The World According to EDW

My birthday month is drawing to a close, and what a month it's been. Thanks for skimming through the endless recitation of my social life with accompanying pictures. I'll try to be less tedious in the weeks to follow, but while I'm at it, here's the round-up of my month, prizes awarded!

Worst Birthday Card: I'd post a picture, but Richelle made me throw it away. Here's what it looked like, and this is a direct quote: "Like someone shit into a bag and stuck a stamp on it." And after I stopped choking with laughter, I agreed. That's exactly what it looked like.

Best Birthday Card:
From Richelle, of course

Most Needlessly Indulgent Present:
Crane notecards, from D. and E.

Most Whimsical Present:
It holds your cell phone! And it's a shoe! From Molly.

Most Flat-Out Surprise Kickass Present: Two Wonder Woman comics, a mix CD with liner notes, and two other CD's, from my adorable friend C.

Best Planned Birthday Night Out:
Pub 13, planned by my darling friend Michelle.

Most Supportive Talking Me Off a Ledge Birthday Call: Molly, who also called during dinner as part of a pre-arranged check-in in case I needed to vent.

Best Birthday Sport: Jodi, who rearranged her life to go out to dinner with me, and then did a re-do with me two days later.

Best Belated Birthday Gift: A purse, from Nick, late but presented with much pomp.

Most Blog-Appropriate Card:

Appetizer
What is your favorite herb or spice?
Garlic!

Soup
Name a song you like but haven't heard in a long time.
"And We Danced" by the Hooters

Salad
If you were to take just one minute to write down as many things as you can think of that you need (not want) to do, approximately how many things would there be?
About 20.

Main Course
Tell something interesting about one of your family members (nothing scandalous, please, just something unique).
My uncle is an amazing musician. He's taught himself so many instruments. He learned sax by watching sax players play.

Dessert
What's the latest you've ever stayed awake?
All night, baby! Until the sun came up.

A few years ago Jodi and I were discussing what we liked in men. Disclaimer: We were married, at the time, as we are now. So it was purely specultative, as this post is. End disclaimer. We discovered, over the course of the conversation and our friendship, that we both like the same distinctive yet unusual type. We call it hockey players gone soft.

Now perhaps you are misinformed about sports, and you had a hard time following the puck during the Rangers games in June of 1994. Not that I was watching them, or anything. Not that I ordered take-out so as not to leave. But still. Let's say that an image does not immediately spring to mind for you.

This type of guy is big. He has some extra pounds on him. One of my steadfast rules of life is that dating men who weigh less than me is a recipe for heartbreak. (Although I'd like to note it works out for some. Just not me.) I am not a skinny girl, and frankly, while I appreciate a fine speciman of man as well as the next movie-goer, in real life, I prefer my men with a little extra weight on them.

If I was internet dating, I would never ever answer ads from guys who said "working out" or "going to the gym" were their hobbies. How about listening to music, drinking, reading books? More my speed. Before you get all "we're fat and we need to exercise as a nation" on me, let me say, working out is fine. Exercise is fine. I actaully like to exercise, mostly because I watch Buffy DVD's and walk on my treadmill, and after that I'm so pumped up I'm willing to do my other exercises. But talking about exercise is boring. Did you fall asleep for those last sentences?

So, guys can certainly exercise for their own well being, but I'm not into the gym guys. I'm into men that eat. I don't trust men who don't eat, or worse, order salads as a main course. Sorry, they have every right to do so, and I also like eating healthy. But when you go out and order a burger and they get a salad? Time to head for the door.

I like dark haired guys. Jodi prefers the blonds. Tallish - I'm fairly tall, and both of us love guys 6 foot and over. Once again, bigger than me.

Here's some celebrities that fall into our category of hockey players gone soft: Adam Duritz. The lead singer from Smashmouth. Ed Robertson from Barenaked Ladies. It's hard to find famous examples of these guys, because it's a type you see in real life, not on screens. A big bear of a guy, as Jodi puts it. Lots of bouncers in this category, too. Some bartenders. You could also call it football players gone soft, but I just flat-out prefer hockey.

A weird quirk, I know, but there's as many types as there are people. Next time I'll write more about personality, because this is just about looks. Then you can hear all about my preference for funny and smart guys. And my former preference for "deep" guys.

And, yes, Adam's hair is silly. He'd look so much better with it shaved off.

