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!!!!!!!!!!!!
Monday, January 19, 2009
Sunday, January 11, 2009
Accomplishment #25: Bury a Time Capsule (#97)
I LOVE the idea of time capsules. But I love the idea of time machines better, where I could potentially go back in time and buy all 1950's clothes, furniture and tschochkes I could ever want and then buy lots of other various crap I could sell on ebay for oodles of money. And I'd also like to travel back in time to The Moments Where I Was About To Make a Giant Mistake -- where I could say instead, "No thank you, I would not like to go on a date with you because you are a moron" or "No, thank you, I actually don't need another drink." Etcetera, etcetera, etcetera.
But time capsules are actually do-able, and I love the stories surrounding them. My favorite is the story of Lilly Dache's cornerstone in 1937 in her book, Talking Through My Hats, published in 1946.
The milliner extraordinaire, trying on one of her own creations.
To give a bit of background, Lilly Dache was the most fabulous and famous and successful hatmaker of her time, back when women wore hats every day. (I have a Lilly Dache hat from the 40's but I don't have the complicated hair-do one needs to wear it, so it sits like a sad little crow on the top of my head.) She was so popular and successful she wrote a book about her fame and success. And, well, it reads like a book by one who is famous and successful and Not All That Modest. (But it's not as trying as another autobiography by another Fabulous and Famous and Successful designer, Elsa Schiaparelli's Shocking Life. Schiap actually alternates between first and third person throughout the book, depending on her mood I guess. She would have loved Facebook's status updates: "Elsa Schiaparelli just designed another successful line, using her signature color shocking pink!" I love her, but it's just too too. Lilly Dache, however, is much more likable in writing, but both of them are simply divuun when it comes to fashion.)
Anyway, Lilly Dache, who was even quoted in popular music in her day, became so famous and successful that she built a "castle for hats" at 56th St. and Park Ave in NYC -- very chi chi indeed. And when she was making the plans, she had heard about an old house in Texas that had been excavated and a horned toad in a box had been found, and it had been there for 125 years. It was "as quick and agile and full of pep as the day he moved in," according to Miss Dache, and it had apparently brought good luck. She wished she could have good luck, too, and her friend gave her a little horned toad in a metal box (with holes punched in it)to put in the cornerstone, along with a copy of the first hat she had ever made, the first newspaper that praised her in America, a poem from a friend, and some childhood sentimental mementoes from France. Voila, her extra fancy time capsule!
A few weeks later, as the building was going up, the friend who gave her the little ancient toad played a joke on Miss Dache. She called the SPCA and told them that there was a toad buried alive in the foundation of the building. Gasp. Scandal! It hit all the newspapers and Lilly had to dig it all back up to get the toad out. So much for the good luck toad, though it wound up living in the penthouse in a jewel encrusted glass box. And I guess he wound up being good luck, after all, because Lilly Dache became more popular than ever and went on to design creations like this:
Yeah, I'd say she did okay for herself.
So I guess the lesson there is to never bury a living thing in your time capsule. You can get in a lot of trouble.
But I've been thinking a lot about this Accomplishment, ever since I got this book. And I worried a little. For one thing, we rent -- I have no where permanent to bury anything. If I buried a time capsule in the yard here and came back in 20 years, I think the people living here would be a little bummed. ("Hi, I'm Karen. I lived here a long time ago when I had all my teeth. Can I dig up your begonias to get to a box I left here?") And another thing -- if time capsules are supposed to encapsulate time, well, what means anything to me that is indicative of 2009? Everything I love seems to be from another era, save for things like good shampoo and modern conveniences, and I don't want to part with my laptop or ipod for an experiment. And I need my shampoo. (I haven't used any today, and if you could see me you know that I do need it. Badly.) Plus -- this blog and my flickr and all the other stuff on the internets out there is my time capsule, albeit a flimsy one. (I do wonder what will happen to all those digital photos and all this writing. Will it just stay in cyberspace forever? Who knows.)
I also tend to think that Time Capsules are most meaningful when community organized. One from a town in the 50's was dug up recently, and I thought it was so cool -- the old car was rusted and there was water damage to some of the items (I can't remember exactly what happened), but it really showed how much the town had changed, how life in general had changed and progressed and what families and businesses, if any, were still there. Observers were wistful and nostalgic and amused (the fifties are funneeee!), but a lot of people were happy with progress -- and so many memories were stirred. To me, that's the perfect outcome for a successful time capsule, where many people are affected. All I have to do to dig up a personal time capsule is go on facebook and see that the guy who sat two rows up from me in second grade is on there and his friend SUPER POKED him. (Things never really change.)
I jest, but I have been thinking about it. So I was thrilled when I went to MOMA in San Francisco a few weeks ago and discovered they were doing a time capsule as part of their "Art of Participation" exhibit. "Aha!" I thought. "An Accomplishment!"
There's a van (called the Ant Van) that has a crazy hookah-like thing in it (even the license plate of the van says HUQQAH, and the console is complete with water pipe sound effects) that you can plug your ipod or phone or camera into it, and it takes random songs or images for a time capsule that will be "opened" in the year 2030.
HUQQAH's hookah.
So I handed over my camera, and this was the image they chose. There were a lot of images to choose from because I always forget to delete images, and of course the image it chose was not of me looking foxy (those don't even exist anyway) or with 8 chins (those images do exist), but of my friends from the Mid-Century Supper Club potluck which I thought was rather nice:
Sherry, Christina and Sarah, potlucking out
and my ipod came up with this song:
Frank Wilson "Do I Love You"
(The story behind this song from my friend Bryan Martin, fantastic DJ, collector and history major: "It was a Motown recording. Bit of a story with that tune as it was never properly released at Motown (Frank Wilson was one of the 'house' songwriters for Motown) but there were a couple of test pressings released in the 60's that sat unheard until an early Northern Soul dj (Simon Soussan, I believe) came across it here in the US on one of his record buying trips in the 70's. He sold it for a few hundred pounds back then. Fast forward to today and its one of the rarest Northern 45's around, I believe a copy sold for around $30,000 in the last year or two. Apparently there a three known copies. The 45 has been repressed and bootlegged many times though and the repress can be found for cheap thankfully." Thanks, Bryan!)
So what is great about this Accomplishment is that it confirmed what I suspected: if left up to me to create a time capsule, everything would look -- and sound -- like it was from another era, not 2009. In the picture my friends look like they stepped out of 1965, and so did the song. My contributions are already a time capsule. But I love that in 2030, people of the future might just be a little bit confused. And, I admit, I'm much happier with that. And I would have been bummed if the hookah had chosen the World's Worst Photo of Me or my most embarrassing song on my ipod, which is a toss up between "Point of No Return" by Expose (don't ask, it was for a Specific Purpose) or anything on the Xanadu soundtrack (which I LOVE). (And see? Even those songs are from other eras. And ones with ugly fashion to boot!)
