97 Things To Do Before I Turn 97

Back on my Soapbox

2009-11-05T08:30:00.000-08:00

Hi all,

Now that Halloween is out of the way, I want to alert you to the next Major Holiday: NATIONAL BOOKSTORE DAY on November 7th!

I know, you probably thought I was going to say Thanksgiving, right? Well, this is a way of giving thanks to your local independent bookseller who works hard to ensure you have good books to read and reference, who builds your community, who, in my opinion, makes the world go 'round. Sure, you can go to Wal-Mart or Target or Amazon, but they are literally (no pun intended) killing the book business, turning books into product instead of enrichment. And killing off these jewels of independent bookstores, and a world without them will be bleak. I'm sorry, but can you imagine going into Wal-Mart and asking, "My friend is in the hospital and I want to get her a good, lighthearted book to read that will take her mind off things. What can you recommend?" or "What was that book... [snap snap snap]It was in the Sunday Times about two weeks ago..." or "Do you have that book, um, it's blue..." (And yes. These were all questions people asked me when I worked in a bookstore. My favorite: "Do you have a book on glands?" Yeah. We did.) And Amazon? People get blinded by discounts, and trust me. They recommend books for you, but they don't know you -- but they sure have your credit card number on file.

If you've been reading this blog for a while (or shall I say, bearing with the inconsistent posts), you know it's something I am so passionate about. See here. I am deeply worried that these booksellers are going under, and that print itself is going to be extinct. (But I'm not even going to get into the e-book discussion. That's a whole 'nother can o' worms.)

So come and do your part -- visit your local bookseller on Saturday and show them some love! Many stores are having events and specials, so it promises to be fun and rewarding. For more information, here's an excellent article with the chilling last line: Books make great gifts. Go to your favorite bookstore this Saturday and buy someone a gift in commemoration of National Bookstore Day. While you still can.

So... allow me to step into my old bookseller role and recommend some gems:

Olive Kitteride by Elizabeth Strout. I just finished this last night. Beautiful, astute, and winner of the 2009 Pulitzer Prize. But don't let that stop you.

The Mambo Kings Play Songs of Love by Oscar Hijuelos. Another Pulitzer winner -- and one of my all time favorites. The movie was an abomination, as they usually are, but the book is wonderful.

Behind The Scenes At The Museum by Kate Atkinson. I LOVED this book. I cried when I was finished, and STILL miss the characters.

A Prayer For Owen Meany by John Irving. You know how there are those books that you wish you could recapture the magic of reading for the very first time because it was so special? This one is mine.

Birds of America by Lorrie Moore. I just finished her latest one a few days ago, and it was beautifully crafted, but this collection is a masterpiece. She leaves me breathless at what an amazing writer and wordsmith she is.

The Yokota Officer's Club by Sarah Bird. This is a book I bought for the cover, and judged correctly. It's fabulous.

Speak by Laurie Halse Anderson. You don't have to be a teenager to appreciate and be moved by this Young Adult novel -- it blew me away.

Wolf Boy by Evan Kuhlman. Jon was reading this part graphic novel, part coming of age story, and I picked it up to see what it was all about. He didn't get it back until I was finished reading it -- it only took a few days because I loved it so much.

The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay by Michael Chabon. You don't have to be a comic book nerd to succumb to the utter joy of this book. Chabon is an excellent writer and his recent interview on NPR about his comic book club made me teary. I also saw him at a local restaurant a few weeks ago. Whatever, just read it.

The Idiot Girls Action Adventure Club by Laurie Notaro. OMG, I LOVE these books. They made me laugh out loud and write her a fan email and we totally became friends on myspace. LOVE HER.

Children Playing Before a Statue of Hercules, edited by David Sedaris. I hope to God you have read David Sedaris by now. (If not, don't wait til Nat'l Bookstore Day, GO NOW.) But you may or may not know about this collection of his favorite stories he edited and introduced, proving that Mr. Sedaris is not only an excellent writer, but he has excellent taste as well.

ANYTHING BY DOROTHY PARKER. I totally stole this beautiful image from somewhere on the internet. But it represents my favorite writer (next to Judy Blume). She may be my biggest influence in life. Which may or may not be a good thing. Pick up some of her books and judge for yourself. (And her biography, "What Fresh Hell is This" by Marion Meade is the best biography I've ever read.)

College Girls by Lynn Peril. This book needs to be given to every woman to show that yes, we have come a long way, babies. And never, ever take your education for granted. But it's not a lecture, it's an excellent and entertaining read by one of my favorite authors, whom you may recognize from her monthly column in BUST Magazine.

Pink Think by Lynn Peril. Another Peril, another favorite. Women and men alike should read this book. Peril writes about women's history in a way that doesn't make you feel uncomfortable or bored or that you signed up for a class -- she makes it accessible and makes you think. (But not Pink Think.) An utterly fantastic -- and Important -- book.

Alligators, Old Mink and New Money by Alison and Melissa Houtte. For all you vintage girls out there -- I adored this book. It was the closest account of working in a vintage store that was like the shop I worked in for many years, and it made me sweetly nostalgic and inspired. I think any fans of vintage would enjoy it.

Summer at Tiffany by Marjorie Hart. Another recommendation for the vintage ladies out there, this sweet book is the story of Mrs. hart's summer working at "The Mothership" (as I call it) during the 40's. especially poignant is the chapter in which WWII ends and New York becomes a victory party.

Breakfast at Tiffany's by Truman Capote. I'd be remiss not to mention this one, one of my all time favorite books. If you've only seen the movie, go out and get this book. I guarantee, it will change your mind. the movie, even with Audrey Hepburn's gorgeous splendor, is NOTHING compared to this book. (And Mickey Rooney is an abomination.) This may be one of the most well-crafted books I've ever read. And my God. LOOK at this new cover!

To Kill A Mockingbird by Harper Lee. Truman Capote's best friend. And this is the most perfect book ever written. Don't argue. Even if you haven't read it since you were forced to in Freshman English, revisit it. You're welcome.

Crazy in Alabama by Mark Childress. Going along with the Southern theme, this book is so wonderful, and like "Mambo Kings," the movie was a despicable piece of garbage. Erase the memory. Read the book. Fall in love with Pee-Joe.

A Good Man is Hard to Find by Flannery O'Connor. You didn't think you could say "South" and "literature" and NOT mention Miss Flannery? She is the High Priestess of Southern Gothic and odd humor, and I love her so much it makes my toes curl. The title story is the best short story I have ever read, possibly ever written. You will never forget it.

Carolinas, Georgia and The South Trips, Lonely Planet. And what a dream it would be to take a Southern road trip and go to all the places in these books. And not just in the South -- Lonely Planet has 6 of these guides for all over the US. And about a jillion guides for all over the world. Lonely Planet is the best travel guidebook and source. Seriously.

Okay, that's enough --sorry I got so carried away! There are so many more I could tell you about, but these were all off the top of my head.

So please go on Saturday to your local independent bookstore. And if you can't make it, there are online options (not Amazon, it defeats the purpose) -- I heard that Powells.com is running a National Bookstore Day special, and you can also check with indie bound.

I know, it's kind of sad that we even have to declare National Bookstore Day, because every day should be National Bookstore Day and we shouldn't need to worry. But we gotta do what we gotta do... and I'm happy to do this. Pass it along and hope you make it out to your local bookseller -- it's a win win!

Thanks, all. Off the Soapbox now!

Na-No-No-No... for me anyway.

2009-11-01T09:27:00.000-08:00

Ohhh, November 1st. How did you get here so quickly?

When I was little, I loved November 1st because it was the official start of CHRISTMAS. My best friend Monica and I would dump out our Halloween candy onto the living room floor and sort it into A, B, and "Give it to Dad Because He Likes The Gross Candy" piles, all while listening to Bert Kaempfert's "Christmas Wonderland" on 8-track and maniacally plotting our Christmas lists. (And making up dance routines to "Sleigh Ride." We were eating A LOT of sugar.)

the gateway album

Apparently, Target et al thinks it's the start of Christmas, too, because I've gotten quite a few emails today about it. (Free Shipping!) But t'is the season for something way more important and interesting. (And Free Everything!)

Today is the kickoff for NaBloPoMo -- National Blog Posting Month. Each day, for 30 days, participants must blog. (For more info, go here: NaNoBloMo) I really hope you all sign up and do it! While I love the whole idea, I will be doing y'all a favor and NOT doing it -- can you imagine if you had to read this junk 30 days in a row? Ohhh, I could write at you for 30 days in a row, sure, but it would all be mundane stuff you don't want to read about, like what I ate for dinner or what I wore to work or what I'm listening to. Oh. Whoops.

And it's also the kickoff for National Novel Writing Month (aka NaNoWriMo) -- and this I highly recommend. For the month of November, you WRITE WRITE WRITE, every day... and the goal is a 50,000 word novel. (For more info, please go here: NaNoWriMo Official Website) Sounds crazy I know, right? But I'm telling you, it's the most wonderful thing in the world. Because yeah, I'm totally lame and Unaccomplished in Many Areas (I kill houseplants, remember), but I actually Accomplished this. And it's one of the best things I ever did.

I did it when I had just graduated and was still unemployed, so I had the time and no excuse. And every morning I woke up and started writing. I actually couldn't wait to get up and start, which is a far cry from my usual mornings. I logged in my word count on the website every day. (And as you can tell from this blog, I have no problem being long-winded and wordy.) And on November 30th, I had 50,000 plus words, and a week after that I had an entire novel written. I remember driving to my friends' house that night and blasting "Rosemary" by The Dickies (my inspiration song), and I could not stop smiling and squealing. If they could bottle that feeling I had, we'd all be hooked and no one would ever be sad again. And my friend Leslie and I went to the wrap up party at The Rickshaw Stop and I got a NaNoWriMo tee shirt and a sash and we drank cocktails and danced to Hey Ya by Outkast with people I had absolutely nothing in common with, except that we had all written novels. And it was AWESOME.

I'm not going participate this year, but instead I am going to pull out that Long-Neglected and Very Bad Novel and re-read it and start to edit it. (Writing's the fun part. Editing makes me think that being skinned alive sounds more fun.) So for the next thirty days, I am going to get back into the spirit, and see what I can do with it, if anything. I am going to listen to "Rosemary" by The Dickies to bring back that moment of triumph and inspiration, and instead of cringing and collapsing Word when I run into a particularly spectacular gaffe, I am going to soldier on. (And cringe anyway.)

But hey, no matter what, I still can say that I Wrote A Novel, and that is fantastic. And I encourage all of you to do the same. Because seriously? If I can, so can you.

So for all you NaNoBloMoWriMos out there -- best of luck! I know you can do it!

(And here is Rosemary by The Dickies, a perfect, happy pop song for your listening and inspirational pleasure. Be sure to have a song of your own -- it's IMPORTANT.)

Now get going! Yay!!!!

BOO yah.

2009-10-28T20:51:00.000-07:00

Okay, my main Accomplishment this Halloween will be to not eat my weight in candy. (Which I could easily do.) I do, however, need some motivation to get into the spirit, though I am determined to finally be Little Edie this year, even if I just stay home and protect our pumpkins from goblins (aka neighborhood teenage thugs). But really, is Little Edie all that much of a stretch? I don't even have to BUY anything for that costume, except maybe Wonder Bread and a raccoon.

So yeah, I need inspiration. I haven't even hung up our Halloween decorations. I don't even know where they ARE. But we did carve pumpkins on Sunday, which is something. And they will be nice and moldy and therefore scary by Saturday -- so really, I hope the thugs do smash 'em so I don't have to touch anything gross. (Insert sinister laugh here.)

Halloween circa 1972. The scariest thing about this picture is my hair.

So if you're like me and need motivation to summon your inner zombie, here are some links:

Last year's post,in which I blather on about past costumes

And

For beautiful spooky photos and songs, go to my friend Dania's blog, All Eyes and Ears

And

Like Dynamite to Your Brain is posting creepy goodness for your listening pleasure

And

The Fabulous Dusty of Cotton Candy Truant has been posting scary gems (and other stuff that rocks my world)

And

Neato Coolville is in its Neato Ghoulville incarnation

And

The year-round delicious The Girl Can't Help It tricks and treats

And

A delicious recipe

And

One of the best things EVER, from The Haunted Mansion:

And I know there are so many more blogs getting in the spirit -- feel free and post links in the comments. Trust me, I need all the help and motivation I can get.

And I need to get more candy. All the Milk Duds are already gone.

Happy Halloween, y'all!!!

Accomplishment #37: Participate in a New Cultural Tradition (#44)

2009-10-25T20:30:00.000-07:00

When I was 9, my dad, much like Mr. Brady, had to go to Hawaii on business, and he brought the whole family along. (You may remember this from here.) My parents stayed in a 2 floor suite (the "Na P'ali Suite") at the ultra swank Kauai Surf Hotel, while my sisters and I stayed at the Plantation Hale Motel a few miles away. At first I thought that it would be exciting, but my sisters' absolute distaste at being stuck in a motel room with their obnoxious little sister kind of put a damper on the whole experience. And really, could you blame them? They were 19 and 23. In Hawaii. In their own hotel room. And then there was me: "HIIIII! Let's go SWIMMING! Let's watch TV! Let's play CARDS! I'm HUNGRY! I'm SUNBURNED! I didn't MEAN to spill! I miss the dog and all my friends! Nancy Drew saw a hula dancing ghost in Hawaii! This is like the Brady episode where Bobby finds the cursed idol and Greg falls off his surfboard! Whatcha doing? Can I go? I don't want to do my homework! I don't want to leave you alone! I'm gonna tell MOM!" You get the picture. Tropical Paradise it was not. At the Plantation Hale Motel anyway.

