Phoning it In

I had grand plans for posting today. Best intentions, what?
I even emailed myself a list of potential topics. AHAHAHA!
Here it is, The List. Stay tuned folks, I could say something brilliant at any moment:

Trumpetor in Washington Square
Man in desert truck
Little leg and Tim Gunn

Thank you, thank you, thank you, and good night.

No Coke, Pepsi

I am in an abusive relationship with the coffee shop down the street.

In theory, the shop is perfectly suited to me. It serves breakfast, lunch and late afternoon snacks each day from 8-5. Check. It's conveniently located and a quick run for a coke takes roughly 10 minutes (includeing elevator time). Check. Check.

But OH. MY. GOD. The service! The incompetence! The ANNOYANCE!

This morning I wanted a bagel. Actually, I still want a bagel. Everything. Toasted with butter. Light on the butter. No need to overdo it on the butter.

I ordered my bagel, watched it toast and then watched as the guys behind the counter let it sit, and get cold, for 3 minutes. I timed them. Argh. I asked for a new, hot bagel. They offered me one that had been toasted only 2 minutes ago.

Then I left. Annoyed beyond belief and with very low blood sugar.

And the worst part is, I'll go back. I always do.

Delete! Delete! Delete!

There's this great scene in the film, A Guide for the Married Man.
Fellow 1 is talking to Fellow 2 and instructing him on how to have an affair without being caught. It basically comes down to this:
Deny! Deny! Deny!

I'm taking it as my new guide for blogging: delete! delete! delete!

That said, I typed up a nice one this morning. C'est la vie.

Home

Today I am thankful for the way I feel when I throw myself in the back of taxi after a long and emotionally exhausting trip.

Home. That's how I feel.

True True

In grammar school we had, in addition to our spelling sentences and vocabulary lessons, the "daily edit." Our teacher would write a sentence on the board and it was our job to make it grammatically correct.

I remember this sentence clearly:

We's thankFul Four a for day WeekENd.

Which translated to:

We are thankful for a four day weekend.


Yes, ma'am we are.

Never Going Back to My Old School

There's this great interview footage of Janis Joplin. She's dressed in her full regalia-- feathers, beads, bourbon. Anyway, the interviewer says, "well did you attend your senior prom?" Janis responds in the negative, and when pressed, offers up this explaination, "Well, I guess they just didn't like me very much."

Well, I went to my prom. Both of them. But get this:

I didn't get invited to my high school reunion.

How crazy is that? Okay, I've barely been in touch with any one since graduation. Still, my parents have been at the same address since 1979. It was pretty funny when I walked into a family friend yesterday and she said, "So are you going to the reunion?" Uh....

In all honesty, I can't say I'm broken hearted over this. I really think it's funny.

Who doesn't get invited to their own reunion?

I guess they just didn't like me very much.


____

ED: Turns out an invitation arrived and my mother threw it away. I have no idea why...

My Little Town

There's something very nice about coming home for the holidays.

You get to see everyone, catchup on all the gossip. Generally have a good time.

Even better is that you get to leave, and go back to your real life.

And for this I am grateful.

Thanksgiving Feast

Good food
Good meat
Good God
Let's Eat!

Crash Test Dummies

Live blogging from Stuy Town as I help Collie and Co. prepare Southern Thanksgiving.
Thus far I've made banana pudding, corn bread, corn bread dressing and breakfast casserole.

Why, pray tell, is the Yankee making the Southern specialties?

Who cares? Collie makes Kaluha and coffee while I cook, so I'm a happy happy Yankee. Even if I don't have the manners God gave a goat.

Happy Thanksgiving!

Stuffing

Last night I made my first attempt at stuffing. Or dressing, really. Seeing as how I didn't stuff it into anything except my mouth.

It was...not bad. Though, how can bread, sausage, butter, onions, celery and spices be bad? Still, my technique could use some improvement and I win no points for execution. So you know what they say, if at first you don't succeed, perseverate. Or, in my case, try it again the next night.

So, tonight I try it again. This time sans sausage. Perhaps even sans culottes!

To Whom It May Concern

I would like to go home.

My head hurts, my neck aches, I'm sleepy.

I would really like to be on the couch with a cup of tea. If I leave now I'll be home and in my pj's in time for As Time Goes By on BBC America.

Thank you.

Beef, it's what's for dinner

So, Carmen.
It's like the Top 40 of Operas.

Rien n'y fait, menace ou prière

Last night I went to see Carmen at Lincoln Center.

I called my grandmother as I got ready for the evening. She loves to hear about my life in the city and I knew she'd get a kick out of this.

"So, Phoebes, you know that scene in Moonstruck where Cher is getting ready to go to the opera with Nicholas Cage and she's in her house listening to music having a drink and falling in love?"

"Yes, dear"

"Well, this is exactly like that, except I'm drinking tea and calling you!"


-My life, ladies and gentleman, my life.