If you'd like to participate as well, you have until Jan. 29th. Here's the link for more details:
http://www.sfmoma.org/events/1329
And think about it. What would you put in a time capsule? I'd be interested to hear... But remember, no live toads.
Twenty-five down, 72 to go.
But time capsules are actually do-able, and I love the stories surrounding them. My favorite is the story of Lilly Dache's cornerstone in 1937 in her book, Talking Through My Hats, published in 1946.
The milliner extraordinaire, trying on one of her own creations.
To give a bit of background, Lilly Dache was the most fabulous and famous and successful hatmaker of her time, back when women wore hats every day. (I have a Lilly Dache hat from the 40's but I don't have the complicated hair-do one needs to wear it, so it sits like a sad little crow on the top of my head.) She was so popular and successful she wrote a book about her fame and success. And, well, it reads like a book by one who is famous and successful and Not All That Modest. (But it's not as trying as another autobiography by another Fabulous and Famous and Successful designer, Elsa Schiaparelli's Shocking Life. Schiap actually alternates between first and third person throughout the book, depending on her mood I guess. She would have loved Facebook's status updates: "Elsa Schiaparelli just designed another successful line, using her signature color shocking pink!" I love her, but it's just too too. Lilly Dache, however, is much more likable in writing, but both of them are simply divuun when it comes to fashion.)
Anyway, Lilly Dache, who was even quoted in popular music in her day, became so famous and successful that she built a "castle for hats" at 56th St. and Park Ave in NYC -- very chi chi indeed. And when she was making the plans, she had heard about an old house in Texas that had been excavated and a horned toad in a box had been found, and it had been there for 125 years. It was "as quick and agile and full of pep as the day he moved in," according to Miss Dache, and it had apparently brought good luck. She wished she could have good luck, too, and her friend gave her a little horned toad in a metal box (with holes punched in it)to put in the cornerstone, along with a copy of the first hat she had ever made, the first newspaper that praised her in America, a poem from a friend, and some childhood sentimental mementoes from France. Voila, her extra fancy time capsule!
A few weeks later, as the building was going up, the friend who gave her the little ancient toad played a joke on Miss Dache. She called the SPCA and told them that there was a toad buried alive in the foundation of the building. Gasp. Scandal! It hit all the newspapers and Lilly had to dig it all back up to get the toad out. So much for the good luck toad, though it wound up living in the penthouse in a jewel encrusted glass box. And I guess he wound up being good luck, after all, because Lilly Dache became more popular than ever and went on to design creations like this:
Yeah, I'd say she did okay for herself.
So I guess the lesson there is to never bury a living thing in your time capsule. You can get in a lot of trouble.
But I've been thinking a lot about this Accomplishment, ever since I got this book. And I worried a little. For one thing, we rent -- I have no where permanent to bury anything. If I buried a time capsule in the yard here and came back in 20 years, I think the people living here would be a little bummed. ("Hi, I'm Karen. I lived here a long time ago when I had all my teeth. Can I dig up your begonias to get to a box I left here?") And another thing -- if time capsules are supposed to encapsulate time, well, what means anything to me that is indicative of 2009? Everything I love seems to be from another era, save for things like good shampoo and modern conveniences, and I don't want to part with my laptop or ipod for an experiment. And I need my shampoo. (I haven't used any today, and if you could see me you know that I do need it. Badly.) Plus -- this blog and my flickr and all the other stuff on the internets out there is my time capsule, albeit a flimsy one. (I do wonder what will happen to all those digital photos and all this writing. Will it just stay in cyberspace forever? Who knows.)
I also tend to think that Time Capsules are most meaningful when community organized. One from a town in the 50's was dug up recently, and I thought it was so cool -- the old car was rusted and there was water damage to some of the items (I can't remember exactly what happened), but it really showed how much the town had changed, how life in general had changed and progressed and what families and businesses, if any, were still there. Observers were wistful and nostalgic and amused (the fifties are funneeee!), but a lot of people were happy with progress -- and so many memories were stirred. To me, that's the perfect outcome for a successful time capsule, where many people are affected. All I have to do to dig up a personal time capsule is go on facebook and see that the guy who sat two rows up from me in second grade is on there and his friend SUPER POKED him. (Things never really change.)
I jest, but I have been thinking about it. So I was thrilled when I went to MOMA in San Francisco a few weeks ago and discovered they were doing a time capsule as part of their "Art of Participation" exhibit. "Aha!" I thought. "An Accomplishment!"
There's a van (called the Ant Van) that has a crazy hookah-like thing in it (even the license plate of the van says HUQQAH, and the console is complete with water pipe sound effects) that you can plug your ipod or phone or camera into it, and it takes random songs or images for a time capsule that will be "opened" in the year 2030.
HUQQAH's hookah.
So I handed over my camera, and this was the image they chose. There were a lot of images to choose from because I always forget to delete images, and of course the image it chose was not of me looking foxy (those don't even exist anyway) or with 8 chins (those images do exist), but of my friends from the Mid-Century Supper Club potluck which I thought was rather nice:
Sherry, Christina and Sarah, potlucking out
and my ipod came up with this song:
Frank Wilson "Do I Love You"
(The story behind this song from my friend Bryan Martin, fantastic DJ, collector and history major: "It was a Motown recording. Bit of a story with that tune as it was never properly released at Motown (Frank Wilson was one of the 'house' songwriters for Motown) but there were a couple of test pressings released in the 60's that sat unheard until an early Northern Soul dj (Simon Soussan, I believe) came across it here in the US on one of his record buying trips in the 70's. He sold it for a few hundred pounds back then. Fast forward to today and its one of the rarest Northern 45's around, I believe a copy sold for around $30,000 in the last year or two. Apparently there a three known copies. The 45 has been repressed and bootlegged many times though and the repress can be found for cheap thankfully." Thanks, Bryan!)
So what is great about this Accomplishment is that it confirmed what I suspected: if left up to me to create a time capsule, everything would look -- and sound -- like it was from another era, not 2009. In the picture my friends look like they stepped out of 1965, and so did the song. My contributions are already a time capsule. But I love that in 2030, people of the future might just be a little bit confused. And, I admit, I'm much happier with that. And I would have been bummed if the hookah had chosen the World's Worst Photo of Me or my most embarrassing song on my ipod, which is a toss up between "Point of No Return" by Expose (don't ask, it was for a Specific Purpose) or anything on the Xanadu soundtrack (which I LOVE). (And see? Even those songs are from other eras. And ones with ugly fashion to boot!)
