Tuesday, February 28, 2006

Not quite "Sideways" Part II, or Velkommen!

Miss Part 1? Catch up here. Otherwise,

According to the tourist maps, most of the local wineries closed for the day at 5, but a handful generously stayed open til 6. At 4:32 we were back on the road, headed three miles south to a small block in Solvang that housed at least three we hoped to hit before close. My research on the Danish town had produced mixed reviews: the tourism boards painted it as "charming" and "quaint" while the trip advisor boards warned it was "only worth going to for the pastries." Always the jaded skeptic, I expected to agree with the advisor boards, but I - and my friends - were more than pleasantly surprised, and all but fell in love at first sight.

Block after block featured restaurants, gift shops, tasting rooms, and even regular old municipal buildings like the post office all seemingly plucked from the pages of Hansel and Gretel. Well, maybe not that story exactly - I didn't see any gingerbread colonials or gumdrop awnings - but there was an entire museum dedicated to Hans Christian Andersen. In my research I learned that "Solvang" is Dutch for "sunny field" and as we arrived with the late afternoon sun setting behind the nearby hills, I couldn't think of a more appropriate name for a such a beautiful, yet common and friendly area.

We hit Royal Oaks Winery first, because it was said to close at 5:30. Small and unassuming in the middle of a short block, this turned out to be the best find of the entire trip. For $5 we tasted six wines, and because it was otherwise empty, we got to talk in length with the pourer/manager. Turns out, he was also the official consultant for Sideways and freely dished with us about the movies' stars and some of the behind-the-scenes gossip. I asked for, and got, his autograph because a.) I am a huge dork that likes to embarrass my friends, and b.) hoped to butter him up just enough to keep his pouring hand heavy. It worked. I bought a few bottles, and if I like them just as much here, I plan on signing up for the wine club which will ship my favorites a few times a year for a discount, and give me other perks should I return, which I intend to do.

From there we headed around the block to Presidio, which officially stayed open til 6 but didn't actually close it's doors until long after. Unlike the intimate atmosphere of Royal Oaks, Presidio was crowded with rowdy winos elbowing their way up to the bar for the afternoon's tasting. That may have impeded my enjoyment, but I also personally wasn't a fan of any of the wines I tasted - they were all too sweet - and so we headed out to a third tasting room we heard was open until 10. Party on, Hans!

Our third destination was located in a cellar and named accordingly, but perhaps not surprisingly, I don't remember its proper name. More like a neighborhood bar than a wine tasting room, the place was large and empty except for a handful of people sitting at the bar. We pulled up stools as well (so nice to sit down, finally!) and were presented with three tasting menus - one wine, one beer, one champagne. One fabulous place, I'll say! Tiring of wine, and too full for beer, I chose the champagne menu. Seated and comfortable(ly numb), we leisured over our drinks, trading sips of strawberry flavored sparkling wine for banana flavored amber beer until we decided that maybe some real food was in order.

It was only 7:30, but I could have gone to bed happy with only my liquid diet. Since my friends are often smarter than me, they insisted that we eat, so we walked down the block to Meadows, and enjoyed a lovely, if heavy, evening meal. Stuffed and finally satisfied that we had packed enough fun into one day, we finished at 9PM and, like the Golden Girls, headed back to the hotel for an early retirement.

To be continued...



Monday, February 27, 2006

Not quite what they meant by "Sideways"

So, where to begin? It was quite the weekend. Almost perfect. But you know what happens when I say things are perfect.

Thursday was a glorious day. I took off from work and had until mid-afternoon to clean the apartment, do my laundry, and basically relax until picking Kristin up from the airport at 3:00. I've seen Kris fairly often since the move but this weekend would be the most time we've spent together since she visited over Memorial Day, and I was so looking forward to the chance to really catch up. Her flight landed on time, and we spent the afternoon primping and the evening dining before picking up our other friend Heather from LAX. Like Kris, I've seen Heather a number of times this year but this weekend was to be a long-overdue and welcome chance to really catch up. I've been friends with both girls for about 10 years now - first as lowly freshman, then as fellow sorority sisters, and ultimately as comrades on the mean streets of NYC.

