New Year's in New York

We sort of fell into the Lincoln Tunnel. We knew it was coming, based on the carefully handwritten directions, based on the signs, based on the traffic, but it still seemed a bit of a surprise. We meant to change places before we got to New York so that I might drive through the city but suddenly, we were in the tunnel, the Theater District, Times Square. With me in the passenger seat.

Kayla drove. We followed the carefully handwritten directions - they missed a step. The avenue numbers decreased and suddenly, we faced water.

“This is wrong. We’re staying on the Upper West Side? Turn right.”

We drove back across the narrow island and up toward Central Park. Left by the Natural History Museum and there we were. Our hotel. We double-parked and unloaded the bags. A bellman appeared at our side, grabbing the bags almost before we set them down.

“Excuse me, sir. We got here first. We called,” a man whined from the curb, gesturing the stuffed MINI Cooper that pulled up in front of us, a pile of toys and blankets and bags sprawled on the sidewalk. The bellman nodded and continued stacking our bags on the cart. We returned to the car, giggling at our minor coup and left Denise to check in.

We trolled the neighborhood, looking for street parking, but we were painfully close to the bustling Museum, painfully close to Central Park on a beautifully clear, warm December day. Another loop, a few blocks farther, we were denied garage parking – the car in front us toppled the space beyond full. I spotted tail lights.

“Are they leaving?”

“I don’t know. They don’t seem to be doing anything.”

“Put your signal on.”

“I don’t think they’re leaving.”

“Those are reverse lights. The car’s not in park. They’re leaving. Put your signal on!” The car pulled away from the curb. “And it’s bigger than your car. You’ll definitely fit.”

“And it will take me an hour to parallel park.”

Seconds later, we found ourselves high-fiving in a legally parked car, inches from the curb. Her smoothest parking job ever.

We stopped for champagne on the way. A older man helped us, pointing out his favorite in our price range. An even older man rang up the sale, offering to gift wrap the bottle for us. Cheerful. Nice.

Back at the hotel, we found our bags and our friend in the lobby. Keys in hand. We found another bellman, not the original, not the one we tipped, to take our bags to the room. We tipped again. As dictated by the gods above or the voices inside my head, I unpacked my bags, placing my toiletries and travel candle in the bathroom, my computer on the desk.

I forgot to change my boots.

Hours later, my feet hurt from the high heels. A day later, my arms and back ache from carrying bag upon bag. We went shopping. I’m not sure why – we didn’t visit stores we couldn’t visit at home but in DC, I tended to skip the after Christmas sales. The before Christmas sales. Stores in general. But shopping in New York. Fifth Avenue. It seemed so touristy and so right.

Pushed sideways by the crowds at Rockefeller Center, Times Square, we crossed streets we never intended to cross. We took pictures of the tree. The sign for the Rainbow Room. Radio City. Flashes popping all around. We ended up in dozens of pictures that weren’t our own, crossing in front of cameras at the wrong moment, the delay of the digital making the break in traffic too long to wait.

After dinner and drinks at McCormick & Schmicks’s, we returned to our room and crashed. New clothes unpacked, tried. Kayla tried most of hers at once – a new pink bra over a new blue dress over new jeans. She posed dramatically while I tugged at a tuxedo shirt, reindeer bounding across my breasts underneath and pulled on a new, Indian-print skirt.

I checked my email. A message from my brother. He updated his wish lists, knowing I try to buy what he actually wants. I thought briefly that I should have been Christmas shopping for next year instead of Kristin shopping for this year and kept reading.

“seriously, you should talk Kayla out of timesquare”

I laughed and told her. She didn’t change her mind. We slept and awoke on this, the last day of 2006. She’s gone running. Denise has gone for coffee and I write, thinking about the year gone by, thinking about the year to come.

No year in review. No brilliant observations. No grand aspirations.

I realize only that I need to shower and change for brunch. I didn’t make reservations and don’t know the area well enough to change plans last minute, but an old friend will be joining us. He lives in New York now. Later, we will join the masses on Times Square whiling away the last hours of the year, waiting for the ball to drop and the new year to start.

I’m happy. With friends. In New York. Fruit, cheese, wine, chocolate. Champagne for later. New clothes for much later. It’s not a bad way to end one year or start the next.


Tag: New York New Year's Eve

Public execution

The execution of a world leader, brought to you by…

I planned to get one drink and leave. Actually, I didn’t plan to get any drinks but after handing over a pack of cigarettes and hugging the bartender, he asked, “Can I buy you a drink to thank you?”

“I can buy my own but I’ll take a beer.” He smiled over his shoulder and pulled a Stella. I wondered briefly what I was doing and looked longingly at the stool next to me, aching to put down my bag, to peel off a layer or three.

“How was your Christmas? Did you get anything good?”

We chatted a while. A few of his friends milled between the bar and the pool tables. One, a girl, perched on a stool next to me, not playing. Jealousy flared briefly. They were friends. I didn’t know if they were anything more. She didn’t seem to know how to read me, either, as he told a strangely familiar story of a black tank top and my cleavage. I’d heard it before.

He disappeared for a while, so did the girl. A game of pool. I snagged a stool, ignoring the coat on the back, and smiled at the man at the end of the bar. I pulled my book out of the bag and started to read.

“Saddam Hussein to be executed within the hour.” I looked up as he came back to pour drinks, to pull another beer. He nodded at the television, at MSNBC. Scenes from the man’s life played on the screen while information streamed along the bottom.

“I’m not sure this is in the best interest of our country.”

“I’m fairly certain that it is not in the best interest of our country.”

Bets were placed. Twenties secured by a shaker of salt.

“I’ve got $20 that he goes before 6. What do you say?”

“I think they’ll push it as close to 6:30 as possible and the first call to prayer.”

“The man is dead; let’s go pray!”

The bar filled up around us. Few noticed the television, the news. I flipped back and forth between my book, my beer and the screen, somewhat appalled.

As the hour drew near, I found myself talking to the man next to me. I think he asked about the book but we soon discovered myriad connections. He knew a friend of mine from undergrad days in a small college in Minnesota, more than a decade ago. We had friends in common and places in common and interests in common but as the hour drew close, I found myself pulled to the television.

And then it was done. Somewhere between tech writing and democracy, between Colorado and New Orleans, sometime during our conversation, Saddam Hussein died. Was executed. Around us, people finally noticed the screen, the news.

“Cheers to the democratic party.” A glass hung unmet in the air. “Oh, all right. Cheers because he’s dead.”

“I’ll drink to that.”

Around me glasses clinked. My new friend left, handing me his business card and asking me to email.

“The S.O.B. is dead,” came another toast, another raised glass.

My stomach turned a little at the celebrating, the coverage. It seemed so Margaret Atwood, so Oryx and Crake. An execution broadcast live to the masses. Granted, we didn’t see footage of the death itself but we all expected to see it posted to the internet by morning. Amid the shouts for kamikazes and Stella, Bud Light bottles and checks, Pearl Jam slurred from drunken mouths. Bon Jovi.

“We’ve got to hold on to what we’ve got! It doesn’t make a difference if we make it or not! We’ve got each other and that’s a lot for love… Let’s give it a shot!”

The bartender lowered the volume on the execution coverage.

Later, much later, “Do you want another beer?”

“Yeah… I was going to go home but I need to sit and think for a minute.”

By this morning, NBC was broadcasting pictures, footage leading up to the execution ending with a noose around his neck. I wouldn’t be surprised to see him swinging from the gallows by the end of the day.

According to press, the pres was in bed sleeping through the execution, at his Crawford ranch. It was 10 p.m. in Washington DC. 9 p.m. in Texas.


Texas timezone corrected.

Tag: Saddam Hussein Execution Bar

Smoke free DC

"Ah, man," I lamented. "When I get back from New York, there will be no more smoking in bars."

"And I'll be able to come home without smelling like ass."

