Tried my favorite pair of jeans on tonight.
Yeah, I don't want to talk about it.
Tuesday, January 6, 2009
Monday, January 5, 2009
Coffee as Savior
Confirmed--the honeymoon is over.
There is nothing less sexy than being in a room full of 15-year-olds at 6:59 on a Monday morning.
Nothing.
At least half of them were still in Vail coming down with an upper respiratory infection, which will be duly noted by their family physicians in the attendance office tomorrow.
Considered grading one of the 150 essays that have been sitting on my desk for over two weeks. Last year at this time they made it to the overhead bin on my flight Back East and that's where they stayed. For good. So, I learned my lesson and decided this year not to pretend that I was going to do any work over my break and read smut and fluff for the duration of the 2200 mile flight.
Am watching the season premier of The Bachelor instead, and the transition from Hamlet to mindless fake romance and shameless rose ceremonies is surprisingly easy. One woman introduced herself to Jason as a native of Idaho. He said he had never been, and the woman looked shocked. "Really? Never? You've got to go there. You know, potatoes!"
Reminds me of the countless times I told people in the city that I was from Ohio and they replied on cue--"Ohio! Ah! Potatoes!" It took me many months to figure this out.
Anyway, found another upshot of being 30. I think I'm too old to be on the show in much the same way I am too old to donate an egg. Potentially happy endings both, but irreversible and unpredictable consequences in the wake. You never know when someone will dig up an old youtube video to show your fiance how you slipped a laxative into one of the other contender's fat free salad dressing on the afternoon of her one-on-one date with the bachelor. And, you never know when an 18-year-old boy named Curtis will knock on your door while you are at spin class and tell your husband that he came to meet his mother.
The show reminds me, too, of the boy I dated in the city who was (unbeknown to me) a contestant on The Bachelorette just months before the two of us were sitting at Coffee Shop in Union Square discussing mutual contempt for stale marshmallows in hot chocolate. That evening his cell phone blew up with calls from enthusiastic friends who were at home watching the premier of the pre-taped show. After my inital surprise wore off, I said, "Well, I guess I don't have to ask how that went for you."
There is nothing less sexy than being in a room full of 15-year-olds at 6:59 on a Monday morning.
Nothing.
At least half of them were still in Vail coming down with an upper respiratory infection, which will be duly noted by their family physicians in the attendance office tomorrow.
Considered grading one of the 150 essays that have been sitting on my desk for over two weeks. Last year at this time they made it to the overhead bin on my flight Back East and that's where they stayed. For good. So, I learned my lesson and decided this year not to pretend that I was going to do any work over my break and read smut and fluff for the duration of the 2200 mile flight.
Am watching the season premier of The Bachelor instead, and the transition from Hamlet to mindless fake romance and shameless rose ceremonies is surprisingly easy. One woman introduced herself to Jason as a native of Idaho. He said he had never been, and the woman looked shocked. "Really? Never? You've got to go there. You know, potatoes!"
Reminds me of the countless times I told people in the city that I was from Ohio and they replied on cue--"Ohio! Ah! Potatoes!" It took me many months to figure this out.
Anyway, found another upshot of being 30. I think I'm too old to be on the show in much the same way I am too old to donate an egg. Potentially happy endings both, but irreversible and unpredictable consequences in the wake. You never know when someone will dig up an old youtube video to show your fiance how you slipped a laxative into one of the other contender's fat free salad dressing on the afternoon of her one-on-one date with the bachelor. And, you never know when an 18-year-old boy named Curtis will knock on your door while you are at spin class and tell your husband that he came to meet his mother.
The show reminds me, too, of the boy I dated in the city who was (unbeknown to me) a contestant on The Bachelorette just months before the two of us were sitting at Coffee Shop in Union Square discussing mutual contempt for stale marshmallows in hot chocolate. That evening his cell phone blew up with calls from enthusiastic friends who were at home watching the premier of the pre-taped show. After my inital surprise wore off, I said, "Well, I guess I don't have to ask how that went for you."
Sunday, January 4, 2009
To assuage the guilt I am feeling regarding all of the small, measurable, achievable, realistic, time-sensitive goals I did not make as New Year's resolutions, I decided to revisit all of the small, measurable, achievable, realistic, time-sensitive goals I made the morning of my thirtieth birthday post party while staring at the ceiling in the bed. I I immediately countered each goal with a perfectly valid excuse. I repeated the points and counterpoints many times as a stalling tactic. I reasoned that I was not officially thirty until my feet hit the ground. The truth is--it was only the undeniable need to vomit that got me out of bed that morning. Otherwise, I'd probably still be 29 and composing a bestselling novel in my head in the same fashion of J.K. Rowling while she took that long, boring train without a pen.
Anyway, I'm hoping that a jaunt down memory lane will remind me of the futility of making lists of goals on arbitrary days of the years.
The B-list
Point: Quit smoking
Counterpoint: What would I have to look forward on January 1, 2009, as this is my favorite annual resolution to break? And no, the irony is not lost on me.
Point: Have Botox
Counterpoint: Pretty certain a year of teaching at the Las Vegas version of 90210 would render my 31st birthday a more appropriate occasion. Plus, I needed something shallow to look forward to when shock of turning 30 would wear off and depression would perhaps set in.
Point: Calling a truce with Candy as an outward sign of my newfound thirtysomething maturity.
Counterpoint: Um, no. Just no.
Point: Deleting all of the awful 80s songs on my ipod.
Counterpoint: Bananarama's Cruel Cruel Summer just feels so apropos. Yes, I knew and will always know who sings Cruel Cruel Summer.
Point: Reintroducing refined flour, sugar, partially hydrogenated oils to my diet.
Counterpoint: What then, I ask, would I have to look forward to when I got pregnant?
Point: Join eharmony
Counterpoint: Dr. Phil
Point: Tracking down one of those Thunder from Down Under guys shown on various billboards by the airport or any guy who can't read for some feckless, non-verbal summer fling.
Counterpoint: Clearly the most probable winner. In addition to skipping sunscreen for one day.
So there I was in bed hungover and clearly defeated. At least I would be tan.
Anyway, I'm hoping that a jaunt down memory lane will remind me of the futility of making lists of goals on arbitrary days of the years.
The B-list
Point: Quit smoking
Counterpoint: What would I have to look forward on January 1, 2009, as this is my favorite annual resolution to break? And no, the irony is not lost on me.
Point: Have Botox
Counterpoint: Pretty certain a year of teaching at the Las Vegas version of 90210 would render my 31st birthday a more appropriate occasion. Plus, I needed something shallow to look forward to when shock of turning 30 would wear off and depression would perhaps set in.
Point: Calling a truce with Candy as an outward sign of my newfound thirtysomething maturity.
Counterpoint: Um, no. Just no.
Point: Deleting all of the awful 80s songs on my ipod.
Counterpoint: Bananarama's Cruel Cruel Summer just feels so apropos. Yes, I knew and will always know who sings Cruel Cruel Summer.
Point: Reintroducing refined flour, sugar, partially hydrogenated oils to my diet.
Counterpoint: What then, I ask, would I have to look forward to when I got pregnant?
Point: Join eharmony
Counterpoint: Dr. Phil
Point: Tracking down one of those Thunder from Down Under guys shown on various billboards by the airport or any guy who can't read for some feckless, non-verbal summer fling.
Counterpoint: Clearly the most probable winner. In addition to skipping sunscreen for one day.
So there I was in bed hungover and clearly defeated. At least I would be tan.
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