Family Dinner

Mom: Well, B can't come on Thursday. He has to work. He's going to miss dinner.

Me: (singing) Some guys have all the luck


_____

Later,

Me: So for "real" Thanksgiving, our Thanksgiving, I'm making brussel sprouts with bacon

Mom: Portion for one?

Me: Funny thing, no matter how much I make, brussel spouts with bacon always feeds one exactly.

Who Moved My Cheese?

M: Where is my rug? Have you sent it yet. I need it.
J: It's been pulled out from under you, b*tch.

Hi-the-diddley-I-dill-dum

I have trouble with impulse control; a tendency to say whatever comes into my mind the moment it comes to mind. This causes all sorts of trouble in my life, much like the time I screamed, "Jane you ignorant slut!" from the upper deck of the tennis pro shop,embarrasing myself and my family in front of the community (or so my mother opined).

Worse yet, I have never learned how to leave gracefully. Quit while I'm ahead. Say good night Gracie. Generally speaking I am the last one to leave a party. I may even stay the night. Ahem.

Fortunately, while I may be a glutton, I'm also intelligent enough to surround myself with those more restrained. This came into play last night when, after a few pints and one delicious glass of Pimm's, I felt another round was in order. My good friend wisely reminded me that it was a school night and perhaps we should retire for the evening.

And thus, here I am this dark and rainy morning. Bright eyed and bushy tailed.

Hey Ho

This weekend's festivities (ed: Flip, need to have another linking tutorial) have left me with a bit of a let down. A bit of a "morning after the night before" feeling, as it were.

I look at marriage much the way I view, oh I don't know, buying a house. It's something I want to do. Something of which I approve whole-heatedly. Something to which I look forward.
But right now?
At this stage in life?
It seems about as likely flying to the moon. It's out there in the nether world of my consciousness. Part of my yes, SOMEday, but certainly not TOday.

And yet, ever since the weekend, it's as though "If Love Were All" is my soundtrack:

If only...
Somebody splendid really needed me
Someone affectionate and dear
Cares would be ended if I knew that he
Wanted to have me near

I just.
Well.
It would be nice to have a buddy, a partner. Share the load. "For my yoke is easy and my burden is light" kind of thing.

I had dinner with a friend last night. He, S.J., is studying to be a Jesuit and thus, while he'll preside over numerous marriage ceremonies*, will never marry. As the conversation wound it's way towards the subject of marriage, I shared what I shared above. While I take a certain "everything in its time" view of things, and I'm certainly not gunning for a husband, I'm beginning to see the benefits of a partner in life.

Then S.J. shared a story of an old Jesuit. This Old Jesuit said that while he loved presiding over marriages, they always left him feeling a bit wistful. The bond, the union, what God has joined together etc etc.

It's quite nice, really.
Quite nice indeed.

--
*For Catholics at least, the couple marrying perform the sacrament. One does not marry a couple. The couple marries each other and the celebrant presides over their union.

Found the Funny!

Actually included on the bottom of a report:

"The actual [redacted] number is unclear. Indeed, [redacted]'s number remains an enigma, wrapped in a riddle, shrouded in mystery."

This is what happens when you hire a history major to do an econ major's job.

Fresh out of Funny

I got nothing this morning.

It's cold and rainy and I'm drained.

Sorry to disappoint, folks.

Oughta Be in Pictures

If a picture paints a thousand words, I'd have one hell of a book.

203 photos. What was I thinking?
My poor friends. They must have wanted to break my camera!

I'm a lunatic. 203 photos.

Oy vey.

27 Ways to be Ridiculous

Home again home again, jiggety jig.

It's hard to come home after a weekend filled with friends. Everything seems a little empty and deflated.

I am, for once, at a loss for words. Shocker I know. I suppose I'll just quote the brides father:

Be excellent to one another
and
Party on dudes!

Blogging with a Southern Accent

Aside from a business trip last Fall to Atlanta, I am currently the furthest south I've ever been. Can you hear the drawl?

We arrived in Charlottesville last night after a harrowing airport experience. Someone, who shall remain nameless but was not yours truly, left her purse at the office. This, we discovered, upon our arrival at LGA. Hilarity ensued.

Or rather, we called a second car service to pick up the missing purse on at the office on 39th and 5th. Want some drama? Try to get a car out of Manhattan at 6 pm on a Friday evening in time to make a 7:10 flight. Wooo Hoo. Fun times. Fun times.

Still, we all made it safe and sound. Take offs equaled landings and now we are settled in the Southland.

Stay tuned for reports from Wedding Central.

Ding Dong the Bells are Gonna Chime

My good friends, E and S, are gettin' married in the morning.

I am, as always, in complete and utter awe at anyone capable of making such a commitment. I, whose greatest committment to date is signing a 2 year lease, can no more comprehend plighting my troth than I can Hebrew. Still. I'm just so happy for them.

