-tomato-mushroom-spinach-garlic again-cheese crust. And say what you will about cornmeal not burning, but the sad, preheated cornmeal on the unused stone is what my grandmother would graciously have called "dark brown." I'm just saying.

So next time, preheat, then assemble on heated stone while avoiding being burned? I will be the master of the pizza stone. Just you wait. In the mean time: delicious, misshapen amoeba pizza. Yum.

My calling

You guys! I finally know what I want to be when I grow up!

Q & A at the Chicago Manual online

BEST. JOB. EVER.

Updates

Oh, my. It's been kind of a while, hasn't it? Sorry about that--blog-time got away from me, I guess. Since we spoke last, I have...

...turned 28, which sounded old at some point, but which I'd kind of embraced earlier this year anyway. It was a lovely birthday, full of friends and barbecue and presents and general merriment; thanks for asking.

...nursed my toes. For reasons I can't discuss, I had to wear shoes today (!), which was not great. However, they are no longer purple, and not so much swollen as...bumpy, I guess? (If superfluous photos of my bruised and broken toes are your bag, I posted a few here.)

...gotten the hang of the Magic Loop, like so:


How do you like that sleeve action?

...eaten practically nothing of the organic or even plant-based variety, which is becoming something of an untenable situation. It's not good. Tonight: spinach salad with heirloom tomatoes, a hardboiled egg, and cilantro dressing, because I cannot keep this up.

...tried to keep up my momentum for series 3 of Doctor Who, reminding myself of my enthusiasm for the Doctor himself, even if Martha Jones is no Rose Tyler.

...not loved the season premiere of Bones. Be better, please, show.

...made peanut butter brownies. Let me reiterate: PEANUT BUTTER BROWNIES!

...finished Rebecca and started The Name of the Rose.

...waited and waited and waited for choir--my favorite thing--to resume. Tonight! I'm so ready, except, possibly, for my voice.

I'll try to be better. Promise.

What I'm Watching, v. 3.0

The fall TV season is gearing up earlier than I expected, which means it's time for one of my favorite recurring posts: the What I'm Watching fall TV catch-up, wherein I get to yammer about the shows I'll be watching and the shows I might be watching for the coming season (and, in some cases, why you should watch them, too).

This season is reasonably predictable, and far less full than I expected, schedule-wise--it turns out that three of my shows (Lost, Friday Night Lights, and the Joss Whedon's new series Dollhouse) don't start until January. Similarly, the crop of new shows isn't as diffuse or as magnetic as it was last year, so I only have one definite newcomer for the fall. Here goes:


Returnees

Mad Men

Sunday, 10 p.m., AMC
Premiere: Already running (Season 2)
Premise: A look at the lives of Madison Avenue ad execs in 1960
This show is gorgeous and eminently grown-up--an unsentimental period piece with an ensemble cast of finely molded characters and a truckload of cognitive dissonance. Why does Don Draper commit himself so wholly to a lifestyle with which he's so uncomfortable? Does Peggy want to succeed or be seduced, and does she have to choose? When will Joan's boobs get their own storyline? (Kidding. Joan's boobs are their own storyline.) Some of these characters are a little stand-offish, but every single one of them is complex, interesting, and at least a tiny bit sympathetic. (Even Pete Campbell. I love Pete, insecure, self-important moron that he is.) AMC is running a second-season catch-up marathon this weekend, for anybody who's interested.


Bones

(Yep, this is about the level on which Bones functions.)

Wednesday, 8 p.m., FOX
Premiere: September 3 (Season 4)
Premise: A socially awkward forensic anthropologist and her hottie FBI partner solve murders using the victims' skeletons. Grossness, hilarity, and meaningful glances ensue.
This show pulled something of a jerkfaced move at the end of last season, but random rerun encounters over the summer have confirmed that I'm so not over my favorite silly police procedural. Somehow I just can't quit the Jeffersonian gang--not just Booth and Brennan, though I like where the writers have taken them, but everyone, especially when they're all together. (I even like Cam.) (Also, I must reiterate that although I object to the fate of one Zachary Uriah Addy, I am beyond pleased that my favorite ridiculous wunderkind therapist survived the season. I love Sweets.) Count me in for more goofy crime-solving hijinks, and possibly some genuinely strong episodes--they're more than capable when everything's firing on all cylinders.