But at my parents' swanky hotel, where I actually was most of the time, it really was paradise. I'd get dropped off there every morning so my sisters could go do their thing, and I'd head straight to the pool that had a SWIM UP BAR. You literally swam through a waterfall and there was a bar so you could sit in the water and enjoy your cocktail. How amazing is THAT? And since it was IN THE POOL there was no age limit, so I swam up and ordered Shirley Temples and charged them to my dad's room. (I'm sure all the swingin' adults were just thrilled to have a creepy little kid hanging out and staring at them.) It was also the first time I had ever seen umbrellas in drinks, so every day I went down to the pool and asked everyone with a cocktail if I could have their umbrellas. (Charming. My sisters nearly died when they found out. I came home with about a hundred.)

One night, the hotel put on a real live luau, and I couldn't wait. I knew what a luau was -- the Bradys had gone to one and blew into a conch shell -- and I was excited to wear my new, fancy pink and white gingham dress. Except that day I had gotten a brutal sunburn, and by the time the luau rolled around, I was pretty much in blistering agony. But still, I was a trooper:

note: I am not wearing a tank top under my dress. That is a sunburn. But the flower crown did make it feel better.

There was a pig, and lots of drinks, and Mrs. O'Connor (the woman in the center) made me eat poi which I hated. We all sat on the ground (which was a little rough for the adults, and bad for me with the sunburn) and watched fire dancers and hula girls put on a show. But the most amazing thing was right before sunset a helicopter flew over and dropped hundreds of gardenia petals and orchids onto the party. The flowers floated down from the sky like sweet, fragrant snow, and we all gasped and clapped. And I was thrilled when the helicopter dipped like it was taking a bow, and I remember turning to my mom and shouting, "WOW!" with utter joy. The joy was fairly short-lived, however -- I hurt so much that my mom had to take me upstairs to their room and put me to bed with Solarcaine and aspirin.

I remember that trip with such clarity -- asking for those umbrellas; the moment that I thought I saw a quarter at the bottom of the pool (greedy!) and scraping all the skin from my nose when I dove down to get it and seeing swirling blood (consequences for that greed); a maple donut I ate; the cool stillness of the Fern Grotto and the rainbow ice we got on the way there; sucking on sugarcane; getting sucked down by the undertow and nearly drowning (I was a NIGHTMARE child); the groovy orange and blue metallic wallpaper in my parents' room; the hotel gift shop where I got a music box that played The Hawaiian Wedding song... but the memory that sticks with me most is being covered in flower petals, watching the helicopter take a bow. (Whenever I smell gardenias, that's what I think of.)

I've been back to Hawaii once since then (not as fun as the first time: 13, miserable, and got my period for the second time ever so I spent a lot of the time in the room sulking and reading Danielle Steel novels from the gift shop, but I did eat banana flambe in a fancy restaurant!), but long to go again. Of course I want to go on a time travel trip to Hawaii in the 50's or early 60's because it was so amazing back then, and I could buy more crap for our bar. But I'd like to go as an adult so I can actually drink. Um, I mean really appreciate it.

But, alas, since a trip to Hawaii isn't exactly feasible right now (especially a time travel circa 1962 trip), I did the next best thing: I joined forces once again with my Co-Hostess with the Mostess, Jennye (whom you may remember from such posts as winter wonderland extravaganza or mid-century supper clubbing), and we brought Hawaii -- and 1962 -- to Oakland, CA in 2009 for the hoolaulea of the year.

Sure, since a tiki theme is always a favorite, I've been to lots of luaus. LOTS. And though they are always fun and festive, they are really just an excuse to don loud clothes and drink a lot of rum, so really, they are theme parties, not luaus. (Believe me, I am not complaining. I'd go to a tiki party every day of the week if I could.) But since this one was the grand poobah of the Mid Century Potlucks, and since it's always a good idea to learn a new cultural tradition, we stepped it up a notch and did a little bit of research, thanks to my 1950's "How You Can Give Hawaiian Parties" by Patricia Collier, published by Dole Hawaiian Pineapple Company:

I always knew this would come in handy someday.

It is chock full of Hawaiian tips, and I set about trying to become fluent in party Hawaiian from the section, "Hawaiian Words That Are Fun To Use!" Since I only knew stuff like, aloha and mahalo and mai tai and "The Big Kahuna," I thought I'd pepper my conversation with these useful gems:

Haole: White Person or Foreigner
Hoomalimali: To Flatter
Humuhumunukunuku: A Species of Fish
Kaukau: Food
Lomi: To Rub or Massage
Malolo: Flying Fish
Nui: Big, Great
Okole Maluna!: Bottom's Up
Opu: Abdomen
Wai: General Name For Anything Liquid
Wikiwiki: Hurry Up

And I also learned that these were parties for King Kamehameha and his royal bunch, yet they were informal, sitting on the ground and stuff and eating with your fingers and leaves. And according to Mrs. Collier, a luau without Kalua pig is NOT a luau, but a poi supper. And considering I had not so fond memories of poi and we wanted the real deal, we were gonna get a whole damn Kalua PIG.

Initially we were going to get the pig and bury it and roast it, but then Jennye and Aaron, her husband, found whole already roasted pigs in Chinatown for cheaper, so we went with that. And spent weeks planning the backyard Party Of The Year, only to wake up that morning to discover that the ONE TIME is has rained in the state of California in MONTHS was that night and morning. "Hey," Aaron said as we panicked, "It rains EVERY DAY in Hawaii. It's more authentic." So the shindig was still on.

And was it ever. People outdid themselves as usual with amazing food:

And Ono Ono drinks:

Festive luau-wear:

Tiki tunes:

And the pieces des resistances -- not one, but TWO pigs!

But I'll admit -- no one sat on the ground because it was muddy and we used plastic forks. The ukulele player had to cancel. No hula, as we are closer in age to Alice than Cindy and could have potentially thrown out some hips. The limbo was completely forgotten, though an impromptu 80's dance party ensued. (I like to think King Kamehameha would have been pleased.) Plus, I put so much wai in my opu that everything I said sounded vaguely Hawaiian, instead of actually the words I'd studied. And we bombed as judges because we really kept sampling the entries of the liquid alcoholic variety and kept getting distracted.

Would you trust these wahines to be judges? Not a maikai idea.

(For more photos, like you haven't had enough already, go here and here.)

Even though there wasn't a helicopter that scattered flower petals all over our guests like the one in Hawaii when I was nine, it was a fabulous luau. (And this time I wasn't sunburned, and could partake and the delicious rum drinks.) And it was a real luau, thanks to the pigs, we can't wait to do it again next year. I highly recommend it -- it's fun and CULTURAL. How's THAT for an Accomplishment?

Aloha and Maholo!

(And if you do throw one, invite a tech genius who can do stuff like THIS.)

Thirty-seven down, 60 to go.

TOTAL ACCOMPLISHMENT: I'm reading at Litquake's Litcrawl!

2009-10-13T23:27:00.000-07:00

I know, I know, it's been WAY too long between posts, but I have... okay, no excuse. Well, a small excuse.

I was honored to be asked to read at San Francisco's Litquake's Litcrawl on Saturday, Oct. 17th at Double Dutch, SF(16th & Guerrero) with the Rebel Reading Series. I'll be reading my 10 minute opus at 6pm as part of Phase One of the festivities, with four other talented writers: Blag Dahlia, Dan Strachota, Jason Myers and Stephanie Pullen. And that's just phase One -- the whole night is PACKED with talent all over the Mission!

here's the home page:

litquake 2009

and here's the page with MY NAME on it (in small print):

phase one

(I'm telling you, it was so exciting to see my name with such amazing company, and I had to keep from squealing when I saw my name and terrible bio in the program. I'm practically not really famous!)

The topic: Sex, Drugs, and Rock 'n'Roll. I know, right? But here's the craziest thing: IT'S ALREADY WRITTEN. No last minute scrambling this time around -- it's done! Even Mrs. Parker would be proud of me.

I love you, Dottie

So if you're in the area and have been just DYING for an updated post for 97-land (or you're bored and want something FREE to do on Saturday night), come on out -- I'd love to see you there!

And I promise, I will update soon!!!

xoxo

Accomplishment #36: Watch the Sunrise (#95)

2009-08-28T21:34:00.000-07:00

Okay, sure -- I have seen a sunrise. But not because I've actually wanted to. It's been more like, "Oh no... What time is it? Oh, UGH." You know those times: staying up too late writing papers (only to hand them in at ten a.m and falling asleep in class); staying up all night studying for the final (only to go to class at ten a.m. and blowing the test because you haven't slept and all you ate was pizza or crackers); staying up too late drinking with friends and when the sky gets light and the light less flattering everyone looks greasy and exhausted and you feel like you've been chewing on a wool blanket (but OMG, that was like, so much fun!)... But I'll admit, the more recent sunrises I've seen have been either because of insomnia or having to get up and get to the airport to catch an ungodly early flight. (That's what happens when you get old, I suppose. Though the other sunrises weren't that long ago.)

So basically, I know they're beautiful and miraculous and everything, but I don't exactly go out of my way to see them. Things that require me to get out of bed early had better be Really Important and involving gifts or keeping my job. Now sunsets -- sunsets are glorious things and I don't have to make too much effort to see those. Those happen when I'm already awake. And living in California, we get such amazing sunsets. One of the most perfect moments of my life was standing up at Coit Tower, and watching the sun set beyond the Golden Gate Bridge. And I hadn't even meant to go there to do it -- it was just one of those lucky right time/ right place miracles. Ohh, California. You're broke and a mess and on fire right now, but I love you so.

But a few weeks ago, we left the Golden State and ventured to Oklahoma. Now, let me beat you to it:

And yes, this song was in my head the ENTIRE time.

Jon's mom bought two houses there -- one in a small town called Hollis, four miles from the Texas border, and another on a lake in a town called Lone Wolf. I wasn't sure what to expect -- I'm used to going to New York or Chicago or somewhere that's GO GO GO, not small little towns where the population is smaller than the number of my facebook friends.

But I have to say -- I loved it. It was so relaxing, the opposite of go go go -- exactly the kind of vacation I needed. It was hot, and yes, the wind totally swept down the plain, though I didn't see any wheat. (We saw lots of cotton.) The sky just seems so much bigger, so much bluer, and with so many more stars. And the lake was gorgeous, with red sand and rocks.

When Jon's mom and everyone left the lake house to go back to Hollis, Jon and I stayed up there for two days and just relaxed. And one morning we woke up when it was still dark outside and walked down to the lake for this Accomplishment.

And I must say, it was amazing.

from the front deck of the lake house

walking to the beach

there

It was awe-inspiring. The colors were so vibrant, and the stillness, with just the sound of waves lapping, felt -- I don't know, sincere somehow. Clean, the way a new day should feel. In the past I dreaded the sunrise -- it meant an end to secretive nighttime hours where everything would be exposed -- my lack of preparation and good judgment, an end to fun and the start of paying for it, the hassle of a journey and responsibilities. But as we stood there and watched it happen, with nothing to do but take it all in, I recognized how much I've missed by not watching them more often and feeling that sense of calm and the miracle that this happens every day. (Who knew?) Sometimes it's easy to forget how amazing nature is when you're surrounded by a city. In the 2 weeks since that sunrise, I've mentally gone back there and just let myself be in the moment.

But when the moment was actually happening, it started to sprinkle and I found Jon's sunglasses that he'd left on the beach the day before and I took a picture of nature's cruelty:

Poor, poor fish.

Thus inspired by the early hour, we actually didn't go back to bed and wound up driving around Oklahoma which was AWESOME and I got to do something I've always wanted to do:

Got my kicks on Route 66!

So for the first time, I watched the sunrise and got it, not dreaded it. I learned to just stop and think a little bit, and just be in that moment. (Until I see a dead fish on a rock and have to squeal and take a picture.) And that, ladies and gentlemen, really is an Accomplishment.

And that Rogers & Hammerstein totally weren't kidding:

Thirty-six down, 61 to go.

Help my friend Accomplish his DREAM!

2009-08-04T14:11:00.001-07:00

I wouldn't normally do this, but I am trying to Accomplish something -- really! -- and help someone Accomplish his DREAM. My friend Johnny Bartlett is going for the Mad Men contest role (the winner gets a Walk On part on our favorite show!), and look at him. He was BORN to play it! (And yes, that is how he always looks.)

If you are so inclined (and love Mad Men like I do), please give the man five stars. And if he wins, you can say you knew him when. Sort of.

VOTE HERE!

You can vote every day until August 11, 2009.

Thanks!

Happy Anniversary... errr, Blog-iversary to me!

2009-08-02T16:08:00.000-07:00

Yes, I know, hard to believe, but this week marks my one year anniversary into the world of blogspot. I am SO tooting my own horn:

nicked from mademoiselle therese's amazing Corbis Flickr set

So one year ago, I hunkered down and wrote this. I had a plan -- I was going to do an Accomplishment a week and kick some serious bootay. I was going to be an Accomplishment Machine! Naps and inertia were to be things of the past. Every spare moment was going to be spent Making Podcasts (#49), Joining a Political Campaign (#69), and Taking Care of a Houseplant (#81). (Podcast: Uh, not done yet. Political Campaign: Check. Houseplant: Uhhh, I didn't want to tell you guys, but I killed it. I am still ravaged with guilt. Sort of.) If everything had gone according to plan, I'd be sitting pretty with 52 Accomplishments right now, but instead, I'm at 35. Which, actually, is pretty surprising.

I know myself -- I figured that I would get aaaalll excited, be super into it, and then procrastinate and let it lag and die an unspectacular death (and it came dangerously close to that), much like my livejournal and myspace accounts. But oddly enough, that hasn't happened. Okay, so procrastination and naps and inertia are still a very big part of my life, but so is this blog.

Part of the reason I've kept it going is because of scary Google Analytics -- thanks to that, I know that there have been 11,075 views in the past year (I think at least 10,000 are from me checking the blog roll and seeing if I have any comments, because I chose such a stupid name that all emails go straight to my junk filter), the average time on the site is 1:38 (most visits read 0:00), and the bounce rate is 81% (which, apparently, is not good but I don't even know what that MEANS). As somewhat creepy as Google Analytics is, it has made me realize that people out there are reading it -- I may be doing the most clicking, but I am not in Bangalore, India, and someone from there read it for seventeen whole seconds.