"I guess I'll be able to do laundry less." He glanced dubiously at the row of dryers. "Okay, so I have a lot of clothes. At least, they won't smell."

He cocked an eyebrow and returned to his book.

I zoned for a bit, looking at the television and thinking about the upcoming smoking ban. No more bumming cigarettes from boys in bars. No striking up conversations as well as a match. No waking up in the middle of the night, sickened by the stench of my own hair. No giving myself migraines, sore throats, icky black snot.

I owe a bartender a pack of cigarettes – I should drop them off tonight, before I leave, so that he can enjoy them at work for one last weekend.

I wonder about my bartending friends. I should be glad that they might be prolonging their lives, and I am. I like them on levels that stretch beyond their abilities to pull a beer, mix a cocktail or pour a shot. This should help those who are trying to quit. The rest will surely suffer.

Most of my friends are reveling in the end of free smoking. They have refrained (for the most part) from chastising me for smoking the occasional cigarette or two (or ten) on a night out. I have had packs for many moons – I don't smoke much but I do enjoy one now and again.

I know the risks. I have known people with emphysema, with lung cancer. I know that Dana Reeve died without touching a cigarette in her life. I know it can kill me, especially given that I have already had to remove precancerous cells on more than one occasion. Nevertheless, I smoke once in a while and frankly, I don't mind smoke in bars even when it's not coming from me.

Bars should be smoky. And dark. And nefarious. Because bars are dark and nefarious. Bad things happen in bars. A bar is not the grownup equivalent of romper room or grandma's house. It is a public place where people indulge in mind-altering substances.

People go to bars for a whole slew of reasons including getting drunk, for letting loose, forgetting. People fall down in bars, on the way home, in someone else's home. People lose their pride, as well as their inhibitions. People say things they shouldn't and do things they shouldn't and remember things they shouldn't.

I love a good bar but one ought not to forget that danger lurks in bars in more places than a lousy pack of cigarettes.

In the morning, I leave for New York. When I get back, the face of DC bars will have changed. Or at least the breath.


Tag: Smoking ban Washington DC Bars

The value of a dollar

Money and I have a complex history. Bewildering. Snarled. Convoluted. Multifarious. Complicated. Suffice it to say that I grew up fairly poor. Then, exceedingly rich. Then, poor again.

While some fancy footwork in the legal system meant that Dad paid my tuition and a little beside, I worked full time through college, balancing the job with a full course load and an even fuller social schedule. (I was in the wedding of my favorite bouncer from my favorite college bar.)

Fortunately, those were the days when $10 could get me through a weekend and boys were buying. I stopped buying books after my freshman year – I borrowed what I could from the library or from friends, attending every lecture and taking copious notes. I wore clothes from high school days, ignoring the fact that I gained and lost weight regularly. Massive amounts of weight. Ginormous amounts of weight. I survived on potatoes and rice, Bisquick and Taco Bell – cheap, if not healthy - and sometimes I just didn't eat at all.

Nevertheless, I managed to fix my car when it broke. Fill the cupboards when the cupboards were bare and cover my rent. I even managed to visit my mom once, in Minnesota, after she moved back into the country, buying my own ticket and taking my first vacation in four years. I graduated with worn out clothes and honors distinction. I graduated without debt.

Over the next few years, I worked hard, supplementing my freelance tech writing income with retail dollars, working too much to go out and spend any of it. Of course, I didn't have many friends in Colorado and my addiction to hiking and the gym kept me busy when I wasn't at work. By the time I realized that I hated my job and my life in Colorado, I had a bit saved and managed to spend months driving around the country, visiting family and friends, temping when I got a little nervous or stayed someplace long enough.

After five months, the funds were running low. The funds were running low; I was working three jobs without benefits; and I took myself to Hawaii. (A friend invited me and even then, I had my priorities.) When I got back, I decided enough was enough and I found a fulltime job. I've been working ever since.

Granted, I take vacations – long, lovely vacations to places far, far away – and last year, I didn't work a full week between Thanksgiving and Presidents' Day, but I've been gainfully employed for the past seven years, five by the same company. I've risen through the ranks and am fiscally sound. I've never been in debt. I save money these days, and I am generous, almost to a fault.

I buy things for people regardless of the season and I go a bit overboard at Christmas, birthdays, just because. I buy rounds and I buy dinner. For my boys in bars, I tend to tip 100 to 200%. Of course, they don't charge me all that much, but even without the boys in bars, I try to tip 25 to 30% as a rule. I'm not loose with money; I just don't really worry about it.

Most of the time.

I am a little frustrated by the brand new dresser lying in pieces on my bedroom floor, my trunk, my bed. It never quite came together and now it needs to go to the curb. It's irreparable and a tiny bit frustrating. And the skirts, the Benetton skirts. Every time I look at them, I think, "The saleswoman called me fat." And the Burberry earmuffs. I really can't imagine wearing them with my red nubby coat.

Friends have offered suggestions, have offered advice. Return the dresser. Sell the skirts or the earmuffs on eBay. Give them away. I think about it and then money gets in the way, plays on my nerves. I know how much they cost. I can't sell them for a fraction of that price. I can't give them away. I can't get over it and in some cases, it's my own darn fault. I needed help with the dresser. I tried on my own and failed. I allowed the woman to bully me into buying the skirts. I should just like the earmuffs. They're nice.

The really funny thing is that I never know when it's going to hit – I have no problem spending $50 on a couple of drinks and some cheese fries to celebrate a friend's liberation from a terrible work environment but I can't justify throwing out shirt boxes. I have no trouble soaking in a tub with a signed first edition of The Historian, but I've got a $300 espresso machine on a shelf in my closet. A treadmill. A desk that I hate.

I don't get it but I'm working on it. I'm trying to untie myself from the bonds of bonds and stocks and bills and to keep the currency circulating, off my shelves and away from dust. If I don't use it, I don't need it. I just need to get over it.

Presidential passing

The passing of a president. It’s all over the news as I work from home. I’m ashamed to admit that I didn’t even know he was still alive.

I remember when Nixon passed – I worked at the college newspaper and picked up the story on the AP wire. If not for that, I might not have known but now I can put a year on it. 1994. I can remember where I was standing, what I was doing when I found out.

When Reagan died, I lived in the DC area and might have been affected by the pomp, the cavalcade, the mourners, if not for the fact that I left Washington DC for Washington state, my cousin’s high school graduation. And again, suddenly, I could put a year on it. 2004.

I knew his age because he was born in 1911, a year before my grandmother; in February, the month of birthdays in my family. January 31 – Larry (it isn’t really February but I figure it’s close enough to count), February 7 – John, 8 – Amy, 9 – Perry, 28 – Ian (who has a passport that says February 29 even though he wasn’t born in a leap year).

Reagan started the little run with a February 6 birthday and my sister shares her day with Gary Coleman, which I think I learned in elementary school, back when he was cool. Coleman, not Reagan; though, Reagan was president during my elementary school days and might have been considered as cool as presidents get. I learned his birthday while subbing on Robert Heine’s newspaper route. He must have taken a vacation or some sick days in February - Robert Heine, not Reagan. Though, he might have taken some vacation time, too, the president.

The Challenger exploded just a week or so before his 75th birthday and he pushed off his State of the Union address to speak about the loss. We watched it over lunch, in a classroom off the cafeteria/gym/auditorium, the Challenger liftoff and subsequent explosion. Even as one of the “older kids,” as a sixth grader, I wasn’t exactly equipped to deal with the excitement, with the expectation and the devastation. Nobody was. And the president addressed the country.

Our president addressed the country this morning. I missed it. I was sleeping or lying in bed, longing to sleep, with my radio tuned away from CSPAN for once. His voice in the morning tends to get me out of bed, but I didn’t know he was speaking. I didn’t know that Gerald Ford had died. Honestly, I didn’t know he was alive.