I have a hole in my eye. My first thought is, They're going to have to drug me up pretty good if they need to do surgery. My second thought is, St. Lucy.

I am a Catholic girl, born and bred. 16 years of Catholic school gave me the slight edge I needed to get my first job out of college. (It's totally lawsuit worthy. But in a funny way.) That job gave me one of the prizes of my book collection, an original Butler's Lives of the Saints.

Armed with this and the aforementioned lifetime of Catholic education, I am your go-to girl for saints. We don't know much about St. Lucy, except that she stood up for her faith despite persecution and eventual death. There's lots of stories, legends, but we don't know the truth. We don't know if it's true that she was tortured, her eyes ripped out, and then her sight restored by God. But she remains the patron saint of the blind, and those with eye problems.

I know non-Catholics don't understand this devotion to saints. It's kind of like this: My friend has a happy marriage, and I bounce some of my current marriage struggles off her. And then, since we are both people of faith, I ask her to pray for me. I ask her because she's my friend, because I know she believes, and because she has been through this. That's why we Catholics "pray" to the saints - we are asking for their prayers and help. That's why we do the same with our family in heaven. We're not praying to Grandma. We're asking her to pray for us. There's even a prayer that goes along these lines: "pray for us as you did when you were on earth".

This may be the last time I write about Catholicism, because while it's a big part of my life, it's not a big part of this blog. But ask my friends, and they'll describe me as "religious" right next to "foul-mouthed". In fact, I think that's exactly how Stephanie described me once, which is why I always tell people she once ate puffin.

But back to the hole in my eye. I went in for a simple, standard eye dilation, which is something they do every few years to contact lens wearers. It turns out I've got a hole in my retina. Which means that I get to go to a specialist and have them do some cool Clockwork Orange thing to my eyelid and see if my hole is a good hole, or a bad hole. For a bad hole I get to have surgery. If it's a good hole I get to go on without any. In the meantime I can't do any heavy lifting in case it bursts...that was reassuring to hear. Made me feel so much better. I think in any event I may need a good dose of Valium to get through the appointment. Now, that could be fun! Maybe I'll blog all doped up! Woo-Whee!!!

It finally happened. I have found my husband's ex-girlfriend's blog.

Don't ask me for the address. I'm not going to give it to you. It's wrong enough as it is, wrong that I have found it and am reading it. I'm not going to make it all worse by giving it to you and possibly alerting her to the fact that I have it. Wait. Maybe I'll give it to one of you, and you can check it for me and tell me what's happening! Bingo! Then I'll never get caught.

I bear this woman no ill will. No, really, I don't. But she, I fear, may bear me a little ill will. See, we were friends, her and I. She was the one who burst into tears when I told her my mom had cancer. They dated in high school, let me repeat high school. They did the break up thing during college. They stayed good friends, so I got to hear every detail of Nick's college life, because she'd talk to him during the week and call me on Sunday nights. We made fun of his new girlfriends together.

And then Nick and I met, for the millionth time, at her college graduation party. Eventually we started dating, months later. She was going through a very bad time in her life, and it was a bit too much for her. She ended our friendship, and hers and Nick's, and we haven't seen or heard from her since, except for one time we ran into each other in NYC. She was with the man who became her husband, and she seemed happy. We didn't speak. Maybe we should have, but we didn't. Nick was haughty. I was afraid.

Did I feel guilty? Of course. But Nick wasn't her guy. She had her shot with him, and she didn't want him. To be honest, she treated him horribly. Still, I knew that my romance with Nick was far more important than our friendship, and I made my choice. She made hers.

For over a year I've known about her flickr account. Nick stumbled across it looking for something else entirely. I check it every now and then, and today she had a link to her blog. I couldn't help myself. She was my friend, and I wish her well. I'm fascinated by how her life has turned out. I assume she still hates me, and I don't post comments or leave a trail. I don't join flickr groups she is in. I try to leave alone the little space on the internet that she has carved out.

But now I know she has a blog. And I know that she has a site meter. And I know she checks it. So I guess the only mature thing to do is to lose the address. Forget about checking her flickr, even. Move on.

Could you do this? Would you do this?

