late for work- still posting a link

see how I love you? I risk walking into Team Intern's Fortress of Solitude (otherwise known as the jury room that has never and will never be used as a jury room) late just to bring you pleasure. that is how much I love you, dearest readers, all 5 of you.


anyways, linky! miss doxie writes of ikea, and some of the names are spin-around-in-rolly-chair hilarious (notfrumtree). go forth and read, my darlings. i swear i'll finish blogging about the weekened before i go to Philly on friday.

Wasn't there a movie about an alcoholic called The Long Weekend?

Though it was almost completely free of blackouts, my weekend was long and enjoyable. Why, you ask? The much-anticipated-yet-little-prepared-for arrival of my parents. [cue ominous music]

All kidding aside, my parents are excellent visitors. They take me out to meals and pay for practically everything, can entertain themselves if necessary, and rarely do anything embarassing. (not never, they *are* parents). So we had a lovely weekend. Mostly.

Saturday

Y'know how you don't realize that other people's families are different when you're a little kid? And you think that everyone has a crazy uncle Eddie from Biloxie or that Saturday is Ethiopian Cuisine night and no one is allowed to bring Play-doh in the car on penalty of all your toys being taken away? (None of those apply to my family, tho I suspect that I would not be allowed to bring Play-doh into the car). Well I thought that everybody's family went to museums every Sunday and nobody's parents liked anything but oldies and classical music and that everyone's mother enjoyed listening to gergorian chant when she cleaned. But apparently, my family is somewhat unique in our dedication to high culture.

Anyway, my parents love NY for its fabulous cuisine and teaming street life, but mainly for its millions and millions and bjillions of museums. Besides the famous ones (Met/Frick/Guggenheim), we've been to the Museum of the Drug Enforcement Agency (right below Times Square, like one big PSA- "drugs are bad, drugs fund terrorism, drugs make the babies cry (literally- one of the rooms was a mock hotel room where a man was making crystal meth and a baby was crying because his father was too busy with the meth to pay attention to his tiny baby woes)"), the Museum of Television & Radio History (we watched a Rat Pack documentary and a couple episodes of Alfred Hitchcock Presents), and the Brooklyn Museum (remarkable because... well, it's in Brooklyn. Manhattan usually has the cultural stranglehold on the museum crowd).

While my parents would be content to live in the Met for the rest of their lives (a la Claudia and Jamie) , we had decided to explore outside the city on this visit. Because there must be something outside the city, right?

I had remembered a New Yorker article years ago about a "museum" that was acres and acres of open land with sculpture just hanging out all together in the great wide open. Sounds hippy-dippy awesome, right? I couldn't really remember anything else about it, so I just mentioned it when my mum was leafing through a trip-a new york guide book. The gods of serendipity had her leaf right to the page on the Storm King Art Center. (a few years ago they had a Calder exhibit where Southern Cross was moved from Calder's collection for the first time so it was a hooge deal- hence the new yorker article).

So we pile in the car and wind our way upstate (past Bear Mountain Bridge again) to frolick amongst the art. The only flaw in our plan was the 90 degree heat. And before you say, "But Julia, you guys lived in Australia for all those years. 90 degrees should be nothing!" Bite Me because that was a) years ago and b) Australian heat is totally different from muggy opressive American Heat. Australian heat is like standing too close to a fire. American heat is like being covered in damp flaming towels and blankets. So there.


But it was amazing. You drive in and there's some Calder just hanging out in a field, realistic sculpture standing a few feet from kinetic abstract stuff- it's just amazing. Our tour guide was a trip too. Usually I count on docents to be all high minded about the art, trying their best to jsutify what the artist was thinking and feeling no matter how bird-in-space-y it is (come on- no one likes bird in space. what the hell?) But this woman had no such pretensions. She would go up to a piece, tell us the name, talk about what the name meant (getting super pissed if the name was just a nonsense name designed to let the observer make up his/her own mind about the piece) and then move on. She really like the stuff that looked like stuff, and didn't like the stuff that didn't look like stuff. While I appreciate that she feels secure enough in her job to openly criticize the art, by the end of the tour I was ready for it to be the end of the tour. But she was right to point out that one of the sculptors liked to paint his sculptures with a color called "shrimp" (remind me to type up the shrimp story which will explain why my parents and i couldn't stop laughing after she said this)

But since I'm getting tired, the rest of my post will be in short observations

- One Kevin Kline is enough. Two Kevin Klines is too much, especially if one is stuck in a tour with one. The less famous one.

- Linen doesn't breathe. I didn't know this, and I was so hot that I thought I would die and consequently freaked out my parents.

- Due to my precarious state of well-being, it is very easy to freak my parents out. I should be more sensitive to this.

- Because Momo Taro (or Peach Boy) is the only sculpture you can climb on, we all had to climb in the hollowed out portion of the left granite chunk and pretend to be Peach Boy for the camera.

- Because I was delirious with heat stroke, I imitated this sculpture for the camera. With the legs of my jeans pulled up to the knee. Not rolled, just pulled, so the ankle was around my thigh. Lemme tell ya, those pictures are fetching.

- This was pretty neat to see from the tram.

- I'll add more later.


There is nothing - NOTHING- in Garrison, NY, no matter how many people tell you to go there. Cold Spring, NY, is much more deserving of a lunchtime visit. If Cold Spring is a puddle of acitivity, thenGarrison is a spit from a dehydrated child. But it has a pretty view of West Point. Also, we saw lots of prisons from the road and I thought about all the people who have traveled from my workplace to those prisons. it didn't make me feel anything in particular, so I guess i'm getting jaded.

Anyway, I'm tired and I will make this a prettier entry later. Also, I shall write about Sunday. oooo sunday- day of deception, more food than you would need to feed the Israeli army, and the surliest bunch of new yorkers to ever interact with the public. Anticipate!



(This post was written with the help of David Bowie's Queen Bitch. I love the Bowie so.)

Friday

They arrived on Friday (after I had a networking lunch- ooo, fancy!) and they dropped off some of the things I had requested from home (some messages didn't go through: "where's my gray suit jacket?" "o, I brought you the funky blue suit jacket instead- can you wear that to court?"). Mum made her obligatory your-room-is-a-mess reproof where she gives me that "you will never change from the messy little child that you were, and yet I will keep hoping" look. Frankly, my definition of clean is different from her definition of clean, and i like to keep boxes, so sue me, but i will not involve you in this. If Mum would ever show up and not criticize the cleanliness of my room, I would die of shock. That reproof is my old friend these many years.

Then we went to Legal Seafood. Why are there Red Lobsters everywhere when Legal Seafood is a vastly superior product? Lovely decor, delicious fish, attentive waitstaff- exactly what Red Lobster is not. And yet Red Lobsters litter the nation, while Legal Seafoods are few and far between. O, the unlitigable injustice. Anyway, I found out that a) I don't like raw tuna that much and b) Legal Seafood serves a mean Mojito. mmmm mojito. I exited the restaurant in time to see the White Plains Friday Night Fountain Show featuring Kenny G playing "My Heart Will Go On" (I plugged my ears so that they wouldn't start to bleed profusely, but the dancing fountains is quite lovely if you play Claire de Lune in your head a la Ocean's Eleven).

My parents stayed in Greenwich, Connecticut (the lack of a "w" in the pronunciation makes me and my dad tease my mum about her disasterous pronunciation of "Southwark" when we were riding the tube in London [Mum: South-waark. Actual Pronunciation: Suth-ick. Since my mum is our resident geography expert and pronunciation expert (Taught us all how to say Machu Picchu, and also where it is), it was quite hilarious.)

Their Hotel was Wedding Central this weekend, but they get free Starbucks in the morning and there's a great exercise room, so I went to stay with them. It was nice to get away from the jutting springs of my dorm mattress for a little while.