The Office

(Surprise! The Office is not funny in still pictures. However, my sense of consistency requires me to include one anyway. Enjoy a Dwight acrostic.)

Thursday, 9:00 p.m., NBC
Premiere: September 25 (Season 5)(!)
Premise: An appallingly awkward and occasionally tear-jerking comedy about life at a paper company in Pennsylvania.
I frankly don't remember Season 4 all that well--I'm out of the rhythm of life in Scranton--but The Office rarely fails at being simultaneously hilarious and heartwrenching, and I have complete faith in the writing team behind it. (Oh, yes: Season 4. Jan and Michael broke up; Jan's pregnant; Jim failed to propose; Dwight and Angela: Part Deux. Amy Ryan--"Michael as a girl"--replaces Toby. TOBY!)


Pushing Daisies
Wednesday, 8:00 p.m., ABC
Premiere: October 1 (Season 2)
Premise: Ned the Piemaker brings dead things back to life, with consequences.
This is by far my best-loved new show from last season, and is rapidly becoming an all-time favorite, period. It's like nothing else on TV--honey-sweet, brilliantly colorful, randomly musical, and yet utterly macabre; it's also practically impossible to describe without visual aids. Therefore, this video effectively covers the "rules" of the show as established in the pilot...



...and this one makes me salivate over all that's promised for Season 2, while also showing off the extravagant visuality of Barry Sonnenfeld's direction and art direction:



I can't recommend the weird, wonderful kookiness of this show enough, especially for people who like mysteries, love stories, cute baker guys, nuns, funny dialogue, bees and honey, cool costumes, Alfred Hitchcock, musicals, pretty cinematography, synchronized swimming, personality disorders, fine cheeses, Kristin Chenoweth, and/or pie. NBC.com has a bunch of episodes online; DVDs come out September 16. Learn it, live it, love it.


30 Rock

(And you wonder why I identify with Liz Lemon.)

Thursday, 9:30 p.m., NBC
Premiere: October 30 (Season 3)
Premise: Tina Fey plays herself, only single. (A behind-the-scenes look at the life of a female head writer on a sketch comedy show.)
Even when it wasn't totally consistent, this show was excellent and featured some pretty awesome performers doing peak-level work, namely Tina Fey as Liz Lemon (representative of an entire subset of the female population, if you were wondering) and Alec Baldwin as Jack Donaghy. Now that it's all Emmy-winning hot stuff, it's just as crazy and just as good, though in my opinion the stunt casting went a little overboard last season (except Carrie Fisher and Will Arnett, because I can never get enough of Will Arnett). There is practically nothing I don't love about Liz Lemon and her band of merry men (plus Jenna), and I can't wait to see what curveballs they'll throw and what new slang I'll learn. Say it with me now: By the hammer of Thor! (Actually, I am waiting and waiting for the day when I can say, in any context, "Gimme your fingernails!" "NO!" Oh, Kenneth.)

Newcomers

Fringe

Tuesday, 9:00 p.m., FOX
Premiere: September 9
I recently heard someone call this show a triple whammy: it's going to attract fans of Alias and Lost (because it's a J.J. Abrams production), Dawson's Creek (because of Josh Jackson), and The X-Files (from which it has stolen at least its basic premise and possibly its structure). I personally am in it for the J.J. factor--I never watched Dawson and don't need to revisit The X-Files--but if it's as good as his other work, and as good as the huge investment FOX has made in it (a $10 million pilot), all of these elements will fuse into something that rises above all three. Here's to hoping it rules, and that FOX doesn't cancel it before it gets to that point.

On the Fence: Things I Might Watch, But Probably Not

Dirty Sexy Money (Actually quite good; might re-incorporate if time)
Chuck (Ditched last season, but am reconsidering)
Kath and Kim (Abysmal previews, but I like Selma Blair and Molly Shannon)
Life on Mars (Fandom is peeing their pants over the original British version)

What are you all watching this fall?