If you'd like to participate as well, you have until Jan. 29th. Here's the link for more details:
http://www.sfmoma.org/events/1329
And think about it. What would you put in a time capsule? I'd be interested to hear... But remember, no live toads.
Twenty-five down, 72 to go.
Thank you!
I just wanted to take a quick detour and thank everyone so much for your comments on my last post -- you guys are the best. You make me feel like a natural writer.
And does anyone else have that thing where you think of a good zinger comment AFTER the fact? That's how I feel about my 16 things, because I thought of way better ones. (And have promptly forgot them, too.) But FYI:
* Little Richard bought me lunch once and it was AWESOME and he totally did that "Ooohhh WEEE" thing.
* One time I sat next to Leatherface's stunt double at a Hollywood brunch. "Don't you recognize me?" he asked. When I shook my head in a panic (was I supposed to?), he proclaimed, "Darling, I'm LEATHERFACE!" He had also worked as Peggy Lee's personal assistant for a while. "Sweetie," he said to me, "That bitch's thigh was as big as my TORSO." I LOVED HIM.
He didn't really look like this. He was wearing blue contact lenses.
* I have never seen The Lord of the Rings movies, and now I won't because it's a matter of principle.
I just thought you would all like to know those amazingly fascinating things. But really -- I want to say thank you. Just doing this blog -- and all the encouragement I've gotten -- has been the best motivation to write and keep it going. Y'all are the wind beneath my wings. Whatever that means.
And now back to blogging. OOOOOHHH WEEEE!
And does anyone else have that thing where you think of a good zinger comment AFTER the fact? That's how I feel about my 16 things, because I thought of way better ones. (And have promptly forgot them, too.) But FYI:
* Little Richard bought me lunch once and it was AWESOME and he totally did that "Ooohhh WEEE" thing.
* One time I sat next to Leatherface's stunt double at a Hollywood brunch. "Don't you recognize me?" he asked. When I shook my head in a panic (was I supposed to?), he proclaimed, "Darling, I'm LEATHERFACE!" He had also worked as Peggy Lee's personal assistant for a while. "Sweetie," he said to me, "That bitch's thigh was as big as my TORSO." I LOVED HIM.
He didn't really look like this. He was wearing blue contact lenses.
* I have never seen The Lord of the Rings movies, and now I won't because it's a matter of principle.
I just thought you would all like to know those amazingly fascinating things. But really -- I want to say thank you. Just doing this blog -- and all the encouragement I've gotten -- has been the best motivation to write and keep it going. Y'all are the wind beneath my wings. Whatever that means.
And now back to blogging. OOOOOHHH WEEEE!
Thursday, January 8, 2009
Accomplishment #24: Tell Someone Your Darkest Secret (#90)
Okay, swear to God and cross your heart and kiss your elbow you won't tell anyone my deepest, darkest secret?
Promise?
Swear? Pinky swear?
Pfffft. Yeah, right. Like I'd tell the INTERNET my deepest, darkest secret. Except I don't really have one. I have a slight problem where if I know someone for 5 seconds I open my mouth and blather on and on, so I would make a terrible spy. I wish I could say that I did lead an exciting double life and I went on secret missions while wearing a leather cat suit and Shangri-La boots and a wig, but nope. My biggest secret was that once, in second grade, I used the Boys' Bathroom by mistake and Paul Phillips and some nasty fourth graders saw me and threatened to tell everyone about the disgraceful thing I had done unless I gave them the treat out of my lunch every day. I was so humiliated that I didn't confess to this until... well, I guess now, because I don't even remember at what point in my life I could think about it without blushing and feeling the shame. (I was probably about 30, though.) And it doesn't really come up in conversation, though I suspect those nasty former fourth graders are on facebook and I will be dumb enough to accept their requests and they will probably write, "KAREN PEED IN THE BOYS' BATHROOM" on my wall. (Well, better they write it on THAT wall instead of written it on the bathroom wall years ago.)
So since I don't have any real secrets (and if I do, I'm sure I'll tell you later anyway) I'll do the meme that's sweeping Flickr & the blogosphere: "16 Things You Don't Know About Me" or whatever. Problem is, you all DO know 16 things about me that might be vaguely interesting. I even asked Jon, the man with whom I have been living FOR YEARS, the man to whom I am ENGAGED TO MARRY, if he could think of anything interesting or mysterious about me, and he couldn't even come up with anything. "Ummm..." he said. "You like Queen and ELO?"
Thanks a lot. (That is true, though.)
So here goes:
1. I was born nearly 8 weeks premature. To paraphrase my favorite author, Dorothy Parker, "That was the last time I was early to anything." It's true, I am chronically late, and I attribute it to the fact that for every minute I was born early, I'm making up for it. But it's really because I am totally lame and probably have weird time/space continuum issues or a mental illness, which sounds more medical than being just flaky. I was also on 4 pounds at birth, and I have more than made up for that, too. Like by A LOT.
2. I am a total packrat and have too much STUFF. But every time I get rid of something, I find myself looking for it and then cursing myself for getting rid of it. I have a hard time throwing stuff away, because I become sentimentally attached. But I like being a packrat and keeping stuff -- I love my stuff. No one likes helping me move my stuff, though. Including me.
3. I had six wisdom teeth. I still have them, but just not in my mouth. (See? I have a hard time throwing stuff away.)
4. I worry incessantly. Now that the economy is so bad, I wonder what the hell I was worried about before, because things felt like a cakewalk then compared to now. But I've had worry lines in my forehead since 4th grade, which is why I've always had bangs. I have severe cowlicks -- two in front, and one in back. Which don't work so hot with the aforementioned bangs. I worry about that, too.
5. If I could have anything in the world, I would want magical powers like Samantha Stevens. I hate housework so if I could just twinkle my nose and abracadabra it's all done, my life would be fabulous.
6. I'm afraid that I am very shallow and immature. I was looking at a book catalog this morning, and there were all these books about history and current events, and like, totally smart and deep stuff? And the book that appealed to me most was a book about some girl going to college and losing her virginity or something. And then I read a celebrity blog and put on Cherry Jolly Rancher flavored Lip Smacker. I wonder what happened to me that my emotional and mental growth simply stunted at the age of 16. (And at 16, all I wanted to be was an adult. Go figure.)