That's it for Friday, but I shall tell you 3 amusing Mom Dad & Me stories that I remembered due to our visit:

• When we were in Paris last summer, we stayed in a hotel where they served breakfast in a cavernous but nicely finished basement of the hotel. The French Maids (sans sassy little uniforms that one usually thinks of in association with them, which is really better for the serving of breakfast) would take your coffee order, as long as you gave it in french. Luckily, most coffee names are pretty international, so it's hard to screw up. Or so you'd think. One morning, Dad went down early armed only with his "Bronx Street French" and flagged down a waitress. (this is the man who in Quebec ordered a "Jam-bone Crape"- the word "butcher" comes to mind when you hear his french acccent). After she politely asked what he would like, he said "Une cafe au lait..." and then frantically searching the archives of his brain for the french word for 'please.' He came up with "pourquoi." Which translates in the mind of the average french speaker to "A cafe au lait, why?" Like my pater was proposing an existential coffee question- why do we drink half coffee, half milk? What is the point, since we are all empty vessels? Why do we combine the caffinated beverage which signifies our ascension into adulthood with the very symbol of a mother's link to her infant? Is the cup half-filled with coffee, or half-empty of milk? Or, alternately, that he didn't know why she would want to know what he drank in the morning- "a cafe au lait- what, are you taking orders or something? O, you are, are you? Why? What's in it for ya?" Needless to say, the woman gave him a puzzled look, and my father gave her a puzzled look back, as he thought he had just politely asked for a cuppa joe. When Mum and I finally came down, he repeated the encounter to figure out what had just happened. We fell off our chairs laughing. The waitress got a large tip.
  

• This was not my father's first interaction with the French. Our flight from Dulles to Paris was chock-full of 'em, and Dad ended up next to a particularly amusing one. They had talked a little bit about whether to have the little airconditioning vents on, but had restricted their conversation to plane events. We all got our in-flight dinners with a wee bit of laughing cow cheese (la vache qui ri) and my Dad, being the friendly gentleman he is, turned to the man next to him and said "This cheese isn't bad." The man gave my father a look which said "ignorant american" and said, in a voice that sounds like Triumph when my dad repeats the story, "In France, we have a thousand cheeses.... better than this one." It is rare that you discover the trip's catchphrase within the first couple of hours.
  

• I've forgotten the third story, but I will in time to share our Saturday excursion with you. Damn swiss cheese brain.
  

meta-trailer

"when everything you know is wrong"
"that's wrong."

Obtusitron Update

Last night he decided to interupt tv time again, so in a commercial I picked up my bottle of needles ( i was transfering my used needles into a biohazard container- it's kinda like that toy where you need to put the round shape through the round hole, square shape through square hole, etc. It's very soothing and I always marvel at the sheer numbers of needles that I must use. And the sheer numbers of ordinary citizens that I must freak out when I inject in public. haha- suck it, bitches) and said "bye" and went back to my room.


Frankly if bottle of needles won't keep me safe, I don't know what will. And if someone is engaged in such a bizarre behavior and you choose to come over and talk at them, wouldn't you ask what they were doing? I guess not if you're a narcissist.

So once I figured he wouldn't see me leave, I took the stairs to the 4th floor and joined their tv time. Luckily, they were also watching The Mummy Returns but they also were switching to Chaotic in the commercials- upgrade! If I were Britney Spears, I would have married the most brilliant yet socially well-adjusted man I could find. Maybe that guy who invented the segway and the insulin pump and the newer smaller dialysis machine. Or at least Owen Wilson. And had I been forced to marry the likes of Cletus, I would have made him shave for the wedding. That is not a wedding beard, golddigger. Thank God I'm not Britney. I have enough problems with one stalker, let alone many with cameras.

Hmm...

• It's always disconcerting when the person you are supposed to meet (who you have not met in person before) (who has been quite the joker in your brief time talking to him) says "I'll be the guy with in the wheelchair and fake teeth." First off, true or not, the second piece of information does nothing for me. What do I know from fake when it comes to teeth? But then I must decide if it is true or not. Frankly if he is in a wheelchair, the better for me, as you know of my deep and abiding fascination with disability.

• Y'know when you wake up in the middle of the night and have to do something odd like wash your hands or brush your teeth again (I always dream that my hands get dirty and the feeling does not go away when I wake up)? And then when you climb back into bed, it's all dark and quiet and you've corrected the problem that woke you up and all being right with the world, you'll fall asleep in about 4 seconds? I love that feeling.
  

• So many people are coming to visit in the next week and a half that I think I have about a half a day in which I will be free of guests. And I'll be at work. Luckily, I got rid of the funky smell in my room by exchanging the guest mattress with a decidedly less musty one from the room next door. Don't worry- no one's living there right now. But now I need to clean :/

• When set on shuffle, Senor Pod definitely plays favorites. He likes
  
• Aaliyah- "We Need a Resolution"
  
• Cake- "Sheep go to Heaven"
  
• Electronic Excursions- "Watermelon Man"
• The Clash - "Koka Kola"
• Travis - "Beautiful Occupation"
• Due to this odd juxtaposition of music, I'd be hardpressed to make Senor Pod a mixtape.
  

i remember this...

mcsweeney's always has the greatest stuff.

Apple Cinnamon Cheerios

Apple Cinnamon Cheerios has always been my favorite cereal. Other cereals will come and go, like my brief love affairs with Raisin Bran or mixing all three kinds of Chex together- which is the exact right level of excitement for first-thing-in-the-morning- but I always return.

There are several things I've learned about AC Cheerios and i'd like to delineate them. I know I make lots of little lists of the blog, but I like lists. If you think this amount is excessive, you should see my class notes.

1. Apple Cinnamon Cheerios are one of two kinds of cereal with Kelly Green boxes. The other is Apple Jacks. Do you remember the old Apple Jacks campaign? Where the dad/male authority figure would say "why do you like Apple Jacks? they don't taste like apples." and the kids would say "because we do" or something nonsensical and then the adversarial questioner/questionee barrier would be broken and everyone would laugh as if to say "Ahh... kids." even the kids, which I always think is false-feeling. Kids rarely laugh at their own precious precociousness. My point is (and i do have one) that Apple Cinnamon Cheerios does taste like apples and cinnamon and are in the cheerio (aka somewhat healthy) family, and Apple Jacks are just like a Froot Loops variatal- taste like sugared carb bits. But they are both proportedly derived from Apples, hence the green boxiness (though I have never seen an apple that colour. But I shall not quibble with the ACC people- they are gods that bestride the narrow world like a colossus). So don't let the box fool you, and don't absentmindedly buy the wrong box.
   
2. Apple Cinnamon Cheerios are NEVER on sale. (i should say, very rarely) This really cheeses my grits. Everything else goes on sale, but the Cheerios ppl apparently know that they have we ACC fans by the short hairs and that we would buy ACC's if they cost 2 legs and a firstborn baby, so it's always $4-$5 a box. I would like to say that for fairness sake, the Super Shop n' Stop had "Buy Two, Get Two Free" sale on ACC's this week. Needless to say, I'm working my way through the 4 boxes as I type.
   
3. Apple Cinnamon Cheerios don't leave you with the horrific cereal-mouth that other Cheerios do. All other Cheerios- original, honey nut, multigrain, brown sugar, possum- cover your mouth in a funky wheat jacket that doesn't remove itself when you brush, floss and Listerine your mouth to oblivion. You gotta give it up for the one member of the Cheerio family that can be tamed by a little bit of Tartar Control Crest.
   

I don't have any other thoughts on Apple Cinnamon Cheerios besides "mmmm" so I think I'll leave it on "funky wheat jacket." I think there should be a dance called the funky wheat jacket. It sounds like a song by the Spin Doctors.


It's land of nod time, and I will be a loyal citizen until morning. Night.

$70 Poorer, But Buns of Steel in My Future

or Being Merely Mortal, I Surrender to the Siren Call of the Dee-luxe Gym.

They were running a special ($49 down and $1o a month with no contract- cancel anytime) and the hellhole is ... well, a hellhole, so i joined Planet Fitness (4 convenient locations! but no free parking at the one I go to!)

While I was filling out the paperwork, the "trainer" was informing me that "Planet Fitness is a Judgment Free Zone™ so we want you to feel comfortable here, free to fulfill your fitness needs."

It wasn't until he said "Judgment Free" that I thought anyone would be judging me, and then i had a momentary stab of "i look like a sweaty labouring beast on the machines- do people really judge me while I'm working out?" And then I had many logical, organized thoughts that I attribute to my training as a lawyer-to-be.

a) If they do judge me, That is Very Shallow of them because I am Not Endeavoring to Win A Beauty Pageant while Using the Elliptical so How Dare They.

b) If they want to judge me, no corporate "Judgment Free Zone™" policy is gonna stop them.
subthought b) Is Planet Fitness heralding the arrival of the thought police? It is our judgment of each other that makes us free! Freely judge me, beautiful blonde people! Scorn my sweaty flesh and brown hair! Down with Big Brother! Especially the TV show because It Is Awful!

c) Who are these people in that I would care that they would judge me for going to the gym? Who could hold that power over me? I cannot name even one. Sticks and Stones, bitches, Sticks and Stones.

d) I know he's just fulfilling his role as my official greeter to the gym and it is very sweet of him to think that I care, but may I give him a look that says "save it, muscle boy"?