Blessed are the patient, for they shall have sweaters that fit

Phase one of the Tangled Yoke Cardigan is done. This is the body, from the hem to the armpits, plus a few inches--I followed the pattern and then (with much impatience, and a fairly long chat with myself about sweaters that don't fit) tacked on extra rows to accomodate my ridiculous long-waistedness. It took a long time (with, you'll remember, a baby blanket in the middle), but I'm so pleased with it; I just love the way the fabric looks. I sometimes stop knitting and admire the flow of the stitches off the needles--the smoothness of the stockinette and the happy tweediness of the yarn I chose.



Now it's on to the sleeves, which I'm knitting using a new technique, the Magic Loop, which will allow me to knit both sleeves simultaneously on the same circular needle. My boss at work has been teaching me (best meetings ever), and I know it's the kind of thing that will ultimately change my life--i.e. eliminate the possibility of me finishing one sleeve and being simply unable to fathom starting another--but is currently not the epitome of ease and simplicity. Does this photo look like a random tangle of yarn to you? Because it does to me. But I'm slowly figuring out the mechanics of the Magic Loop--a weird study in kinesthetic vs. visual learning, if ever there was one--and I suspect I'll be patting myself on the back when I realize both sleeves are a) finished and b) identical. Here's hoping.

Couch feet 2, actual feet 0

Question: What are the odds of spraining(?) not one but both of one's pinkie toes in one evening at home?

Answer: For normal people, probably fairly low. For me? Chance of departure 100%.

If you must know, I was watching Mad Men and winding yarn balls--walking laps around a hank of yarn wrapped around the end of a table, rolling it into a ball as I went. And the little carved wooden feet on my couch, I swear, jumped out and attacked, all "I am a (paisley antique) lion and your little toe is a cute baby grazing-type animal!" I fended it off in a spectacular show of tripping, hopping around, and moaning, you know, as you do. After the first incident (aka "the left one"), I moved my ball-winding apparatus away from the couch and walked in the opposite direction (exposing the other foot to harm), which apparently angered the foot-chomping monster even further. Cue second ruthless baby-toe attack; tripping, hopping, moaning.

I don't really think they're broken--it hurts to move them, but they do move--but the shade of purple they're sporting this morning is really quite pretty, so you never know. And at least I'm symmetrical; it wouldn't do to have just one invalid foot.

I gotta start wearing shoes.

The little things

Smallish things that make me smile:

- I have rediscovered my passion for the Tangled Yoke Cardigan and have either one or three rows left on the body. Next up: knitting the sleeves, two at once! It's magic! (Magic Loop, to be exact.)

- Rilo Kiley. Nothing new; I'm just loving them an extra lot these days.

- Joe Biden makes me nervous, PR-wise, but I like what he stands for. (If nothing else, he gives a killer law-school commencement speech, right, James?)

- BBC Pride and Prejudice: Never gets less funny, romantic, and all-around wonderful, if you've got six hours lying around.

- A lovely, foggy day at the California Palace of the Legion of Honor, especially the Women Impressionists exhibit. I do love me some Cassatt, and others. (Nitpick: Shouldn't it be "Woman Impressionists"? "Women" is not an adjective or even a noun-type descriptor, guys.)

- Non-denim, non-khaki, non-fancy pants that fit. Thanks, Old Navy!

- British hip-hop, esp. of the girl-fronted variety. Why is it always so much better?

- Sunday afternoon + Gone With the Wind + friends + foooood.

I like my life.

Get me to the church on time

I just got back from a wedding. One of my oldest friends married the man of her dreams this weekend, and was nice enough to let me wear a polka-dotted dress, carry a pretty pink bouquet, and share the day with her.

I always think that being a bridesmaid is kind of like going to boot camp, minus, you know, the running and push-ups: it's an intense period of collaboration, often with complete strangers who will soon become your closest allies. (Also, there are matching outfits that you probably didn't pick out.) For four days, I shared a one-bedroom apartment with five other women; we started out various levels of strangers, but you can bet that by the time the bride had to pee between the ceremony and reception, we were a well-oiled machine. You'd think that kind of people-time would have forced me into some kind of fit of introversion--I certainly thought so--but you'd be wrong: I loved it. Fun girls to hang out with, whenever you want! Pride and Prejudice (the Colin Firth version, obviously) playing in the background! Who knew I'd miss having roommates?