7. I got the Beatles' autographs for Christmas from my sister. When she was little, the Beatles were in San Francisco for a concert around her birthday, and they were staying at the Fairmont Hotel. My dad was at a meeting at the Fairmont and knew the manager, and somehow he finagled getting their autographs for her (they brought up a card from the gift shop on a silver platter to their hotel room, complete with little fake Beatles on it) and brought them home, where she was having a Beatles themed birthday party. "I ran into some friends who wanted to give this to you," he said. She opened the card and screamed. The card was framed and hung in my room when I was growing up, but she took them back and I always joked with her to leave them for me in her will. But she gave them to me this Christmas, and I cried. I don't care how much they're worth; they're family history and therefore priceless. (Except I would TOTALLY go on Antiques Roadshow with them.)
8. I have a bachelor's degree in English and an MFA in creative writing, but I wouldn't know a dangling participle if it hit me in the face. My grammar is terrible, and my typing is even worse. But I am signing up for a grammar and copy editing class to remedy this, though I'm pretty much stuck with being a bad typist forever.
9. Despite my terrible grammar and lack of typing skills, I have written a novel. I did it during NaNoWriMo when I was unemployed a few years ago. It's a Young Adult Novel. It has a beginning, middle and end and chapters and everything. It's still on a zip disk and I'm too scared to submit it anywhere -- I took it to a workshop once, full of hope and sincerity. The first chapter was brutally massacred to the point where after I left that group of people, I sat in my car and sobbed for an hour before I could go home. It scares me to even think about looking at it or sending it anywhere, and makes me feel defeated and I can't shake it. So even though I have an MFA in CREATIVE WRITING, I still don't feel that I will ever be a writer. (And clearly I have a little, um, self esteem/ fear of failure or success issue going here. Sigh.)
10. I am a Universal Life Church minister. Thanks to a click of a mouse, I can marry my friends, and have performed six weddings, and I am happy to announce all the couples are still together (and legitimately married). I need to send away for my special parking placard. I am also available to do exorcisms.
11. I knew JT Leroy was a fraud before most people did. Just ask my friend Leslie, because I told her that ALL THE TIME. (Sorry, Leslie.)
12. I love my boyfriend, friends and family more than anything in the world. And Norman the cat, even though I didn't think I could love him after losing my sweet kitty BeBe in June.
13. I don't drink coffee, except on rare occasions I drink cinnamon dolce lattes from Starbucks. (I know, I know, Starbucks is bad and all that, but even though I tend to feel guilty about everything else on the planet, I'm not going to feel guilty for drinking a few coffees from Starbucks.) I think not drinking coffee also makes me feel more immature -- it's such an "adult beverage." Instead I drink Diet Coke for caffeine addiction.
14. Speaking of addiction, I am addicted to LOST. It is the best TV show EVER, and I am eagerly awaiting the premiere of the new season to start -- that and Mad Men, my other favorite show. (I love The Office, too.) And our friends Carlos and Irene got us hooked on Buffy and Angel, which also RULE.
15. I started my blog because I was feeling bogged down by inertia and laziness, and as I told you before, I'm a worrier. So I was worrying that I wasn't writing, that life was passing me by, and that I wasn't DOING anything so I started this blog. And it's been a really, really good thing. I've found myself actually doing things that I never would have done, and thinking and planning things to do. I haven't gone too far out of my comfort zone yet, but just these little things make me feel so good and so much more motivated than I've been lately. But I am out of my comfort zone -- I'm actually writing, and writing PUBLICLY. The terror and thrill and greatness of it makes me feel so good. If that feeling could be bottled, I'd be drunk with it. And all of you reading this -- I thank you from the deepest, darkest bottom of my heart. It means the world to me, and your comments make me feel like a million bucks. So my blog, Flickr, reuniting with old friends on Facebook, Norman and Drunk Yoda were the best things that happened to me in 2008. (And not getting any speeding tickets.) Actually, there were many good things that happened in 2008, even though it felt like a bad year. There are always good things that happen during every year, even when things seem simply AWFUL. I am a very lucky, and very blessed person and I know it, except when I get stuck in traffic.
16. Sixteen is my favorite number.
Okay, you guys, like don't tell anyone, 'k? Shhhhh!!!!
And yes, I have a sweater that matches my blog. Dork.
Twenty-four down, 73 to go.
Promise?
Swear? Pinky swear?
Pfffft. Yeah, right. Like I'd tell the INTERNET my deepest, darkest secret. Except I don't really have one. I have a slight problem where if I know someone for 5 seconds I open my mouth and blather on and on, so I would make a terrible spy. I wish I could say that I did lead an exciting double life and I went on secret missions while wearing a leather cat suit and Shangri-La boots and a wig, but nope. My biggest secret was that once, in second grade, I used the Boys' Bathroom by mistake and Paul Phillips and some nasty fourth graders saw me and threatened to tell everyone about the disgraceful thing I had done unless I gave them the treat out of my lunch every day. I was so humiliated that I didn't confess to this until... well, I guess now, because I don't even remember at what point in my life I could think about it without blushing and feeling the shame. (I was probably about 30, though.) And it doesn't really come up in conversation, though I suspect those nasty former fourth graders are on facebook and I will be dumb enough to accept their requests and they will probably write, "KAREN PEED IN THE BOYS' BATHROOM" on my wall. (Well, better they write it on THAT wall instead of written it on the bathroom wall years ago.)
So since I don't have any real secrets (and if I do, I'm sure I'll tell you later anyway) I'll do the meme that's sweeping Flickr & the blogosphere: "16 Things You Don't Know About Me" or whatever. Problem is, you all DO know 16 things about me that might be vaguely interesting. I even asked Jon, the man with whom I have been living FOR YEARS, the man to whom I am ENGAGED TO MARRY, if he could think of anything interesting or mysterious about me, and he couldn't even come up with anything. "Ummm..." he said. "You like Queen and ELO?"
Thanks a lot. (That is true, though.)
So here goes:
1. I was born nearly 8 weeks premature. To paraphrase my favorite author, Dorothy Parker, "That was the last time I was early to anything." It's true, I am chronically late, and I attribute it to the fact that for every minute I was born early, I'm making up for it. But it's really because I am totally lame and probably have weird time/space continuum issues or a mental illness, which sounds more medical than being just flaky. I was also on 4 pounds at birth, and I have more than made up for that, too. Like by A LOT.
2. I am a total packrat and have too much STUFF. But every time I get rid of something, I find myself looking for it and then cursing myself for getting rid of it. I have a hard time throwing stuff away, because I become sentimentally attached. But I like being a packrat and keeping stuff -- I love my stuff. No one likes helping me move my stuff, though. Including me.