In the end, I had to just ignore him because it is difficult for me to copy the numbers of my credit card without screwing them up. But just in case, they provided me with a little leaflet on the "Judgment Free Zone" that ends with "You Belong!" Well I better- I paid $57.67 for the privilege.


I shall begin "fulfilling my fitness needs" tomorrow. Wee! I cannot wait! Sweet sweet air-conditioned exercising- how i have missed you!

Update: Obtuse No More (We Hope)

Obtuse dude from previous posts has reached clarity!

Steph and I were in the downstairs lounge watching tv and he comes in to sample the wares of the vending machine. He says (rather snippily) "I see you've discovered the downstairs lounge." Which makes NO sense as he has bothered me there before (see previous posts). Then he's like "I guess Tuesday is tv night for you" and I say to Steph "yeah- haha Miranda's hair is so bad" and he grabs his vended foodstuffs and stomps out. Stomping out is very effective in the downstairs lounge as there is a little platform designed for wheelchair access that is obviously hollow and generates lots of stomping noise when stomped upon.

The moment he leaves, Steph turns to me and whispers with that face everyone gets when they just can't wait to gossip, "Is that the annoying guy you told me about?" and i rolled my eyes and she whispered "He was a little hostile." Then she said that maybe we were monopolizing his tv and i said no way, he lived on the 5th floor and had one in his room for pete's sake and she said then he is just a freak.

Truer words were never spoken.


So an hour later, when we were leaving the lounge, he was out in the vesitbule talking to the head of the building about getting a room change. And he pointedly ignored us when we waited for the head of the building to sign us out the building broom. Then he said (and i quote) "I want the new room soon because I don't feel the urge to clean knowing that I'll be moving soon. My amps and wires for my electric guitar are scattered all over."


O dude. One day, one day I hope you grow up.

On second thought, I think growing up might make you regret your 40,000 tattoos. So stay blissfully unawares, my son-- it is for the best.


ps. Why did the other ladies let Miranda walk around with that hair? and some of those outfits? she prolly makes more money than all of them (besides Samantha) and yet, ick! Reminds me of the only line I ever partially remembered from a Doris Day movie:

"That woman has the taste of a water buffalo"
"Yes, but it's a rich water buffalo"

Or something like that. It always amuses me.

freaky!

Remember the days when the creepiest person Joey Potter had made out with was Dawson?

I long for those days...


And if you don't find the that guy*/Holmes thing disturbing, read this article. It's from Fox News, but I'm not gonna hold that against it. Mainly because it says something that I can actually believe.



*I had grown disgusted with Tom Cruise, and vowed never to type or speak or think his name again, but this new fiancee fiasco made that resolution impossible. So I expressed my dilemma to Katie, and between the both of us we decided to name him "that guy." We first thought that he could be "he who must not be named (HWMNBN)" but that gives him too much power and dignity. No, we thought, it would be best to deny him the name-recognition he so obviously craves, and relegate him to the list of people whose names we cannot be bothered to remember. Hence, that guy, as in "you know, he's that guy that we don't like." It is in no way related to "Hey! It's That Guy!" because that would imply that we are ever pleased to see him. (Personally, I hope he becomes too much of a liability because of all the antics that have eclipsed whatever movie he and the brainwashed Joey have just put out. But that require too much perception on the part of the studios) "that guy" must never be capitalized, but not in the e.e. cummings sort of way. It should also be said in an off-hand sort of way, because he does not raise in you any feelings of great love or great hate. "that guy"s can't hold your attention for long enough to generate great feeling.

So take that, that guy.


also, alternative craft fair! I am so there.

Work-Walk Interlude

On the walk to work today, there was a somewhat deranged-looking individual walking ahead of me. he was flinging his arms around over his head like michael stipe in a music video and gabbing on in varying degrees of loudness. As I was about to lap him (my purposeful walk towards work was faster than his crazy-man-shuffle) I put my ipod in my bag just for fear that he would somehow attack me and i'd need both hands to disentangle myself. (it wasn't a real fear, but the reports that ppl are being stabbed for their ipods has put me on high alert and the risk of dropping Senor pod if I were to be frightened by an arm fling was just too great.)

Here enters player 3 in our little sidewalk psychodrama. A black man in an obviously expensive suit is about 20 feet in front of Deranged and was watching me put away my ipod. I guess he thought I was putting it away because of him because he was giving me a look, but then realization dawned on his face when I passed Deranged with a slightly quickening step that it was actually the arm-flinger that i was afraid of. Heck, by the look of his suit, he could buy and sell me several times over- what would he want with Senor Pod? When I passed Expensive Suit, apparently the teams had shifted from white ppl (me and Deranged) v. black person to sane ppl v. ... questionable person. he smiled and said "That guy's a little off" and I said "Well that's an understatement." o the power of body language.


I always feel bad for people who are on the streets when they should be in a hospital. There but for the grace of God, eh?

CAUTION: COMMENT REQUIREMENTS

By request, I have enabled comments. However, please don't use my full name or my address or anything. I don't want someone showing up under my window, hoisting a boombox over his head, and playing "The More You Ignore Me, The Closer I Get" (though I always have enjoyed a little Morrissey).


Points of this post:

If you feel the urge to comment

1. Don't use my full (middle or last) name (please) (and by "please", i mean "jerkweed")

2. Don't use my address or any other specific julia-locators (vague city locations is cool)

3. My mom may one day read your comment, and she disdains swearing. So swear if you want, but remember that my mom reserves the right to pass judgment on your mental capacity as you obviously could not come up with a better word to express how you were feeling. That's her perogative, yo.

4. Stalking is illegal and irrational and really cheeses my grits. And there should be a PSA against stalking because dammit, it's just wrong. And I love PSA's. They are so amusing.

The Day of the Father

My dad rolled up in town for Father's Day, which I thought was nice of him. Of course, it was to go on a golf outing with his prep school buddies tomorrow, but when someone shows up with sheets, 3 work-perfect twinsets and the promise to pay for all food and movies that may be enjoyed that day, to hold the golf thing against him would be ungrateful. But it was an exciting day in the land of Julie-- why, you ask? I shall use an annotated counting system to illustrate.


# of Wedding Showers attended for Victoria: 1
# of Gifts at the Wedding Shower of Victoria: click
# of People who got Choked Up when Dana was toasting Victoria at the begining of the shower: ~8 (including yours truly, but as my dad says, my kidneys are too close to my eyes)

I was about 10 minutes late, but still in time for the "Surprise!" and got to discuss my favorite issue, how much insurance companies really and truly suck, over the lunch. I also got to give Vicky the popcorn popper I had gotten for her which is a real relief to me as I just can't stand buying things for people and not giving it to them right away. My motto: Why wait for the warranty to give out? At least I don't insist that they use it right away (however sorely tempted I am to do so). Also? There was champagne there and I had some. First drink in a month, kids- I was definitely buzzed.

Time my dad got up to get to his flight to Westchester: 5am
Time my dad went to bed last night: 12am
Times my dad yawned before he consented to let me drive my own car back from Connecticut: approx. 20

During the shower, my dad went to hit balls at a driving range (gearing up for the big tournie tomorrow) and by the time he got to the shower, he was all droopy-eyed. Of course that didn't mean that I got to drive right away, it just meant that he let me take over after he started yawning in 10 second intervals. So we drove back to the IBM Learning Center so he could nap. And damn, they should rename that place Julie's Land of Earthly Delights. Hemmed in by thick forrest, 7 or so stone and wood modern Scandanavian architecture guest buildings, pingpong and pool tables everywhere, a walking trail, a gym the size of freakin texas and the best part- seemingly no one around, so when I was walking about with my cell phone I could play my favorite game "Nuclear Disaster Survivor." When Dad informed me that most corporations had places like this for their employees, being a corporate lawyer suddenly seemed a wee bit more palatable. But only for IBM. So on Monday, I'm totally going back to use the gym (then I will be spoiled and I will be forced to go pay for a membership at the NYSC instead of using the dank hellhole in the basement). But on with the story...