Much love, many prayers, and all my best wishes to the beautiful couple.

C'est Vrai

Said yesterday morning by my friend, in complete sincerity:

Ryan, your job should be just telling people what to do.
You're so good at it

Duh. Finally. Somebody gets it!

Sustinance

I have not had a piece of buttered toast in nearly 15 years.
Or, rather, perhaps I should say a properly buttered piece of toast.

My mother is the only person who can properly butter toast. I know. I know. This sounds fanciful, but still. My mother's buttered toast is second to none.

Lest you think I am alone in this personality quirk, I present to you the story of my grandfather. Poppy Stan never ate a single fried egg after 23 December 1965. Heart condition? Premature concern over his cholesterol? Nein. It was simply that the only person, to his mind, who could properly fry an egg was his mother-in-law, Big Nanny. And, Big Nanny, the former Martha Josephine Maxcy of Manhattan and Upper Montclair, went on to her great reward shortly before Christmas 1965. Thus, as she sloughed off her mortal coil so did my grandfather give up fried eggs.

Waffles, to me, remain the domain of my second brother, David. Perhaps it's because Eggo waffles constituted fully 1/5 of his diet for the first decade of his life (along with french fries, chicken fingers, pizza and "little rolls").Whatever the reason, no one, not a single person, can make waffles like the D-Man.

A Puzzlement

Is it redundant to say "Such a narcissist?" Is it similar to describing one as "most unique?"

Discuss amongst yourselves....

Mary Harriman Would be Proud

Had myself a Junior League meeting last night. I adore my committee, but take slight exception with one of my co-chairs. She is a “corporate trainer by nature,” her words, not mine. Frankly, I feel corporate trainers/teambuilders occupy the circle of hell just above HR. So I admit, I am biased.

At the beginning of each meeting, Madam Co-Chair has us play an “ice breaker” (ice breakers are what one is made to play in the final circle of hell). Last week it was the M&M game, last night it was “Similarities,” turn to the person on your left and list 5 things you have in common.
As luck would have it, I sat next to my dear friend.
We listed our similarities:

Things we like:

Gin
Vodka
Our hairdresser
Plaid
Being in charge

Somehow I don’t think that’s what Madam Co-Chair had in mind…

McFlipper

Special thanks to my current favorite Cantabridgian.
Rides to the Cape, beers at Grendels, and, most recently, telephone web support.
You're a man among men, my friend

To Whom It May Concern

A while back Megan wrote a letter to her younger self. It's Monday morning and I have no imagination, so I am copying her. Just like I did in Mr. Novotni's 7th grade math class.

Dear Ryan,
You hate change.
Love,
Ryan

ps- Change, though painful, has yet to kill you. And as they say, that which does not kill us...

Marathon Sunday

5 Boroughs
26.2 Miles
Go team go!

--

In other news, Project Apartment continues. We're taking a small break this morning, (if you can count dropping another several hundred dollars on supplies "taking a break") and will continue this afternoon and evening.

Many thanks to my dear old dad who, armed with James Thurber, the crossword puzzle and the soundtrack to Camelot, drove us to the seat of Union County yesterday and waited patiently for 4 hours as we fought the Swedish dragon. When thanked, Pops only said, "Sometimes you just have to be a dad." Perhaps that's true. Still, extra points for "being a dad" with style and grace. Love you.

Swedish for Common Sense

Dear Ikea,
I want to love you, Ikea.
You with your pretty blue and yellow signs and your reasonable prices.
Your catalogue tempts me. You know your customer well and you appeal to my design sensibilites (such that they are).
But, Ikea. Oh Ikea. I love you but you don't love me.
2 hours from check out to actually leaving with my purchases? Ikea, this just won't do.
We're not finished, you and I. Not yet.
Not when I found out you will deliver to me.
Turns out $113.98 may just be the price of my sanity.
We shall see.
We shall see.

Doomed Before I Even Start

The paint line at Home Depot was, in a word, LONG.
And I was tired.
And my blood sugar was at an all time low.

So I cut my losses.

What can I say? Tomorrow is another day.

And so it begins...

I moved into my apartment 3 years ago yesterday. In that time I've hung 8 shelves, poorly. Somehow, independent of all factual and circumstantial evidence, I've convinced myself that I am capable of DIY home improvements.
Tonight, armed with everything the Home Depot on 23rd Street can provide, I tackle my bathroom. Painting, sanding, hanging fixtures. Nothing that involves plumping in any way, but many that involve steady hands and a keen eye. So basically, I'm screwed before I start.
Wish me luck. And God speed.

Peter, Paul and Almond Joy

It's 9:18 am.
Thus far I've had 2 Baby Ruths (Babies Ruth?) and 2 Almond Joys (Almonds Joy?).
I've also taken care to pick through the remaining candy bars and stick 2 snickers in the freezer.
For lunch, you know.
Delicious and nutritious. That's my motto.