The only president not elected to his position. A leader. A father, a son, a husband, a lover. An entire person behind a name and someone about whom I know little. I should do a little more research. A little more reading. A little more blushing over the state of my public school education.

Honestly, I know little more about James Brown, the godfather of soul. I know his nickname - I suppose that's a bit more. (Does Ford even have a nickname?) I’ve actually seen him perform, James Brown. HFSmas Nutcracker 2002 - James Brown with the Pietasters at the MCI Center, back when it was the MCI Center.

I’ve got a copy of the BMW Film Beat the Devil in which the driver, Clive Owen, drag races the devil (Gary Oldman) to earn James Brown’s soul. Marilyn Manson pops in for a second at the end and we see a young James Brown in the rearview mirror.

I didn’t know he shared a birthday with my brother. May 3.

I make connections, tie things to my family, my own life, to remember the facts. I’ll never forget James Brown’s birthday, Ronald Reagan’s, Gary Coleman’s but I wonder why I didn’t learn James Brown’s until he died.

Why is it that only through death do I learn about men’s lives? Did they, Ford and Brown, struggle to make it to the holiday, through the holiday? Were they scared? Some things I guess I'll never learn.

Ford was born Leslie Lynch King, Jr. He was an Eagle Scout and a star athlete. He played against the Chicago Bears in an exhibition game in 1935. He was his wife’s second husband and took the name of the same of his mom. He had four children – the third an actor and rodeo rider. He was born a year after my grandmother and two years after Reagan. He surpassed the latter to become the longest-lived president by a month and 12 days.

Tag: Gerald Ford James Brown Ronald Reagan Death Life

The morning after

In college, I was sick all the time. I worked full time while taking a fulltime (honors) course load and partying as much as possible. At every break, I got sick. Horribly, miserably sick. The year my parents moved out of the country, leaving me to pack up the house and drop off the car for sale, I ended up with bronchitis. It turned chronic.

For a solid chunk of my life, downtime equaled sick time and I fear that I’ve returned to that stage. This morning I awoke after months of travel and shopping, hosting and partying, and working 12-hour days to a cough, a runny nose and a headache from hell. I took some meds and tucked myself back into bed for an hour or two before getting up and putting in a full day at work.

I should have known better. I had a bed of my own at my sister’s house but when the girls, when my nieces, asked me to share their room and share their bed, I couldn’t resist. Christmas is all about the kids. Unfortunately, the kids had hacking coughs. I think they gave me a gift that wasn’t wrapped and shining under the tree.

Even if I hadn’t ended up with a cold, I would have ached today. Tiny little feet pummeled my side, my legs, my chest for hours on end; Remy even managed to tuck her feet under Delaney’s body and kick at me. I slept little, less than I would have liked, with my contacts in my eyes, a watch around my wrist, rings tied to my drawstring, and my back against the wall. Literally.

I ached in the morning. I looked like death in the pictures. All of them. I whined as much as the kids when they asked me to feed the baby doll, to brush her hair.

“Do you want to watch me play my new video game?”

“Not really.”

But I did. I fed and brushed and watched. I threw kids over my shoulder and wrestled them to the floor. I ignored the pain and pushed off the cold ‘til another day. Today.

And today, I want to die but yesterday was good. My sister packed up leftovers. My niece called me crying, her little heart broken because I had to leave. She thanked me for being her fairy godmother and for making her Christmas. Her sister was crying before we left and her brother left me a message this morning.

Today, I am sick. I am tired and sore and more than a little broke. I am coughing and feverish. I feel like crap but it was the best Christmas yet.

They all are.


Tag: Christmas Family Sick

The best gift ever

A couple of weeks ago, while Christmas shopping, I had the misfortune of driving through Old Town during a holiday parade. I’d hoped to visit Restoration Hardware, pick a couple of gifts and avoid paying for shipping. Instead, I found myself in a vortex of weekend/shopping/parade traffic and drove in endless loops, looking for either parking or a way out town.

Seeing a break in the line of cars, I flipped on my signal and praised my luck. I punched the clutch, pulled the car in the reverse and heard a sickening crunch. Looking over my shoulder, I saw something pushing on the roof of my Jeep. I pulled forward with even more crunching and crushing and sickening sounds and realized that the spot wasn’t legal without backing into whatever crumpled my roof.

After waiting for a break in traffic, a break that I more forced than found, I pulled out with crunch and crush and scrape. I looked back for a second and saw a tree growing close to the curb. I knew the tree was there but I didn’t drive over the curb. Then I saw the knot or nubbin or whatever one might call what used to be branch bending out over the street at a height perfect for bending the rear bow of a Jeep.

I drove off without stopping at Restoration Hardware. It took me ages to get home. By the time I pulled in front of my house, I felt ill at the thought of hours wasted and the senseless destruction. I accomplished nothing on my trip but injuring my Jeep.

I parked without problem and hopped out of the car, walking around to assess the damage. A few scrapes to the roof and a completely wonky rear passenger corner. I crawled into the backseat and pushed on the bar. The corner stretched back into place. I released and it fell.

For the next few weeks, the sight of my car made me a little ill. The windows unzipped themselves with a lack of tension and wind and the wind noise itself started driving me a little bonkers.

I looked online. Honestly, I looked online about five minutes after parking and trying to push the rear bow back into place. That’s how I knew it was called the rear. That’s also how I knew that it would cost more than $300 to replace the piece. I found that I could replace the roof, with new hardware, for about $600 or without for $500, plus installation.

Given that I’d have to replace the roof at some point, I figured I’d buy it with hardware and install what I needed when I needed it. Unfortunately, I seemed to need some of it now and with the travel and the holidays and the slight buying problem I seem to have, I couldn’t really justify a $600 expense. Or stomach one. Or think about it until after Christmas, New Year’s, Jazz Fest in May. I thought about it and forgot about it all at the same time.

On Christmas Eve, I joined my sister’s family at church. When we got home, when we pulled into the drive, I pointed out the damage, my idiocy. My brother-in-law looked at the corner and said, “I think I can fix it.”

He was serious.

The next morning, this morning, Christmas morning, he left the tree and the toys and went out to look at the car. While the kids took a break from presents, he poked and prodded at my Jeep.

“I’m sure I can bend this back.”

A bit later, I looked out the window to find the roof off my car. Fortunately, it wasn’t raining yet. The kids returned to the gifts. A pile formed for my absent brother-in-law as the kids ripped and shredded, played with toys, begged us to join them in feeding dolls, playing video games, building rockets.

Later still, my brother-in-law appeared in the door.

“I think we broke it… How much did you say a new roof cost?”

“About $600,” I gulped. I figured I would break it when I pushed from the backseat. If he broke it, it was just par for the course. I would have to replace the piece either way – I was the one who bent it. I just didn’t expect to replace it this week.

“Just kidding,” he laughed. “It’s as good as new.”

And it was. It is. He and a mechanic friend from across the street fixed my car. They bent the bow back into place and gave up some of their family Christmases to do it. What a gift.


Tag: Christmas Gift Family Jeep

Three movies

As a friend recently pointed out, I don’t often pay for movies, and if I paid for all I see, I would end up broke. She’s right of course. I see movies once or twice a week. Sometimes more, seldom less.

Months ago, I found out about “a rapidly growing online advertising, marketing and PR firm that focuses on providing consumers with a comprehensive entertainment guide, while simultaneously enhancing our clients' exposure through customized marketing strategies.”

Basically, they promote movies. They get people in seats for advanced screenings. Members of the press get the best seats in the house and don’t really have to stand in line. The rest of us – we register. We get there early. We cram together in rows a little too close or a little too far from the screen and we watch a movie for free before the release date.

The whole experience is just that – an experience. Sometimes there are prizes. Radio personalities. The man with the suitcase in the front row. (He looks a bit like a homeless Jeff Bridges.) Sometimes it’s a crowd full of teenagers, septuagenarians, families. People of every race, every color, sitting together in a darkened theater. Some people talk back to the movie. People laugh and cry and clap in a room full of strangers.