Heather arrived on time as well, and because their internal clocks were still set to EST, we all went to bed early. And why not? It was like Christmas Eve - the sooner we go to sleep, the sooner we can wake up and the real fun begins!

The real fun did begin early the next morning, as we all had spa appointments at 10 AM. It was another gorgeous day, and we rode with the sun roof open to Kinara. I guess I've come to take the weather for granted (just a little bit, I swear!) because I thought it was quaint how often Kris would comment on how wonderful it was. It is wonderful. I was surprised at how jaded and expectant of it I've seemingly already become. Shame on me. We ate lunch at the spa's outdoor cafe, and then came back, packed up the car, and set off on our road trip.

I haven't gone on a road trip in years - at least not one where I'm the driver. I kept thinking that it felt like going to a fraternity formal - minus our dates. We were headed up to Santa Ynez, which is 130 miles north of Los Angeles and about 25 miles north of Santa Barbara. With no traffic, the ride should only take about 2 hours, and because we left early enough, it actually did. For once, though, I might not have minded some traffic, as the scenery was so beautiful and legitimately breathtaking, a traffic jam might have allowed me just enough time to snap some pictures out the sun roof.

The first half hour was standard freeway through the valley and up into the Santa Monica Mountains; then, we turned a corner and the road opened up, exposing a radiant blue ocean to the left and lush green peaks and valleys to the right. I've never seen anything like it. Sure, I've seen mountains, and I've seen oceans, and since moving to LA I've even seen them in the same view; but never for so long, teasing, tempting us with their rare, smog-free beauty. The open road rolled along just like that for nearly the remainder of the ride, until finally we closed in on the inland valley that was to provide for us for the next two days and nights. We pulled up to the Marriott, checked into our suite (yes, suite - sometimes I pretend I'm a rock star) and pulled out the map to see how many wineries we could hit before sundown.

To be continued...



Sunday, February 26, 2006

Girls Weekend: A Photo Recap

Started on Friday in the Danish town of Solvang...



Hit three local wineries before retiring for the night at the embarrassingly early hour of 9:30 PM



Ten hours of sleep later we awoke early on Saturday to enjoy a hearty breakfast



that would surely line our stomachs for a big day of wine tasting



Grapes were aplenty, and the scenery, breathtaking






I'll fill in the blanks tomorrow.

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Wednesday, February 22, 2006

MySpace is the new Blog

To the five people who read this: I'm sorry, I feel like I have been cheating on you. No, I haven't started another blog; but I have gotten sucked in to MySpace, and am spending nearly all of my free time online searching for - and often connecting with - old friends. And boy is it fun.

So far I have found a friend from HS and NYC that now lives in LA, an old sorority sister found me, and two other random friends signed up within a few days of my own initiation. Instead of spending my nights blog-surfing, taking mental notes on sentence structure, tone, and overall voice, I'm checking out old flames to see how they've aged - or not. It's a virtual homecoming on there, and I'm running for queen. Or at least the drunk girl behind the bleachers.

This behavior is fairly typical of me: I discover something new, get completely manic for a short time, overdose on my own excitement, and burn out before the average person could have even built momentum. So it's fair to say you will have my full attention within another week or so. But in the meantime, I have some college boyfriends to track down.



Tuesday, February 21, 2006

If anyone orders Merlot, I'm leaving

I sit here on a Tuesday night with the eagerness and anticipation usually reserved for the weekend. That's because tomorrow (Wednesday) is my last day of work for the week and on Thursday, Kristin and Greaux are flying in for a girls weekend in wine country. YAY!

They each fly in on Thursday afternoon/evening. Friday morning we are booked for spa treatments at Kinara, where we will beautify and rejuvenate before driving 130 miles north to Santa Ynez. Have you seen Sideways? Because that's where the movie was filmed. Let me know if you'd like a token Sideways Map for posterity. Our trip will be just like that movie minus the angst, bitterness, self-loathing, and meaningless drunken sex. I hope.

Saturday we will enjoy a five hour Back Country Wine Tour in the comforts - or something - of a guided open air Jeep. Saturday night we will probably hit the cheesy casino five miles down the road and hit on innocent young fraternity boys from UCSB. I'm going to bring my 10-year old college ID in the hopes that I qualify for a student discount at the slots. Just hope they don't ask for backup.