A few years ago, Michelle called me in the midst of her Birthday Disaster of 2004. I was out to lunch with a friend, but of course I took the call. After talking to Michelle, I returned to the table, apologized, and started to fill my dining companion in on the situation. As I was describing it, I found myself talking about and then making excuses for Michelle's then-boyfriend. My lunchmate shook her head. "You are so naive" she said. "It's so obvious that no one has ever really, truly fucked you over. Now, don't get me wrong, that's a good thing. It's nice you see the best in people. But you know what I see when you tell me the little you've just told me about this guy?" and she proceeded to predict everything that was going to happen for the rest of Michelle's relationship with her now-ex-boyfriend.

I was stunned. Had I been that clueless, I wondered? Was what she was saying true? Did I overlook all the signs that this man was not, and was never going to be, right for my friend? Sure, he did some dumb things on a significant day. It was thoughtless. But I couldn't quite mesh the image laid before me with the guy that had been dating my girlfriend for past five years.

That day, my dining companion was right about many things. I didn't know how right until over a year later. But the one thing she was most right about was me. I tend to think the best of people, and am surprised when their other side is shown. In particular, I'm a significant other lover.

Got a boyfriend? Husband? Girlfriend or wife? I'm going to like them. Almost a guarantee, if I like you, I'll like your true love, too. This hasn't always been the case. I've hated plenty of my girlfriends' boyfriends, especially the crazy, abusive,diary-reading ones. I thought lots of women who dated my guy friends were silly or stupid. (Nothing sets me off like smart guys dating fawning idiot girls. Except smart women doing the same.) Since we have all been, more or less, in adulthood, I've found myself liking the husbands I meet, the guys brought home for family approval, the girls trying to be my friend. I want to like the one you love.

When I was talking to Michelle on Thursday night, I told her that if she loved Tom, so would I. We are a rough crowd, we two college friends. We ask questions. We hand out applications. We size up. I don't think a thing of it, because I live my life that way and I forget, to the point of being shocked, that not everyone's mom plays 20 Questions with everyone they meet. (I'm not kidding- if you think I'm bad, you've not seen anything until you've had dinner with my mom.) Friends are forever telling me that their new squeeze is shy, like that's going to stop me. Hah! And you know what? They never are shy, it's just to try to get me to behave like a normal person. But, see, I'm never going to do that, so isn't it better they get used to me right away? I don't understand the concept of reserved. No, really, I don't. Ask Molly. No, don't ask her, she doesn't want to be asked, I'm the one who wants to be asked. But trust me, she's rolling her eyes as she reads this. Subtle, I'm not.

And in the end, does it matter if I like your guy or girl? Sure, it makes everything easier when everyone gets along. But it doesn't matter. What matters is that you love them. That with them you are never afraid to be yourself. That in their eyes, you are the most wondrous creature on the planet. That's what I want to see when I meet the one you love. I want to know that they see all the great things about you and that they are going to treat you right.

I think it gives you a boost, though, when your friends like your man. It validates your choice, just a little. It makes you feel like you're on the right track, and this one is going to work out, this is going to be okay. This is meant to be.

My friend Michelle is, like me, a pragmatist. We are not swoony in relationships. We sort of hold it together. And she's not going to read this blog, because she is far too busy and she doesn't have real internet access at home (please get high-speed, I beg of you). But her boyfriend Tom is going to read this, because he's the kind of guy who does what he says he's going to do. He's the kind of guy, I have decided, after spending limited time in his company and some of that time involving booze and Trivial Pursuit, you can count on. I probably would have fudged the truth a little. I would have said Tom seemed very nice even if I didn't much care for him. But I didn't have to. The truth is, I like him. I like him very much. I like him for my friend. I approve. And it doesn't hurt that he brings home chocolate, likes to drink, plays Trivial Pursuit, and has mastered the task of taking the same exact picture three times, with three different cameras.

I've got a lot of stories about this weekend, and maybe I'll write about some of them. But this is the story that mattered.

Appetizer
Measured in minutes or hours, how much exercise have you had in the last week?
Oh, how should I know? I'm uncharacteristically skipping this one.

Soup
If you had to change your blog title to something else, what would it be?
Good question! The World According to (My Real Name) maybe. Please, I barely have a name as it is, I can't come up with another one! Or- how about a song lyric? That would be very me.

Salad
Name one television show you watched when you were 9-12 years old.
Golden Girls. I used to call my friend Julianna up when the music came on and we watched over the phone together while our parents were out on Saturday nights.