And then there are the movies themselves. Some of them, I would never see if I had to pay. Some have been on my list for months. All of them are free and keep me out of trouble – out of bars, out of stores and out of the apartment.

Sometimes, though, I don’t get to see the movies I want. I missed the Last King of Scotland – I had plans with friends. The Queen was showing in Bethesda and something previewed at the same time at a nearer venue. Sometimes I don’t win. Sometimes I just don’t want to go and sometimes they just don’t have screenings. But the more movies I see, the more movies I want to see and sometimes I just have to pay.

In the past three weeks, I’ve seen three movies with friends and family, three movies for which I paid and about which I have failed to write.

Apocalypto
Absurd. That was the first word out of my mouth after the viewing. Absolutely absurd. Historically inaccurate – the Mayans disappeared long before the appearance of conquistadors, Mel. A little beyond belief. A little too graphic.

Overall, I appreciate the idea behind Apocalypto. The demise of ancient civilizations is fascinating and deserves more recognition but I can’t get beyond the absurdity of Mel Gibson himself. (I was embarrassed to put money in his pocket – I almost bought a ticket for another movie, any other movie, and sneaked in.)

The 48 hours of running? The blood spurting from the side of a man’s head? The poison darts? The childbirth?! Come on. And seriously – people float.

My friends liked the movie more than I. All of them. Even “Mr. Hungover, I want to die, can you buy me some Alkaseltzer before the movie?” http://www.alkaseltzer.com/ enjoyed the flick and honestly, it sparked discussion among all of us.

Blood Diamond
A family flick. For my left-leaning, tree-hugging, save-the-world family, at least. We all liked it. It was violent and graphic, an unhappy story (for the most part) with a Hollywood ending, and a strong, strange accent from Leonardo DiCaprio, but it worked. The movie delivered a social message in a fairly entertaining package. I know it’s been panned and I think I’ve lost my desire for a princess-cut diamond in a platinum setting whenever I meet the future Mr. Kristin, but maybe that’s not such a bad thing. I had little expectation going in and I was pleasantly surprised.

And the third…

We Are Marshall
I’m embarrassed to admit that I knew little about the story going in. Before an extended trailer last week, I thought it was just another football movie, and I am NOT a fan of football flicks. (I think I used all of my football patience in college when I dated a former college player. He lived, breathed, and ate football and I had more than my fill.) I did not know about the plane crash, the loss of almost the entire Marshall football team, the coaching staff, athletic directors, and prominent members of the community.

The story: It’s powerful and heart-wrenching. Even though Matthew McConaughey drove me nuts with his plaids and stripes and talking out of the side of his mouth, even though I couldn’t quite get over Matthew Fox’s red hair, I got into the movie and into the story. Tears rolled down my cheeks, my neck, my cleavage. Seriously. (I couldn’t make that up.)

The movie was a bit long, drawn out, but it made me want to find a book, to read more about the story. It was definitely worth the $10 I paid to see it.

It’s not exactly a Christmas post but it’s definitely a Kristin post. It’s how I’ve spent my time, my money, with family and friends and a little bit of our holiday weekend.

Tag: Movies Screenings Apocalypto Blood Diamond We Are Marshall

Communication

I am an ass.

Granted, this isn’t really news. I’ve always known this about myself, but the Christmas season apparently brings the best. My plans (or lack thereof) have driven me nuts for most of the holiday season.

Weeks ago, I hosted a party. My sister and brother-in-law who live just an hour and a half away but barely come to town made it to the party. They dressed up. They brought me presents, cookies to share and a present to exchange. They helped set up before the party and mingled with my friends, drinking champagne punch.

They left early. I didn’t get to spend nearly enough time with them or anyone really. Things got a little crazy.

Late in the night, talking to Kayla, I grew confused. It wasn’t just the wine or champagne punch – I wasn’t really drinking. It was the conversation.

“So, you’re having Christmas here?” she asked.

“What? I don’t know anything about that. Do I need to get a tree?”

“I don’t know. That’s what your brother said. You’re having Christmas here.”

“I totally don’t know anything about that. It’s fine. I’ll go anywhere. Do I need to get a tree?”

A few days later, I grew even more confused. My sister said she might go away for the holiday, the week between Christmas and New Year. She told me that my brother planned a trip out of town. My brother said he’d be home for Christmas and we were having it here.

“Don’t worry about me. If you decide to leave town, I’ll be okay. I’ll just watch a movie and eat Chinese food with friends.”

Several years ago, I was abandoned on Christmas. My grandfather bought my mom a ticket home for Christmas, leaving me alone. I was an adult, but it hurt. A couple of years ago, my brother borrowed my car and I didn’t know how to get anywhere for Christmas. (I was a novice with public transportation.) I stayed home alone. A year later, family made me cry and wish myself somewhere else. Anywhere else. I learned to get over it, to not really prize the day, to believe it just another day, though fortunately one off work.

Over the next couple of weeks, I tried to coordinate plans. I am a planner and I need an agenda, a schedule, a stick up my ass, apparently. I emailed. I called and left messages. I called and talked to my brother, my sister, my brother-in-law.

My brother said he was coming home. My sister said she might be leaving home. My brother-in-law just didn’t know.

Weeks of call after call, email after email and frustration growing by leaps and bounds. My brother and I share a car. I own it; he borrows it. We both live on the Hill and don’t drive much. The whole “returning on Christmas Eve” thing threw a slight wrench in the plans if we wanted/needed to drive to Harpers Ferry - Capitol Hill isn’t exactly on the way from Philly to Harpers Ferry and I needed a ride.

In the meantime, my sister sent our gifts home with Dad. She refused to answer the phone or email. She refused to return calls. My frustration grew exponentially.

“Hey. Hi. It’s me… I just wanted to touch base about Christmas. I need to know if I should buy a train ticket. Scott’s going to Philly – he’ll be back on Sunday. We just need to work out the logistics. Give me a call. Thanks. Love you. Bye.”

Much, much later that night… “I got your message. Just buy your ticket. It sounds like you want to spend time with your friends. Scott’s going to be with that girl. We’ll just have a family Christmas.”

A day later and a little more phone tag… “Hey. I’m sorry. I must have miscommunicated. I wanted to know if I should buy a train ticket to Harpers Ferry. The last time we talked, you weren’t sure if you were going to be in town. Scott’s coming back on Sunday but it doesn’t make sense for him to pick me up. I can come straight there. Let me know.”

No response. My brother called and nobody answered. We both left messages and nobody responded. Frankly, I decided I was over the Christmas season and couldn’t care less. I didn’t know what happened. Eventually, days later, I reached her. We talked. She misunderstood my message and thought I said I didn’t want to come. She was hurt. Defensive. Protecting herself and her family. Days after that, she still sounded sore. I mentioned that the Brokekid came by to pick up the presents for her family, to take them with him so he could come straight to her house.

“He should have just left them. I hope they don’t get stolen.”

"He plans to take them into the apartment with him. I just wanted to let you know that we won’t have all our presents with us," the presents she sent to my house. "I’ll try to bring the presents from the kids" when I walk a mile to the train station to catch a ride to her house "so we can open them with them."

“They’ll like that.”

“Do you want me to bring anything else?”

“It’s not like you can.”

It was a terse conversation. Uncomfortable. I didn’t know why I was going to West Virginia when I could stay home, in front of a fire, with a glass of wine, a stack of movies and a couple of friends. The whole thing drove me batty.

And then I started looking for a check. I lost a check for $200 somewhere in my apartment. I sorted through papers and ransacked my purse. I organized and tore apart my living room, bedroom, bathroom and kitchen. I pulled books from the shelves and rifled through pages.

In a bag of unfiled mail, bills, letters, I found it. Not the check but a letter from my 5-year-old niece. She just turned five - when did she learn to write?