# of movies seen today: 1
# of people who annoyed me by talking in the theater: 0 (a banner occasion!)
# of times I tried to explain to my dad who Sacha Baron Cohen is and failed miserably: 3

Madagascar: pretty good. But I really liked the little insider NYC jokes because I got them and so did everyone else in the theater and we all felt self-satisfied and affirmed that we lived near a fantastic city that deserved to be toasted in a movie because it's New York, Dammit. But beyond that, it was still good. And when the hypochrondriacal character mentions wanting to go to Canada for the cheap meds, my dad nudged me, as I too love Canada and the cheapness of its meds. I guess i am just a figure of fun to you well people.

# of times we checked the car because it was in an unsavory part of White Plains: 3
# of times my dad worried that someone would break into my car for my nordstroms bag of twinsets: 3
# of times i rolled my eyes so dramatically that I hurt myself a little: 1

White Plains has very little free parking, and that parking a) in a bad section of town (1 block from a good section) and b) is only free on sundays. But as i have yet to see a grand theft auto case coming out of White Plains in my time spent in court, I was not worried. Dad did not have my faith that all the criminals would be out and about in yonkers, so he was slightly more worried.

# of palm-sizes worth of protein one is supposed to consume in a meal according to my nutritionist whose skin is stretched taught over her protruding bones: 1
# of palm-sizes in the steak that the waiter delivered to my father at dinner: 5
# of palm-sizes worth of meat sitting in my fridge at the moment: 3
# of whiskey sours enjoyed by me at dinner: 1
# of whiskey sours enjoyed by me over lifetime: 1

Then we had dinner and we took turns naming popular musical artists we both would know and we did not like (me: Billy Joel, Elton John (except for rocket man and tiny dancer), Leslie Gore. Dad: Madonna, Prince (except for Kiss), David Bowie (which stung a little. He didn't even like Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders frm Mars. This is the man I call "Pops"?)).


But as tomorrow must be greeted at 7am, I am off to bed. And speaking of my love for canada, here's a site which will tell you where you should travel based on your particular needs. click on the link on the lower right that says "what's your l'atitude?"

mine are:
Russia (HELL no)
Dover, England (been there, done that- a wee bit too sedate)
Wisconsin Dells, Wisconsin (... what? ppl go to wisconsin on vacation?)
Winnipeg, Canada (I do loves me some canada)
Bonaventure Island, Quebec, Canada ( and especially the frenchie bits, tho nova scotia is also a favorite)

My ideal new vacation location is actually Copenhagen or Brussels, and my ideal revacation location is Australia or Paris or the Loire Valley in France. So the website's not that accurate, but I will give it props for the canada recommendation. I do enjoy the polite cleanliness of the far north and all their crazy semi-socialistic, elaborately-costumed-police, scallop-mispronouncing antics.



Wisconsin, though... that's just fucked up.

the Bad Thing about Blisters...

Yesterday I rubbed 4 blisters into my feet- I guess I shouldn't walk for 5 hours in my polka dot wedge sandals. So today, my outfit will be incomplete, as i must wear sneakers with the shirt that goes best with a pair of sandals. Perhaps I'll change the shirt.

Self Delusion's a Beautiful Thing

I just wrote a long post. And then I somehow magically deleted it.



In moments like this, I find it comforting to think that fate was telling me that my last post would have bored most people and really disturbed the rest. Thanks Fate!


In its place, I leave you with a list of excellent funk songs that I recently rediscovered and one cheesy romantic power ballad:*

Express Yourself by Charles Wright & the Watts 103rd St Rhythm Band
Groove Me by King Floyd (I'm always amazed this isn't a chick singing)
I'll Take You There by The Staple Sisters
Think (About It) by Lyn Collins
Rubberband Man by the Spinners (also in the fabulous Office Max commercial)
Midnight Train to Georgia by Gladys Knight & the Pips
Feel Like Makin Love by Bad Company (damn the man who addicted me to this one)
Got to Give It Up (the 11:52 version) by Marvin Gaye (my 3rd yr wake up song)
Mr. Big Stuff by Jean Knight
Love Rollercoaster by the Ohio Players (the "giant funk magnet")
You Sexy Thing by Hot Chocolate
... and a perpetual favorite, only enhanced by its connection to SportsNight (the Aaron Sorkin one)...
Boogie Shoes by K.C. and the Sunshine Band


* I'm not trying to imply that I am very original in my funk tastes, as these are all funk hits you prolly have heard. I just find that they make getting ready for work in the morning a little more enjoyable.

The Saga of Chainsmoker, Or Why I Read and Remember the Footnotes

2nd Update: Hot RA works in my building! He's in the appellate division, so we chatted about a case that was before my judge (and I helped with the opinion (research)) that the losing attorney swore she would take to the next level, which is where he's working. The law kids here seem intimidated by the stature of my law school, which amuses me. And when I tell them where I went undergrad, they are ready to get down on their knees to worship my massive brain. I feel superior for a moment, and then i remember a girl who routinely popped up in my english classes until 4th year. She had lived in my building first year and plastered her entire door with overlapping naked Abercrombie and Fitch models, and the walls of her room with ginormous blow-ups of gin bottles and the marlboro man, whose lifestyle she supported with her incessant chain smoking. Throw in someone gorging on fatted calf and coveting his neighbor's booty (inanimate & animate) and it was hedonism central. In class, she would spend the period making it clear with her eyes that she thought we were all complete nerds (i'm not disputing this fact), then in the last 10 minutes, raise her hand and make an incredibly insightful comment that would ignite the professor and embarass the rest of our paltry half-baked musings.

It wasn't until the 4th time chainsmoker did this that I realized she was reading the editor's annotation at the bottom of the page. Verbatim. When a friend of mine was puzzling over the discrepancy between chainsmoker's behavior and her grasp of meaning in literature, I pointed to the note in Dante's Inferno quoted that morning. Next class, my friend said "Chainsmoker's point is an excellent point that the editor made on page blankity blank." Our proper British professor flushed and fluttered a little, but recovered by quickly flipping to a complete different section. I couldn't even look at chainsmoker, for fear that she'd burn a cigarette hole in my arm for being cheeky.

To this day I wonder if I would have the guts to do that in class- either action, the verbal plagarism or the whistleblowing on someone who could prolly take you out without breaking an acrylic nail (unless the smoking left her winded halfway through). The first, definitely not. The second, probably not, but not because I don't have the guts, but rather I think the professor would have caught on at some point. Why make a deliberate enemy of someone devoid of conscience on something that doesn't really matter in the long run? if the class were on a curve, hell yes I'd turn her ass in.

In this little story I'm not saying that UVA kids are uniformly stupid or even that Chainsmoker was dumb. Chainsmoker was crafty, and she probably used that craftiness to get in. But she wasn't compelling, and her comments when not read out of the book were brain-numbingly inane and taken off the first lines or the introduction to the work we were reading ("Shakespeare likes to write about strong women. But he also writes about weak women." "Yup. That is a true statement, alright.")

After remembering the saga of chainsmoker, I think "Admission to and even graduation from UVA is not a sign of unending, omnipotent, supreme-being-like intelligence" and it takes me down a peg. But it is nice to be appreciated :D

Drunken Neat Freek- yeow!

hot RA was just completely blotto in the elevator. hammered, pissed, knackered, hooched up, 3 sheets, drunk as a skunk- all the above apply. he was incredibly infuriated about the salad dropped right in front of entrapment and kept saying (excuse the french- this is usually a family blog. At the same time, it is important to teach the children about the evils of censorship, so what follows is exactly what drunken RA said) "what the fuck- who the fuck does that? what the fuck were they thinking? what the fuck, yo? man, what the fuck?" (take that, opposers of the first amendment!)


between the eau d'jack daniels pouring off him and the possibility that he would finger me for the salad-dropper, i was all too glad to exit entrapment (who is the only elevator working this week). i love it when ppl are already drunk by 7:45.

Update: Hot RA seemed a little less inebriated around 9:50 when I returned. Sitting on the stoop with his cigarette, the eyes were slightly less bloodshot and the jack daniels had ceased to flood from his pores. I asked for a salad update, and he said that he cleaned it up because it was bothering him. Hot RA seems neurotic- which makes him slightly hotter.

Sidenote: a "barley sandwich" or "slurp sandwich" is when you have beer for lunch. More fun drinking terms. man, i haven't touched alcohol since the end of finals and saying that out loud makes me want to go right out and buy some wine. just so that i can be in possession of alcohol, so it's more of a choice not to drink rather than something i've forgotten to do for a month. who forgets about alcohol?