Main Course
If someone gave you $50 to spend with the one condition that it had to be educational, what would you purchase?
Some new books for my kid.

Dessert
Do you tend to prefer dark colors, neutral shades, or lighter/pastel hues?
Dark colors.

Tomorrow, Molly and I leave for Detroit to visit our college friend Michelle. This is how we met.

People thought we were twins, or at the very least, the same person. They couldn't tell us apart, which is laughable. If you look at a picture of us, from then or now, you'll see that we look different. Molly is tall and strawberry blond, and has the body of her mom, a former beauty queen. I am tall, but not model-tall, with red hair and the body of a Polish peasant. We both have freckles, but that's about it.

We were also roommates and had many of the same classes, and that just added to the confusion. Oh, and did I mention they screwed up our ID's, and her picture was on mine, and mine on hers? But back to Michelle.

Michelle was in our creative writing class, and in Molly's statistics class. During both classes, Michelle wrote letters to her friends back home. She did it blatantly, but not rudely. She answered and participated when discussion happened, but still managed to write quite a few letters.

Somehow we ended up in Michelle's room on Saturday night of Parent's Weekend, watching Rain Man, while she and her sister fell asleep. We didn't know what to do. Did we leave? Stay? All we knew about this girl was that she wrote letters in class instead of sitting up straight and putting on her listening face, like we did. We were good girls. We never, ever wrote letters in class. We didn't have the gumption to even consider it.

Eventually, we tiptoed out, and closed the door quietly. We had no previous intention of being friends with her, the letter-writer. But somehow it happened, aided by the late-night movie, and Molly’s need for a tutor in statistics. Later, we learned that Michelle was super smart, and could pretty much breeze through any class she took. Years later, we would quiz her with flash cards and she would repeat them verbatim back to us. Almost immediately, we found out she was possibly the most organized, active, and fun person we had met at college.

I look back on that night and wonder what made her invite us to her room. What made her reach out to this club of two? I know what made us friends; her fun, her warmth, our similar interests. I know what keeps us friends; years of history, total trust, and fun, of course fun. Now when I see her I’m so glad we became friends. I think about the memories we have, how she was always up for an adventure, how she propelled me to do things, how we led and followed for years. I remember the Valentine’s Day we were both single and she planned a surprise tour of the SNL set for me. I think about how I can tell her anything at all, how she liked my husband from the first time she met him, how she always calls me on my birthday.

But a friendship is more than a list of things. A friendship is what happens when you’re together, what words don’t even need to be said, what words you can always count on hearing. A friendship is knowing that time and distance can’t separate you, that memories are not in the past, but continuously being made. A friendship with someone who has known you since you were 18 years old, through every heartbreak and love, every good time and bad, is a gift.

And even more, I've got two of these friends. Two of them with me, this weekend. Happy Birthday, indeed.

I did end up making a birthday mix. I've still got Cracker on the playlist. It's a good song. And I'm sort of having a panic on the Detroit mix, and the packing for Detroit...and let's call it a general panic, shall we? General panic going on.

Thank you for all your good wishes on my birthday. Here's how it went: towards the end of the night, my mom looked at me and said "Well, it's already a disaster" and then we laughed and drank more champagne. Unmitigated disaster, folks. And this is where birthday month comes in handy - it's just one day in a month of many, many days. Today was great. I met Eileen for lunch, got a fun email from a new friend, had some premium dark chocolate with mint. Hung out with the kids, Jackie and Andrew's kids, who always make me feel better. And...my child seems to know how to play pretend by herself. Wow. I feel so proud that I ignored her and watched Gilmore Girls reruns and let her develop that skill. I'm giving myself a parenting pat on the back for that.

Remember my friend Stephanie? The one who is moving to Austin? Well, she has a blog, and you should go read it. She's writing these really lovely posts. So go read it and comment, okay?

I've got to be honest and tell you how excited I am for the new TV season. I love TV. Tonight is the 2 hour premiere of America's Next Top Model (ANTM) and I could not be happier. This may be the perfect reality show - pretty girls, drama, a meaningless contest, and no bugs. Next week is the premiere of Gilmore Girls and I may have to write an entire post on that. I really like TV.

I know this is a really boring post. Tomorrow I'll have a story for you, but tonight this is all I've got. My laptop, my music, and my dark chocolate. But tonight, that's enough.