3. I had six wisdom teeth. I still have them, but just not in my mouth. (See? I have a hard time throwing stuff away.)
4. I worry incessantly. Now that the economy is so bad, I wonder what the hell I was worried about before, because things felt like a cakewalk then compared to now. But I've had worry lines in my forehead since 4th grade, which is why I've always had bangs. I have severe cowlicks -- two in front, and one in back. Which don't work so hot with the aforementioned bangs. I worry about that, too.
5. If I could have anything in the world, I would want magical powers like Samantha Stevens. I hate housework so if I could just twinkle my nose and abracadabra it's all done, my life would be fabulous.
6. I'm afraid that I am very shallow and immature. I was looking at a book catalog this morning, and there were all these books about history and current events, and like, totally smart and deep stuff? And the book that appealed to me most was a book about some girl going to college and losing her virginity or something. And then I read a celebrity blog and put on Cherry Jolly Rancher flavored Lip Smacker. I wonder what happened to me that my emotional and mental growth simply stunted at the age of 16. (And at 16, all I wanted to be was an adult. Go figure.)
7. I got the Beatles' autographs for Christmas from my sister. When she was little, the Beatles were in San Francisco for a concert around her birthday, and they were staying at the Fairmont Hotel. My dad was at a meeting at the Fairmont and knew the manager, and somehow he finagled getting their autographs for her (they brought up a card from the gift shop on a silver platter to their hotel room, complete with little fake Beatles on it) and brought them home, where she was having a Beatles themed birthday party. "I ran into some friends who wanted to give this to you," he said. She opened the card and screamed. The card was framed and hung in my room when I was growing up, but she took them back and I always joked with her to leave them for me in her will. But she gave them to me this Christmas, and I cried. I don't care how much they're worth; they're family history and therefore priceless. (Except I would TOTALLY go on Antiques Roadshow with them.)
8. I have a bachelor's degree in English and an MFA in creative writing, but I wouldn't know a dangling participle if it hit me in the face. My grammar is terrible, and my typing is even worse. But I am signing up for a grammar and copy editing class to remedy this, though I'm pretty much stuck with being a bad typist forever.
9. Despite my terrible grammar and lack of typing skills, I have written a novel. I did it during NaNoWriMo when I was unemployed a few years ago. It's a Young Adult Novel. It has a beginning, middle and end and chapters and everything. It's still on a zip disk and I'm too scared to submit it anywhere -- I took it to a workshop once, full of hope and sincerity. The first chapter was brutally massacred to the point where after I left that group of people, I sat in my car and sobbed for an hour before I could go home. It scares me to even think about looking at it or sending it anywhere, and makes me feel defeated and I can't shake it. So even though I have an MFA in CREATIVE WRITING, I still don't feel that I will ever be a writer. (And clearly I have a little, um, self esteem/ fear of failure or success issue going here. Sigh.)
10. I am a Universal Life Church minister. Thanks to a click of a mouse, I can marry my friends, and have performed six weddings, and I am happy to announce all the couples are still together (and legitimately married). I need to send away for my special parking placard. I am also available to do exorcisms.
11. I knew JT Leroy was a fraud before most people did. Just ask my friend Leslie, because I told her that ALL THE TIME. (Sorry, Leslie.)
12. I love my boyfriend, friends and family more than anything in the world. And Norman the cat, even though I didn't think I could love him after losing my sweet kitty BeBe in June.
13. I don't drink coffee, except on rare occasions I drink cinnamon dolce lattes from Starbucks. (I know, I know, Starbucks is bad and all that, but even though I tend to feel guilty about everything else on the planet, I'm not going to feel guilty for drinking a few coffees from Starbucks.) I think not drinking coffee also makes me feel more immature -- it's such an "adult beverage." Instead I drink Diet Coke for caffeine addiction.
14. Speaking of addiction, I am addicted to LOST. It is the best TV show EVER, and I am eagerly awaiting the premiere of the new season to start -- that and Mad Men, my other favorite show. (I love The Office, too.) And our friends Carlos and Irene got us hooked on Buffy and Angel, which also RULE.
15. I started my blog because I was feeling bogged down by inertia and laziness, and as I told you before, I'm a worrier. So I was worrying that I wasn't writing, that life was passing me by, and that I wasn't DOING anything so I started this blog. And it's been a really, really good thing. I've found myself actually doing things that I never would have done, and thinking and planning things to do. I haven't gone too far out of my comfort zone yet, but just these little things make me feel so good and so much more motivated than I've been lately. But I am out of my comfort zone -- I'm actually writing, and writing PUBLICLY. The terror and thrill and greatness of it makes me feel so good. If that feeling could be bottled, I'd be drunk with it. And all of you reading this -- I thank you from the deepest, darkest bottom of my heart. It means the world to me, and your comments make me feel like a million bucks. So my blog, Flickr, reuniting with old friends on Facebook, Norman and Drunk Yoda were the best things that happened to me in 2008. (And not getting any speeding tickets.) Actually, there were many good things that happened in 2008, even though it felt like a bad year. There are always good things that happen during every year, even when things seem simply AWFUL. I am a very lucky, and very blessed person and I know it, except when I get stuck in traffic.
16. Sixteen is my favorite number.
Okay, you guys, like don't tell anyone, 'k? Shhhhh!!!!
And yes, I have a sweater that matches my blog. Dork.
Twenty-four down, 73 to go.
Sunday, January 4, 2009
Accomplishment #23: Throw a House Party (#15)
Every year, without fail, my mom threw a birthday party for me. We would send out a bunch of invitations to all my little friends, and I would don my party dress and in later years my bathing suit, and wait for my guests to arrive so we could play games and eat hot dogs and cake and I would get PRESENTS. I loved every second of it. (Especially the presents.)
I scored an AWESOME pinwheel.
But I was definitely not the kind of teenager who threw keggers when my parents went out of town. For one thing, my parents didn't go out of town that much, which definitely would have limited any sort of kegger or party opportunity. Secondly, if and when they did go out of town, they sure didn't leave me alone, leaving me instead with my sister who would be only too happy to tell my parents how horrible I was. (Some things never change.) And thirdly, jocks and cheerleaders and all the popular kids went to keggers or parties like in "16 Candles." Me? My mom was still throwing me a birthday party every year until I was 19, where every snickering new wave teenager in the Tri-County area would show up for hot dogs and Cokes and give my dad coronaries. One time he corralled a bunch of spiky haired kids, who had sneaked down the street to smoke cloves, back into the driveway from down the street in his Cadillac while brandishing a bullwhip out the window. Ohmigod, I was, like, soooo embarrassed! Gaaaaawwwd, Daaaad! By the time I was 17 my mom sent him to the movies and told him not to come back until late. While the party itself was uncool, everyone always showed up. (Even though my dad was sorta scary.)