But another reason, and a good one: I love it. I love Accomplishing Things, especially Accomplishing Things I should have done over two decades ago. I am so lazy and scattered that having an actual list that I can cross off makes me feel totally organized, even if I haven't put the new tags that I got in the mail three weeks ago on my car. And I love sitting down and writing and actually having some structure -- when left to my own devices, I can barely think of anything to Twitter. (And, well, there's the procrastination, and I JUST got THIS as I was writing this, so that's kinda spooky.) Just writing something is an Accomplishment for me, so it's Double-Whammy Goodness.

But here's the best part -- I have "met" the coolest people, found the most fabulous blogs, learned all sorts of new and wonderful stuff, have the best entertainment to read every day, all thanks to starting this blog. Lots of stuff has happened over the past year, and I have gotten such support and kind comments, and I appreciate that. And I am so grateful and shocked that I have over 100 Followers. Now THAT I never, ever would have expected, and I am tickled.

In fact I am tickled PINK, and to commemorate that and its one year anniversary, I am redecorating the blog. The polka dots were cute for a year, but so blogger-y and I have had serious blog envy each time I look at anyone else's. I wish I knew how to make a fancy banner, but I think this is enough for one day. And come on, pink is so glamorous. Just ask Zsa Zsa Gabor!!!

Listen to Zsa Zsa, daaahlinks! Sparkleneely loves you!

Anyway, thanks so much, everyone, for reading this blog, for motivating and inspiring me, and welcoming me into the Blogosphere.

Now go Accomplish something. I am going to eat some Cheez-Its and lay on the couch.

xoxoxoxoxo

Accomplishment #35: Raise Money For Charity (#74)

2009-07-17T23:34:00.000-07:00

On July 19th, 1986, I went to a party at this girl Valerie's house with my friends Andrea and Monica. It was just a regular old party, and since I was the designated driver, I wasn't expecting much. But by the time we piled out of my car, we knew -- this was a good one. All the usual suspects were there -- the usual skate punks and new wavers and mods and "death rock" kids, all mingling together. (There was enough hairspray and eyeliner going on in that house that I suspect the early evening hours of July 19th, 1986 burned a swath in the ozone layer.) The house was jam-packed, beer and wine cooler bottles everywhere and hazy with smoke, Echo and the Bunnymen blaring over the speakers, and a mad panic dash to the bathroom when the police arrived. Yep, it was a good party, alright.

In fact, to this day, exactly 23 years later, it is still the best party I ever went to. (And I have been to many a party. But this one will always be my favorite.) Not to be corny, but that night my entire life changed. I can still remember what I was wearing, what the porch looked like. I can remember the exact pinpoint moment when my life began: I was hitting my friend Clark with a broom (yeah, I was sober) when someone called my name, and I turned around and found out there was such a thing as Love At First Sight.

He was tall and dashing, and absolutely charming and sophisticated. He was different than the other boys I hung out with (I would NEVER consider hitting him with a broom), and the conversation sparkled. He wrote his phone number on the visor of my car, and told me to call him. I went home that night, floating on air.

For the next year I vacillated between floating and drowning. I loved him more than I had ever loved anyone -- he was IT. He was PERFECT. He was only 2 years older than me, but he seemed so adult. I was away at college and wrote him long letters, agonizing over every word, worried that he'd think I was silly and stupid. I got quick and witty postcards from him, that I carefully pinned to my wall. He came to visit, and asked me to marry him. But something wasn't right -- our relationship was strange and chaste. If I broached the subject, he told me not to over-analyze, and then talked about something else while I, yep, over-analyzed. We spent magical days riding his scooter all over San Francisco, and nights bundled in pea coats, sharing bottles of Boone's Farm. Every second with him was an adventure, but every second without him I grew more and more confused.

"He's gay, you know," someone pointed out. And they were right.

Of course I was heartbroken, and thought that I would never stop crying. (My poor, poor friends. I made lots of shoulders wet with tears and snot.) But eventually I did, and our friendship resumed, stronger than it had before, because there wasn't that unspoken secret anymore. And I found that I loved him even more after that, because he wasn't perfect -- he was my friend. (And I would, in fact, hit him with a broom if I had the chance.)

He changed my life. He was my first love, sure, and with that my life changed. But more importantly, he opened doors for me that I never thought possible. I learned more from him than I did in school. He was a traveler, and told me all about the amazing places that someday I would go, too. He introduced me to new music, new food, new cultures, and showed me hidden nooks and crannies of San Francisco that made me fall in love with my city and left me breathless. He helped me move, and he made me laugh hysterically. He lent me books that he found fascinating and I tried to read them, but they were a little too, uh, smart for me. We worked together at the circus one summer, and got in trouble for printing nasty comments on tickets. I barfed in his catbox. Thanks to him, I met amazing people, most of whom are still my best friends to this day.

About four years after we met, he called me and told me that he and his boyfriend, who also became one of my dearest and most beloved friends, had something to tell me. They came over, and we laughed and ate and it was like any other afternoon hanging out, until they told me that they had just been diagnosed positive with HIV.

I was stunned. I swallowed and wouldn't let myself cry, and made some sort of comment like, "Well, we'll get through this. It'll be okay." And after they left, I broke down in my tiny kitchen and sobbed.

I knew what being HIV positive meant. My cousin Paul had succumbed a few years before, and his square was a piece of the AIDS quilt. My aunt and uncle had been devastated to lose their son. You couldn't live in San Francisco at that time and not hear about AIDS daily. And in 1990, being HIV positive was a death sentence.

But 23 years later, he and my other dear friend are still alive and thriving and doing well. I know there are bad days and good days, and I don't talk to him as often as I should. But I love him just as much now as I did back then, at that First Moment.

Which is why this is the fourth year in a row I will be doing the SF AIDS Walk. I'm pleased to say that every year I have been a Star Walker, meaning I have raised over $1000. Out of all of these 97 Things, this Accomplishment may be the one that I hold highest and dearest. Until someone finds a cure, I will continue to do what I can to help.

And you know, you really do meet the nicest people on The Walk:

Me and The Outrageous Miss DiDi Mau. I LOVE her. She walks in 6 inch heels!

So on Sunday, July 19th 2009 -- 23 years to the day I met him and the irony is not lost on me -- I will be walking six miles through Golden Gate Park in his and my other friend's honor, and in the memory of my cousin Paul and friend Cherel, both of whom I've lost. And for all the others out there who have been affected by this horrible disease.

But I have fantastic company:

Jennye, co-captain and co- supper club hostess

And should you want to sponsor me (and I would really, really appreciate it), go here:

My AIDS Walk Page

Thank you.

xoxoxo

Thirty-five down, 62 to go.

Accomplishment #34: Take a Road Trip (#23) Part 1

2009-06-26T23:49:00.000-07:00

[Okay, this is going to be broken up into two parts, because I went a little overboard, and I'm too lazy to edit what I wrote two weeks ago.]

When I was a senior in high school, all the other kids talked about what they wanted to do for their post graduation, last high school hurrah summer. A lot of kids, including my close circle of friends, were going to Hawaii. The luckier ones were going to Europe. Me, I got a job at Crown Books in a strip mall next to a Loehmann's. Some vacation.

But I didn't want the beach or castles. What I really wanted to do -- my ultimate dream vacation -- was to take a Winnebago (with a chauffeur, because I'm smart like that) on a cross-country road trip. Me, some friends, the not annoying and unobtrusive chauffeur, and the open road. And Wall Drug and Graceland and the World's Largest Ball of Twine and thrift shops galore.

That, obviously, did not happen. For one thing, how would an 18 year-old secure a Winnebago and a not annoying, unobtrusive chauffeur? And the money and time to get one's kicks on Route 66? That $3.35 an hour I was making at Crown Books wouldn't cut it, and I had to register for classes and find cool towels and extra long twin sheets for my dorm room by mid August. And yeah right -- like my parents would say, "Okay, honey! Have fun on your madcap adventure!" as I rode off into the sunset in a cloud of smoke with a bunch of other irresponsible teenagers and unobtrusive chauffeur. Pffft.

However, my parents (shockingly) did give me permission to go on a road trip that very summer, over Fourth of July weekend. My two best friends and I drove down to Southern California, where we stopped at Pea Soup Andersen's and creepy Santa Claus Lane, went to Disneyland, played quarters with two boys from Arizona (I lost), went to Knott's Berry Farm, walked along Hollywood Blvd., and slept in the car in the Denny's parking lot the last night because we didn't have a hotel room. Good times... that we still laugh about 20 plus years later.

Marci, me, Hap-pea and Pea-Wee. Taking the photo: Traecy. Whee!

Since then I've done that trip to Southern California countless times -- sometimes with friends, often alone (and got my first speeding ticket in the King City Speed Trap while listening to, of all things, Michael Jackson's "The Way You Make Me Feel")*, and once with a rat named Lucifer at my feet.

{*NOTE: I wrote this two weeks ago, before MJ's untimely demise. FREAKY!}

But I still have that dream of the open road (and the Winnebago and friends and unobtrusive chauffeur) and the whole USA. I want to see Mt. Rushmore and the statue of Paul Bunyan and Babe the Blue Ox, fairy themed miniature gold courses and the Carlsbad Caverns. I want to see all that amazing Americana that's fading fast, and visit the places I've only read about in books. And even though I make slightly more than $3.35 an hour now, I'm still not exactly financially solvent enough to do it.

So when my boss suggested that we go on a road trip to the South -- Birmingham to Oxford to Nashville -- to visit accounts, I jumped at the chance. Southern literature is my most favorite genre, and to be able to actually see chinaberry trees and kudzu and Piggly Wigglys and where William Faulkner lived... heaven! And have my work pay for the rental car and expenses? Awwww yeah!

So first we flew to Birmingham, AL for a meeting, getting in late afternoon. There wasn't much time to do anything and we had to do work related stuff, but we did go to the 5 Points South area, which was cool, especially Charlemagne Records (where I bought a Frank Sinatra box set because it was cheap) and this:

It looks like Hap-pea or Pea-Wee!

The next morning we had our meeting, and left directly to drive to Mississippi. I think my boss thought I was weird because I had to stop and get Doritos (a road trip MUST), and he also thought I was weird because let's just say we don't have the same taste in music. He knows all new stuff that I don't care about, and I was happy as a clam shooting along the highways of Alabama, listening to Frank Sinatra sing "America the Beautiful" while he politely writhed. It was too good. I wistfully looked at all the thrift shops as we sped past, but I knew that I was pushing my luck and weirdness factor with Old Blue Eyes singing schmaltz and didn't press it. After all, I was with my boss. A little bit of professionalism was necessary.

But then the signs for Tupelo appeared. Tupelo. THE BIRTHPLACE OF ELVIS PRESLEY. AKA MECCA. AKA WHERE I HAVE ALWAYS WANTED TO GO.

I have a deep love for Elvis. I had a little, um, phase many years ago where I was obsessed. I thought about moving to Memphis to work in the Graceland gift shop, just for the hell of it. I even went to the Butterfield's auction and grabbed the crotch of the tuxedo Elvis wearing when he appeared on Frank Sinatra's Timex special, and asked the curator if they were selling the gun Elvis used to shoot at Bob Goulet on TV. I've even been known to win a trivia contest or two. So yeah. I love me some E.

ONE OF THE GREATEST MOMENTS IN HISTORY. And yes, that's the tux.

And, had I been with my friends, I would have screamed, "OHMIGOD! PULL OVER! TUPELO! ELVIS! GLADYS! OHMIGOD!" and then launched into "Hunka Hunka Burnin' Love." But since a little bit of professionalism was, in fact, necessary, I kept the squeals down to a minimum and asked, "Ohhh, can we go? Please?"

"I don't know," my boss said. "We need to get to Oxford soon," and checking his iPhone, he told me to merge onto the upcoming highway to go south.

I thought I was going to cry. Here I was, in Tupelo, and I was missing one of the greatest landmarks of all time. Where Elvis was brought into this world, along with his stillborn twin, to spread joy and sunshine and total freakdom to the masses. I watched the exit go past, and bravely drove on.

But Elvis was looking down at me, in the guise of crappy navigational skills. "Whoops, wrong way," my boss said. "We have to double back."

"Then can we please go to Elvis's birthplace? It won't take long, I promise, I've always wanted to go, it's my total dream... and besides, we work for a TRAVEL company and we're SUPPOSED to do stuff like this!" I guess I was vehement enough and he agreed, and I happily turned on my blinker and exited, telling my boss useless and little known facts about The King, while he ignored me as best he could.

I thought I was going to PLOTZ. I waited politely for my boss to get out of the car, but practically ran to the teeny tiny house where THE KING HIMSELF was born, only to be told by the big haired tour guide lady that it was $12 to go inside. "Come on," my boss said. "I'll buy you a ticket. I've never seen you so excited about anything." (Which makes me wonder just how unenthusiastic I am at work.)

"THIS IS THE MOST EXCITING THING EVER!" I shrieked, and ran to the Visitors Center.

Elvis Mecca. One of 'em, anyway.

"I'M HERE ALL THE WAY FROM CALIFORNIA!" I announced to the old ladies behind the counter.

"Woll, isn't that niiiice!" one of the ladies said. "You should sign the guestbook."

"I'M GOING TO!" I said. "BUT FIRST I NEED TO LOOK IN THE GIFT SHOP!" And I did, where I bought Elvis Presley recipe coasters, buttons, and a CD, because it was imperative that I heard "Bossa Nova Baby." "DO YOU LOVE ELVIS?" I asked the lady who was reading a romance novel behind the register.

She sighed. "Sometimes."

"HA HA THAT'S FUNNY!" I yelled. "I LOVE HIM!"

"I can tell," she said.

Meanwhile, my boss was talking to his boss on his iphone. "You will never guess where we are -- in Tupelo at Elvis Presley's birthplace! Karen made us come here -- I have never seen her so excited. Now anyway..." I could not fathom how anyone could talk about work when we were standing in The KINGdom, but there you have it. When he finally hung up, I pointed at a picture. "THAT'S ON HIS BIRTHDAY RIGHT AFTER HIS MOMMA DIED," I explained. "ELVIS WAS SUPER BUMMED. AND THEY MADE IT INTO A MOUSEPAD, LOOK!" And my boss was very nice and bought me the mousepad featuring Depressed Elvis, because he thought I needed a souvenir. Because, you know, everyone needs a sad Elvis picture.