The push and pull. Do you know it? I love you, I hate you, I love you, I hate you. This relationship is defined best by Brenda and Dylan of 90210. I remember the first time I saw one of the old episodes, post-college, and post those relationships. There, on the TV, was some of the high drama of my teenage years. Finally, the shoe fell and I realized that all of us have some drama in our lives.

I'm not the drama queen I was at 15 or 16 or even 19 or 20. I'm, thankfully, older and wiser. I'm not interested in those dramatic fights where we reaffirm our devotion and adoration for one another. I'm more into the disagreements that get solved, quietly, with a press of his hand on mine.

There are so many moments I'm not proud of, so many men walking around with this image of a firecracker that flew off the handle with the same intensity that she loved with. That person is still there, but without the raging immaturity or insecurity that accompanied all of those storms. And that makes all the difference in who I am.

Once, years ago, a very good friend put this song on a mix tape for me, "Call and Answer" by the Barenaked Ladies. This was a friend who put up with quite a bit, who I hurt terribly and who forgave me lavishly, who decided to love me despite myself. I still wonder why my friend forgave me, and I still would like to thank them for it, again and again, because my heart was breaking without them in my life.

Now I have someone in my life courting a disaster, trying the push and pull, not seeing that sometimes people walk away when you push too hard. They walk away and they don't come back, because, frankly, who needs it at this point in life?

I want to say, stop. Just stop the push and pull. Be yourself, and be loved for who you are. We are too old for this, and time is wasting. Be happy. Let yourself be loved.

On the playlist today, "Happy Birthday" by Cracker.

I thought about making a mix to listen to today. I threw a bunch of songs I like onto a playlist, but it didn't gel. So instead I'm going to play whatever I like today. I'm hoping some new CD's come my way. :)

Besides being my birthday, today is also International Talk Like a Pirate Day. I feel like I need to throw it out there to ward off the inevitable jokes and emails that I'll get for my birthday. So, um, Yaaaarrrrr. Avast! Ahoy! Now there's no need to send me an email written entirely in pirate speak.

Have you noticed how hot pirates have become? I can't imagine that the marketing machine of Disney, which created a movie based on a theme park ride, could have actually kick-started this current craze of pirates. But never underestimate the Mouse, I've learned. When we were in Disney, there were untold amounts of adults and children walking around with pirate mouse ears. Adults walking around with silly hats in Disney is a phenomena all it's own, but the pirate themed hats really kicked up the crazy notch.

We have a saying we use quite a bit in my office - all stocked up on crazy here. I think the same could safely be said for Disney World.

I'm not sure yet what I'm going to do today. I have the day off, so it's between the beach and apple picking. (What two activities could possibly be more exhausting with a toddler? ) I'm wearing my Hey Nineteen shirt because it's the 19th. (Think anyone will get it besides me? Not likely.) I'm going to be taking lots of pictures, too. So I'll see you later. Off to be self-indulgent now!

I did my shoes proud.


I'm not sure what my favorite part of a wedding is: The food? The drinks? The inevitable tearing up at the ceremony? Friends and family gathered and ready to have a good time? Dancing? Tough call, but it might be the dancing.

When I walked into the rehearsal dinner (after hours of traffic due to the rain) everyone told me how nice I looked. Isn't that the best feeling?

That's Elizabeth with me.

Saturday, as we were waiting for our ride to the reception, a teenage girl came over and told me how much she loved my shoes and dress. It was absolutely the sweetest thing, a moment rivaled only by the female altar server at my wedding who waited in the receiving line to tell me I looked beautiful. Have you ever been nice to a stranger like that? I have, and now I know how much it makes their day. And there is something very sweet about a kid admiring your look, very genuine.

Both dresses worked really well, and the black shoes left no lasting damage. I would not recommend walking in them, but they were fine for dancing and sitting and eating and thankfully, I had flip flops stashed in the car, waiting for me to wear them to the after party. All the best nights have after parties!

My favorite picture of me from Saturday night:

I think this is exactly what i look like, the pretty version with makeup on. That's my sister-in-law with me.

I discovered a very cool rule of weddings: last one in the family drives. This meant Nick and I were driven to the reception by Scott, the groom who got ready for his big day at my house in April. I'm particularly fond of Scott as it is, and it was really lovely to be able to have both of us able to drink and dance and not even think about getting home.