Sunday we drive back and I drop my NYC friends at the airport. Prepare for a long blog and lots of pictures to be posted next week. I can't promise, though, that I'll remember where they were taken.



Sunday, February 19, 2006

This week in history

Yesterday I celebrated 11 months of living in LA (celebrated meaning I thought to myself, "ooh, I have a good blog topic for tomorrrow!") Feeling nostalgic, I re-read some old blog entries, and realized that this week also marked a.) the first time I came to LA, and b.) the last time I came to LA before the move.

You can read about my first trip here. Clearly, I was hooked from practically the moment the plane landed and the cab left the airport. One fun thing I left out of that story: While I waited for Ryan to pick me up from the hotel, I stood outside with Kim Cattrall, who looked fantastic. I stared in that star-struck way you're never supposed to.

My last trip-as-visitor is here (warning: it's long). Reading back, I am awfully proud of myself that I flew out here, rented a car when I hadn't driven in six years, drove it in - not only an area that was completely unfamiliar - but what I now know is one of the most insane driving cities in the country, navigated my way through one end of the city to the other (no exaggeration), and performed like a professional at two job interviews. All in 24 hours. You also have to realize that as a New Yorker, I never even drove myself to or from an airport, so I knew nothing about what to do at the gate if not hop in a cab.

What's funny, reading this now, is how close much of what I wrote about was to where I am living now. That part where I got off the wrong exit - that's my exit, and yes, it is still confusing even though I do it all the time. The Westside Pavillion - down the street. I can walk there (not that I do - we don't walk in LA). The area where I was driving in circles by the hotel - that was where Wilshire meets Little Santa Monica and then regular Santa Monica, which, by all standards, is completely nonsensical.

In hindsight, I think it was one of those things where I was just too stupid to be afraid, and by the time I realized what I had done it was all over. Thank god, because if I really had stopped to think about it, I don't know that I would have gone through with it. (Okay, yes I would.)

It was also this weekend last year that Rebecca told me she was pregnant, that I bought my favorite spring flats that I've since worn to death and lavender bag that I still carry every day. I feel like I should do something more monumental to mark this important week than sitting in my apartment, but my plans for the day don't include much more than hitting the gym and going food shopping. I guess next year at this time I will have to find something else to write about.

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Saturday, February 18, 2006

Warning: Spoiled Brat Blogging

The forecast for this weekend was rain, winds, and more rain, and uncharacteristically, I was looking forward to it. After a series (okay, almost a year) of near-perfect weekend weather, I've discovered that along with the temperate LA climate comes a tremendous pressure to go out and enjoy it. I would feel way too guilty wasting a beautiful weekend lazing on the couch, curled up in a blanket watching a reality show marathon. No, the weekends are typically too nice to not go out and take advantage.

So I was really looking forward to two days of gray. I have a stack of juicy magazines to read, the full first season of Lost on DVD, and an apartment that needs a good clean. Of course, then, it happens to a beautiful sunny day in the high 60's.

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Thursday, February 16, 2006

Vote Jan Brady: Most Popular Girl

So, it seems everywhere I turn lately my ears have been inundated with talk of MySpace. "So, I met this girl on My Space and we got totally wasted." "So, I connected with my sixth grade boyfriend on MySpace and he's still just as cute!" "So, I couldn't do any work today because I was obsessed with updating my MySpace profile.".

What started a few years ago first as a way for indie bands to promote themselves, and then as a younger, hipper alternative to Friendster, has in recent months become an all-out nationwide phenomenon. More fun than a dating site, more interactive than email, MySpace is like the modern day equivalent of my college Greek system. Users are known not so much for their individuality, but instead by with whom they associate, and the main objective it seems is to find (or be) the life of the party. Isn't that really all I've ever wanted?

Typically slow to the party, though, I never had much interest in creating my own profile, until over the last few weeks it seemed a day could not go by when those two little words didn't whisper themselves in my ear or flash themselves to me on a page. Rupert Murdoch purchased it in July, lending, if not nothing else, constant buzz and speculation on its future; and, Vanity Fair just dedicated 5 long pages to it (yes, in addition to looking at Tom Ford's dirty pictures I did actually read the articles). Seemingly everyone I know is on it. Or so I thought.