I guess I'm something of a habitual bridesmaid--well past the three-wedding limit that's supposed to keep me single forever--which I think strikes other people as odd or maybe a nuisance, but instead reminds me that I have a lot of amazing friends, who apparently like me back. I sort of like the singleness of purpose that comes in the days before a wedding ("We must write 80 gazillion place cards, organized by height and middle name! We must tie perfect bows around the heart-shaped cookie cutters! We must watch Newsies and get massages!"), and spending time with my closest girlfriends JUST at this key moment in their lives, even if this key moment in their lives involves running a million errands and keeping the hot-glue gun running and thinking you'll never wear a bra with straps again. In 25 years of memories of the bride, some of my fondest will probably include hanging out in her new, un-air-conditioned apartment, with no place to sit, just being us. (Also, I now have a comprehensive list of To Dos and Not To Dos for my own [theoretical] wedding. Don't think I'm not paying attention, people with your crazy metaphorical unity exercises!)

Anyway, it was a delightful wedding (and I should know, with all my pretty-smiling, bouquet-holding experience); the ceremony was personal and meaningful and dotted with laughter and tears, and people actually danced at the reception, and the music was good, and the cake had mousse swirled into it, and the bride and groom were absurdly happy and are now married, and that is what counts in the end.

Congratulations and best wishes to the bride and groom. Thanks for letting me be there, and call me the next time you want to share some french toast casserole.

12 of 12: August

Live from Oakland, it's...August 12! For background info on the 12 of 12 project (and 12s from fine folks all over the world), check out Chad Darnell's blog.

For info on my 12 of 12, keep reading.


7:11 - Wow. I'm scary in the morning. Sorry about that. (These waking-up photos seem to be getting progressively worse. This is not encouraging.)




7:53 - Somehow, choosing a pair of shoes was a major undertaking today. Can't we all just live in the Land of the Almighty Flip-Flop? (I ended up wearing the gray Chuck Taylors, which probably isn't better professionalism-wise, except that you can't see my chippy toenail polish.)




8:17 - Breakfast was improvised at work (ooh, bad shopping habits), but at least I got my fiber: one packet of oatmeal and leftover granola.




10:40 - Check out the new trailer for Pushing Daisies! I...cannot wait until October 1 for this, for Olive (and Lily) in a nunnery, and for Lee Pace being adorable, and for unorthodox urban honey pioneers, and for more of the nameless morgue guy. And for everybody lovin' somebody they shouldn't be lovin'. I just can't. Also, I think "I wake pies and make the dead" would be an amazing subtitle for a blog. (Note to friends: Please don't let me start another blog.)




12:00 - Sneaking (or perhaps "going" is more the word) home for lunch. Sometimes the Key kitchen is just too much of a wasteland to believed. But so early in the week? Bah.




12:22 - AHHHHH. White pizza and Jon Stewart (who...okay, is President Bush here) in my happy, shady, quiet apartment. Not at work. Brilliant.




12:48 - Ooh! Getting snippy, Grand Lake Theater sign! "For a good time, call 415-556-4862." Heh.




5:25 - Heading across the erector-set bridge to my hometown, to pick up a bridesmaid's dress.




5:45 - Rebecca and an ice-cream cone from Double Rainbow: Best time-killer ever? You decide.




6:30 - I was initially skeptical about the whole "polka-dot bridesmaid's dress" concept, but have now been completely mesmerized and mollified by the poofy, shiny adorableness of this dress. I would kind of like to wear it every day, with white string gloves. That wouldn't be weird...would it?




8:32 - Home to fresh Netflix. It's the end of Series 2 of (new) Dr. Who, which I suspect is going to make me bawl my eyes out, as I am horribly, uncharacteristically spoiled and know what's about to happen. So, naturally, I plan to Handbrake it, put it on my iPod, and watch it on the plane later this week, where I can freak lots and lots of people out with my emotional anguish over Rose Tyler. I'm awesome, what can I say?




9:25 - I constantly want to mock synchronized diving, but then I know that any personal "diving" experience from that kind of height would only involve lots of pushing and falling and screaming, and a belly flop at the end. So if anybody wants to try and choreograph that, let's talk.

Good times, good times. Next month: September 12! Surprise!