Harry Potter and the Attack of the Hideous Male Hairstyles

Jeez o Petes- aren't there any magical mirrors or magical scissors at Hogwarts? Or do they have some sort of Samson-esque enchantment on them?

Poor Hermione- all kinds of cute with nothin to look at.

What I Be Readin

I've decided I never read much non-fiction, so that's this month's assignment. Well, half of this month, as I just decided that yesterday. Don't want to go overboard or anything.

I'm reading "The Sociopath Next Door," which is a book by a psychiatrist (Martha Stout) about the 4% of the population that has absolutely no conscience at all. That's 1 out of 25 ppl. It's a little dry, but I highly recommend it. No doubt you'll recognize in it ppl you know. And just in case you missed it, that's 24 normal, guilt-fearing folks followed by one empty, soulless person devoid of human feeling for others. Murder mysteries and horror flicks are all well and good, but it's Unsolved Mysteries and non-fiction books about sociopaths, spies and serial killers which make me lock my doors and carry a 5 lb. maglite flashlight that I like to call "the Blugeoning Torch.

(Listen to an interview with the author- on the Diane Rehm show, so you must know that Diane Rehm has something wrong with her vocal chords that requires her to get botox injections in the neck every once in a while to make the talking not so laboured. this interview is obviously a long time after her last injection. she's a fabulous interviewer, tho)


Speaking of spies, I'm also reading "The Philby Files" about Kim Philby, one of the Cambridge Five. Y'know, the British guys who the KGB recruited in college (at Cambridge) to be doulbe agents for most of their lives. It's written by a Russian who had access to all the Philby KGB files and had hundreds of interviews with Philby after he hied off to Russia, so it's an interesting non-western perspective. Also? Guys named Kim? Almost as funny as guys named Stacy or Ashley. hehe i'm 12.


And because i must have some entertainment when in the oppressively hot exercise room, i'm listening to a mary higgins clark book on cd. Don't judge me- I'm allowed to rot my brain while working out.

Linkity Link

A few fun things,

Newsmap (via NationalWaterCooler)

Cityrag an NYC-ish blog

Cheese, despite calcium, can be bad for your bones.

MissDoxie super amusing blog

There really is something ludicrously wrong about Jessica Simpson

How the Wash Post Got Scooped on Its Prize Pig

An Episode in Which the Usually Generous Julie is Left Feeling Cheap and Evil

Out to lunch with my fellow interns (we discuss the plight of the minimum wage worker (they had all watched 30 days last night) and then the videos on ebaum's world/ bigboys/ collegehumor.com because talking about the oppressed always leads to talking about ) (i can be immature in a juvenile way too, y'know).

When the bill comes, we all sit there calculating our tips and waiting for the single pen to make its way around the table. I'm the first to go, so i do my usual little-over-20% (because i'm bad with the adding and like round numbers) and then everyone else proceeds to leave 25-30% tips. Granted, it was 3 other ppl, all are either bartenders or waiters on the side of the internship, but I thought 20% was still the accepted amount. Is this a NYC thing? Was it because all of our meals were only about $10? Or perhaps because everyone is from liberal wealthy suburbs/ sections of manhattan where they have money to burn and a social conscience?

Give me some feedback on this, ppl. I don't want to be gauche and inconsiderate towards those in dire straits. But our waitress was obviously on summer vacation from hs and forgot to refill our drinks, so I didn't think she needed an extra-large tip. And when is 20% a bad thing? Jeez, i know ppl who tip 15%. And super old ppl who tip 10%.

Ah, to be old and free from the pressure to be socially acceptable.

Is there a drug that makes you obtuse?

Because if so, the guy in my dorm has definitely hit that once too many times.

After the time when he kept talking for 40 minutes while I was trying to enter the girl's bathroom to take a shower (dressed in incredibly sweaty gym clothes, carrying a little shower bucket), I stopped seeing him around (maybe he was waylaying his boss or the train ticket person with his senseless stories about his incredible awesomeness) (i'm sorry, I'm gonna be mean because every minute he was talking about his theories of madonna/whore dichotomies in southern culture was another minute of acute leg cramps for me the next day).

But today, I was not so lucky.


Because while downstairs in the 1st floor lounge (the coolest place to watch tv), he comes down to get a soda and decides that I need to be talked to. Subjects of his one-way conversation (my terse response in parentheses):

• why I didn't watch tv upstairs (too hot)
• what was I watching (sex and the city)
• why would anyone watch that show on tbs when they change all the good things (silence)
• his new tattoo is so itchy and flaky, wanna see? (ok) (it was a commercial)
• what the tattoo means to him personally (silence) (no chance to respond- talk flying at me at an alarming rate)
• he has the most awesome case right now but can't talk about it because of confidentiality but if he could, i would be jealous (oh) (what was i supposed to do with that?)
  
• his girlfriend really likes his tattoo (that's great)
• other things that i tuned out ("uh-huh" "oooh" "interesting")
• diet pepsi is such a joke (silence) (how can you respond to that?)

So at that point, he decided that since I was still trying to watch tv, he would leave. But then he revealed the fact that he knew which room I lived in, and would be visiting soon "when he was bored." Lucky me.


I feel justified in my annoyance with him because after I casually mentioned knowing someone from Pace law school and described that person, he was like "o, [that person's] a little geeky, right?" Yes, sir, because with your tattoos, 1st-yr psych theories, and trunk full o' pot, you are the paragon of all that is cutting edge cool. Really, he just needs to relax. Dude reminds me of that desparate guy in your first english seminar who wants to show everyone that he is reading Derrida and Foucault and is already planning his senior interdisciplinary thesis that he will never finish.


Maybe he'll calm down in our third conversation. But the milk of human kindness is only about a pint-size for ppl who don't allow even a two way monologue to occur. let alone dialogue. and i like sex and the city even on tbs. so stop criticizing me.

Noticed...

I used a lot of italics today. I look like an intensely earnest teenage girl who just read Salinger for the first time ever.


I apologize.

This site irrationally creeps me out

It's too personal or disjointed or something. I can't define it. It's just too something.

Live Ally McBeal Baby, only much much cuter

Want to see a video of an adorable fat-cheeked baby really shakin her booty?

I wonder if her parents named her after Tallulah Bankhead... Because those are some husky-voiced shoes to fill (I'm currently reading a Bankhead biography and boy she was wild for her day)

My Tiny Woes

1. I keep misplacing the milk cap, then finding it on the floor. Since the rim has not touched the floor, it is obstensibly germ-free where it counts, but then i think that the germs got smart and found out how to crawl up and I don't know how long it's been on the floor.

(Why, yes, I am afraid of germs- how ever did you know that?)

2. today I ate the best sandwich ever but now i am worried that it contained enough fat to derail all the good hours i've been putting in on the treadmill and the current eat-healthy plan. I did walk for 4 hours steady but my body grabs fat and says "mine!" so i regret, i regret.

3. I know that there are no cases on point for the issue I'm writing about, but I can't stop thinking that maybe, just maybe, if I looked for one more hour I'd find the perfect case.


But as for #3, I'm not getting paid, so I'm going to sleep at midnight unless I want to stay up and read my book. Because 4 hours of research to end up with the same tired cases which do not address your point is totally enough when it's really discretionary anyways. that's my stance and I'm sticking to it.

Quick Post: Pete n' Pete

I'm writing a longer post about my love of the petes (I've been sucked into the DVD of the first season hard core) but while looking for the Nooooo rollercoaster YTMND for Chase, I found this one

http://artiegfm.ytmnd.com/

So so perfect :D

If you've never seen the adventures of pete and pete, specifically the day of the dot episode, you know not of what i speak. So you may disregard this post. But really, go get the dvds. best surreal kids show ever.

Conversations with my mother

My mom is currently at my apartment in Richmond and calls periodically to ask if I want certain delineated things from it. I've had 3 calls this morning. what follows is a selection of the best moments.

1st call [near the beginning]

Me: Should I go intto the city if it's gonna be storming?

Mom: I don't see why not. You should go to the Met and enjoy the art.

Me: [thinks about plans to go to the Virgin Megastore] hmm... maybe. If i make it up there...

3rd Call [halfway through the conversation]

Mom: Do you want me to bring these black strappy shoes to wear with the dress you bought for the wedding?

Me: No, I have shoes [thinking "hmmm... new shoes for wedding?]

Mom: Where did you wear these shoes?