Lodi Lo,
I hope you can come to Christmas with us.
I love you,
Lodi Lo and Uncle Scott.

I am an ass.


Tag: Family Christmas Miscommunication

Night at the Museum

“I don’t know. I looks… cheesy,” she said, wrinkling her nose.

“You think?” Robin Williams, Ben Stiller, the skeleton of a tyrannosaurus rex stomping about a museum and some monkey capers. “I think that’s the point.”

The girls around the table shook their heads. All of them.

“It just doesn’t look good.”

“I don’t know. Free tickets. Ben Stiller. Owen Wilson. It should be fun. At least, it will get me out of work on time.” I didn’t say much more about my plans. The audience didn’t seem all that receptive.

“I think it would scare my kids.”

We spun off into discussions of movies and kids, busy schedules, too little sleep, quitting Diet Coke cold turkey, quitting smokes cold turkey, buying smokes in Virginia, Maryland, New York, living in New York, working in New York. I suppose I could have brought it full circle, talked about a job as a night watchman in the Museum of Natural History, but I let it slide.

Personally, I’ve wanted a night in a museum since reading From the Mixed-Up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler in 4th Grade, but I am a bit of a freak and as I said, my audience didn’t seem all that receptive.

Hours later, Kayla and I made plans to meet up at the theater. Actually, we made plans to meet up at Urban Outfitters but that’s another story altogether. After a little shopping, a little browsing, a little walking away from things we probably shouldn’t buy ourselves the week before Christmas, we joined the surprisingly short queue at the theater.

Rationalizing to myself, I thought, “It was short notice” and “It’s the week before Christmas; people have shopping and travel and parties. They’re busy.” A little more negatively, I also thought, “They’ve been advertising the hell out of this movie and the line’s ridiculously short at a free screening. This is going to be bad.”

Nevertheless, the seats filled around us. A few minutes before the flick started, a girl with a clipboard came in and announced, “There are still people out here who want to get into the screening. Please move to the center of your rows and if you’re not on the press list, you’re going to need to move out of the first two rows.”

People moved. A little. I got up and moved a seat closer to the center of the screen, next to the family of seven who’d skipped the line and entered before us, aggravating the heck out of me earlier. The lights dimmed. I attacked my bucket o’ popcorn and barrel o' soda. I watched the previews and settled into my seat, expecting very little.

“A bumbling security guard at the Museum of Natural History accidentally lets loose an ancient curse that causes the animals and insects on display to come to life and wreak havoc.” The plot outline on IMDB wasn’t exactly right but close enough.

Special effects slammed together with slapstick comedy and history. Maybe it was a bit cheesy, but I didn’t exactly expect Casablanca, Ben Hur, West Side Story, or pretty much anything else warranting any sort of award short of a Razzie. I was pleasantly surprised by Night at the Museum.

I took it for what it was worth and found the flick to be light, funny, and a tiny (itsy, bitsy, barely mentionably) bit educational (if you really don’t know much about history). Besides, with Dick Van Dyke, Mickey Rooney, Ricky Gervais and Owen Wilson as the supporting cast, how could a movie go wrong?

Don’t answer that.

If nothing else, maybe it will inspire a trip to a local museum.


Tag: Night at the Museum Ben Stiller Movies

Beer

A note on Winter’s Bourbon Cask Ale. I picked it out of the limited selection from the liquor store up the street from my friends’ house/party. It looked festive – a happy little snowman with a coal smile and a frothy pint. Why not?

I should have examined the label more closely: “Ale aged on bourbon barrel oak and vanilla beans” from Anheuser-Busch, Inc, St. Louis, Missouri.

It makes me want to tear my tongue from my mouth.

Screw the snowman. I’m going to gargle.


Tag: Beer Pain Oh, the humanity

Evening commute

Is tonight the longest night of the year? Was it last night? I know today is the shortest day, the winter solstice, and I had a heck of time dragging myself from bed this morning. Fortunately, I reset my clock instead of resetting my alarm, which meant that I got out of bed on time instead of an hour late.

Yesterday, on the train, I read a piece in the Express about people in Sweden trying to beat the winter blues. My Norwegian blood empathizes. As does my workaholic side. I don’t really see the sun between October and March unless I’m running from one meeting to another.

As I left the office last night, as I headed out into the dark, cold night, hours after the sun set, I contemplated a lonely dinner, huddling under a blanket, watching a movie. On the metro, I found a seat – rush hour had long since ended. The rocking lulled my jangled nerves and I shut my eyes. At MacPherson Square, I started. I jumped from my seat, ducked under an arm and between two men, heading for the door.

I didn’t really have a plan. I should have gone home but I cut my journey short and walked toward the White House, determined to take advantage of the long dark night and check out the National Christmas Tree. The National Menorah. The 50-odd trees decorated for each of the states and territories.

I couldn’t find one for DC.

Tourists stopped before me, beside me, behind me on the path. Kids cried and screamed. Parents bribed them into posing for pictures. A quartet sang heavily religious (read: Christian) Christmas songs on a stage near the Nativity and Ye Olde Yule Log burnt my eyes, the smoke clinging to my coat and hair long after I left.

I snapped pictures, including a self portrait in front of the big, tacky tree. I burrowed into my coat and tugged at my skirt, wishing myself a little more covered, a little warmer, a little more at home.

Reviewing and editing pics as I walked, I headed straight for one of the many barriers. Stopping short, I shook my head and twirled, looking for a path, an escape. Eventually, I made it out, walking in a circuitous route and headed to the Metro.

Home again, I warmed slowly. My bones shook their chill. I wrapped the last of the gifts and looked over the pics once more, feeling a little more festive than I had in days and glad for the detour on the commute home.


Tag: Washington DC Christmas National Tree White House Holidays Winter

Relative comfort

When my dad called, said he was coming for a visit, I didn't hesitate.

"Sure. I'll be around," I yelled into the phone. I nodded at a friend walking past. Waved at another. "Hey. I've got to go… I'm standing outside my company Christmas party, but next weekend, right? Let me know if you need a ride from the airport. You're welcome to stay with me… Hi! Yeah… I'll be right in… Okay, Dad. Love you. See you soon."

The conversation may have stretched a tiny bit longer than that, but the whole thing ended within about 3 minutes and 27 seconds, according to T-Mobile. Within a day or so, I talked to my brother.

"Next weekend? Erica's coming to visit and Tim and Beth. We've got a meeting Saturday morning. Why's he coming to visit?"

I talked to my sister.

"Next weekend? We have basketball. I'll have to look at the kids' schedules. I'll get back to you, okay?"

I talked to my dad again; he bought a ticket. We talked about a rental car. We talked about the weekend. I had plans for my friends' party on Friday, hosting book club on Saturday, but I was flexible. The partying friends extended an invite to the parental unit. My book club was as much a group of his peers as mine, but his flight arrived late Friday and he planned to visit my sister's family (read: grandkids) on Saturday and Sunday.

Time flew as I worked late and struggled with the season, with cleaning and shopping, baking and wrapping, living. Friday arrived before I knew it. Smoke at Capitol South stopped the trains and trapped me at my client site. My shared cube and computer were taken. I might have met with clients but after a week of meetings (including seven in one day and a midnight call) I couldn't stand the thought of more talking without working. I went to the grocery store and I went home. I worked for a bit. I cleaned for a bit.

Chatting on the phone, trying to dig a dress out of my overstuffed closet, I knocked over my brand-new, half-assembled dresser, pulling out screws, decompositing the composite board, bending bits that weren't meant to be bent. I muttered a few expletives into the phone, pulled on a dress and pulled back my hair.

"It's not fixable; I'm going to have to put my new dresser on the curb. I have to be at a party in an hour. My dad will be here in three. My apartment's a wreck. I have to go. You're still coming over to play games, right?"