Dinner

Cold soba noodles with soy/mirin dipping sauce?

Or lemon-pepper pappardelle with olive oil and parmesan?

At least I picked a genre: noodles + two ingredients.

(SO HUNGRY. MUST DECIDE.)

Good days

"Last night I dreamt I went to Manderley Vikingsholm again..."







More here.

Two great tastes that taste great together

It always kind of surprises me that I've never been in a book club. I'm a book-club kind of girl, right? I read a lot. I talk about reading a lot. So, reading + talking about reading = right up my alley, right? And yet somehow, I'm always a little bit too fickle in my reading moods and habits, not quite willing enough to submit to the schedule and the whole "other people telling me what to read" thing, to join a group.

Well, Glenna asked me this week if I'd like to co-moderate a 20th Century Book Club on Ravelry, the idea of Ravelry book clubs being that one reads and discusses the chosen book and, if the spirit leads, knits an item corresponding to the theme of that book (Example: Dante's Inferno = flame-y leg warmers). How well she knows me. Although I am a semi-contrary reader and a leisurely knitter at best, my love for early/mid-20th-century novels (we'll say 1915-1950) knows no bounds. I may choose my reading material according to the phases of the moon and the color of my socks, but that (Teddy) Roosevelt-to-Eisenhower period is nearly always on the roster. Besides, how could I say no to a book club for which I get to (help) choose the books? I said I'd do it.

The group hasn't started yet, but Glenna and I decided to each compile a list of 20 possible books, then compare notes; I spent this afternoon searching my mental to-read list and my collection of books about books (when in doubt, consult Nancy Pearl), and came up with not one, but two lists: Books I Haven't Read But Should/Would Like To, and Books I've Read and So Should Everybody Else (because I am nothing if not a literary imperialist). The results are as follows:

Books I Haven't Read But Should/Would Like To

1. Native Son, Richard Wright
2. The Thin Man, Dashiell Hammett
3. Death Comes for the Archbishop, Willa Cather (What a title!)
4. A House for Mr. Biswas, V. S. Naipaul
5. Swallows and Amazons, Arthur Ransome
6. The Flame Trees of Thika: Tales of an African Childhood, Elspeth Huxley
7. Gone With the Wind, Margaret Mitchell
8. A Good Man is Hard to Find, Flannery O’Connor
9. All the Names (or other), Jose Saramago
10. Foucault’s Pendulum or The Name of the Rose or The Island of the Day Before, Umberto Eco
11. Love in the Time of Cholera, Gabriel Garcia Marquez
12. The Locusts Have No King or The Golden Spur, Dawn Powell
13. The Collected Stories of Eudora Welty
14. Swann’s Way, Marcel Proust
15. Gaudy Night, Dorothy Sayers
16. Go Tell It On the Mountain, James Baldwin
17. The Postman Always Rings Twice, James M. Cain
18. The Sparrow, Mary Doria Russell
19. Amsterdam (or other), Ian McEwan
20. A Word Child (or other), Iris Murdoch


Books I've Read and So Should Everybody Else

1. I Capture the Castle, Dodie Smith
2. Cold Comfort Farm, Stella Gibbons
3. 84 Charing Cross Road, Helene Hanff
4. Rebecca, Daphne DuMaurier
5. Lolita, Vladimir Nabokov
6. The Portable Dorothy Parker
7. Behind the Scenes at the Museum, Kate Atkinson
8. The Phantom Tollbooth, Norton Juster
9. Harriet the Spy and The Long Secret, Louise Fitzhugh
10. Practical Magic, Alice Hoffman
11. The Poisonwood Bible, Barbara Kingsolver
12. Cryptonomicon, Neal Stephenson


So, bring on the semi-enforced reading and associated knitting!

(Ravelry is still in beta and therefore is by invitation only; however, signing up is both simple and free, and I believe the waiting list is moving quickly at this point. If you'd like to read and/or knit (or crochet!) with us, check it out. The more the merrier.)

Squash blossoms

This morning at the Grand Lake farmers' market, I bought squash blossoms, one of those foods that falls under category of things I'm dying to cook with but don't know how to prepare (see also: fern, fiddlehead). We'll call them Theoretically Fun Foods.