And then we paid our $12 to go into THE VERY HOUSE WHERE ELVIS WAS BORN. It was just big-haired tour guide lady, me, my boss, and then two latecomers -- two elderly people that I instantly felt sorry for, because I was going to be obnoxious. I couldn't help it. It was Tupelo Tourettes.

A little too excited.

The lady started her spiel, and I couldn't help myself. "IS THIS THE VERY BED WHERE ELVIS WAS BORN?" I asked.

"Well, no... this is all furniture that looks just like what the Presleys would have had. But that is Vernon's hat."

"COOL!" I said.

Vernon's hat!

She went on, talking about Elvis, but something was missing. "AND DON'T FORGET JESSE GARON HIS TWIN!" I instructed Big-Haired Tour Guide Lady. It would be criminal to leave him out. She looked startled.

"Honey, Jesse Garon was stillborn."

"I KNOW THAT," I said. "BUT HE WAS STILL BORN," without realizing what I said.

My boss looked like he wanted to fall through the floor.

almost the very bed where The King and his twin were born.

So I shut up and listened to Big-Haired Tour Guide Lady, who told us some very informative facts:

Vernon and Uncle Vester built the house themselves

They didn't have wallpaper, they used newspaper

They were broke and lost the house and moved down the street, but then moved to Memphis

When Elvis got all rich he bought the house and the land and turned it into a park for poor kids to play in

they took baths once a week in an old washtub and Vernon had to heat water over a fire, and he'd heat the iron for Gladys, too, because they were poor and proud

Cute kitchen, but I would have decorated it a bit differently.

And then she told us other stuff but I was too busy wondering about the unmentioned outhouse, and if the weekly baths meant they were stinky, and why Gladys didn't throw Vernon out because he was kind of a dog, and if, in fact, Elvis and his momma had a kind of weird relationship, because that's what Dee, Vernon's second wife said. (I think I know a bit too much.) And considering the house was as big as a postage stamp and there wasn't all that much to say about it, the tour was over in roughly 3 minutes, but it was still the best twelve bucks ever spent.

thankyouvurrymush

So then we were shuffled out of the house and I knew my boss wanted to leave right away, but there was STILL so much to see. Like a church and a fountain and a statue of Elvis around the time of the prizewinning Old Shep performance that got him on his way:

We make a really good couple

But being that it was a road trip, and a road trip with my boss (so I couldn't whine and stay longer and roll around on the grass or something), I knew it was time to go. Sadly I looked at the little house where the Magic happened (oh ewww), and bid it farewell. And I was so grateful that Gladys and Vernon settled here and TCB-ed and made baby Elvis who grew up and enriched so many lives. And I was grateful that I got to go to Tupelo and Elvis's birthplace after all, thanks to bad directions.

And I was grateful for another cheesy photo op:

Almost the car that the Presleys drove out of Tupelo to Memphis

And then it was time to get back into the rental car and head toward Oxford, our next stop. I wanted to blast "Bossa Nova Baby" as I sped off into the sunset in a cloud of smoke and I would have, if my boss wasn't in the car talking on his iphone. But I sort of did it anyway and yelled, "BYE ELVIS! I LOOOOVE YOOOUUU!!!"

And now you, too, can blast "Bossa Nova Baby," one of the best Elvis songs EVER:

Stay tuned (or not -- believe me, I don't blame you) for Part Two, in which our heroine gets busted at Faulkner's grave at midnight, and nearly gets into a fight with a Crazy Lady in a hotel bar in Nashville. Hot dog!

Accomplishment #33 Take Care of a Pet (#80)

2009-06-21T16:27:00.000-07:00

A year ago today, I had to put my beloved cat, BeBe Louise, to sleep. It was one of the hardest things I have ever done.

BeBe Louise 1993-2008

Now, I know that everyone thinks their cat is the best cat in the world, but BeBe was quite spectacular. She was my baby and my best friend, the best gift I've ever gotten. Eight pounds of toothless and tailless terror, that one, with the loudest meow on the planet. And smart. She knew how to say hello, and blessed me when I sneezed. (Not kidding. I'd sneeze and she'd meow in the same inflection a person would say "bless you." Every time.) She gave eskimo kisses, rubbing her nose against mine. She knew I was home when I was still half a block away, and greeted me at the door every single time. At night she'd curl up with me, the perfect nestling spoon, or settled her 8 pounds on my hip. I spent hours petting her until she drooled a puddle. And I also subjected her to utter humiliation:

Moooom! Stoooop it!!!

You could sing her name in any song, and her nicknames were The Beez, Beezus, Little Miss, Doo, Tailless (and Toothless) Wonder, and Keeper of All Secrets. I told her everything. Countless times I sobbed into her tortoiseshell fur, and danced with her (which she tolerated, with dignified patience, for about 45 seconds) in happy moments, but mostly she would just be purring on my lap or inches away, as I absently pet her while I read or watched TV or was on the computer. We were rarely in separate rooms. We survived our apartment building fire together -- I had the firemen and the neighborhood looking for her, and she emerged from "the sixth dimension" -- the portal of which was in my closet -- unscathed and annoyed. She hated everyone, including me, and we all bent over backwards to try to make her love us, though it was usually met with disdain. She especially hated other cats and children and the vacuum and getting her nails clipped. What she loved was Fancy Feast, feet, a dirty wad of string called "String Baby" which she nurtured, and drinking water from her own little cup.

At the end she was a little senile and completely incontinent (I hung the above photo on the fridge at her eye level, hoping she'd at least try for the litterbox every once in a while) and when her back end gave out and she was barely eating, I had to give up the hope that I had held for so long, that we'd find the right medicine and she'd get better. Up until the last minute I was resistant, but it was the right thing to do. I will never forget that moment when she went -- I was holding her and her eyes dilated and I couldn't be polite for the vet's sake. Just then Jon's cell phone went off and instead of ruining the moment, I remembered that every time a bell rings, an angel gets its wings.

The night I picked up BeBe's ashes, I was sitting on the couch, crying, sure that my heart would never heal, when one of my best friends called. I figured she was calling to ask me how I was doing, but instead she was calling to ask a favor. She and her husband and two kids (our god-children) and dog were moving to Arizona, and would we take their cat? I wasn't sure, but Jon and I agreed -- we'd be helping out, and no cat could be like BeBe, so it wouldn't be a replacement.

Enter Norman.

I'll admit, when Norman first came to us (and immediately squeezed himself behind the record shelves), I was worried. It was too soon after The Magnificent Beez, and this giant cat was nothing compared to her. Ohhh, he was nice enough, but his face wasn't smushed like BeBe's was. And his name couldn't be sung into any song. And he was on Prozac (living with two babies and a dog made him a little bonkers) and attached to a catnip stuffed bulldog, not a dirty piece of string. What was I doing? I could never love this animal, and I felt like a traitor to BeBe, whose ashes were on the mantel. "You're kidding me," I could hear her sneer. "This? You've replaced me with THIS?" "Nice Norman kitty," I said, but the words sounded hollow. The "n" sound was nasally and guttural, not the flowing "eeee" I'd been used to for so many years. I went to bed that night, feeling like maybe I had made a mistake, and was doing this poor cat a disservice because I couldn't be a good adopted cat mom after Beezus.

But then, in the middle of the night, I woke up and saw Norman staring at me, and I swear to God he looked worried. Like, "Hi, we don't know each other, but I hope you like me. Please?" And my heart melted, and I scratched his cheek, and he put his chin on my hand and gave me kisses. We've been pals ever since.

It's true, he is the polar opposite of BeBe. For one thing, he's a BOY. And he has a tail (which is a language I'm still trying to learn) and all of his teeth. He weighs three times as much as she did, with a belly that swings side to side when he runs, and isn't picky about food at all. And shhh, don't tell him but he's, um, not as smart as BeBe. He doesn't bless me when I sneeze -- he gets spooked and takes off. He can't sit still when you pet him -- he paces and gets over excited and flops around. He won't sit on laps (but I'm teaching him, along with being picked up), and his meow is little and wimpy. He has eaten all the plants.

But he is so sweet, and a total lovebug. He completely lacks that disdainful cat gene -- he's more like a goofy dog, earnest and eager to please. He loves people, and is dying to go outside and play with the other cats, but we kind of think he's so dumb he'll try to befriend a raccoon and that wouldn't be good. At parties he comes out to check out the action, whereas BeBe hid, furious, in the closet until everyone was gone. And he is also musically inclined:

A one-anna-two-anna...

So we've had Norman for about a year now, and I still think about and miss BeBe every day. I miss her little clicky feet on the floor, and her sweet motorboat purr. But Norman has grown on me, more and more all the time. It's not the same kind of bond I had with my little BeBe girl, but we're good friends, he and I. I try not to talk about BeBe in front of him, because I don't want him to get jealous and think he's a rebound. It's a different kind of relationship. But I do love him very much, and I know he loves me back -- he spoons, and looks at me with that open, sweet face, and he follows me around like a puppy. Right now, he's beside me, snoring as I type. And I know that as soon as I go to bed, he'll put his chin on my hand and give me lots of licky kisses (he doesn't get the eskimo kiss thing) and we will fall asleep, and he'll wake me up way too early tomorrow morning for a cheek scratch. I'm awfully lucky that I had BeBe, and now I have Normie-Boo.

Find the Norman

Because they taught me that sure, we take care of pets, but really -- they take better care of us.

Thirty-three down, 64 to go.

For You.

2009-06-17T10:32:00.000-07:00

A few weeks ago, the fabulous and funny Tessa of Tessa Scoffs bestowed this award on me!

I am honored to have received it and am just so impressed that someone was able to recreate my likeness onto such a small thumbnail. (Ohhh, okay, fine. My fantasy likeness, sans the orthopedic Danskos, prescription sunglasses and with a wasp waist and a poodle.)

In all seriousness, thank you Tessa, and right back atcha.

And now comes the time where I bestow this award on what I consider to be the 5 best blogs, or tell you my 5 least favorite things, or 5 things you don't know about me and my 5 digit pin code for the ATM machine. Welllll... I'm going to choose five things and shake it up a bit, so here goes:

~ If you are on my blog roll thingamajig: this award is for you.

~ If you follow me (and thank you!): congratulations, you just got an award.

~ If I follow you: I like you, I really like you.

~ If you are reading this and you have a blog: you're an award winner.

~ If you're not reading this, but you have a blog: this one's for you.

Because here's the thing: putting yourself out there is damn hard, and I admire each and every one of you. I don't care if you're anonymous, or a persona, or yourself writing about what you had for breakfast. I don't care if you're writing to keep in touch with family or friends, to get your feelings out or getting something off your chest, or talking about what you wore or found on etsy. I don't care if you have 5 million followers or a book deal or if you have never written anything but your name before, or if you're a spelling bee champion or can't even spell cat. What I care about is that you are writing, and you are writing publicly. To me, that is one of the bravest things you can do, because exposing yourself and your thoughts and feelings and words can be downright scary. I find that to be so admirable, and it's something I'm pretty intimidated by. (And a lot of it has to do with atrocious grammar.)

I'll admit, I let this blog lag because of something that happened to me a few months back. I was out at a nightclub, blah blah blah, and I made an offhand comment in a conversation. A girl with whom I'm not friends said to me sarcastically, "Is this going to be one of your long and boring stories that no one wants to listen to?"

I felt like I had been punched in the throat. Yes, true, this girl and I are not friends and do not like each other, so her credibility and anything she says should not be taken seriously. And yes, true, word economy is not my strong suit and I tend to blab. And sure, I may be a little boring... But still, it hurt. She found that button to push, the one thing that would upset me, and she knew it. But I couldn't stop thinking about it. I went from embarrassed to angry to defensive to sad, in no particular order on no particular day. I've had criticism before -- I survived high school, went to grad school and have endured heinous writing groups, for godssakes -- but this was deliberate and mean. It made me reassess a lot of things and wreaked havoc on my insecurity and wreaked havoc on writing the blog. To make a long and boring story short: it sucked.

But what I realized, that even despite this woman's tactless comment that I let get to me when I shouldn't have, is that I love writing, and I love writing this blog, and missed it. I never let it go away completely -- I was writing it in my head, even if I wasn't logging on. And then I sat down and started to type, and grew a skin that looks a bit like a lizardy, thanks to my new determination and older age.

In order to put yourself out there you need a thick skin, and I think all of our skins have grown a little tougher as soon as we signed up to do this. But there is something about the vulnerability and thrill as you hit "POST," and I picture all of you doing it, and it makes me love you all. I think of you coming up with ideas, feeling the sense of Accomplishment when you are finished and pleased with your efforts, feeling good when your ideas come across. I'm happy at the thought of all of you getting supportive and kind comments, and hate the thought of any of you hurt by assholes being assholes for the sake of being assholes. I'm thrilled that you're writing.

In short (See? I can change!): you all deserve this award. Congratulations.

So, okay, maybe I messed up this award giving process a little. (I'm not good at chain mails, either.) But I want you all to accept this award, and pass it to someone else, and let them know that they are fabulous for putting, uh, words on a screen. (Pen to paper sounds so much nicer, though.) And that you and they are Accomplishing Great Things, which is what this blog is all about.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have to get off my soapbox and go and edit a really long and boring (no kidding) blog entry.

Thanks, again, Tessa, and thank you all!

Accomplishment #32: Dine High End on a Low Budget (#22)

2009-06-06T15:01:00.000-07:00

Last week I was in New York City. Ahhhh... I love New York. There is nowhere in the world like it. Walking down the street I feel like That Girl, ready to fly a kite or twirl a floral umbrella or wink at a mannequin. Or something.