I had plans with my friend and my father to chill around a fire, eat leftover party foods and play some games. We planned to beat him at Desperate Housewives. I knew he'd win at Trivial Pursuit. I tried to eschew thoughts of the hundreds of dollars lying splintered and angry on the floor of my bedroom. I headed out to the party, to the wine store. Halfway between the store and the party, my phone rang.

"I don't want to scare you but I'm here already. I caught an earlier flight."

I looked at the clock. Dumbstruck.

"It will probably be an hour before I get there; do I need to waste some time?"

"No… No. Don't worry about it. I'll be home in an hour."

A phone call to my brother later, I discovered that eight or nine friends were coming over to my place as soon as his girlfriend arrived.

"Okay. I'll pick up some beer. I'm going to the party now. I'll be home in an hour."

In and out of a liquor store. In and out of the party. Gifts for friends. Half a glass of wine and home again where I found people strewn about my living room. Rushing around, I managed to set out a spread of cheeses and fruit, bread and dip, cookies. Wine for all. Beer in the fridge.

My dad arrived. A few more friends. We talked. We laughed. I changed into jeans and my new favorite print T. At some point, someone decided that we needed to go to the bar so we did. We found a bar full of rugby players cum Santas. We snagged a disposable camera, my father, my brother's girlfriend and I. We drank round upon round of beer and shots served by my ex. That was weird and everyone, and I mean everyone, found themselves in their cups, to use my dad's phrase, by the end of the night.

On Saturday, Dad and just about everyone else suffered from hangovers. He powernapped on my couch while I cleaned the apartment and prepped for the next onslaught. The brother and the girl came over for lunch and talked us into a movie. A very long, very powerful, very good movie (despite the reviews).

I walked in the door about 45 minutes before guests arrived for bookclub. My dad grabbed his gear and headed to my sister's. My brother swept my floor in exchange for my Jeep. I chopped and drained, tore and sautéd. I changed from the "I just rolled out of bed and fell into clothes" outfit into something a little more festive.

My guests arrived early. I was unprepared and exhausted. Chopping. Offering drinks. Crying from the onions and the stress. Maybe. Just a little.

In the end, it all worked out, and we enjoyed our (long) holiday celebration. A gift exchange. A fire in the fireplace. I packed up some vegetables for my favorite vegans in the group; they (the vegetables, not the vegans) were not ready any time near dinnertime.

On Sunday, I wanted to die. Instead, I spent the day cleaning. Writing. Shopping with a friend. Kayla left and my dad arrived. My brother met us for dinner and bailed fairly early, leaving me to entertain our easily entertained father. Half a bottle of wine and a movie later, we realized we'd been talking for hours. We finished the wine and another movie, not seeing a bit. I turned in well after one. The alarm sounded at six.

I left work early. I tried not to work at all but I barely made it home before the sun set. I hugged my niece and nephew, bid farewell to my brother-in-law who'd come to town to spend time with my dad but needed to leave before I really got home. We watched a movie. Dinner. I enjoyed a dessert en flambé and we walked down to see the tree, men in dress uniforms with their wives posing for Christmas card pictures before the Capitol. One man laid his capped head on his wife's pregnant belly as she laughed. (I'd like to see that picture.)

We came back and talked for a bit before turning in. I awoke early, panicked about my father's flight and looking for boxes of glassware in my bed. (Who understands dreams?) My dad knocked on the door at four, four thirty, and hugged me good bye as I let him out of the house. I crawled back into bed. When I got up again, I realized I missed him. I wanted to die. I wanted to cry.

I need more sleep but I love my family and I love DC.


Tag: Family Holidays

Just Like Heaven

"I am so sorry that I'm late. I got sucked into that crappy Reese Witherspoon/Marc Ruffalo movie and I couldn't leave," I oozed apologies from halfway down the street. Kayla had obviously had time to wait for me. Buy a cup of tea from Port City Java and wait some more."I don't know what happened. I just couldn't leave."

"I love that movie," she replied, and with that my delinquency was excused.

"I haven't actually seen it but I did get sucked in, and then I remembered the DVR. It's going to record when it plays again in, like, an hour," I admitted.

A while later, after shopping a little, buying Christmas gifts and Kristin gifts and expending holiday party door prize gift certificates, we walked back to my house. I promised to hand over my Mod Podge for some decoupaging madness. My friend came in and sank into the couch while I walked over to closet for crafting supplies.

"Do you have all of your crafting stuff in a bucket?" she asked.

"Most of them; though, there are some rags in here and The Terrible Towel. Oh, and I've got a craft box on the shelves with the stuff I use more regularly."

(Yeah. I know. It's weird. And domestic. And makes me seem a little mom-like or Midwestern or Martha, but I cannot help it. Occasionally, the crafts pop out. Like the time I assembled 17 photo albums for family members after my grandpa died but I ran out of steam so I didn't get one. Neither did my brother or sister.)

I flopped onto the couch beside Kayla and gave some decoupage pointers while flipping through the channels and bringing up the newly recorded crappy Reese Witherspoon/Marc Ruffalo movie.

"Do you want to stay and watch a movie?" I asked.

"I should really go home and put away my groceries," Kayla replied, sinking even deeper in the cushions."Maybe a half hour."

After a bit, I got up and retrieved pretzels and the raspberry wasabi dipping mustard that people keep trying to steal from my house, the mustard that costs eight-dollars a jar, an entire jar of which I can eat in one sitting.

"I have to go home," Kayla protested."You're just trying to get me to stay."

"Coke? Diet Coke? Crystal Light?" I asked. She accepted a glass of Crystal Light, digging into the pretzels.

Later still, I hauled out the cheeses – Irish cheddar, brie, herb-encrusted goat cheese – with crackers. Clementines. A bit of apple.

"I have to go home."

"Uh, huh."

By the time the movie ended, she was still there; though, the mustard was not. As the credits rolled, The Cure's Just Like Heaven blared from the speakers.

You
Soft and only
You
Lost and lonely
You
Strange as angels
Dancing in the deepest oceans
Twisting in the water
You're just like a dream

"Was this in a John Waters movie? Like at the end of Pretty in Pink or something?"

"I don't think so."

I googled. Nothing. She text messaged a friend. Still, nothing. Time passed and we exhausted a number of leads, a number of resources, and discovered that my 16 Candles DVD has escaped its case. (Not that it would have helped because the film preceded the song by about three years but it might have provided inspiration.) The sun set and her groceries stayed in their bags on her floor just a few blocks away.

"Blog about it. Maybe someone will know the answer."

"I will," I replied and continued to search. Fruitlessly.

Does anyone know? Was Just Like Heaven ever featured in a John Water's film? Save me from a lifetime of wondering and wandering, of searching for the answer.

Tag: Just Like Heaven The Cure Mustard

The chair

“The land of the big furniture.” That’s what I call my living room. Big couch, huge ottoman, chair built for two.

I bought the set years ago. I found them for my first real grownup apartment with Dr. Kris; they actually looked normal in our sprawling suburban living room. The couch was long enough from my big little brother and folded out to provide room for infrequent overnight guests.

When we moved from one suburban dwelling to another, when Dr. Kris bought a house, there was so much room that she bought her own big couch, huge ottoman, chair built for two and the first set resided comfortably alongside the second in our giant living room.

After years of cohabitation, I found a place in the city. Chose a new life close to the metro and close to the market. Close to bars.

I picked my apartment based on location and price, the extra bedroom and the black- and-white-tiled floors. I didn’t think I’d mind being the girl under the stairs and while I found my new place full of crickets, I also found it full of light. I packed up my boxes and hired movers. I didn’t think about the feasibility of actually getting the big furniture through the front door.

The treadmill caused a problem, as did the desk, but nothing stalled the movers as much as the sofa. They spent an hour trying to make it fit and eventually, through the will of God or some well-applied physics, I found the couch in my living room, in the land of the big furniture, where it truly felt big.

