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.