One time, however, in my sophomore year in high school, my parents had friends over for cocktails, and then went out somewhere fancy for dinner. So I called my friends and told them to come over on their way to a party to which I hadn't been invited (the girl and I were in a fight so I was the only one not invited -- ohhh, high school drama). When they got there, we sat in the living room and finished the leftover half-fingers of liquor in my dad's signature highball glasses, and I pretended I was hosting the most glamorous party in town. And then they convinced me to crash the icky girl's party, after we bouffanted my hair and put on about 18 pounds of black eyeliner, all crooked, thanks to laughing and the watery cocktails. And as we drove to the party, I discovered that they had done a weird scavenger hunt in my house; Bob and Aaron had stolen the Duraflame log from the fireplace, Laura had stolen a weird Buddha statue a neighbor had given my mother, and Traecy had STOLEN MY GOLDFISH. She had scooped it into a plastic baggie and as she wagged it in my face in the car, I nearly fainted. I had had that fish since I won it by throwing ping pong balls at it at the fifth grade carnival, and was really very attached.
So we made an appearance at this stupid party where I wasn't invited, my hair in a ratty bouffant while holding a log and my goldfish. When I got home, my parents were there, waiting for me,and somehow they KNEW. (Maybe they measured all the glasses before they left.) "DID YOU HAVE A PARTY?" my father said. "Ummm, not exactly," I said, but I had to explain the log and the goldfish. If you think it sounds weird and confusing on here, imagine how it sounded as I tried to explain it to my parents, who did not find it funny AT ALL. I was tooootally grounded. But you will be happy to know that the fish returned safe and sound, and lived for TWELVE YEARS.
But despite being grounded and making a fool out of myself, that night, along with all of my past birthday soirees and watching my parents host packed to the rafters St. Patrick's Day parties that people talked about for years afterward, gave me an insatiable taste for throwing parties. I couldn't wait turn eighteen and be Holly Golightly, throwing the wildest and most glamorous cocktail parties in town. I found old invitations in thrift stores, buying them so that I could send them out someday. I dreamed of having my own tiara, and graciously serving guests martinis and canapes. I couldn't wait to move out of my parents' house into a glamorous apartment, where I would listen to cha cha music while wearing spike heels and false eyelashes.
But, of course, life didn't quite turn out like that. For one thing, I lived in a dorm, and subsequently un-glamorous apartments. Sure, there were parties (and one even involved a daring escape on the fire escape, the police and a restraining order, but that's another story for another day), but they were hardly the martini and canape type. It was more like beer and quarters and party tricks like hanging spoons from noses. No one wanted to dress up or listen to cha cha music, either. Sigh. I was quite discouraged. Where was my glamorous life, and not the kind Sheila E was talking about?
But I persevered, and the parties did keep getting better and better. Maybe it was because I finally got a tiara, or maybe because I realized that as hostess I could wear whatever I wanted. (Which, as it turned out, was NOT spike heels. Ouch.) Maybe I discovered that "Spinach-Dip-In-A-Bread-Bowl," no matter how delicious, was deemed as tacky by my stylish gay friend who Knew Such Things, and that freed me from mundane party fare. (But I LIKE spinach-dip-in-a-bread-bowl. I hereby decree its comeback.) Or maybe we just got older and could appreciate things like Cha Cha and martinis while hanging spoons from our noses. But I know it's mostly because I have lots of really interesting friends who make a party fabulous.
In any case, and not to brag -- I throw a good party. I've had parties where there have been 100 people crammed into my apartment, and some where there's been just a handful of people. I've had themed parties (the Beatnik Party and the Cinco de Mayo Party of 95 being the very best), and then parties for no reason at all, but they always end with dancing and a big mess and stories for days. And from what I've heard, they've been good, or I have very polite friends.
But I must admit -- sometimes I hate having parties, specifically the night and morning before and the morning after. Cleaning up before and after a ton of people is not my idea of a favorite activity, and I wish I had powers like Samantha Stevens. Now I worry about bothering the neighbors, when before I didn't really care too much. (Our next door neighbors already hate us. Perhaps it's the garden gnomes.) I have found that one of the best solutions is to throw a party in a bar or somewhere so you don't have to clean up and spend a ton of money for food, but there's something about house parties that is more fun and personal and random drunk guys won't come in and hit on your friends and creep them out. (Okay, well, sometimes that does happen.) But during the party I realize how worth it it all is, surrounded by friends and warmth and lots of booze.
So I have a lot of experience in the whole "Throw a House Party" genre, but since this was an Accomplishment I had to accomplish for the blog, what better excuse to throw one? With that in mind, I joined forces with another Hostess with the Mostess, Jennye, and we threw another Mid Century Supper Club Potluck party.
Now you may remember Jennye from such blog posts as join a club and supper club invite. She is a hostess extraordinaire. She always has good plates and napkins and makes Martha Stewart look like a not very good thing. Jennye should do it professionally, I swear.
We decided that this wasn't going to be the regular potluck -- NO. We were going to stick with the theme (it works, I swear), but the Holiday theme was going to make it bigger and better than ever. This was going to be an EXTRAVAGANZA! The house was already decorated for Christmas, festooned with Knee-Hugger elves and spinning tree, so we didn't have to worry about that.
The stockings were hung by the chimney with not too much care
And we had TWINKLES:
Twinkles is my new best friend.
We were also going to switch things up a bit, like having it on a Sunday afternoon so there wouldn't be the usual 2 am lurching off to bed (which worked really well, BTW -- I highly recommend it) and I cut back on buying too much stuff, so I didn't freak about money being tight. And the best thing we did was ask everyone to bring a can of food for The Alameda Food Bank, justifying the inedible dishes.
Surprisingly, a lot of them weren't inedible -- in fact, everything was incredible! Everyone really stepped up and created just the most fantastic dishes. (And I think everyone really enjoyed participating, which is a good rule of thumb for an affair to remember.)
Lots of baked goods:
And some presented with fire and aplomb:
And lots of other tasty treats, including the prize winning viking boat and "raped potatoes":
(For more pics, click here: extravaganza pics and videos: live action footage!)