Sometime later, after the movers left, after I started arranging my furniture, I realized the limitations of my new space.

I only have three corners, three uninterrupted corners, in the entire place. Doors and windows and strange little cutouts. The beds can only go in one place and couldn’t change bedrooms if I wanted. The door in the guestroom bangs against the dresser, and I have to keep my glassware on a shelf outside the kitchen.

It’s okay. I’ve gotten used to it. Helpful friends and family try to offer alternate solutions on occasion but generally throw up their hands in futility. There isn’t another option. I don’t know where my chi flows but things have to stay where they are.

The chair, the big chair, the chair and a half, built for two, has to live in the alcove by the door.

The chair is probably my favorite piece of furniture, nestled under the windows, next to the fireplace. Covered in mink-colored microfiber, it’s velvety and warm. A security blanked and a ratty old bear. The seat’s been marked, burned by the converter on a laptop cord. The pillows seem to multiply when nobody’s looking. The seat is wide enough for two, if they are comfortable cuddling, and it’s just as deep as it is wide.

During parties, couples sit together, friends, lovers. At least one friend spent a night pressed against the man who would eventually become her boyfriend and one of the great loves of her life.

A few of my friends know it as "Taylor’s Chair." He arrived early to half a dozen parties and claimed the seat, calling on others to deliver his beer, not getting up until late in the night after the four or five or six on the couch settled into each other.

Earlier this weekend, with my dad on the couch, I slung myself in the chair. I draped my legs over the arm, placed my head on a pillow, and curled up to watch Esther Williams swim her way to love.

With book club approaching, I worried a little I prepared to host the lovely group of grownups. I know my connection to the group, Eclectic Blue, but I don’t know hers. We’re a random selection of backgrounds and reading tastes. We each bring a dish and a copy of the book. Some of us finish, others don’t. The host gets to pick the book and I selfishly picked Snow, a book by Nobel prize winner Orhan Pamuk set in and about Turkey, a book that colored my experience in a colorful country.

I couldn’t imagine anyone in the group thrown casually in the chair, pressed up against each other. The couch wouldn’t hold more than two or three with space in between. I couldn’t imagine what they’d think of my folding chairs, additional seating on the hearth, the arm of a chair, teetering a stool.

Actually, I couldn’t imagine what they’d think of the voodoo doll on the ottoman, the paper chain draped from the shelves and the collections of cameras, sunglasses and Nancy Drew mysteries resting side by side. But it all seemed to work.

No two could move at the same time, but we took turns. People perched precariously on their high narrow stools, on the bricks of the hearth, on folding chairs dragged around the room. Three made their way to the couch and one to the chair, my chair, sprawled comfortably in the alcove under the windows, next to the fireplace, near the door. My chair served us well. The whole apartment did, for a night at least.

The Pursuit of Happyness

We hold these truths to be self-evident: that all men are created equal, that they are endowed, by their Creator, with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Happiness.

Big stuff for one little piece of paper: God-given rights. Not to be separated, given away, or taken away. Equality. Life. Freedom. Happiness.

Strike that. Happiness itself doesn’t show up on the list.

pur•suit [per-soot]
an effort to secure or attain; quest: the pursuit of happiness

Nobody said we get to be happy, just that we have the right to try, that everyone gets to try. Some of us might find it. Some of us might fail. Miserably. For the most part, though, we find ourselves somewhere in the middle.

Will Smith ponders the issue in his latest role as a single father struggling to make a better life for himself and his son in The Pursuit of Happyness. The fact that the son was played by his real-life progeny, Jaden Christopher Syre Smith, only made the film all the more stirring.

We’ve all seen Chris Gardner on Oprah; we know how the story ends. As John Lennon so eloquently stated, life’s a journey, not a destination. The Pursuit of Happyness makes the trip worthwhile. It’s heart-warming and inspirational and features an oh-so-adorable child with his oh-so-adorable papa.

The bond between father and son, the love, wasn’t the product of powerful acting, trick lighting, snappy cinematography. It was real, deep, clear, and the movie was all the stronger for it. But emotion didn’t get in the way. The story wasn’t wrapped in gooey sentimentality and tied up with heartstrings. No rainbows. No unicorns. Life was not all sunshine and sausages, and Chris Gardner wasn't always nice or happy. He was more of a father than a friend to his son.

Though, truth be told, it wasn't always serious. There were some funny bits. Some sad bits. Some cuteness. (Jaden’s just so friggin’ adorable.)

I joined two friends for the screening, arriving early and still finding myself at the end of a very long line. Something about the movie appealed to people, even more than free movies generally did. Will Smith, and his son, the American dream, family.

One of my friends excused herself before the show; she returned with a handful of toilet tissue.

“I have the feeling I’m going to cry.”

Surprisingly enough, she didn’t. None of us did (until the end of the film). It didn’t jerk the tears. It didn’t prey on emotions. It told a powerful story and one well told and well-worth telling.

Tag: Pursuit of Happyness Will Smith Jaden Smith

Running faster

I have a new laptop. It makes me run faster and jump higher. I feel like a superhero, with my fingers flying faster than the speed of sound. Well, maybe not. Maybe a little slower than the speed of thought, but if I were using the old model, I’d still be booting up.

It’s a work computer. One of three or four that I have at the moment. Two towers. My own server. A shared computer at the client site. My own external hard drive (and I really need another one of those) and the laptop. I want to buy myself a Mac but I can’t justify it given all this hardware. I’m not even technical.

The old laptop had been mine for five years, and I was the second owner. I wasn’t the best of owners, lugging it from work to home and home to work daily. Funny little spots appeared on the display. The left corner cracked all the way through. A bowl of soup found its way to the keyboard, shorting out the machine and making it really, really smelly for a while.

Autumn Minestrone (courtesy of the Moosewood Collective)
2 tablespoons canola or other vegetable oil
1 cup chopped onions
2 garlic cloves, minced or pressed
2 1/2 cups peeled and cubed winter squash*
2 celery stalks, diced
1/2 cup peeled and diced carrots
2 1/2 cups cubed potatoes
1 teaspoon dried oregano
2 teaspoons salt
1/2 teaspoon ground black pepper
6 cups water
4 cups chopped kale
1 1/2 cups cooked or canned cannellini beans (15-ounce can, drained)

*We recommend a firm, rich winter squash, such as acorn, delicata, or buttercup.

Warm the oil in a large soup pot on medium heat. Add the onions and garlic, and sauté for 5 minutes. Add the squash, celery, carrots, potatoes, oregano, salt, pepper, and water and cook for 10 minutes or until the potatoes are almost done. Add the kale and beans and simmer for another 5 to 7 minutes, until the kale is tender and the beans are hot.
Serve immediately.

Total Time: 45 minutes

At one point, it was my only work machine but with only a handful of gigs in terms of memory and some 150mb files, the IT guy gained a little respect for me and started moving some money my way. I just got a copy of SQL Server to help with some of my storage issues and I’m taking a developing class in January. I hope that somebody helps with the database design – I’ve started dreaming of snowflake and star schemas and I’m the girl with a journalism degree.

I might have picked another machine if I were buying my own. Something with bells and whistles. Something more geared toward the graphic intense applications I so love. (The old laptop quit, just quit, no blue screen, no warning, just a restart whenever I used Photoshop and PageMaker or Publisher simultaneously.) Of course, I probably don’t need anything graphic-intensive. Financial analyst. Me. Remember?

I’m the one who forgets.

I like to fancy myself a writer, a photographer. I used to create a family newsletter in PageMaker, no less. I’ve shot a number of weddings, engagement parties, a bar mitzvah, and created videos or slide shows of each as well as the videos of random road trips, vacations, turtles knocking… shells.

I think I just talked myself into the Mac.

In the meantime, until the after-Christmas sales, I will enjoy the new laptop. After all, it makes me run faster and jump higher. It makes me type faster than the speed of sound.