First of all, say it to yourself a few times over: SQUASH BLOSSOM. SQUAAAASH BLOSSOM. SQUASH. BLOSSOM. It sounds like an insult, or something George W. Bush would call some poor (wrinkly, orange, delicate) intern. It's like a whole little saga of tragedy and redemption, right in the name. You know how Hemingway wrote his six-word story ("For sale: baby shoes, never worn")? Squash blossoms are like that, only vegetable.

And just look at them! They look so exotic and also vaguely geriatric--wrinkled, obviously fragile, and yet surprisingly sturdy at the base. People stuff and deep-fry them, which sounds sacrilegious for something so fine and so summery; I plan to chop them up and toss them into a frittata, and to try one raw just to get the gist. They smell good, which shouldn't surprise me (flower, duh) but does anyway (looks like wet, orange laundry).

Wish me luck. Will report back.

Blanketed

Have you ever pondered the very squareness of your average blanket? Square, I'm telling you. Not a strip, not a rectangle--that would be a towel--but every stitch of width accounted for by a row of length. Square, man.

I've been pondering the squareness of blankets lately as I've been working on the baby blanket I'm knitting. It's a winner of a blanket, I think; I like the pattern and I like the colors. But: blanket. Square. Pink pink pink pink white white pink pink pink pink white white. I'm dreaming in stripes these days.

Good thing there's been the AMC Mad Men marathon to keep me company. I'll bet HBO is kicking itself--they passed on the show (created by one of their own, no less, Sopranos alum Matthew Weiner), only to watch it be picked up and produced by AMC and subsequently receive sixteen Emmy nominations. It's the kind of thing you'd never see on network TV. Set at a Madison Avenue ad agency in 1960, it's hopelessly (and sometimes pleasingly) adult--not so much violent or graphically sexy as subtle, complex, and packed with precise dialogue spoken by paralytically conflicted characters. These are people that are almost universally dedicated to a lifestyle that none of them seem entirely comfortable with; they're always trying to break or escape their own situations, even as they work day in and day out to preserve what they have. In short, it makes me positively thrilled to be a child of the 80s, though the flouncy shirtwaist dresses, pencil skirts, and fantastic shoes make it almost worth a trade. (Kidding. Any man that spoke to me like the men on that show would sound like Bobby McFerrin for a week.)

Don't you wish your life was as exciting as mine?

12 of 12: July

Aren't weekend 12 of 12s the best? Late, yes--what, stop my rousing of rabbles to post?--but you know what they say. For more on the history and culture of the 12 of 12 art project, check out Chad Darnell's blog.

On with the show:


8:40 - Sometimes I think these waking-up pictures are a great idea. This month, not so much.




8:55 - A friend once said that watching Dr. Who constituted some kind of basic boundary of true geekdom. Apparently I've crossed the bar.




11:37 - Leftovers from Cha Am, updating iTunes, and half-watching Rachael Ray, all of which seems like a luxurious kind of weekend time-sink.




12:40 - Fiction section, Lakeview Branch, Oakland Public Library. Kind of a quandary: checked out the much-awaited The Namesake, by Jhumpa Lahiri; am actually more in the mood for a re-read of Haven Kimmel's The Solace of Leaving Early. Hence the indecisively empty Goodreads widget.




12:52 - Grand Lake farmers' market, home of all kinds of peachy (and other) deliciousness.




1:20 - The open road, 880 South, Hayward.




2:12 - The open road, 17 South, Santa Cruz Mountains, Los Gatos-ish.




2:34 - Meet Mount Hermon, summer camp extraordinaire, weekend-getaway spot, the true Happiest Place on Earth, geographic love of my life.




4:05 - Wine tasting at Bonny Doon Vineyard. Tasty despite a basic difference of opinion (they specialize in reds; I'm into whites and occasionally pinks).




4:13 - Mini-break pals Kendra and Amy (my Hips, as in "attached at the") and Hip Husband Tim, still at Bonny Doon.




5:40 - Crazy Mount Hermon Saturday-night buffet dinner; we used to eat the leftovers on staff. (I'm now realizing that this all looks completely unappetizing. Butternut squash, coconut-crusted mahi mahi, some kind of corn pudding, dessert; some food photographer I am!)