Frank Sinatra was right -- when you're there (or not), you want to be a part of it, old New York. You can't help but think of all the books and movies and music and glamor and squalor and history. On Fifth Avenue, you think of Holly Golightly at dawn in last night's finery. In the Village you think of beatniks and jazz, baby. At the Met I think of From the Mixed Up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler, the lower East Side I think of The Alienist, and of course Midtown is Dorothy Parker and her Round Table compatriots or Deborah Kerr racing to meet Cary Grant atop the Empire State Building. Then there's Woody Allen and Seinfeld, When Harry Met Sally and Harriet the Spy, Paul Auster and Holden Caulfield, CBGB's and "21." (And Paul's Boutique by The Beastie Boys when in Brooklyn -- awwww, yeah!) The list goes on and on and on. It's the pulse of the world, the capital of dazzle and substance, the epicenter of excitement...

And it's super, super expensive. Like, crazy expensive.

I'm lucky -- I was there for work, so it all wasn't out of my own pocket. But I'm a good girl (or try to be), and I try not to take advantage of my company, eating as cheaply as possible. Which isn't all that easy to do -- it adds up, and fast. Even fast food restaurants are way more expensive in Manhattan, though "street meat" is cheap but let's face it, risky.

So last week when I had gotten in I had been starving and had grabbed a bite, using up my quota for the day. After resting a bit and attempting to brush my hair, I walked up to Times Square from my hotel (on 7th across from Madison Square Garden) to meet my old friend Suze. The city had blocked off Times Square to traffic, rerouting cars, and had set up lawn chairs in the street. It was thronging with tourists and sailors for Fleet Week, and the lights are so bright that even though it was 9 o'clock, it was like daylight. We sat on the red neon steps under the Coca Cola sign and took it all in.

our view from where we were sitting

While it was exciting, there is a fact about having that many people around: elbows and feet in your face. So we took some touristy pictures and decided to go find something to eat.

We poked around the Great White Way, sneaking into theaters to ooh and ahh over their intricate ceilings and loges, and marveling at all the star-studded Broadway productions that are going on right now. West Side Story, 9 to 5, and Blithe Spirit with Rupert Everett, Angela Lansbury and Christine Ebersole (she was THE BEST in Grey Gardens, the only show I've ever seen on Broadway proper). It's astonishing really, how many shows there are. (And remember -- expensive!)

We didn't know where to eat, but I was happy wandering aimlessly, turning onto W. 44th St. And there was the legendary Sardi's.

Sardi's is one of those New York institutions, the kind of place you dream about getting all snazzy and ordering filet mignon and Baked Alaska. Founded in 1927, it has always been thee restaurant for the theee-aaaa-tah crowd, attracting actors and audiences alike. The Tony Awards were founded there, and it still is thee spot for opening night parties and photo ops. Its trademark is the caricatures of all the stars, everyone from Helen Hayes to even Clay Aiken ("the Gayken"), framed and hung in the dining rooms and bar.

And it's even been a star in movies itself -- here it is in Please Don't Eat The Daisies with Doris Day and David Niven, 1960:

Fast forward to the 5:37 mark -- Sardi's!

"Oooh, Sardi's!" I breathed, like the tourist geek I am. "Can we go in and just have a drink? I've always wanted to..."

"Sure," Suzie shrugged. She lived in New York for years and is an actress -- she is far worldlier than I. She swung the door open and we went in, leaving behind the New York street sounds and stepping into hushed voices and clinking silver and glass, and quiet, jazzy music.

I felt a little thrill of excitement. I was going into the venerable Sardi's! I have always just dreamed of dining at Sardi's with the hoi polloi, while wearing a taffeta Dior dress with gloves and ankle strap heels, my laugh tinkling (not cackling), sharing witticisms and martinis with Cole Porter. (Okay, fine, my Sardi's fantasy is circa 1952, but STILL. All my fantasies are, if you haven't figured that out by now.) But instead of a taffeta Dior and ankle straps and opera length gloves... I was... I was... oh God...

...I was wearing a SWEATSHIRT.

A black hooded sweatshirt that I had put on that morning, covered in cat hair and Munchies crumbs and airplane germs. And jeans and Hush Puppies and messy hair. Now, I know that casual wear is de riguer now -- one doesn't even have to wear a tie to even "21" anymore (which I lament -- I wish there were more places that upheld outdated civility) -- but COME ON. A sweatshirt? Cole Porter was spinning in his grave, and Cecil Beaton and Lily Dache were giving me the ghostly stinkeye.

But the bartender was very nice, and laughed when I stammered that I wouldn't normally wear a sweatshirt to such an establishment. And the maitre d' let us sit in the dining room to sip our drinks, since the shows hadn't let out yet and it was virtually empty. We gawked at the caricatures ("Look, there's Lucy!" "Awww, there's Dom Deluise!"), craning our necks and twisting in our seats. All decorum and nonchalance was abandoned, and I felt like the two rube suburban girls in Catcher in the Rye, silly and guileless in the Big City. Such rubes, in fact, that the busboy took our picture.

Tourist geeks

"Let's look at a menu for fun," I said, and the waitress brought us the post-theater supper selection, and we perused the twenty dollar hamburgers and forty dollar steaks. But when I saw they had French Onion Soup for under ten dollars, I realized that this would be my Accomplishment, dining high end on a low budget. And I would actually eat at SARDI'S.

So I got the soup:

Delicious!

Suzie got french fries:

Starchy goodness

And ate lots of good French bread.

Free!

And this was our bill:

Probably the lowest bill they had all night. And NOTE: My work did NOT pay for this!

People started trickling in as the shows were letting out, and it started filling up. And Rupert Everett came in, dressed even worse than I was, and sat beneath his own picture. Talk about ego! And no, we didn't take his picture. We're tourists, but not that bad. Now, had he been, say... PATTY DUKE... that's another story. ahem.

And since we were paying customers, we felt entitled to poke around the closed upstairs dining room and bathrooms, where we took lots of photos:

Aren't these beautiful?

Just THINK of who used these booths, before the advent of cell phones...

Anita Loos, Shelley Winters

Sammy and Dick!

Myrna Loy, Farrah and Liz

And then I discovered that I'd actually been there before, in the guise of The Gooch:

Peggy Cass, aka Agnes Gooch

Uncanny, isn't it?

Except she is wearing pearls, NOT a sweatshirt.

So as Auntie Mame told Agnes Gooch, "Life is a banquet and most poor suckers are starving to death," we ate -- CHEAP -- at that banquet. I highly recommend it.

French fries: $4
French Onion Soup: $9.75
French Bread: free
Dining at Sardi's for less than $20 and being able to say you ate there: priceless

Such a glamorous Accomplishment!

Thirty-two down, 65 to go.

Accomplishment #31: Learn Basic Clothes Maintenance (#85)

2009-05-24T11:03:00.000-07:00

I'll admit -- this is something that I did not learn while I was in high school. My mom, bless her heart, did my laundry. But then college came, and armed with a roll of quarters, some Tide, and about a month's worth of dirty clothes in the new hamper purchased for my new dorm room, I went to the laundromat and... did my laundry. It came out fine. Hey, I was young and full of promise -- there was nothing I couldn't do, except math and time travel and get to class on time. (Some things never change.)

I actually like doing laundry. There is something so gratifying about sorting and measuring and pouring, and then the smell and warmth of clothes right out of the dryer. Granted, I do have a washer and dryer so that makes things easy, but I never even really minded going to the laundromat -- once I actually GOT there. (It's the motivation that's the hard part.) Where else can you sit and read and the people watching can't be beat? Granted, seeing your neighbor's chonies spinning in a dryer can be weird, but just don't look too hard.

So yes, I can do laundry. I can even sew buttons and seam splits (albeit not all that perfectly). I can maintain my clothes maintenance, but it's the actually clothes quantity maintenance that is a challenge.

You see, I have A LOT of clothes. A LOT. I worked in a vintage store for 8 years and have an addiction to thrift shopping and bargains. And I'm not exactly trendy -- I tend to wear what was "in" fifty years ago than the latest fashion, so basically I'm so out of style that I don't have to worry about keeping up with it. I'll wear something I bought 15 years ago with something I got last month. I had 4 HUGE closets in my old apartment, so it never felt like an issue. But then I moved into a house with tiny closets with a boyfriend who needs to shield his body from the elements (damn him), and two small children who need a place to put their tiny sweaters and toys. Needless to say, the closet real estate is a bit scarce and hard to come by. Where my closets were happily full before, now they are crammed and look like they're vomiting skirts and jackets all over the place.

Yes, I know I have too many clothes. WAY too many. While I have a small case of the guilts when I'm rifling through my closet, knowing that there are poor people out there who need clothes (but like they'd want a sweater with poodles on it or gold lame capri pants), it's also intermingled with a sense of joy (some of my stuff is, in my opinion, amazing) and sentiment (I have the memory of an elephant and can remember where I got almost everything, and what I was doing when I was wearing my plaid skirt or turquoise sweater). And I've gotten rid of so much stuff, and regretted it. That's the thing about vintage -- I will never find another circle skirt with windmills and kissing Dutch couples, nor will I ever find another 1950's rayon Japanese pagoda print dress. Sigh.

But in the past few years, despite the gluttonous abundance of goodness in my closet, I've been a total schlub. For one thing, I don't go out as much anymore, so all my dressy dresses are gathering shoulder dust. Granted, it's not like I was ever one of those girls who was all decked out with the right hairdo and heels and seamed stockings, but sometimes I was fancy. (At least when I started the night out.) Another thing -- since I no longer work in a vintage store, I wind up just wearing the same old jeans to work, day after day. It's easy to get complacent, especially when you're running late to work and would rather not think too hard and be comfortable. And another thing -- I had gained weight, so many of my favorites didn't zip or button and made me want to cry, even though I didn't want to get rid of them.

Happily, I did lose some weight this past year. Not a lot, but enough to make me want to ditch my schlubby jeans and go out and buy new clothes. (After all, isn't that your just reward, after depriving yourself of butter and bacon and 2 am greasy goodness?) But even better, some of the clothes I actually already own zip again. Of course, being a clothes whore I would love to go shopping and buy new things, but don't have the money or the room. And as I was digging in my closet looking for something, I came up with an idea.

I challenged myself: I would wear something different every day for thirty days, no repeats, and shop in my closet instead of a store. That way I would save money by not buying clothes in my "new" size, and I wouldn't have to cram more crap in my vomiting closet. And I could revisit my old clothes that I love and justify their existence as mine -- if I'm wearing them, I don't have to feel guilty about having them, right? And I would record it all in photos and post on Flickr, to keep myself honest.

So thus it began:

Day 2

I missed the first day, so started on the second. My friend took this picture after work -- clearly I felt dumb. I think that was the hardest part, the posing for the pictures. (This was the only one someone took -- the rest were with the self timer. Believe me, I took a lot and kept the "best." I am a terrible subject and an even worse photographer.)

But it got kind of fun:

Day 16

Day 24

And ridiculous:

Sick and sick of it

The rest of the photos are here.

And I did it. It was fun going through my closet and excavating old treasures, and wearing something different. (Everyone at work would ask, "What day is it?") It motivated me to get up in the morning and think about what to wear, and not go out looking like a troll that just rolled out of a moat. When I would explain to people about what I was doing, it inspired them to do the same thing, and I love that. And even though it was a silly experiment -- it's not like I'm Accomplishing world peace or feeding the hungry, I'm just wearing old clothes I haven't worn in years -- it did a few things. One -- I saved money by not buying anything new, even for my "new" waist size. That's awesome.

Also, and most importantly, I felt better about myself. Wearing old schlubby jeans makes me feel tired and faded and, well, like a schlub. I don't feel like me. Clothes have always been such a huge part of my identity, and to have just reverted to wearing the same boring thing everyday... yawn. While it has its merits (definitely -- carelessly comfortable topping that list!), it's good to break out of that every once in a while.

And another thing I did find some things don't fit, don't look good, and I'm not going to wear them again. So I can get rid of stuff, make more room, and buy more clothes that I don't need. Hooray! Sigh.

But I did reward myself with a treat after I was done with the thirty days. The economy needs stimulating, right? But instead of buying new clothes, I bought a new purse that matches EVERYTHING. And it's made from recycled barkcloth, so it's good for the environment!

Check out this seller on etsy -- her purses are the best! atomiclivin on etsy

What was scary was that I barely scratched the surface (or rather, the depths) of my overstuffed closets, so I'm still motivated to keep it going. My work schedule hasn't made it all that possible this month, but I'll be starting up again in June, adding pictures once again, and prompting my coworkers to ask, "Okay, now what day are you on?" I'll dig out my fabulous Pucci pants (75% markdown at a discount outlet!) and wear them to... um... somewhere. And even though I'm wearing ugly sweatpants as I write this, maybe, just maybe, after I take a shower I might put something nice on and take a picture. Maybe. It might just be a schlubby day after all, but it's nice to have a choice.

Thirty-one down, 66 to go.

No really, I haven't given up!

2009-05-21T16:40:00.000-07:00

No, I haven't given up on the blog, I swear! I'm just lame. And busy. Busy Accomplishing things... and playing Lexulous on facebook. (It's good for the brain you know.) And reading good books:

This is the next Book Club selection. See? I'm keeping up! buy it!

And here's a preview of an Accomplishment:

You can't tell from this photo because I'm mid-blink and looking a little inebriated (I WASN'T), but this was an Important Occasion.

More later!!!

Happy Easter!

2009-04-12T09:37:00.000-07:00

Hope everyone is stuffing themselves to the gills with Easter candy, or wearing bonnets festooned with ribbons, or at least settling down for a nice Sunday.

And here is a little treat for you from me:

I found this in a junk store a few years ago, and thought it was hilarious. I took it out of its frame and scanned it and posted it on Flickr. Since then, it has gotten 51,343 views.

Just think -- over FIFTY ONE THOUSAND clicks on this crazy picture. That's more than the population of... somewhere. So, that's sort of an accomplishment -- I have successfully spread bunny terror across the internet. Ha cha cha!

Happy day, everyone!

I'm a winner!