Me: Law Prom

Mom: No, you wore those coral shoes to law prom... O, last year's law prom.

Me: Yup.

Mom: What about these cute pink shoes?

Me: [thinks about what she is talking about- remembers pair of pink shoes] Nah, I think I will wear the shoes I am wearing right now

Mom: You don't want to ruin the shoes you'd wear to the wedding in a thunderstorm.

Me: [pauses] But [thinks "why does she have to be so damned right all the time???" and changes entire outfit]

Gotta go- 4th call.

4th call [from Dad, Mum in background]

Dad: You should keep a diary while you're in NY.

Me: I'm keeping a blog

Dad: But don't put it online

Me: Tooo late [over dad's worrying] Don't worry! I don't have my last name or my specific location up so stalkers can't come kidnap me.

Dad: Well... [Mom says something in background] Remember to bring snacks into the city.

Me: Because there's no food in New York.

Dad: Just in case.

Me: I'm leaving now


I'll never get out of my room

Unexpected Beauty is the best. But not when nearly causes you to drive into oncoming traffic

Here is an imaginary conversation with the amalgamation of all the bad characteristics the NY drivers I have encountered so far. I shall call the amalgamation "Selfish Grandpappy"

Me: So what was that back there?

Selfish Grandpappy: What?

Me: The whole "left turn signal for a mile then slow to a stop for a right turn, causing all traffic behind you to stop" thing.

Selfish Grandpappy: That's just how I roll, whippersnapper.

Me: And do you realize that you were half in your lane, half in mine?

Selfish Grandpappy: What is this "your lane" you speak of? All lanes are my lanes to straddle like a easily influenced juror caught between two convincing jurors.

Me: The lane thing I can handle, but your blocking of the intersection back there- dude, two light rotations! couldn't you at least scootch over to the side a little and let the rest of us pass?

Selfish Grandpappy: [has grown tired of the conversation and drove off, squishing my toes in the process]


So to sum up: NY bad drivers are all old, selfish and ignore the presence of everyone else on the roads unless you're impeding them by traveling 10 miles over in the far right lane which for some reason really pissed off the man/minivan combo behind me who insisted on checking out what the matrix had in her back storage area. I hope he liked my picnic blanket.

But the loveliest part of my day was when I was driving up by Garrison and came suddenly on the Bear Mountain Bridge which was literally breath-taking. It's a shame I was driving- that was one moment when I wanted to climb out the sunroof and just look until my eyes burned. What I actually had to look at. A beautiful pic at a website which prolly landed me on a few FBI watch lists just for goin to. (hint: the webmaster is at crushnbugs@militiaman.com) (well, after the @ is a joke, but the graphic implies militia)(eeks!) This picture just reminds me of when Carolyn and I went to Australia and I wouldn't climb the harbour bridge with her because really folks that's just crazy talk. I like to think i'm not afraid of heights, but if the heights are in any way not initially built for human climbing and/or sturdy as all get out, I am. So if you want my secrets, put me on the top of a flagpole and shake it a little and you can know whatever you like. as long as you don't mind being told in a high-pitched hysterical voice. (o, the h word. so wrong!) Ok, time to hit the sack so i can go walk around the upper east side tomorrow. NY so rocks. Why aren't you all here? What's so compelling about where you are that you don't want to up and join me right now?

Julia, the God of Parking's Favorite Puny Human.

So today? I totally went to Ossining and parked for two hours and walked around absorbing the scenery and the street festival and all the tiny children. And when i came back to my car, I realized that a) I had forgotten to feed the meter but b) no one had ticketed me, and not because parking is free on the weekends. Parking in NY is never ever EVER free. Except for me, today, in Ossining, for a two hour period in the middle of a street fair.


So there should be about 20 onlookers who can tell you the strange tale of a tallish girl who comes wandering back to a red car, clutches at her necklace in sudden awful realization, then just as quickly breaks into a small booty-shakin celebration. And then hops in the car and hastily merges with traffic before the cops come to arrest her.


And then after that I found my way back to white plains (and not Yonkers) without the aid of a map. I'm so amazing.

Creepy Space Children don't blink.

I'm a frequent dreamer due to practice (the secret is training yourself to wake up after REM sleep (prolly about every 2-3 hours) and to review the dream immediately, decide whether it was productive and then fall back to sleep) (i don't remember how i figured out how to do this, but it makes me feel like a dream superhero- capt. dream or something). This morning I had a dream about a creepy space hotel with an indoor arboreteum where i had to choreograph the children's musical number. And here is the reason I'm writing the post.

I swear that the little song I wrote for the creepy space children was the best, most original, funniest song ever written. And yet as I remember it, it was very VERY lame. Like "nah nah nah nah we love our parents something something [musical interlude]" So why did I think this craptacular song was so incredibly fantastic that everyone would be singing it in a few months time? My theory is that dreaming is more about reaction than action. Your brain cooks up the underlying feeling you get when you, say, hear an awesome song and become convinced that this is all you will listen to for the next month, but doesn't mess around trying to write an awesome song. All the fabulous hormone-style reaction without the pesky need for appropriate stimulus. Like when you have a dream in which your friend Pete is hanging out with you, but he doesn't look like Pete, he just is Pete because you know it. *


Thus I have no interest in drugs. It's boring, and I'm sorry to dissapoint all those ppl who would love to pass along to me the fun of illicit substances, but bc of my exciting dream life i'm totally square. hurray! (and also because I could never go to my doctor and say "my blood sugar went crazy on saturday" "well, what were you doing?" "snorting coke. is that what's wrong?")

*I have no scientific basis for this theory, which is the wonderful part about being a former english major: no theoretical accountability. (some of the papers i wrote are such utter crap that I crow thinking that someone read them and thought, "Hmmm... This girl uses silly words like "slippage" and "narrative prothesis" and makes no sense. This is SO an A")

Dormania

Living in a dorm again is not without its benefits/detractions (i say both, because while i think dorm living is fine as long as you have your own room, others whom i have told i would be living in a dorm this summer said "i wouldn't wish that on my worst enemy" (which is incidently what the mother of one of my friends said when she found out i had just been diagnosed with type 1. she's a nice lady, she just didn't consider her words before she said them. Of course, the whole incident makes for an excellent story, so i thank rather than condemn her)).

Benefits:

• No utility bills
• Don't have to clean bathroom
• nice hot showers
• access to couches that are not 3/4ths of my height, therefore i can lie down on them
• ping-pong table, pool table, and any board game you could ever wish to play housed in the game room.
  
• Ability to run downstairs and knock on a door for ping-pong/movie insta-friend
  
• Unfettered relatively speedy internet access that can be on all day every day.
• only $25 a month for full time airconditioning (my vow: never ever turn off air conditioner. turn down or turn to fan only, but never turn off. it's anti-american!)

But life in the dorm is not all puppies and rainbows. Besides the slightly annoying kitchen-in-the-basement, people-know-where-i-live-and-can-come-by-at-any-time, no-toaster, shower-shoe situations, here are several problems i've run into that i had not anticipated.

1. Elevators. Yeah, i know- how the hell can elevators be a problem? Well, some inconsiderate soul threw up all over the left one (known as "pukevator") sometime within the last month and no matter how much the cleaning lady cleans, it does not stop smelling. The right elevator, knowing that it is superior to the left, likes to stop randomly and require the mashing of buttons to get it going again. I imagine it says to itself "i must pause here so that the passenger can admire my piney-freshness and compare it to that of my stinky brother." And in that we have elevators, the stairs have been relegated to the edges of the building, so if you want to be active, you must go to the end of the hall, walk up 5 flights, then walk back to the middle to your room. Anyway, this is the choice that i have made, to walk whenever i'm not carrying something huge, so that i can avoid entrapment and the pukevator. so problem somewhat solved?
2. Drippy faucet. I don't mind sharing a bathroom- every girl on the hall behaves how the stereotype predicts, and does her best not to leave anything nasty lying around the bathroom. But one lovely young dimwit loves to use the drippy faucet and then let it drip alllllll the time. Consider the facts:

• There are 8 faucets in the bathroom (and only 5 girls on the hall)
  
• The drippy faucet doesn't drip if you turn the handle all the way.
  
• There is a notice about the drought in the area up in the bathroom.
  

And yet every morning, afternoon and evening, i walk into the bathroom to find drippy faucet merrily dripping away. WHY??? I should leave a note- something like "This faucet drips- please fix" for the cleaning ladies.