6:55 - Waiting with Kendra in the car at Long's while Amy and Tim run inside. Sometimes people just need soap and a birthday card, you know?

And the rest, well, it's a mystery, photographically. I was too busy off having fun. Happy July, all.

Next month: same bat time, same bat channel.

I can explain.

Well, hi there.

Yeah, I know. It's been awhile. But you won't believe what happened.

My dog ate my blog post. No. Not dogs, bears. Kodiak bears. On unicycles. Kodiak bears on unicycles ate my blog post.

Aliens stole my laptop.

I got my hand stuck down the kitchen sink drain and have been pinned inside my apartment. I survived on the bag of melty chocolate chips I'd left on the counter.

I was invited last-minute to cover the Olympics in Beijing, went over to check out the scene, got the black lung, and came home.

Really.

Okay, not really. What actually happened was the following:

I decided to write a script. Fast. I discovered the June 30 deadline for the NBC Writers on the Verge program and decided to stop stalling, write a spec script, and apply, no matter what. And then I did what any resourceful writer would: I scrapped what I already had and started from scratch. One week to outline, another to write, and I sent it off just about the time I was getting ready to pull my own hair out one strand at a time. What I submitted wasn't perfect, but I'm proud of it anyway; it's out for review with a couple of trusted writer-friends, and now I can catch the next deadline (August 8, the holy grail ABC/Disney) as it comes. All hail the power of a good deadline, right?

And then--well, not so much "then" as "meanwhile"--I decided to take a class. Something about the NPR mention invaded my brain, and I found a Writing Comedy for TV class at MediaBistro and signed up. We have lectures, meet online once a week for class chat, and--here's the fun part--there's homework. Assigned Thursday, due Saturday, fifty jokes. Every week. Let me say that although joke-writing is fun(-ish) and satisfying, fifty jokes is a lot of jokes. In case you were wondering.

And then--this is where the bears on unicycles come in--I went on vacation. Kind of. I took a week off of work and didn't go anywhere. Instead, my college roommate and freakishly close friend Al flew down from Seattle and we held a contest to see how many parts of Northern California we could see in nine days (bonus points for Nevada!). I think we did okay: we kayaked on Lake Tahoe; came out $15 and $0.75 ahead, respectively, in Reno; got caught in crazy fog on Golden Gate Bridge when the ENTIRE rest of the Bay was bathed in sunshine; played pirate mini-golf at the boardwalk in Santa Cruz; hit the Napa outlets; and watched most of the first season of Heroes, among other things. Not bad. A good time was had by all. But you see, not much time for posting. You'll have to excuse me.

Things are getting back to normal this week. My apartment is slowly recovering (complete solitude and complete sociability are equally destructive to my ability to clean up after myself, apparently). I'd forgotten what it was like to read at home, and go out once in awhile, and be a little bit aimless, and have it be okay. I'm eating fruits and vegetables and meat again (Al subsists entirely on cheese and white foods). Apparently there's TV out there besides 30 Rock, and I don't have to feel guilty for watching it? I'm learning. And I'm back.

Hello.

Dispatch from the field

GREETINGS STOP DROWNING IN TEXT STOP PLEASE SEND FUNNY JOKES AND NARRATIVE SENSE STOP BACK JUNE 30ISH STOP WISH YOU WERE HERE STOP

I thought I'd sound more like Lauren Bacall

So, some of you may know that I was invited last week to write, record, and submit a 60-second movie review for the NPR show The Takeaway. I did it--seriously, one of the most excruciating writing experiences of my life, plus the joy of recording what amounts to the world's most harrowing answering-machine message--and guess what?

I got on!

You can hear part of my review here (I'm the first voice after they say people had specific problems with the story--I start with something about the movie lacking a heart), and they'll be linking to my complete vocal review, as well as to Cinema Hype, later in the day. I'll let you know when that happens.

I am totally the next Sarah Vowell. This is so exciting.

Update: The full review and the CH link are now posted.

Update #2:: The streaming audio doesn't seem to be working; this may be a download situation. Sorry about that.

12 of 12: June

Happy June 12, all. For explanation of the 12 of 12 Project and an index of other twelves, see Chad Darnell's blog.



7:05 - GOOD. MORNING.



Kidd