I spent last night creating my page, enjoying mixing the perfect personality profile of equal parts sarcasm and sweetness, heavy on the sarcasm. Browsing (okay - snooping and stalking) was fun too, for a while, until I realized that among the 56 million users, I actually knew very few. One of the integral parts of this entire process is having friends under your space that look attractive and say nice things about you. Some people have 10 friends, other 100, others 500. At press time, I have 2. Turns out, most of the times I heard about MySpace were by people I didn't actually know. At least not well. And therefore probably wouldn't have many nice things to say about me.

So, I beg of anyone having a slow day at work on Friday or time over to the weekend to create a MySpace profile and be my friend. Say something nice. Or just look good. Anything to make me look cool. I'll give you good blog.

Update: I love Gawker. Also, I'm up to 8 friends now! Come on, don't be last on the bandwagon.



Tuesday, February 14, 2006

A Valentine Story

Well, my first Valentine's Day in LA was much better than the last three or four I had in New York, even though I'm just as alone. I think it's partly due to the fact that mentally, I'm in a better place, but also physically, I'm not sharing the sidewalks with a city that's shoving their happy holiday down my throat. One thorny rose at a time.

Because I believe in karma, I'm convinced the reason I always seem to be single this time of year is because I surpassed my Valentine's Day date quota a long time ago. From the time I was 17 up until I was 23, I just about always had a Valentine. And that last year? I had two suitors! You do the math. (Please, do the math - tell my right brain how many more years I have to suffer alone.)

Back in February of 1999, I was nine months out of college, six months into Manhattan, and six weeks into a budding office romance. Because Copywriter was a good deal older than me (if you don't already know, you don't want to), we still spent our weekends apart - him sharing civilized dinners with his married friends, me sharing fishbowls at Brother Jimmy's with boys my own age. That's pretty much how I came to date Paul. What can I say- when it rains men, it pours romance.

Copywriter was warm, witty, and way more into me than I knew at the time. Paul was nice, attractive, and rather vanilla, but fun enough to hold onto for a little while, since the office thing would surely never go anywhere. I was flattered when Copywriter asked me for Valentine's Day plans a week in advance; but, since he was spending most of that week on a business trip in LA, I saw nothing wrong with a midweek date with Paul in his absence.

On Thursday, Paul came by to pick me up, but before we left he needed to make a phone call. I left him the privacy of my bedroom, and as I walked toward the living room, our buzzer rang. It was a flower delivery for me.

As I waited for the elevator to deliver my gift, my emotions rollercoasted from thrilled (ooh, flowers!) to impressed (what timing he has!) to doubt (what if they're not from him?) to sheer panic (WHAT IF THEY'RE NOT FROM HIM?).

Before I could do anything intelligent, thirteen (one for good luck) red roses walked through my door well before the person delivering them. They were huge and beautiful and tied with a red silk ribbon, and of course, they were not from Paul. Who was in my room, 15 feet away, seconds from finding out I had a second suitor.

I glanced at the card only long enough to see the sender's initial, and stage-whispered a plea to roommate Ryan from across the room, "Quick, hide these!" In a scene more likely ripped from the script of a bad sitcom, I practically threw the roses to Ryan who then stuck them behind the door of his bedroom just as Paul opened the door of mine, having just hung up from his phone call.

"Are you ready?" he chirped unsuspectingly. Sighing with relief, I swallowed my guilt and continued with the date, silently laughing to myself at the absurdity of it all. Who AM I and how did I get to this bizarre place? It wasn't so funny later that night when Paul asked me for plans on the big day and I had to tell him I was otherwise engaged.

As if that wasn't the worst of it, the next day, another 13 red roses arrived to my attention, this time from Paul. I surmised that he called the florist from my apartment, the address still fresh in his head, so like a gentleman, who wouldn't have to give away his intentions by asking me for the apartment number.

By the time Copywriter came home for our Valentine's Day date, it was over with Paul, but the start of something better. I had 26 red roses in my bedroom and 14 months ahead of me with - as his card read - the guy who puts the "man" in "interoffice romance".