2009-03-29T21:17:00.000-07:00

Actually, I'm a total LOSER because I should have posted this weeks ago. Actually MONTHS -- it's crazy the way I've lost track of time. I can't believe it's almost April! But never fear -- I HAVE been Accomplishing Great Things, as well as spending a lot of time on my butt on the couch. I believe in a balanced lifestyle.

Anyway, one of my favorite blogs, The Girl Can't Help It (Go HERE!) had a giveaway, and I won! When it was announced, I shrieked with glee and read this part out loud to my boyfriend: "Your house just got a little bit tackier, and I couldn't be prouder that I had a part in it."

"Hmmm," he said. "Did you tell her our house is already tacky, and that you do a fine job of that all by yourself?" Touche, darling.

But WHATEVER! It's an Accomplishment! I won something! I won a KITTY PLANTER!

Behold:

Isn't it cute? Isn't it sweet?

Wait. Look closer.

Look at its eyes. Go ahead. Just TRY to stare deeply into them.

You CAN'T. They are limpid pools of NOTHING. They aren't even evil -- they are simply not there, like something straight outta Flannery O'Connor or something. Or a horror movie. Or, well, the blogosphere.

In fact, this kitty reminds me of another kitty:

Louis Wain's schizophrenic cat

And this makes me love it EVEN MORE.

Many thanks to the fabulous Kim, and I promise -- more Accomplishments coming your way soon. But seriously... i don't know if I could ever top Dead-Eyed Cat.

Accomplishment #30 -- Start a Book Club (#20)

2009-03-08T22:22:00.000-07:00

Show of hands: Who remembers The Scholastic Book Club?

Okay, so I can't actually see you, but I can feel your excitement and nostalgia all the way from here.

For the uninitiated, The Scholastic Book Club was a program in schools where kids could order books from a little order form, the teacher would send it in, and a few weeks later, the books were delivered to the classroom. (They were WAY ahead of Amazon.) You know, to promote reading, because Reading Is Fundamental.

I LOVED it. For some reason, at my school it was called The Lucky Book Club. We'd get the forms with their little pictures of the book covers and check boxes, and I'd rush home and gather together all my money, then fill it out and wait impatiently for Delivery Day. One time I was in the school office and saw the actual boxes being delivered and was thrilled -- like I had seen something Big and Secret and Behind The Scenes, like the inner workings of an important operation. Our teachers would get the boxes, and then during silent reading time, they would get everything together and make stacks at the front of the room, and then we could go up one by one and collect our book goodness.

My stacks were always the biggest, because I was a total book nerd. I went everywhere with a book, including the dinner table and got reprimanded all the time for that. But my parents encouraged my reading and spending my allowance on books. If I got an A on my report card, my dad took me to the local bookstore as a reward and bought me a HARDCOVER book and inscribed it. My mom volunteered at a thrift shop, and after every shift she brought home a bag of books for me, and she took me to the library once a week. I didn't just read books -- I devoured them, and quickly. So when it was Lucky Book Club time, they would supplement my allowance so that I could order more than one or two -- sometimes I'd get 3 or even 4 AND a Dynamite Magazine or a poster with a kitten on it! (Hang in there, baby!) I'd always feel a little embarrassed, seeing my stack tower over everyone else's, but that would fade quickly into glee and the high of New Book Smell.

I bought all sorts of books -- everything from Beverly Cleary to books about gerbils and gila monsters. (I know, right? WHY???) In third grade I got a book about exotic cats and decided that I needed an ocelot. My absolute favorite two books were biographies about Helen Keller and Louis Braille because they had the braille alphabet on the back. (I spent more hours pretending I was blind than I did reading the books.)

Some of my actual Lucky Book Club books. Alas, the gerbil and gila monster ones are gone.

So Scholastic was the first book club to which I ever belonged, even though I didn't exactly sit around and have meaningful discussions about any of the books I got. (Yeah, right: "Oh yes. The schadenfreude I felt after Ramona ruins two of Beezus' birthday cakes was exhilarating, and the symbolism of Ramona ruining the cakes is that she does not want Beezus to age so that she can overtake her older sister's hierarchy within the familial structure." Pffft.) I've been in exactly two others -- one where we read Carter Beats The Devil (it's good!) and we met once and never again (I even read Seabiscuit, which was the next book, but we never got it together) and then we started one at work. I got to choose the first book, and I chose Lobster Boy, the story of Grady Stiles who had lobster hands and feet and was murdered by another carnival freak, and I wanted to have the meeting at a seafood restaurant. Needless to say it did not go over like gangbusters, but to this day I still think it was an awesome choice.

A few months ago, I had heard that one of our beloved San Francisco bookstores, Stacey's was closing, and I was so sad to hear the news. You all know how I feel about that (a gentle reminder here). I belong to an email list my friend Lynn Peril started (check out her excellent books -- Pink Think and College Girls see here!) called The Ladies Lit List, where we talk about life, books, and whatnot, and I emailed them right away to tell them the news.

Of course, everyone responded with horror, but I think one of our common themes was, "I haven't been there in a while." That was certainly true of me -- I hadn't been in there in a few years. While I do buy books elsewhere, I, along with everyone else with that reaction, was part of the problem. These bookstores can't stay afloat if we aren't buying books from them -- Amazon and the economy are killing off these smaller stores, and it's so sad to see happen.

Since it was an Accomplishment for the blog, I suggested we start our own book club, to help out these indies and the book business. Now, I realize 5 or so books won't save much of anything, but it's a start, and at least we could feel good about helping the cause. And so, The 97 Things Book Club was born. (That's not really the name. It doesn't really have one.)

This was the book I suggested:

It was a book that I had wanted to read for a long, long time, and at the time I chose it, the Inauguration was coming up, and I'd been reading articles on the Obama/FDR comparisons. And I had met Ms. Goodwin a few times at the bookstore where I used to work, and she was always gracious and kind, so that was a plus in its favor, too. So we had the book, set the date, and most importantly, decided what we were going to eat.

Even though we had over a month to read the book, when our First Official Book Club Meeting rolled around, only one of us had finished it. (Let's face it, we all know how it ends.) Shamefully, the Hostess was not that person, as I discovered that it was so dense I could only read a few pages at a time, and was sidetracked by the autobiography of Maureen McCormick who was Marcia Brady and had a WAY serious cocaine habit. (You'll all be happy to know that Marcia -- er, Maureen -- found God, though she should have found a more exciting ghostwriter.) I had only just finished reading about Pearl Harbor and was to February 1942. With the exception of Lea, the other ladies hadn't finished it either. (Lea wins the gold medal for patience and perseverance.)

But all was not lost. There was still a rousing discussion (how could there not be?) so the afternoon was filled with terrific conversation -- everything from the economy then and now, Eleanor and feminism, the press, Obama and the stimulus, to, um, wondering if FDR could still, uh, "perform." (Yes, I know, totally tasteless and sacrilegious. But come on. And we were told yes. Giggle.)

And, of course, FOOD:

crustless sandwiches for a proper ladies' 40's luncheon, and sushi in remembrance of japanese internment camps

Lynn's amazing brownies, and Jessica's cookies from Bake Sale Betty. Not pictured: Mary Ann's cake and Mary's champagne

So while the book choice was far too lofty and dense and too hard to focus upon for a Book Club (but not as bad as Lobster Boy, which is STILL think is an awesome choice), it was still a success. I've learned so much American History -- things about which I was not aware -- that is helping me to understand and come to grips a little with what's happening today. It was a lovely afternoon, filled with good people, smart conversation, delicious food, and the economy (especially the book and delicious snack treats industries) and minds were stimulated. (And, um, we learned that FDR could be, too. D'OH!) Which is what it's about.

The Smart and Fabulous Lit Ladies!

So I made a much wiser choice for the next one:

NPR review here

It is REALLY GOOD. In my opinion, you can't go wrong with anything put out by Algonquin Books, and this one's no exception. (When I was buying it my friend said, "Oh, that is SUCH a Karen book." I think that's a good thing, except questionable when it comes to Lobster Boy.) I bought my copy in hardcover, but it releases in paperback March 17th. I'm going to call our local bookstore and see if they can get us some extra copies -- Algonquin's Marketing Dept. is even having a promotion for it for book clubs. And it's a perfect segue -- Mudbound begins where No Ordinary Time left off.

The next meeting is Saturday, April 4th at 2 pm!

So I hereby invite all of you to join The 97 Things Virtual Book Club, and read Mudbound by Hilary Jordan. I can figure out a way to "host" a meeting on the blog -- have a dedicated post with comments, maybe? I would love that! And my plan is to do a new book, every six weeks. Or host one yourself. It's fun, especially if guests bring delicious food.

And remember -- support your local bookseller and talented authors. It's good for the economy, and even better for your mind, heart, and soul.

Thirty down, 67 to go.

Accomplishment #29: Learn About Safe Sex (#40)

2009-02-27T11:52:00.000-08:00

*giggle* Ohmigaaawd! *giggle*

Okay, let's face it. I am way past the age of learning about safe sex. That was something that actually did happen by the time I graduated from high school, which really was an Accomplishment. It would be, like, awesome for you guys and the blog if I had some sort of Afterschool Special Worthy Life Lesson to share, like, if I was like Dana Plato and got knocked up with Rob Lowe's baby at summer camp, but nope. Didn't happen.

Best Afterschool Special EVER.

I also came of age when AIDS was coming into collective consciousness. I remember reading about this new, scary disease in Time Magazine in our high school library. As I read the list of symptoms, I was sure I had it, despite the fact that I was a virgin and had never had a blood transfusion, shot up drugs, or had gone to a bathhouse where, apparently, that's where the disease was rampant. (I was sort of a drama-prone hypochondriac as a teen. I was also sure I had malaria at one point, and any disease that was written about in People Magazine where only less than 1% of the population was affected.) While vaguely horrifying Sex Ed classes had always preached about condoms, they had something else to add to their litany of warnings: unwanted pregnancy, STDs, and death. We were all made very aware of the consequences, even if not every teenager was paying attention.

I didn't have to worry too much -- it's not like I was exactly a teen vixen, and I had a tendency to have crushes on gay boys who wore more eyeliner than I did with ratted-out bangs. (It was the 80's. Sigh.) And even more scary than getting pregnant or driving drunk or failing a class was getting in trouble with my dad (though, huh, that happened a lot, but for much minor offenses), so I didn't step over the line. Too much, anyway.

Having to talk candidly with my parents about anything in those days was, like, thee most mortifying thing ever. Even if one of them asked me, "Oh, who is this band?" trying to make conversation with me, I'd cringe. I figured that they'd only had sex three times to have me and my two sisters, and didn't want to think about it any more than that. (And yeah, I still don't.) Of course, later on I realized just how amazing and cool my parents were, but as a teenager I just thought they were the biggest dorks in the universe who just didn't get it. GAAAAWD.

So we didn't really have any "Our Bodies Ourselves" moments in our house. No sitting around the kitchen table with my mom while drinking tea, chatting about sex and douches or anything else like that. Everything I knew about sex came from Judy Blume (remember, page 81 in Forever) or Flowers in the Attic (real healthy), those mortifying Sex Ed classes where nearly everyone looked down at their binders or at the diagrams on the board but not one another, and listening to my friends who were, like "doing it" talk about it. ("You WHAT??? Nuh uh!!! Gross!")

Ohhh, Ralph.

But my poor mom, bless her heart, she tried. Right before I was going away to college, I was sprawled on the couch watching Dialing for Dollars (that's pretty much all I ever watched back then) when she came in and sat down. "Honey, I want to to talk to you about something..." she said.

I knew. I thought I had avoided the Bird and the Bees Talk, but I knew. This was IT.

""Yeah?" I said. Oh God, oh no, don't do it, Mom...

"There will be some, um, things that will happen now that you're leaving home... Things involving boys --"

"IT'S OKAY MOM," I said, a little too loud. "YOU TOTALLY DON'T HAVE TO TELL ME, I KNOW, I GET IT..."

"But Karen," she said. "I just want you to be sure you know how to handle things and be prepared --"

"I AM, IT'S OKAY, I TOTALLY DON'T WANT TO TALK ABOUT THIS..."

And I don't think she did, either, because we both kind of said, "well then, okay," and she went off and I went back to Dialing for Dollars.

So since I'm not exactly well-versed in how to deliver a truly good Birds and Bees and Safe Sex lecture, I will leave that PSA for Rascal Rapper, the Blueberry Condom:

I may be making light of it because I'm not a statistic, but I know plenty of people who are. Unfortunately, some of those gay boys I loved way back when have or have died of AIDS. My best friend in ninth grade got pregnant and dropped out our junior year. I've spent enough time in Planned Parenthood waiting rooms, conscious of the consequences of unsafe sex around me. So no, it's not funny.

But then again, I know I could never demonstrate putting a condom on a banana because I would totally die of laughter. But that's because I'm totally immature.

*giggle* Ohmigaaawd! *giggle*

Twenty-nine down, 68 to go.

Accomplishment #28: Cook a Three-Course Dinner (#30)

2009-02-21T10:37:00.000-08:00

I'm not really a cook. I mean yeah, I can boil spaghetti noodles and dump a jar of sauce in a pot and 40% of the time it tastes decent, and I make a mean tuna noodle casserole with potato chips crushed on top. I can bring home the bacon and fry it up in a pan and never let you forget that it's your turn to do the dishes. Sundays we have tacos, and I can warm up the tortillas in the microwave. I've even cooked two turkeys, though I managed to set a kitchen towel on fire on one of those occasions and lots of screaming and crying (and drinking) ensued.

So yeah. Julia Child I'm not.

But I sort of long to be, just like how I wish I could knit and cobble my own shoes. My friends will talk about how they made these dinners from Epicurious or whatever, with exotic ingredients and paired with the perfect wine, and I'll be befuddled as I try to remember what I ate the night before. (Something my boyfriend or a restaurant cooked, most likely.) Or I'll get all proud if I made chicken and the inside was cooked all the way through.