I am a horrible drunk dialer, and would like to publicly proclaim my adoration for Rob and Richelle again. I generally do not take my cell phone with me for this exact reason, and you might want to think twice about ever giving me your number. I'm bound to drunk dial you at least once. And possibly pass the phone to Nick, so he can drunk dial you by proxy.

If you want to see the rest of the pictures, go to the set on Flickr. They are in chronological order. You may notice that they stop after the wedding ends. I was a smart girl and kept my camera tucked away for the late night festivities.

So one more day of being 31. Then I can truly, completely embrace 32 is the new 19. Thanks to Emily for coining my new catchphrase to explain my behavior!

I'm currently at work on two mixes - one for this weekend, let's call it a Survival Mix and one for next weekend, let's call it the Detroit Mix. Suggestions for the Detroit Mix welcome.

Did you know the state song of Connecticut is "Yankee Doodle Dandy"? Did you know a resident of Connecticut is called a Connecticuter? You can also call them Nutmeggers, it's the Nutmeg State. I like to call them Connecticutensians. It's funnier. It sounds like Lilliputians.

I like this state, but I don't get it. I can't understand the geography for the life of me. I know New Haven and some of its surrounding towns. I know the towns around Hartford, vaguely. We have friends outside of New Haven (Hamden) and one of them hails from Rocky Mount. I know where Madison is, for sad reasons, and Mystic for happy ones, and some of the other shore towns. But throw in Danbury and New Canaan and I start to throw my hands up and beg for mercy.

We are staying at what I hope is a nice hotel. I love a nice hotel. It's called the Ethan Allen Hotel and it's furnished with Ethan Allen furniture. What a gimmick, eh? I almost don't want to get my hopes up about its niceness, in case it's just nice and not super nice or pretty pretty. Apparently it's going to rain the entire weekend, which is fine for me and my hair and awful for the bride. This weekend is always nice here in NJ, it's practically a guarantee, and my friend Jodi and I like to tell brides how beautiful this weekend is. Well, we're big fat liars. I hope we didn't tell this lie to the bride; if so, we're in for it.

One of the things I like about Connecticut is how crunchy it is. They're all bio-diesel and compost pile and outdoorsy. (Or maybe that's just our friend Chris.) There's also a fair bit of urban decay, and I love urban decay. There's a good mix of pretty and city. I like how there's places that are the middle of nowhere in CT. I like the beaches. I think the casinos are hysterically funny on many levels. My only complainant is that it is always a few degrees colder than at home. I swear this is true. I always have to borrow a sweater when we visit our Hamden friends.

So i must remember this as I pack, to pretend it's October and not still summer (it's technically still summer, and in my heart it's summer). But in Connecticut, it's fall.

And you know something? I am terrible at being vague. Really terrible. If certain people find this blog, everything I wrote is going to be obvious. It's obvious to people who don't even know the situation. And thank God I don't have stalkers, because I practically draw you a map to my house and constantly update you on my location. Anyway.

Wish me luck. Have a good weekend. See you Monday, I'm off to CT!

Appetizer
What was the very last song you listened to?
"Wave of Mutilation" by the Pixies. Not as bad as it sounds. Very rockin'.

Soup
What is one company/store/corporation you would recommend that people stay away from?
Walmart. It's simplistic to say they are evil, but the truth is that they undercut their competitors, underpay their employees, treat women and minorities unfairly, don't promote from within, deny one more hour per week to employees so they don't have pay benefits, and make life harder for the very people they claim to serve, the working middle class of America. Also, their policies and practices destroy small towns and their actions make a mockery of their supposed Christian values. I cannot imagine Jesus shopping at Walmart, let's put it that way.

Salad
On a scale of 1 to 10 with 10 being highest, how much do you enjoy having your picture made?
Um, having my picture taken? I love it! Yes! Let me pose for you!

Main Course
Besides a bookmark, what is something you've used to keep your place in a book?
A grocery list, a piece of gum, a store receipt, a pen...I read a lot. I use whatever is handy.

Dessert
Name a food that you like that most people don't.
Escargot. Oh, that's not fair, who doesn't love tiny snails dripping in butter and garlic? Yum! I also like mussels, and steamers (steamed clams) as we call them here.