Sunday, February 12, 2006

One fine day

God sometimes has a funny sense of humor. On the day that New York and Boston got hit with record-setting snowfall, I sat at the beach basking in the 86 degree heat. Here in southern California, it was pretty much a perfect day.

Actually, I take that back for two reasons. One, I stopped using the term, "perfect day" years ago when I realized that it was yet another jinx: every time I thought I had one, something disasterous would happen to ruin it. My first "perfect day" was in college, the last Friday in March of my senior year, when a gloriously sunny and optomistic day ended with the news of my grandmother's fatal heart attack. The next was two years after college, when I arrived home from an exhilarating run through the early fall foliage in Central Park to have Kris tell me she was moving out to save money for law school. The last time I allowed myself to consider a day perfect was September 11, 2001. That morning, you may recall from the photos, was sunny and clear, temperatures were summerlike in the 70's. I walked to work still drunk from the Fashion Week party I attended the night before, high on the excitement of my own self-importance and the fact that I was wearing a "skinny outfit" that day. At 25, I had the world at my fingertips. Little did I know how much that world would change in less than an hour, so far from the perfect day.

The second reason I can't consider today perfect was because apparently everyone in LA went to bask in the same beach sun, and traffic was backed up for blocks as cars and pedestrians fought a slow race to be by the sea. It took me 20 minutes to make my way from the 4th street exit to Ocean (only 4 blocks) and then at least another 20 to get to my favorite lot, away from the Pier. Usually when I go down to the beach to run, I'll park by a meter or a short term lot, which charges $1/hour, two hours max. But this time, my lot was packed, as were all the metered spots as far as I could see. By the time I got out, navigated my way through traffic again, and turned around, I decided to just park in the $6 all-day lot, for fear the sun would be setting before I ever got to enjoy it.

As it turned out, I wished I had planned for more than a run - it was warm enough to spend time at the shore doing more than just exercising. The sand was packed with volleyball players, sunbathers, even swimmers. The bike and pedestrian paths bustled with riders, rollerbladers, runners, and walkers. Among the bike riders were Governator Arnold Schwarzenegger and wife Maria Shriver, out among the commoners, who leisurely pedaled by me no doubt enjoying the near-perfect day.

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Friday, February 10, 2006

I heart mix tapes 4-eva

Growing up an only child, I typically had a lot of time on my hands. When I wasn't watching General Hospital or performing one-act plays in my bedroom, I often made mix tapes of my favorite songs from the radio. Before I had a stereo system that allowed me to record directly from the station on the same instrument, I'd spend hours waiting by the radio for a good song to come on, and then feverishly push "record" on the other machine. (Often times that would result in the song starting somewhere in the second verse, or ending somewhere in the second verse of the next song which I didn't want but forgot was recording. ADD, much?)

Anyway, Adrants made my morning with this little item that let me put off doing actual work for an hour or so. Sadly, I still don't know what company it is promoting because I stopped reading the copy as soon as I saw the song list (again, ADD), but now I have four friends that want me to be their Valentine. Try it, you'll like it.



Wednesday, February 08, 2006

Tom Ford, will you be my Valentine?

There are girl crushes and there are man crushes, but I'm a straight girl with a gay man crush; and the object of my affection is Tom Ford.

I was too young/poor/down-to-earth to appreciate what he did for Gucci and YSL back in the 90's; even if I had worked in fashion back then, I couldn't have afforded anything beyond the palm-sized evening wallet I bought to flash at bartenders, in hopes that the red interlocking G's would inspire quicker service or an extra shot in my drink.

These days I still can't afford much more than the wallet, but he's stepped down to my level (in affordability, not talent) and I'm putty at his master fingertips. He has an uncanny ability to transform things I would otherwise not look twice at, not want to be in the same room with, and inspire every ounce of warmth and desire my jaded heart can muster from it's cold, dark chamber of bitterness.