My friend Mimi claims she doesn't understand how anyone can be scared of cooking, but I'm here to tell you: I am. Not scared necessarily, but let's just say I'm always pleased when after I do cook something, no one gets sick and dies. That, to me, is a culinary triumph. Also I will buy cookbooks and then see some weird ingredient that is supposed to make something uber-fancy and I think, "Seriously? Pineapple and mango chutney over chicken? Why???" and then I figure I have the palate of an eight-year-old. (Which is probably true.) Plus -- I have been told by all my boyfriends that I am a fairly lousy cook. Sticks and stones may break my bones, but those words got me a pass out of the kitchen. I still make dinner, sure, and sometimes have an accompanying salad, but never anything terribly fancy or memorable.

So for this Accomplishment, I decided to challenge myself. Sure, I could make a three course dinner: salad from a bag, tuna noodle casserole with potato chips crushed on top and a freezer-burned popsicle. But no! It would be a nice meal, a belated Valentine's Day Feast. And so I wouldn't cheat, I would take pictures to chronicle the whole ordeal. And I was going to LOOK IN A COOKBOOK and pick something that I had never made before. Like the scariest thing of all:

SEAFOOD. And not Chicken of the Sea, either.

Seafood I am definitely scared of. I don't know how to tell if it flakes easily, and I always just think of The Simpsons when Homer ate the poisonous blowfish while Lisa and Bart karaoke "Shaft." It would be just my luck that I would make fish and it would turn out to be a baaaaad mother. (Just talkin' 'bout Shaft!) But this time, I was going to conquer my fears, and Jon agreed to be The Royal Food Taster. So I poured over my dusty cookbooks and picked Spring Greens with Radishes, Blue Cheese and Toasted Walnuts with made from scratch dressing (no help from Paul Newman for this girl!) for the first course, and Asian Style Sea Bass for the second.

What they were supposed to look like.

Oh geez.

So armed with a list of stuff I didn't have on hand (sea bass, sesame oil, fresh ginger, walnuts, a shallot and a frozen pizza if it all went to hell), I went to the grocery store and marched right up to the seafood counter. "One pound of sea bass, please," I told Seafood Counter Man, hoping I sounded like someone who cooks sea bass on a regular basis.

He laughed like I was an idiot. "Um, no way," he said. "We don't carry it. It's thirty bucks a pound!"

Leave it to me to ask for the most trop cher seafood ever. (I may have the palate of an eight-year-old, but a spoiled one.) "Okay," I said, thinking fast and hoping I didn't come off like a total moron. "Give me the scallops." (Which, by the way, weren't cheap either.)

Once home, I did the first thing I believe every chef should do: don an apron. (And even better if it has cat heads all over it.)

OMG, does this apron make my butt look big?

And then I set to work on the third course, BROWNIES. Okay, they were from a box, but people, the box was 99 cents and there's a recession on. And I added THREE eggs to make them cake-like, which is trying something new. So there.

Mmmm... brownie goodness. And the cook always gets to lick the spoon.

And then, because it was belated Valentine's Day and we weren't going to be eating dinner in front of the TV watching DVDs of Buffy the Vampire Slayer, I set the table all purty.

But no, I didn't iron the tablecloth. There's only so much I can handle.

And then I prepped the asparagus for roasting in the oven when the brownies were finished baking, snapping off the ends, drizzling it with olive oil and Maine sea salt and pepper:

Yes, I need a new cookie sheet.

And then on to the scallops. I washed them to get the grit off, and cut up 3 scallions. Then regarded the ginger. I was pleased to find a little stump that had come off a big piece that cost a penny and looked to be just the right amount I'd need. But it also looked like a thumb. Peeling a thumb is super creepy, but it was all good.

Thumb size is the perfect amount. Remember that.

Then I took a square of foil and added the scallops, the scallions, the ginger, a tablespoon of reduced sodium soy sauce, and 2 teaspoons of the sesame oil, and sealed the tin foil in a package all tight.

Shiny shiny

Meanwhile, I was boiling one inch of water in a skillet and as soon as it was bubbling, I plopped the packet in there and covered it, leaving it in there for 10 minutes. So I hurried and threw some instant rice on the stove (I know, but I don't have a rice cooker and it was ON SALE) which was perfectly timed, and started on the salad.

It was super easy -- 1 1/2 tablespoons of lemon juice (I didn't have any lemon zest because lemons were a dollar -- pffft -- but there was supposed to be 1/2 teaspoon, oh well), and two teaspoons of extra virgin olive oil, 3/4 teaspoon of sugar and 1/4 teaspoon of mustard powder. Mix all those up then add 2 tablespoons of finely chopped shallot. Then I added the greens and the radishes and tossed, and PEOPLE, I TOASTED THE WALNUTS:

And yes, I burned some because I got carried away chopping the damn shallot, but enough were salvageable. And then I added low fat blue cheese and VOILA:

Okay, so it doesn't look like the cookbook, but it still looked GOOD.

By then, the timer was going off and everything was ready at once and I felt like a chicken without a head. I uncovered the scallops and poked at them, but I couldn't tell so I just put them back on for another five minutes to be on the safe side. (Our stove is old and wonky anyway, so we always have to do that.) So I took the asparagus out of the oven and put it in the special Russel Wright asparagus dish, and it was toasted and crispy, just how we like it:

Mmmm, tasty. And it makes your pee smell, too!

I got the rice ready, and then it came time for the scallops! I took them out of their packet, and drizzled the sauce from the foil and another tablespoon of soy sauce over them (and a bit of the sauce on the rice):

What DO scallops look like in nature, anyway????

Ta da!

Not bad, if I say so myself.

And a little mood music:

I'll swing along with Sinatra, no matter how many courses.

Then Jon came home -- perfect timing -- and my three-course dinner earned five stars. Jon even said that it was the best salad he had ever eaten. It was even better than SALAD IN A BAG!

Look Ma! No leftovers!

And the third course was good, too:

cake-like brownie with low-fat French vanilla ice cream.

So I'm happy to report that not only was my three-course dinner delicious, no one got sick and died as a result of eating it. Which, in itself was an Accomplishment. But the biggest Accomplishment was that I conquered my fear and preconceived notions that I can't cook, because I can. Which, in a way, kind of sucks because now I'm going to have to do this more often.

Julia Child, eat your heart out.

Twenty-eight down, 69 to go.

Accomplishment #27: Give Technology A Break (#6)

2009-02-18T11:14:00.000-08:00

I'll admit, I was sort of late jumping on the whole internet bandwagon.

I had heard about this world wide web thing, and was sort of "meh." After all, I worked in a vintage store and didn't have a stick of new furniture in my apartment, except for an answering machine and microwave oven my dad got me -- the rest of my junk was thrifted or hand me downs, including the TV that needed bunny ears after the free cable got turned off. I was already bad at writing letters, so what would I do with this thing called "email"? And the dot-commers were simply ruining San Francisco. My friends who worked at them had office dogs and basketball courts in their meeting rooms and it all sounded a little fishy to me. I figured it was all just techno thing that I wouldn't be interested in, like Nintendo or something.

And then I heard about eBay. Hello, iMac!

So since the first week of 2000, I have been online. (In waited until the whole Y2K thing was over, because all those dot-commers told everyone it was the end of the world. And, well, there was a big sale.) I delighted in plugging in my Blueberry iMac, and getting my first email, and bidding on my first ebay auction. (And then the thrill was over when I lost my first ebay auction.) I played online solitaire and joined a few Yahoo groups. I "surfed the web." And, I admit, I Googled myself.

I was hooked.

I was a regular Gidget of the web.

So in the past nine years, there have been very few days that I have been internet-less, and I constantly wonder what I did with my time before all this happened. My apartment was messy so I wasn't always cleaning, I had bunny ears on the TV so I wasn't watching, and I read a lot of books, sure, but I still do. Maybe I was going out and seeing friends more often, but now I have facebook for that. So was my life better back then? Was just having the basics more fun, or is life better now?

Now if I'm away from my computer for a few hours, I get antsy. Not that I have anything terribly import to attend to, but it's become a routine and a habit. I need to check my emails (thought most of them are SPAM), and OMG, what is everyone's status on facebook? Granted, most people just write things like, "So-and-so is drinking COFFEE!" and "So-and-so is going to work out!" but it's nice to feel connected. (My status updates aren't much better, BTW. And they've gotten a lot cleaner since my sweet aunt joined facebook, and I don't want her to tell my mom, "Karen's hungover AGAIN!") Same with Twitter, though since word economy is not my strong suit, I have a problem with the 140 characters. Oh, and the blogs, the wonderful blogs...

But sometimes, as I do in my regular life, I feel like I'm stretched too thin with what's going on the web world, and get overwhelmed. I get behind in the wonderful world of Flickr, and God knows I wish I could update my blog every day, but I just wind up playing Lexulous. (I really, really love Lexulous.) Yet the thought of avoiding the internet makes me anxious. It's become a huge part of my life. It's kind of like soap -- you can live without it, but boy, I sure don't want to.

I knew this Accomplishment was going to be tough. So when my friend decided to get a group together for a weekend to go to Tahoe, I thought that would be a perfect opportunity to test myself.

Now, the book says that you have to shut off all technology -- no music, cameras, cell phones, TV, OR computer. Now, that's a little much, and impossible to go cold turkey. This is not the Sierras and Lake Tahoe of the Donner Party -- we were going to drive in a car to a cabin, not take a covered wagon to a homestead. (And, um, eat food from Safeway. Not Aunt Millie.) So giving up the music part was out, and so was the camera -- I had to take incriminating photos of the weekend hijinks. I wasn't too worried about the cell phone -- mine's usually dead and I never realize it, and I hate texting. (THAT'S what I did when I didn't have a computer -- I talked on the phone for hours. Now I rarely do.) TV -- well, I don't watch much TV anyway (except OMG, LOST, I love LOST). In fact, I should watch MORE TV because sometimes there's good stuff on there, and I'm missing out on all the American Idol conversations at work. But the computer part -- there was no way around it. There was no internet connection at the cabin, and I don't have an iPhone so that was that. No internet for a whole three day weekend.

Oh GOD.

DAY ONE.

I got my online time in before we left on our trip, where I got an email from a friend who thought I was mad at her because I seemed stressed the night before. I emailed back that I was worried about the storm coming (that I had found out about on the internet and TV -- had I not turned either on it would have been fine), but in retrospect I was probably weirding out that I was going to be away from the computer.

On the way up, I did get some phone calls from the other people in our caravan to see where everyone was and whether or not we needed chains and if Rena could start making the queso dip as soon as she got to the cabin. So see? Technology was necessary for our SAFETY and NUTRITION. But I left all the texting to my friend Irene, playing a joke on our friend in the car ahead of us that we had passed them and we were already at the cabin. That led to a few laughs. Wheee! Technology is too fun to give up!

The first night was fine, though I did have some pangs. I looked at the people with iPhones, and was jealous. Our friend brought his laptop with a little modem thingy, and I resisted the urge to ask him, "Can I just check my email?" So instead, I had the aforementioned queso dip, some cocktails, danced a little, and went in the hot tub and fell asleep right after. Withdrawl crisis averted.

DAY TWO

I woke up fresh as a daisy (okay, not really, but I didn't feel like I got hit by a bus), and though it felt strange that I couldn't get up and check email, I loved waking up and reading my book on The Roosevelts. Plus our room was a "Greek Myth" theme and it was so bizarre I liked just hanging out in it. Then when others started making their way downstairs, we joined them and ate pancakes, and sat around and talked. And what did we talk about? FACEBOOK. So it was like being online, but, um, not. And then we ventured out in the snow. We lasted all of about 10 minutes, but it was something slightly adventurous. If I had my computer, I... I was going to say that I wouldn't have gone out in the snow, but I would have. Bah.

Snow bunnies

But I was feeling antsy, so I went to Safeway to get out of the house. While there, I did get a call on my cell with requests for more Velveeta for more queso and some tampons. So it was a good thing I had my cell phone, otherwise some people would have been very, very unhappy. (And I'm talking more about the Velveeta than the tampons.)

To get past the online withdrawls when I got back, and making sure I didn't cave and borrow anyone's iPhone or the laptop, I took a nap and then ate lots of junk food and drank a lot of delicious White Russians and then had Big Gay Dance Party with an ipod, dancing to Erasure and ABBA and Lily Allen, laughing hysterically. And instead of writing a "note" on facebook about 25 Things No One Knows or whatever, we ended the night with "I Never" and crawled -- literally -- to bed. Day Two was over, and I'd made it.

DAY THREE

I woke up feeling like I got hit by a bus, and was in no mood for much of anything. It would have been great to hole up with my computer and aimlessly stumble around on the internet, but that wasn't an option, so I bucked up and talked to everyone and we laughed and laughed about the hijinks from the night before. And we ate more queso and pigs in blankets and then we actually played SCRABBLE. With tiles. We had to keep score, unlike with Lexulous, that does it all for you. But I discovered my Scrabble skills have not suffered in the slightest, and kicked butt.

When almost everyone else trooped off upstairs to watch horror movies, I decided to forgo that bit of technology, and instead went to the casinos with 3 others where we drank champagne and played nickel slots. (Now that's technology I wish never got updated -- I hate all the lines to bet on and the tickets that come out. I like the cherries and the one to 3 lines and the glorious sound of coins spilling out.) When we got home, we drank more champagne and played a rousing game of celebrity, and laughed and laughed and went to bed, all of us sad that it was the last night.

DAY FOUR:

By then I didn't care about the internet -- we had to say goodbye to our amazing cabin and our friends, and get home. And I knew that 8000 emails would be waiting for me, and that it would be a pain to catch up. So by then, it was the opposite -- I was dreading signing on. But I didn't think about it much, as we laughed the whole way home about stuff that had happened over the weekend. By then I already missed the weekend more than I had missed the internet.

And when I got home, sure enough, my inbox was full of junk to weed through and correspond to. And without print and newspapers, I realized, I had no idea what went on in the world while I was away, and that was a little weird. I didn't know if it had rained the whole time, if the Stimulus package had been signed, if any celebrities died... I was totally disconnected. And after a few minutes of being online, I gave up and went to bed.

So here are some things I learned:

I can live without the internet, and I don't break into hives or seizures.