1. The Gym. Inhouse gym- again, what's the problem? Well, as only 2 of the rooms in the dorm are airconditioned (unless you bought a window unit- sweet window unit), the gym is not one of them. And there's no tv, despite the fact that there is a tv on every floor and free cable/starz/hbo. And there are only two treadmills, a broken eliptical, a bike, a crappy weight machine and some impossibly heavy freeweights in the gym.And the ceiling skims my head when i'm on the treadmill, giving me a neck-crick. And it's open from 9pm to midnight. It's not a gym, it's an ersatz gym- a "gym". So you go down in 90 degree weather and try and burn your requisite 600 calories. I've taken to walk/running around the secure perimeter of the campus instead- at least outsidethere's no ceiling and you can spit freely. (tmi?)
   

That's it- otherwise i'm pretty cool. Frankly, a little complication and adversity in life gives me something to think about when i'm trying to release all the bad stuff during my yoga meditation. Otherwise i'd just have to patiently wait while the dvd lady assumes that i am thinking about my recent divorce or nasty coworkers or rocky relationship with my son. if this is all i have to complain about, i'm pretty blessed, right?

Classic

In a classic julia move, I just got blood on my white t-shirt. stupid bloody arms.


But y'know what? You ppl are just gonna have to deal with me walking around in a t-shirt that has a tiny blood stain. Because my clotting abilities are not gonna get better with practice nor am i going to check my arms every time to see if anything could potentially bleed while i'm putting on my white t-shirt. It's just too much to ask.

* what are the odds that the same song playing on my itunes shuffle on computer is the first song my ipod picks on shuffle when i turn it on? i'm really asking.

Troubling

I can't tell if what i'm eating is super-bad no-fat cheese or nicely grilled tofu.

Here's hoping tofu, because I can't imagine a world in which cheese is this uninspiring.

What was life like before the internet? certainly less amusing, prolly more active

Y'knnow, thank God for the internet, right? Because otherwise, these horrifically bad covers would be scattered, unknown to one another, each left to mold softly in the basement of an embarassed family. The internet brings so many objects together that otherwise would be unrelated, and ridicules them all with the same unflinching eye. My it is a blessed place, this internet.

Others
unfortunate b-day cards
wonderfully terrible decor

Wooooooooooooond

I'm sick, I know, but I love looking at things that make other people squeamish. In fact, the only wound of my own that I was not completely fascinated by was the gash to my foot which sent throbs of pain through my body if i even looked at it. Word to the wise: don't ever step on glass, especially not chunky glass, especially not with the instep of your foot and if that does happen, don't let someone numb it then go poking about to look for glass in it, because the combination of the needle in the muscle of your foot and the after effects of the poking will make you want to cry right there in the hallway of law school.


And there's no crying in law school.

Adventures in the North Country: Today- What is Birch Beer?

Although I have often visited NY, I've never lived north of the Mason-Dixon line until this summer. Therefore, I have little opportunity to engage in the small duties of life in the north: the pumping of gas, the dry cleaning of clothes, the shopping for groceries. The tiny quirks that would be commonplace to the average New Yorker are foreign to me, and make me laugh or behave awkwardly and probably causethe middle aged lady standing next to me believe that while I seem safe now, in a few years they will plop me in a padded room where i will laugh and be awkward to a host of imaginary woodland creatures. But I am not here to convince the middle aged ladies of upperclass new york that i am sane. As I would be failing.

Where was i? O yeah, so I'm examining the seltzer and I come across Birch Beer. And so I just had to buy some and perform a very unscientific and prolly ripped-off-of-other-blogs investigation of it.

Subject: Genus Birch Beer Species Polar Diet
Location: Soft Drinks/ Water/Other Unnatural Beverages Aisle of Super Stop n' Shop
Odd Characteristics:

• Unknown to the reviewer, but popular enough to be
  
• a) half-unstocked,
  
• b) have multiple producers (generic, Polar etc.) and
  
• c) provided in both a full calorie and diet variety (the current test will be of the diet variety, but the aspertame sweetening shall be taken into account when evaluating taste) (aspertame: the sweetner of the 90s)
  
• Has Log (presumably birch) on label (complete with leaves)
  
• Is clear (unlike its similarly arborealy-derived cousin, Root beer)

Smell (upon first uncorking) *

• Similar to root beer, with a strong aftersmell of aspertame
• Or perhaps sassafras **
• Rather like the reviewer's favorite root beer lip gloss in 8th grade: definitely not the real thing, but the only thing like it you could get away with smearing on your lips in the desparate attempt to be cool and hang out with the right bitches. Actually, strike all that after "but" as it does not relate to the birch beer, but instead a misspent mid-youth.
  

Taste

• First sip: Like low-grade diet root beer: slightly sweet in a cloying way, with a passing resemblance to actual root beer (or birch beer in this case) like the way tom cruise's love for katie holmes bears a passing resemblance to real affection and desire.
  
• possible reasons: it is diet, and aspertame is a piss-poor sugar substitute.
  
• Second sip: Actually, more resemblance than TomKat. Don't want to be unfair to the birch beer.
  
• Fifth sip: More pleasing than first or second sip. Two hypotheses as to why:
  
• The carbonation may be inversely proportional to the pleasantness of the flavor. like with diet coke, which tastes like fizzy crap if the reviewer doesn't let it breathe a little.
  
• The reviewer has grown accustomed to the taste, like coffee, cigarettes and arsenic, which the reviewer hears can be quite pleasant after sustained ingestion. Like the reviewer's love affair with the aforementioned diet coke, which the reviewer called "malted battery acid" when she precociously sipped it at age 10.
  

Overall Rating: Ok. Not to be sought out specifcally and purchased again (unless the reviewer wishes to try another brand or undertake the Root/Sassafras/Birch test), but will do in a thirst clinch.

Recommendation to Polar (makers of diet birch beer):

• Log ≠ tasty soft drink in reviewer's mind. Try not having a picture: do you see Coke having any pictures on their cans besides a jolly fat man at christmas? Which, now that the reviewer thinks about it, makes the review go "eww"
• The reviewer is of the opinion that no one cares how long your soda has been on the market. And the reviewer highly doubts that Polar was producing "Diet Birch Beer" with aspertame in 1882.
  
• Don't cheap out- use Splenda.
  

*I would say unscrewing as that is technically accurate, but that word has connotations that would cause the average reader to giggle like a school child watching billy madison
**(reviewer considers buying sassafras and root beer, but is lazy and already in pajamas, so delivers the blow of laziness to the body of truth. as it is a blow of laziness, the body of truth just says "ow, quit it" without sustaining actual injury)


right now, i feel like i'm living in the best of all possible worlds if said possible worlds all did not have airconditioning. It's been a good day.

Zoinks! Yonkers!

Despite the fact that it sounds like the surrounding town of Clown College, there's lots of felonious crime in Yonkers. I must stop giggling in court whenever they say it.

Mr. Ryan would also tell stories about his wife, "the dragon" and his tattoo. All of which makes him sound cooler than he was.

My pants are kittenish.


This morning I woke up in a hot sweat, which is a cold sweat if you don't have air conditioning and always get really really hot right before you wake up. Seriously, the little temp gauge on my alarmclock (which always somehow ends up jumping from my nightstand to right where my neck meets my pillow (but the alarmclock is contoured, so it just snugs right in)) said 98 this morning. You could almost fry an egg on my neck!


{explanation of last statement: at the start of "summer" every year when i was a little australian, they would take us out to the jungle gym and line us up, and then the headmaster Mr. Ryan would crack an egg on the rim of the slide and drop it right where the slide levels off, and it would immediately begin to pop and sizzle. Then Mr. Ryan, like the brain-on-drugs/egg commercials of the americas, would pause for dramatic effect, and say "Do you want the skin scorched off your bum? Then stay off the slide until May" So to me, the fry-an-egg test is the line in the sand of hotness. Like in 20 questions when ppl ask "is it bigger/smaller than a breadbox?" (aka the breadbox divider). /end explanation}

Re: My Accent

I do too have an accent- it's called the "I'm not from New York so I don't sound like all of you" accent and it makes me sound southern because they can't place me in one of the five boroughs or surrounding states. So they say "you're not from here [I agree] where are you at school [richmond] oooo you have a southern accent" even tho i don't say y'all everybody and have no intentions of marrying any of my cousins.