Exhibit A: Vanity Fair, March 2006. Have you SEEN it? I have two copies. I almost burned one after feeling too dirty for reading it. But it's THAT GOOD. The point here (because I'm realizing I'm taking my own sweet time to get there) is that I typically hate Vanity Fair. Well, I don't hate it - it's probably just a bit too highbrow for me, but it's never been on my reading list. And read it I still may not. But soak in the pictures, envy the styling, admire the art and creative direction the Putty Master puts forth? That I will do. That I will probably do beyond reason, tearing out the glossy celebrity photos from the extra-thick binding, laying them out across my floor to look at side by side, only stopping short of tacking them on my wall like a crop of Teen Beat posters circa 1985.

Exhibit B: Youth Dew Amber Nude. I love perfume, most perfumes; I'm not that picky and really just like to smell good. But I should be at least a decade away from buying any perfumes with Estee Lauder in the name. Auntie Estee, you've built up a great business, own half of the beauty industry, and no one even remembers Helena Rubenstein anymore - I'll see you in ten years when I stop by the Saks counter for my wrinkle fillers. Right?

Wrong. Putty Master does it again. He took a classic perfume no one my age was old enough to have heard about, Tom-anized it, Gucci-d it, Vanity Faired-it - whatever - and now not only do I want to wear it, I want to bathe in it, sleep with it on my sheets, drink it for breakfast in the morning so if it wears off my clothes I might sweat it out of my pores at the gym at night. Is that so wrong?

If it is, Tom, then I don't want to be right.



Tuesday, February 07, 2006

Media clips are the new boyfriends

I'm not going to post anymore about upcoming media hits for fear of the jinx; every time I do one gets cut, bumped, or edited NOT to my benefit.

Extra, from way back in December, has been postponed indefinitely. The Globe is being held til this Sunday. Today's WSJ has a wonderful mention of the new soap on Delta but conveniently leaves out the only part that mattered to me - the name of the company that created it.



Monday, February 06, 2006

Here's to you, Mr. Corpuscle

The months between December and May have always been a very social time for me. Every weekend it seems someone else is having a birthday party, and unlike my birthday, which falls a bit too close to summer, people are usually in town to celebrate. Even here, now, where I know so many less people than ever, my calendar is booked through the first half of March. Lucky me.

Yesterday was the birthday of the very first boy I ever "liked". The only reason I still remember it 20 years later is that I spent from third to fifth grade writing his name in bubble letters in my diary and circling his birthday with a big pink heart. Every once in a while when I get nostalgic (or drunk) I'll pull out one of my many childhood diaries and remember what it what like to stress over love at age nine.

So in honor of First Crush's (FC's) 30th birthday, and the impending Valentine's Day, I thought I'd share with you my tale of a fourth grade agony.

FC was the first boy I ever really liked - at the ripe old age of eight. Sure, I had had the obligatory television crushes (Adam from Eight is Enough, circa 1980, age four), but this was the real thing. He sat near me in third grade, and I was sure that his brown puppy-dog eyes were staring at me with adoration and pre-pubescent lust.

At that age, most kids had probably never heard the word lust, let alone use it to describe any of their emotions; but I watched General Hospital and therefore knew a lot about such things. I just didn’t realize that they didn’t apply to eight year olds. To my credit, FC did pay more attention to me than he did the other girls, but because there is typically very little drama happening in grade school, I was forced to create some, if only in my mind. I spent countless nights dreaming of our future, where we would live in his house and act like the couples did in Port Charles.

Our relationship kicked into high gear in fourth grade with the school's annual nutrition play. Prior years had performed the masterpieces “Peter’s Pain,” and “The Gizard of Ox.” Ours was to be the suspiciously pornographic title “Alice in Bodyland,” in which Alice learns, after passing out and missing a test, that each of the four food groups are essential for good health and study habits.

FC, the most charismatic, best-looking, and only boy able to read the script without stopping to "sound out" the words was the obvious choice for the male lead, Mr. Corpuscle. (A corpuscle is a cell capable of free movement, whose job, in this case, was to take Alice on a tour through the digestive track of the human body).

As an aspiring actress, I thought I nailed the part of Alice. Not that I had any credits to my name – my experience consisted of playing all three Brady Bunch sisters, and sometimes Greg or Bobby, alone in my bedroom - but I thought that because I watched TV that meant I should be ON it. Well, the first rule in Hollywood is never assume. Because I was SO good (if good means overacting), I was instead given the supporting role of the White Rabbit. The goofy, loud, and clumsy White Rabbit. You could say I was typecast.