However, I don't get that much more stuff done, because I am inherently lazy -- if there's no internet, that just means a NAP.

It's okay if I don't check into facebook. Everyone is the same -- still drinking coffee, still working out, and still broke, hungry, stoked and or drunk. Life goes on, and so do status updates. But -- it sucks cleaning out your inbox after not logging in for a while, that's for sure.

And sometimes, getting back to basics and the simple pleasures in life are truly the most magical things.

Behold the greatest technological invention ever:

Facebook will NEVER be as funny as farts.

I SO need an iPhone.

Twenty-seven down, seventy to go.

I won a Major Award!

2009-02-08T22:48:00.000-08:00

The magnificent Megan of All I Need is Everything bestowed this terrific award on me. She does one of my most favorite blogs on the internet -- the perfect blend of fun, personal, and thought provoking. I just love it when she posts something new -- it makes my whole day. So for her to honor me with this -- I feel just like Sally Field, but even more surprised and flattered. Thank you so much, Megan!

The rules for the award are as follows:

Each Superior Scribbler must in turn pass the Award on to 5 most-deserving Blog Friends. You must link to the author and name of the blog from where he/she has received the award.

You must display the Award on your blog and link to THIS POST, which explains the Award. Each blogger who wins The Superior Scribbler Award must visit THIS POST and add your name to the Mr. Linky List. That way, they will be able to keep up-to-date on everyone who receives this prestigious honor. You must post these rules on your blog.

But choosing just 5??? That's tough!!! As far as I'm concerned, all the blogs on my list and that I follow are award-worthy. Some of them make me laugh out loud, some get me teary, some make me envious for all the amazing photos or cool things they post, some inspire me... and ALL of them are my favorites.

Sigh.

But I'm going to play by the rules. To make things easier for me (after all, I AM AN AWARD WINNER AND SHOULD HAVE A LIMO AND A TIARA, THANKYOUVEDDYMUCH), I am going to exclude any blogs from anyone I've met in person, lest anyone think I'm biased. (They already know that I'm their fan, anyway.) And I'm going to go with blogs that are heavier on the writing side. (Though I'm in love with the photography and music and collecting blogs on my list, too.) So that said, here are my Superior Scribblers:

1. MONKEY MUCK. My friend Dr. Monkey delights me daily with his political musings, his cooking tips, his glimpses into his every day life, and his awesome 1970's menswear photos -- all done with brilliance and humor. I'm happy to have this monkey on my back.

2. CURLY WURLY. This blog KILLS ME. Maria finds the most wonderfully outrageous Mid-Century photos and articles, but it's her commentary that nails it, all done with aplomb and humor and I love her for it.

3. THE GIRL CAN'T HELP IT Biting, sarcastic and funny as hell, Fast Eddie's Retro Rags makes me laugh out loud each time I read her blog. She doesn't know me from Adam, but I wish I could have a cocktail (or 6) with her.

Oh man, how can there be only TWO left????

4. LOVE, ELIZABETH Sigh. I love this blog so much. Each time I click and begin to read, I feel as if I'm starting a lovely novel that I don't want to end. I savor every word, and can't wait for the day that I can read Elizabeth's words bound and on paper.

5. OUCHEBA So smart, so witty, and I always find myself yelping with laughter. And he doesn't have comments enabled (as far as I can tell, but I'm a luddite), and so many times I've wanted to tell him how much I love his blog. So here's my chance.

Again, thank you, Megan, for such an honor. I love doing this blog and for you to recognize me is such a thrill, you have no idea. Oh wait, you do -- you're an award winner, too!

And here's another award winner I love:

I feel totally Accomplished.

Accomplishment #26: Listen to New Music (#5)

2009-02-06T17:20:00.000-08:00

When I was an intrepid new wave teen, it was very important to me to be cutting edge. I had to know all the new music -- and had to have all the new music -- before anyone else did. In fact, I was so bitchin that I had the twelve inch MAXI SINGLE of "Hold Me Now" by The Thompson Twins BEFORE THE WHOLE RECORD CAME OUT. That, my friends, is not messing around. It had a "special dub mix" on the other side. Did anyone else at Monte Vista High School in 1983 have that record? I highly doubt it.

Okay, okay, it wasn't all that cutting edge, considering that song was doomed for high school dances and Easy Listening radio stations.

But back then, it was so much easier to find new music and hear new music and get really excited about it, and even wear pins to advertise one's allegiance to it. It was all so new to me then, and I was completely invested in it. We had an awesome "alternative" radio station called The Quake that I listened to religiously, and if I heard something I liked, I saved up my measly allowance (or my lunch money) and went to the record store and bought it. (And would sit on my bed and study the album cover and the liner notes and lyrics.) And it was easy enough to explore back then -- if the people on the record cover had even slightly weird haircuts, or if it was in a thrift shop and from the 50's or 60's, I was all over it.

I loved making mixed tapes for my friends, carefully choosing songs that segued into each other and that sounded good together, and that had meaning. I happily sat on the floor in front of my stereo, amidst piles of records and tapes, waiting for the perfect moment to hit "pause" between the songs, and cursing when the tape ran out before the song ended. Worse was when it wasn't just the usual snap, crackle and pop of records, but when it would skip -- I would wince and just flick the needle, and more often than not left it. (My friend Leslie used to call it "The Karen Finlay Special Remix Version.") While the songs played, I tried to think of witty titles for the tapes, and decorated the inserts by hand with colored marking pens (adding to the piles of records mess), experimenting with different handwriting and fonts. I spent hours working on those tapes, and loved giving them out. (Rumor has it that some of those tapes are still out there -- I love that, too.) And I loved it when people made them for me, too.

Of course, I wasn't all that knowledgeable or cool. I was a dopey kid from the suburbs with a 12 pm curfew and limited access to MTV. (I only got to watch it at friends' houses -- my dad thought it was all crap and he refused to subscribe.) So it's not like I really knew anything too obscure, but I certainly hated all the mainstream stuff that the other kids at my school were into. (Heavy metal was like totally gnarly!) I didn't know about college radio, and I wasn't angry or brave enough to be into the whole punk rock thing. But music was my life, and I took it very seriously, proclaiming my love by scrawling band names all over my blue cloth binders and PeeChee folders.

When I got to college, I had a roommate with big hair and an unnatural tan and a penchant for All Things With Lips On Them. My side of the dorm room had Style Council and Aretha Franklin posters and pictures carefully cut out of Interview magazine on the wall; she had airbrushed posters of lips. And a lips phone. And pens, mugs and stationery with lips on them. And since it was her side of the room, I woke up every morning to the sight of a poster of a pair of shiny lips sucking on a succulent lollipop or something ridiculously phallic. She woke up to my poster of Paul Weller and milk crates full of records and tapes that I had lugged from home, most of which she deemed "weird." "Why do you have so many records?" she asked. (Her music collection consisted of Bon Jovi's "Slippery When Wet" and Janet Jackson and Cameo tapes she played in her Nissan Sentra.) "Isn't that, like, a guy thing?"

"A guy thing?" I asked, confused. "Why would it be a guy thing?"

"Because guys are all into records and music," she said, using a pik to fluff up her bangs. "Girls are, like, into clothes and stuff."

Score zero for feminism. Needless to say, we hated each other by Christmas break.

So, okay, maybe I was a total geek and socially maladjusted in my betty roommate's eyes (and ohhh, what I could have retorted about What It Means To Be Obsessed With Airbrushed Lips Posters), but that meant that most of my friends were, too -- boys and girls alike. Back then, and to this day, most of my friendships have music as the common ground, or at least that's how they started out. I have met so many of my friends through shows and clubs or events, all revolving around music. Being part of a subculture (or a few, depending on how you look at it) was a big part of my life, and the music -- even possibly more so than the clothes and accoutrements -- was the driving force. In a lot of ways, the music I listened to was my identity, and I was passionate about it.

But a funny thing happened on the way to getting older -- the music got too loud.

I don't know exactly when or how it happened, but I kind of lost the zeal for finding new music. I get 6 radio stations in my car (thanks to an Unfortunate Incident with an antennae and a car wash), all of which pretty much suck. There's no one station, like we had back in high school, that I turn on right away -- I push the buttons over and over, hating it all. (But, well, 6 stations doesn't leave me with many choices, I'll admit.) The "alternative" station is the worst. The Fall-Out-Chemical-Romance-Boy crapola (Good God, I sound just like my dad) makes me want Tylenol -- with cyanide in it. MTV and VH1 doesn't play music anymore, and when I go into a music store or open itunes, I just feel kind of lost. More and more I revert back to the music I loved when I was younger, and listen to mostly music from the 40's to the 60's, which is what I've always loved anyway. I'm hardly bereft -- my tastes are all over the place and there's plenty of music to fill it. But new music? I know barely any of it anymore, and lack the inspiration to search.

But I do miss that thrill of discovery, and the excitement of hearing a song and then going to seek it out. So when this Accomplishment popped up, I was pretty happy about it. And I had A Plan. A nefarious, greedy, and lazy Plan.

Last year I was invited to join a CD Club with 11 strangers, and we all had a month where we made 11 cds for each member of the club. I loved the idea -- after all, I had loved making those mix tapes. And while I did get to hear some great new music, not all of it was my cuppa tea. (And I'm sure mine wasn't theirs, either.) So when the year was up, I didn't renew my membership, instead deciding to branch out and start a club of my own.

And hence, my Plan. I could hear new music, and pick out the people that I would personally ransack their record collections, all for the price of blank CDS and postage, and have it all delivered to my doorstep. AND Accomplish something for the Blog. Nefarious, greedy, lazy AND fabulous.

So I picked out about 10 people, all of whom are musical afficiandos within their specific genres with enough diversity to make it interesting, and who I figured would be into it. "New" music wasn't necessarily a focus, but rather "new" to me and others in the group. And then, it EXPLODED.

Because it was such a good idea, someone told their two friends, and so on and so on, until it was like that old Faberge Organics shampoo commercial and suddenly we had 25 people in the group. Which was more than fine with me. All the more music to enjoy, right? Two CDS in a month, why that's back to the old days when I used to walk out of Amoeba records with a bag of CDs!

And I must say, it has worked out beautifully. (Except for CD Clubber for December Jeff who STILL hasn't sent his out... AHEM.) We've gotten to hear music in R&B, Northern Soul, Rockabilly, Country, Mod, Garage, 60's, pop... and yes, even NEW music. And we only started in September, so we still have a long way and a lot of CDs to go.

Mine was last month, in January. And like I used to make those mix tapes long ago, I carefully picked out songs that segued into each other and sounded good together. And some of them had meaning. And because I take this blog verrrry seriously, I tried to be creative and stretch and find some songs that were even recorded in this decade, and songs that might be "new" to the other people in the club as well. I had forgotten how much I enjoyed doing it. And though it was all through my laptop and itunes, so there weren't piles of records and tapes and magic markers, I still gave it a cute cover:

Okay, it wasn't by hand. But I love this image and thought it went well with the theme.

So in doing the CD Club, I am fulfilling the Accomplishment of Listening to New Music. But I also found something from my past that I had forgotten that I had loved to do, and for a few hours there, I felt like the "old" me -- inspired and falling in love with the thrill of not just discovery, but sharing that discovery as well.

And here are some discoveries for you:

A guy I know has an excellent music blog that you should check out:

Like Dynamite to Your Brain (good, rare 60's gems, and links to other music blogs as well)

And a girl I know has an excellent music and photography blog, too: All Eyes and Ears

And let me share one of my ALL TIME FAVORITE songs with you:

Karen by The Saturn V

So screw my old roommate. It's not a "Guy" thing. Music is universal. Old OR new.

Twenty-six down, 71 to go.

An Accomplishment for YOU: shop for a great cause!

2009-02-03T19:09:00.000-08:00

I have a post halfway written, but wanted to share something with you first, so that YOU, TOO, can Accomplish Greatness.

My dear, darling friend Eartha Kitsch just lost her sweet kitty Saki to kidney failure. She's heartbroken, of course, as I was when I lost my beloved BeBe to the same disease in June last year. But where I couldn't even think about cats in general, Eartha has turned around and proven that she is a much better soul than I am, and that's why I love her so.

From now until March 1st, 100% of all proceeds from her wonderful Etsy shop will go to benefit a nonprofit, no-kill animal shelter in Saki's memory. The shelter is the Helen O. Krause Animal Foundation in Dillsburg, Pennsylvania, where Eartha's friend volunteers.

Here's a little sampling of not only Eartha's Etsy shop but of her perfect photostream:

Original here: With Love for our Furry Friends

(And check out the rest of her photostream, too. It is, hands down, one of the best things in the whole wide world wide web.)

And here is her Etsy Shop!earthakitsch

Did you see those valentines? They are the cutest EVER, even cuter than the ones we made with doilies in kindergarten.

And if you're a bah-love-humbug but feel like you should do something for this cause, my birthday's coming up:scary scary bunnies I secretly long for

She wrote to me, "I'm really excited about the shelter fund. I just wanted to do something...anything...to put back out into the universe thanks for giving her to us. I miss her like oxygen...that's the truth."

So it's a win-win situation. YOU get to shop and buy either Eartha's original creations or found goodies, and the animals get care and love, too.

And that's an Accomplishment.

Interpret a Dream...

2009-01-19T18:10:00.000-08:00

Okay, there really is an Accomplishment in the book to interpret a dream, and last night I had a dream that I was trying to get to The Inauguration, and worried because I was going to miss it and was on a bus and then running along The Potomac, frantically trying to get there. And I thought, what better day to do this Accomplishment, on Martin Luther King Jr. Day...

But I don't want to be snarky or clever. I know what the dream means. And the Accomplishment of today and tomorrow is a joint Accomplishment from and for all of us, and a dream come true for so many.

On the eve of the most historical day of my lifetime, save for 9/11 on the opposite end of the spectrum, I just want to tell you all to enjoy tomorrow and we can take a collective sigh of relief.

Because as far as I'm concerned, a nightmare is over and new dreams can begin.

Hooray!!!!! YES WE DID IT!!!!!!!!!!!!