Tag: Soup Computers Technology

Perfect little cube

Here I sit, in my office, at 10:40 p.m. struggling to find words and guzzling Diet Coke like it's my job and not just provided by my job. I did go home for a little while, fall asleep on my couch and wish myself to bed, but I'm back now. Here I sit, in my office, at 10:40 p.m.

I've got a call at midnight. We're calling Amsterdam. Talking to Thailand. New Zealand. Australia. Actually, I don't plan on talking to anyone, just listening and taking notes so that I can talk to people at 8 a.m. and participate in another call at 9 a.m.

It doesn't happen very often. Actually, this is probably only the fourth or fifth night I've found myself in the office at midnight in the past five years but it may start happening a little more frequently as I find myself working on an international benchmarking team. It's wonderful and exciting and oh-so-tiring. It's not like I have short days when I work only days, this whole night thing adds a new element.

Friends have told me to quit my job. I don't think I'm allowed to complain anymore, so I have started working on "smile therapy." I find myself grinning like a madwoman and biting my tongue. When people ask me how I am, I reply, "I'm losing it. I can barely keep my head out of the water, but that's neither here nor there. How are you?"

Such is life. It is my responsibility to figure out if I'm happy in my job and if I'm not happy, to figure out how to make it better. Just because I vent on occasion, I don't really want to quit. I like what I do – the challenges, the respect. I just need to vent.

The other night, after work, after a movie, I went home and crashed. I meant to crawl into bed, but instead, I found myself working a Rubik's Cube, trying to get it back to good. I used to be able to do it. I used to be able to do it fast. Well, relatively fast.

My nephew would mess it up and I would fix it. A couple of years ago, it was one of his favorite games and it kept me sharp. Eventually, he tired of the game or I tired of the game and the cube made it to a shelf higher than he could reach. Red with red. Blue with blue. Green with green. A perfect little cube of perfectly matched colors.

Until Saturday.

Sometime mid-evening, after I fell down the stairs and before I looked "either really, really stoned or really, really tired," someone handed me the cube. Someone had "messed it up" and couldn't fix it. I took the cube, twisted it a few times and realized that it wasn't very social and I wasn't quite sober enough to get it back to good.

"That's okay. I'll fix it tomorrow. Just leave it."

My friend took the cube and continued to worry the sides. It floated through the group. At one point, I heard a man say, "Just take off the stickers. That's how I used to do it as a kid."

"No," I replied. "Seriously. Leave it. I'll fix it tomorrow. Do NOT take off the stickers."

I heard more talk of cheating, of sticker removal, of popping out the pieces and reassembling the cube.

"No. Seriously. Leave it. I'll fix it tomorrow. Do NOT take off the stickers."

On Sunday, I could barely move. I got up. I cleaned. I realized that I could barely bend my knees, walk, stand, function, after falling down most of a flight of concrete steps. I crashed on the couch and napped a little. I forgot about the cube until late Monday night, when I should have been in bed.

I found myself in the big chair in the living room, smoothing down the curled corners (someone did try to remove the stickers) and working the sides.

"Who messes up someone else's Rubik's Cube?" I grumbled. "Who picks at the corners on someone else's toy? Who cheats on another person's Rubik's Cube?"

I didn't get very far; I had forgotten a lot. I carried the cube to bed and worried the pieces until I fell asleep. I arose the next morning and worked it a little more. Suddenly, moves and methodology started to return to me. I managed to finish three sides before work (and seriously thought about taking it on the train).

Tuesday night, after work, I picked it up again and started twisting. After an hour, an hour and a half, it all clicked into place, slid into place. Red with red. Blue with blue. Green with green. I figured it out. I made order of disorder. I made sense of one small cube in a complicated world. It made me happy. It probably made me happier than I'd been if nobody messed it up.

Some of us, we leave things on the shelf. Some mess things up and hand them to someone else to fix. Others peel off the stickers or break apart the pieces.

I like a challenge.



Tag: Rubik's Cube Challenge Work

Christmas creativity

I planned to be creative, write a party post inspired by the 12 Days of Christmas, and wow the masses with my originality and verbal acrobatics. I planned to play with words, to twist and jump and inspire thoughts of Christmas and friendly get-togethers. Inside my head, it was going to be great. Inside my head, where all things are great.

When time came to commit thought to paper, to verbalize my idea, I found myself stumped, scribbling a list of numbers and related events.

1 clogged toilet
2 bloody knees
3 broken items
4 (am) closing time
5 types of dip
6 packs of beer

I skipped 7, 8, 9, thinking, "I'll come back to those."

10 bottles of champagne
11 pics of Denise
12 packs of beer

I didn't much like the list before me. I didn't like counting beer twice; though, there was enough that I could certainly double- or triple-count it. I thought maybe something about getting up at 9, after 5 hours sleep, to clean. Needing a nap by noon. Getting up 12 hours before my brother on the day of the party.

So many numbers-oriented things, but I couldn't get the post to gel, much like the Jell-O™ shots (3 flavors of those) that filled our bellies, clouded our heads and forced at least 1 person to wish himself dead by Sunday afternoon. (Special thanks to 123Valerie for 1) green apple, 2) sugar-free cherry and 3) something red and vodka-flavored.)

I actually ended up wearing the vodka-flavored Jell-O™ early in the night, having fallen down my steps, leading to 2 bloody knees and 1 banged up Kristin but surprisingly enough, not leading to any of the broken items despite the fact that I 1) carried a glass of wine, 2) fell down concrete steps and 3) landed on bottles of beer and champagne.

Shortly after the fall, I realized my skirt was wet (vodka) and lifted the hem to discover a mess of scrapes and bruises on both knees. Ings made me find some Neosporin™ and I went to the bathroom to peel off my nylons, tape up my knees and return to my deadly, high-heeled, knee-highed, scratched-up boots. I attempted to forget about the pain and poured more champagne in a pitcher of cranberries and juice.

And with that, the 12 Days of Christmas fades from mind. How could I enumerate the dozens of glasses filled with hundreds of cranberries that littered my living room Sunday morning? The bottles of beer, the beer caps that I continue to find days later? The times I've swept my floor? Too many to count, all of them, and incredibly boring as far as party details go.

I could focus on the logs of wood that we burned, the sticks Kimberlicious and Busta found for roasting marshmallows, the dozens of friends, the gifts exchanged, the bottles brought and shared, the smiles, the hugs, the number of times we played my new Sub Pop interactive CD. I could count the songs strummed and sung and completely made up by my brother, my friends. I could count those who contributed food, wine, time to make the party a success, but then, I run out of days, numbers, and end up counting them over and over and over again.

Weeks ago, while traveling through Turkey, I decided to host a holiday party. I mentioned it to a friend or two or five. I looked at dates. I sent out an eVite. Friends invited friends and the ranks swelled.

Stressed beyond tears, I struggled to find time to clean, shop, bake, wrap for the event. On Saturday morning, I arose early. I made brownies and cookies by 6, to the post office by 8 and the bank by 9. I'd washed all of my laundry by 11, shopped by noon and started assembling furniture at 3. Off to Second Saturday and a Christmas party at the book store by 6, with the rock star Kimberlicious, helping set up.

Eventually, I just let go and enjoyed myself. A happy holiday, indeed. At some point, I might even find 12 drummers drumming, 11 pipers piping, 10 lords a-leaping, 9 ladies dancing, 8 maids a-milking, 7 swans a-swimming, 6 geese a-laying, 5 golden rings, 4 calling birds, 3 French hens, 2 turtle doves, and a partridge in a pear tree. Or some combination of events that feel more real.

Maybe I can even work in the X-rated fortune cookies and a poisonous platter, the Joy of Sex and six bendy dolls. Four types of cheese, three types of cookies, two stockings, hung by the chimney with care, and 1 happy Kristin.

Tag: Christmas Holiday Party