Another girl, we'll call her Role Stealer (RS) got the role of Alice, I imagine more for her long-haired resemblance to the character than for her monotonous monologues. Once I got over the fact that she would share top billing with my dreamboat, I was faced with an even bigger problem. The last scene in the play required Alice to thank Mr. Corpuscle with a peck on the cheek, and there was no way my nine-year-old angst-ridden brain and achy breaky heart could allow that to happen. For months I fell asleep at night agonizing over what I would do if RS kissed FC, and, GASP, if he liked it.

Fortunately for me, RS didn’t want to kiss FC anymore than I wanted her to. She managed to put it off (stupid, stupid girl) until nearly the dress rehearsal, at which point she finally broke down and our teacher allowed her to substitute the kiss with a less-gratuitous pat on the back. Her relief mirrored mine, months of fourth grade anguish vanishing in an afternoon like Alice down the rabbit hole. (Or, in our case, the esophagus.)

I may have gotten lucky in Bodyland, but my imaginary relationship with FC went downhill from there. We had separate fifth grade classrooms, all the way across the hall. And while I had started liking boys well before my friends, the other girls were now fully aware that FC was one of the better looking boys in the fifth grade and probably planned spin-the-bottle games while I sat at home watching my soap. I didn’t stand a chance.

Most people, with the possible exception of the Olsen twins, go through an awkward stage at some point in their adolescence. In fifth grade, I owned “awkward”. Who can blame Mr. Corpuscle for wanting to exercise his god-given right to move freely about?



Sunday, February 05, 2006

Superbowl Sunny

The Patriots may not be playing, but this is surely one of my best Superbowl Sundays ever for the sheer fact that I just ran outside in sunny 79 degree weather.

In other ways Boston can disappoint, the Globe didn't run my item today. Boo. But the Wall Street Journal (!!!) will run it on Tuesday, so I think I'm okay with it.

UPDATE: The Globe assured me that the item would run next Sunday. And it WAS one of the best Superbowls ever.

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Thursday, February 02, 2006

Best Publicist Ever

Please excuse me while I forego modesty for a minute.

It's barely noon and already I've booked media segments with a nationally syndicated travel expert, VH1's Fabulous Life Of, and On Air with Ryan Seacrest.

For those of you reading in Boston, make sure to pick up this Sunday's Globe to see a tidbit in the travel section. Not in Boston? Pick up today's new Us Weekly with J.Simpleton on the cover.

Now excuse me while I go ask for a raise.



Wednesday, February 01, 2006

Two (sides) better than one?

Regarding the post below, I should mention that I'm not even sure I want this thing to happen; all I know is that the wheels are in motion and I am suddenly along for the ride. I guess I figure that whatever happens is meant to be, but at this point I'm not particularly leaning one way or the other. Or I'll lean strongly one way and then twelve hours later I'm 180 degrees in the opposite direction. That's actually quite typical of my thought process; and, as a Gemini/twin, not at all unusual.

I felt like I had this discussion last week, in fact. I was at dinner with two friends, one of whom was explaining a problem that's affecting an important relationship in her life. I guess I have a tendency to play Devil's Advocate a lot, and I did so that night too, trying to get her to consider another point of view. My other friend commented that I'm always so good at seeing the other side of things, and while I agree that I'm good at doing that, I've also noticed it can be a detriment in business when it comes down to making a damn decision.

They say when you get older you learn to make decisions faster, more decisively (or, at least, someone said that on 24 the other night), and I suppose that's true to a degree. Maybe I'm commitment phobic or fear being attached to a bad call, but often I analyze even the most far-fletched repercussions of things before commiting to a stance.

In this case, I suppose, it's not so much about not knowing the repercussions, but not knowing what I want in the first place.

Um, so in other news, Mary Kate Olsen staged an drug intervention for Jodie Sweetin? Pot, meet Kettle. That's almost as bizarre as Lindsay Lohan falling down the stairs at Bryan Adam's mansion, which is slightly less weird than Christian Slater falling off of Paris Hilton's roof.