As a former little-kid-who-moved, I can tell you that when I was in Australia, I was the American kid and when I came back here, I was the Australian kid. So you just end up being the proverbial fish out of his proverbial water wherever you are if you don't stay in the same place all your life. Or unless you found an island nation of your own and then you can be a native Julitopian and force everyone to lisp or say "awesome" every three sentences or it's head-in-the-stocks time. Julitopia would use the all-mighty force of public ridicule for minorish offenses. It's the Julitopian way.

The Gods of Rain Hath Smote My Sorry Ass...

... It only rained on my walk home from work. Started the moment I stepped outside, stopped the moment I got to my room. I'm not sayin it's a conspiracy because that would be crazy.... or would it?


Today in ct (during a 10 minute get-it-together recess) I was making a list of all the cds i want, and while usually I keep it down to 2-3, now it's up to 7. Then I came home and was just tooling about the internets and found that I really want some Sigur Ros as well. Remember this?


Thoughts in court today:

~Child exploiters are the lowest of the low. (the one on trial right now is not necessarily guilty of the current charge against him, but has been in prison before for such offenses, and it just creeps me out. Especially since he doesn't seem at all subdued or respectful of the judge or anything. It's court, dude! Stop guffawing/smirking/snorting/looking like you need some ritalin- you're not ingratiating yourself to anyone)

~It must be nice to be well-connected in the legal community. The judge hugged the other legal intern today because he knows and loves (platonically) her (lawyer/judge) father. But then again, I had a UVA connection with the prosecutor, who then asked me whether it was strictly necessary to ever live off campus (which made me inwardly cringe- grounds, people!) and so I guess going to a huge and impressive undergrad is kinda like having a legal parent. Except I had to work for it.

(hee! that made me laugh too)

~ Southern NY is just like NoVa. Everyone knows everyone from grade school, and you can tell what section someone is from just based on what they're wearing and their level of obnoxiousness. And the level of obnoxiousness starts at medium high and goes to John Stossel.

- The mullet can be an extremely italian-looking hair style, as long as the hair is thick, curly and black/gray. That mullet should be differently named to reflect its culture of origin- mulletto?

~ In that vein, I'm officially "the Southern Chick" and therefore representing us all from down South. So it's pretty much me, Deliverance and Jimmy Carter. Yeeehaw!



A lil more Sigur Ros with some crazy violin action at the end. I miss mon petit chou :(

New York has crap drivers too

Yesterday when I was driving around, I was stuck at the same light for two rotations because some idiots trying to get to the Westchester County Center had blocked the road in their urge to turn left. Seriously, what has ever happened at a County Center that you must block traffic to attend?


That said, the County Center looks like a modernized fortress. Sounds cool, but in execution, totally lame. It makes me think of Camelot (the musical) and I hate that musical.

More Stripes- All Time Sensitive-like! As Mos Def would say, do it now!

Stream the new album if you're not a naughty boy/girl. The Julie particularly enjoys "My Doorbell" - it's jerrr-magical :D

(updated link 6/6- go now! buy tomorrow!)

Is sugar and spice the only thing that you made of?

All up in "The New Danger" right now. This tells you why I love me some Mos Def- so smart, so contemplative > so hot. That's the one celebrity I wish I could see in NYC this summer- I wonder if he's tall...


On a related note, women who are 5'5" are tall in Hawaii, according to Stephanie (Hawaiian chick who lives in my dorm). Remind me not to move to Hawaii, as I feel like enough of a giantess as is. (@ least i'm shorter than 6')

Like Wu Tang, Roald Dahl is for the children. Or is he?

When i was little, I always thought that the Roald Dahl who wrote Charlie & the Chocolate Factory was different than the Roald Dahl who wrote Matilda, The Witches, Danny the Champion of the World (my favorite) etc. Like there could be two children's authors running around named Roald Dahl.


Also, i always thought it was completely scary when charlie had found the golden ticket and he had to get from the shop to home without anyone mugging him or stomplling him in a crowd or somehow depriving him of his golden ticket and/or life. I figured that until that point, he had never had something to lose, and to go from nothing to everything in like one minute is pretty bewildering and he had no one to protect him on the way home. As a well-protected child, the concept of being completely unprotected and relying on the kindness of strangers was very unpleasant to me.

Speaking of pretty frightening, you should read some of RD's novels for adults. Like Kiss Kiss and Switch Bitch. When I was younger and had read all of the children's RD, I moved onto the adult RD and it wasn't until I had frightened the bejeesus out of myself with Kiss Kiss that I stopped, and went back to more childish reading. There's one story about a woman who ... well, i'll let you read it, but suffice it to say, I think a little bit of my trusting side was permanently killed by that story.


that said, I think tim burton is the perfect person to adapt a RD book, as they always have a slimy crawling dark side to his books but eventually everything turns out for the best. i love this trailer.

Notes from All Over

Amusing email from Vicky:

Keith has been mowing lawns and I just keep on buying things for the wedding and charging them to my parents. I call it pork barelling when I tack on stuff that has nothing to do with the wedding and charge for it anyway...

I love it when we use our excessive education to define our activities.

Dumpling Update

As my body is an odd beast, I'm now craving another dumpling. Luckily, I have no idea where there's any chinese food around here and I'm far too lazy to find out, so screw you tastebuds.


For all you fans of meaningless quizzes. It could mean that you have too much brain power devoted to advertising, but that's too depressing for me to contemplate.

Pustolking Around with the (other) Tourists

i think there needs to be a new word for walking in nyc. Maybe something that combines pushing, stopping and walking. pustolking?

Places visited today:
~Soho (where i purchased some hair product that I had recently run out of and can only find at Ricky's) (where i could also buy a fashionable wig, if i choose to have a sex change and become a drag queen. Or some expensive flipflops. I wonder how they chose to put those particular products together)
~China Town (land of the seven thousand dumplings, or at least that's what it felt like when we ordered 4 dim sum dishes and ended up with 18 dumplings and 2 bowls of wonton soup) (needless to say, some dumplings stayed in chinatown, bc after consuming about 7 dumplings, you start to get the dumpling sweats and that's just not right) (it will definitely be like a month before i need another dumpling) (I also bought a brocade purse bc i'm a complete brocade purse sucker and my last one just fell apart (I give each of them about 2 years of purse duty then put them out to purse pasture))
~Little Italy (where we ran into a street fair- most of the vendors were pretty agressive, but one of the men selling sausage was like "Huminahuminahuminaigotwhatyouwantitakecareofyou youwantasausageprettyladyhuminahumina" Needless to say we walked by a couple of times just to hear the patter. And there was so much funnel cake running around. But as fried dough no longer turns me on, and I had just been reveling in Dumplingfest2k5, I was quite immune to the funnel cake. Hooray!)
~Union Square (nothing to report, just that I went there and it was boring. Boring for New York, which is intensely fascinating for Richmond, so it was not a walk wasted).

I've said it before and I'll say it again: Subways are naaaaaasty. Not the train itself, which keeps quite clean looking (dont' tell me if it isn't because I don't want to have to walk everywhere), but the platform and the tracks- ick! It's coated in this powdery dirt which must be pulverized rat poop and dried-up tuberculosis flakes and just ewww and I just need to not think about it except when i get home and blow my nose and the tissue is suddenly all black and I just feel like retching.

It is a testimony to how much I love the city that I'm willing to put up with that level of ick. Because really, even writing about it is making me want to go bleach all parts of my skin that were exposed to the open air. Bleach is fabulous stuff. Or as my dad and I like to call it, El Dios Blanco is fabulous stuff.


Also? I want this skirt. So orangey-red, so sexy. So not work appropriate and therefore so currently unjustifiable. O the pain of living on borrowed money.

When she sits around the house, she sits around the house

My all time favorite "yo mama" joke is "Yo mama's so fat she sat on a quarter and a booger popped out of George Washington's nose" although "Yo mama's so fat you have to take 2 trains and a cross-town bus to get on her good side" is also excellent material. More conceptual, that last one, blurring the lines between reality and a figure of speech.

I think i just killed it. Here's a vintage YMJ from the 80's: "Yo mama's so fat that when she puts on BVDs they spell Boulevard."

Yo mama for the new generation

There's a difference between loving the 'hoff and scaring the 'hoff. Don't scare the 'hoff.

You know that I love the Hoff, but sometimes people go too far. I think a good way to gauge your behavior is if your love of hoff would land you in a mental institution, you've crossed that line.

Poor Hoff. He doesn't mean to be so exciting. Can't a man just possess miles of chesthair in peace?