Not only is serving your guests delectable treats like flaming cakes and "raped potatoes" a recipe for a successful soiree, but you want it to swing, too. This is what we played, and it is hailed as the best holiday record anyone's heard for a long time:
get yours now in time for next yule! HARK!
And of course, even being an afternoon party with everyone stuffing themselves with holiday goodness and spiked cider, there was still a dance party. Always a successful end to a good night, and a surefire way to work off calories consumed earlier.
And the dance floor was packed about half an hour later!
So all in all, it was a very successful house party. In fact, all through Christmas I heard that our party was the best of the season, which makes me very pleased, because I know there's stiff competition out there. But it really was fun, and we can't wait to do it again.
One thing, though. The book, 97 Things To Do Before You Finish High School, has guidelines on how to be party smart and I will summarize for you:
1. "Remove all breakables" (If I removed all breakables, there would be nothing to eat from, and nothing for people to comment about and say, "Um, that's weird!")
2. "NO alcohol" (OMG, I can't even begin to fathom that. But instead of NO alcohol, follow the "be sure you have non-alcoholic beverages on hand," or better yet, the best acronym ever -- BYOB.)
3. "Do not post invitation online" (I posted this party EVERYWHERE. The more the merrier, and we had 60 people!)
4. "Tell immediate neighbors" (I do believe this is a good thing to do, but since it was a day party, we didn't bother. And our next door neighbors hate us anyway, so we don't care.)
5. "Have trashcans, paper towels, TP and carpet cleaner close at hand" (Pfft. Yeah, right. Our kitchen pretty much becomes one giant trashcan, and that's just how it goes.)
So as you can see, we broke EVERY SINGLE ONE of these party smart (party boring!) rules. Then again, we are not teenagers whose parents are in the Poconos for a week, so we don't really have to. Thank God.
Holly Golightly, eat your heart out.
Twenty-three down, 74 to go.
I scored an AWESOME pinwheel.
But I was definitely not the kind of teenager who threw keggers when my parents went out of town. For one thing, my parents didn't go out of town that much, which definitely would have limited any sort of kegger or party opportunity. Secondly, if and when they did go out of town, they sure didn't leave me alone, leaving me instead with my sister who would be only too happy to tell my parents how horrible I was. (Some things never change.) And thirdly, jocks and cheerleaders and all the popular kids went to keggers or parties like in "16 Candles." Me? My mom was still throwing me a birthday party every year until I was 19, where every snickering new wave teenager in the Tri-County area would show up for hot dogs and Cokes and give my dad coronaries. One time he corralled a bunch of spiky haired kids, who had sneaked down the street to smoke cloves, back into the driveway from down the street in his Cadillac while brandishing a bullwhip out the window. Ohmigod, I was, like, soooo embarrassed! Gaaaaawwwd, Daaaad! By the time I was 17 my mom sent him to the movies and told him not to come back until late. While the party itself was uncool, everyone always showed up. (Even though my dad was sorta scary.)
One time, however, in my sophomore year in high school, my parents had friends over for cocktails, and then went out somewhere fancy for dinner. So I called my friends and told them to come over on their way to a party to which I hadn't been invited (the girl and I were in a fight so I was the only one not invited -- ohhh, high school drama). When they got there, we sat in the living room and finished the leftover half-fingers of liquor in my dad's signature highball glasses, and I pretended I was hosting the most glamorous party in town. And then they convinced me to crash the icky girl's party, after we bouffanted my hair and put on about 18 pounds of black eyeliner, all crooked, thanks to laughing and the watery cocktails. And as we drove to the party, I discovered that they had done a weird scavenger hunt in my house; Bob and Aaron had stolen the Duraflame log from the fireplace, Laura had stolen a weird Buddha statue a neighbor had given my mother, and Traecy had STOLEN MY GOLDFISH. She had scooped it into a plastic baggie and as she wagged it in my face in the car, I nearly fainted. I had had that fish since I won it by throwing ping pong balls at it at the fifth grade carnival, and was really very attached.
So we made an appearance at this stupid party where I wasn't invited, my hair in a ratty bouffant while holding a log and my goldfish. When I got home, my parents were there, waiting for me,and somehow they KNEW. (Maybe they measured all the glasses before they left.) "DID YOU HAVE A PARTY?" my father said. "Ummm, not exactly," I said, but I had to explain the log and the goldfish. If you think it sounds weird and confusing on here, imagine how it sounded as I tried to explain it to my parents, who did not find it funny AT ALL. I was tooootally grounded. But you will be happy to know that the fish returned safe and sound, and lived for TWELVE YEARS.
But despite being grounded and making a fool out of myself, that night, along with all of my past birthday soirees and watching my parents host packed to the rafters St. Patrick's Day parties that people talked about for years afterward, gave me an insatiable taste for throwing parties. I couldn't wait turn eighteen and be Holly Golightly, throwing the wildest and most glamorous cocktail parties in town. I found old invitations in thrift stores, buying them so that I could send them out someday. I dreamed of having my own tiara, and graciously serving guests martinis and canapes. I couldn't wait to move out of my parents' house into a glamorous apartment, where I would listen to cha cha music while wearing spike heels and false eyelashes.
But, of course, life didn't quite turn out like that. For one thing, I lived in a dorm, and subsequently un-glamorous apartments. Sure, there were parties (and one even involved a daring escape on the fire escape, the police and a restraining order, but that's another story for another day), but they were hardly the martini and canape type. It was more like beer and quarters and party tricks like hanging spoons from noses. No one wanted to dress up or listen to cha cha music, either. Sigh. I was quite discouraged. Where was my glamorous life, and not the kind Sheila E was talking about?
But I persevered, and the parties did keep getting better and better. Maybe it was because I finally got a tiara, or maybe because I realized that as hostess I could wear whatever I wanted. (Which, as it turned out, was NOT spike heels. Ouch.) Maybe I discovered that "Spinach-Dip-In-A-Bread-Bowl," no matter how delicious, was deemed as tacky by my stylish gay friend who Knew Such Things, and that freed me from mundane party fare. (But I LIKE spinach-dip-in-a-bread-bowl. I hereby decree its comeback.) Or maybe we just got older and could appreciate things like Cha Cha and martinis while hanging spoons from our noses. But I know it's mostly because I have lots of really interesting friends who make a party fabulous.
In any case, and not to brag -- I throw a good party. I've had parties where there have been 100 people crammed into my apartment, and some where there's been just a handful of people. I've had themed parties (the Beatnik Party and the Cinco de Mayo Party of 95 being the very best), and then parties for no reason at all, but they always end with dancing and a big mess and stories for days. And from what I've heard, they've been good, or I have very polite friends.
But I must admit -- sometimes I hate having parties, specifically the night and morning before and the morning after. Cleaning up before and after a ton of people is not my idea of a favorite activity, and I wish I had powers like Samantha Stevens. Now I worry about bothering the neighbors, when before I didn't really care too much. (Our next door neighbors already hate us. Perhaps it's the garden gnomes.) I have found that one of the best solutions is to throw a party in a bar or somewhere so you don't have to clean up and spend a ton of money for food, but there's something about house parties that is more fun and personal and random drunk guys won't come in and hit on your friends and creep them out. (Okay, well, sometimes that does happen.) But during the party I realize how worth it it all is, surrounded by friends and warmth and lots of booze.
So I have a lot of experience in the whole "Throw a House Party" genre, but since this was an Accomplishment I had to accomplish for the blog, what better excuse to throw one? With that in mind, I joined forces with another Hostess with the Mostess, Jennye, and we threw another Mid Century Supper Club Potluck party.
Now you may remember Jennye from such blog posts as join a club and supper club invite. She is a hostess extraordinaire. She always has good plates and napkins and makes Martha Stewart look like a not very good thing. Jennye should do it professionally, I swear.
We decided that this wasn't going to be the regular potluck -- NO. We were going to stick with the theme (it works, I swear), but the Holiday theme was going to make it bigger and better than ever. This was going to be an EXTRAVAGANZA! The house was already decorated for Christmas, festooned with Knee-Hugger elves and spinning tree, so we didn't have to worry about that.
The stockings were hung by the chimney with not too much care
And we had TWINKLES:
Twinkles is my new best friend.
We were also going to switch things up a bit, like having it on a Sunday afternoon so there wouldn't be the usual 2 am lurching off to bed (which worked really well, BTW -- I highly recommend it) and I cut back on buying too much stuff, so I didn't freak about money being tight. And the best thing we did was ask everyone to bring a can of food for The Alameda Food Bank, justifying the inedible dishes.
Surprisingly, a lot of them weren't inedible -- in fact, everything was incredible! Everyone really stepped up and created just the most fantastic dishes. (And I think everyone really enjoyed participating, which is a good rule of thumb for an affair to remember.)
Lots of baked goods:
And some presented with fire and aplomb:
And lots of other tasty treats, including the prize winning viking boat and "raped potatoes":
(For more pics, click here: extravaganza pics and videos: live action footage!)
Not only is serving your guests delectable treats like flaming cakes and "raped potatoes" a recipe for a successful soiree, but you want it to swing, too. This is what we played, and it is hailed as the best holiday record anyone's heard for a long time:
get yours now in time for next yule! HARK!
And of course, even being an afternoon party with everyone stuffing themselves with holiday goodness and spiked cider, there was still a dance party. Always a successful end to a good night, and a surefire way to work off calories consumed earlier.
And the dance floor was packed about half an hour later!
So all in all, it was a very successful house party. In fact, all through Christmas I heard that our party was the best of the season, which makes me very pleased, because I know there's stiff competition out there. But it really was fun, and we can't wait to do it again.
One thing, though. The book, 97 Things To Do Before You Finish High School, has guidelines on how to be party smart and I will summarize for you:
1. "Remove all breakables" (If I removed all breakables, there would be nothing to eat from, and nothing for people to comment about and say, "Um, that's weird!")
2. "NO alcohol" (OMG, I can't even begin to fathom that. But instead of NO alcohol, follow the "be sure you have non-alcoholic beverages on hand," or better yet, the best acronym ever -- BYOB.)
3. "Do not post invitation online" (I posted this party EVERYWHERE. The more the merrier, and we had 60 people!)
4. "Tell immediate neighbors" (I do believe this is a good thing to do, but since it was a day party, we didn't bother. And our next door neighbors hate us anyway, so we don't care.)
5. "Have trashcans, paper towels, TP and carpet cleaner close at hand" (Pfft. Yeah, right. Our kitchen pretty much becomes one giant trashcan, and that's just how it goes.)
So as you can see, we broke EVERY SINGLE ONE of these party smart (party boring!) rules. Then again, we are not teenagers whose parents are in the Poconos for a week, so we don't really have to. Thank God.
Holly Golightly, eat your heart out.
Twenty-three down, 74 to go.
Friday, January 2, 2009
Happy New Year!
I hope that all of you have had a happy new year so far! Whoo hoo, 2009!
I must admit, I think resolutions are kind of bunk. I mean, you stay up until at least midnight on Dec. 31st, and suddenly, a few hours of champagne-fueled sleep later, you're supposed to be a new person with a whole new lease on life, just because it's January 1st? Bah. Forget it.
But... I did make a few resolutions, of course, most of which will be long forgotten by January 17th. Some of them are things that I absolutely must do, like get new contact lenses and recycle cans. And then try to get more kultchur, by going to more museums and read better books and edu-macate myself. (I make that resolution every year. And yet... I still use terms like "edu-macate" and sound and act like a fourteen-year-old spaz.)
And, of course, to go on a diet so I can look like this:
I can't help it. Neither can this girl.
But considering I gained four pounds the week before Christmas and have been eating like there's been a trough in front of me since then, that resolution was out the window yesterday afternoon by 4.
One resolution I will hold myself to is updating this blog weekly, at least. I have a whole stash of Accomplishments to mark off my list and tell you about.
But in the meantime, please have a Happy New Year and please enjoy my absolute favorite thing from 2008:
Old this one never gets.
I must admit, I think resolutions are kind of bunk. I mean, you stay up until at least midnight on Dec. 31st, and suddenly, a few hours of champagne-fueled sleep later, you're supposed to be a new person with a whole new lease on life, just because it's January 1st? Bah. Forget it.
But... I did make a few resolutions, of course, most of which will be long forgotten by January 17th. Some of them are things that I absolutely must do, like get new contact lenses and recycle cans. And then try to get more kultchur, by going to more museums and read better books and edu-macate myself. (I make that resolution every year. And yet... I still use terms like "edu-macate" and sound and act like a fourteen-year-old spaz.)
And, of course, to go on a diet so I can look like this:
I can't help it. Neither can this girl.
But considering I gained four pounds the week before Christmas and have been eating like there's been a trough in front of me since then, that resolution was out the window yesterday afternoon by 4.
One resolution I will hold myself to is updating this blog weekly, at least. I have a whole stash of Accomplishments to mark off my list and tell you about.
But in the meantime, please have a Happy New Year and please enjoy my absolute favorite thing from 2008:
Old this one never gets.
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