Every year on May 10th, I start to think of myself as the next age I'm turning. May 10th is Jackie's birthday, and I've known her since we were 8. She turns every age before me. It was a bummer when she was 17 (driving) and 21 (drinking) and I was not, it was funny when she was 30 and I was merely 29. But I've been calling myself 32 for months now, although as Jodi pointed out the other night, I'm not. "Enjoy your last week of 31" she said. Yes, and why not?

31 has been an interesting year. No health scares with my parents, always a big plus. No one in our family died. I've had more fun this past birth year than I can remember. I've made new friends, started writing again (even if most of it is blogging), lost a good bit of weight, bought clothes I love, celebrated marriages I'm happy about, spent lots of time with my cousin and my girlfriends, watched Emily become more and more verbal and brilliant. I've been happy for most of this year. I've felt more and more like myself this year than any other in a long time.

So today I am proudly, happily, 31. I'm excited for my birthday next Tuesday, excited to be 32 and do more fun things, but, damn, I've had a great year.

Last night I was ready to proclaim that people should start getting married in their backyards just to save the rest of us the trouble of having to hunt for a dress and shoes and jewelry and all that. (Nevermind that I had a big old fancy wedding.) Today I am ready to put on my dancing shoes, because I am in love with them.

Have you seen the Sex and the City episode where Carrie coos to a pair of shoes? That's how I feel about these.


Are they not the most gorgeous thing you've ever seen? And here's the dress to go with them. It looks better on me than on the hanger.


And for the rehearsal dinner:

with


I'd like to thank Jodi for putting up with me, and Nick for ordering the dress online once I found it. (I tried it on in the store, but they didn't have my size.)Oh, and thanks to any guy who is still reading this blog. God bless you.

So now my only question is: sexy red or French manicure? Guys, feel free to weigh in, too.

In general, I don't think men have it easier. I think it's as hard to be a man as it is to be a woman today, for so many different reasons. However. When it comes to clothes, men have it easier.

This weekend we have an event. This event follows closely on the heels of another event with the same group of people. This event is fairly formal, in the way we use the term today. In other words, semi-formal (suit and tie for men, dresses long or short for women). We have three occasions during this weekend-long event for which I must dress. You can see where this is going, right?

I like clothes as much as the next girl. I like shopping. But I despise shopping under a deadline. For some reason (see entire blog previous to this post) I have been too busy to even contemplate finding a dress to wear to the big shin-dig on Saturday, let alone something appropriate for the Friday night bash and the Sunday morning hootenanny. Of course, I have these clothes in my closet, but I've already trotted them out for the last, very recent, event.

In the past few days I have scoured the stores for an appropriate dress to wear. I have enlisted the help of my shopping buddy, even resorting to subtle begging and winsome manipulation to get her to meet me one more time, the last time, I swear.

I have tried on countless dresses, even the most ridiculous things, the words of my mother repeating in my head "You never know until you try it on". I have tried on bright red halter Marilyn Monroe dresses (too attention calling for this particular night). I have tried on simple black (too boring). I have tried to find one dress, just one, that looks like me. During this quest, I have discovered a few things.

1) I don't feel sorry for size 6 women. Sorry, but if you are size 6, there are a million dresses out there in your size and on the sale rack, you ingrate. This is what the sale rack looks like: Size 2, Size 4, Size 6, Size 8, Size 10, and Large. So if you are over size 10, you're just "Large". It's as if there's a sign saying, "Why do you bother, you should be at the gym instead of squeezing yourself into clothes".

Then we have the full-price merchandise, which is organized so that anything over a Size 6 is automatically shoved to the back of the rack, forcing you to claw through the clothes in the front, and by the time you reach your size, it's not even the same dress because they've double hung the damn things.

2) No one looks good in dressing room mirrors, especially ones in the dress section. Why is this? It's strange and cruel, because you know every woman in there is feeling slightly bad about herself due to that poor lighting and weird mirrors and gross carpet that needs a vacuum.

3) Not one woman enjoys this process. Not one woman in there who is in need of a dress is happy to be shopping. Sure, maybe your shopping buddy who has just come from a dinner out and has a few drinks in her is flying high, but she's not the one who needs a dress this weekend.

And what is my husband doing? He's idly wondering if his pants will be back from the drycleaners, if he's thinking about it at all. He's got a couple suits in the closet that will do just fine, and as long as he has some clean undies and socks, he'll be ready to rock and roll.

This is not fair. This is so not fair. This does not, in any way, balance out the drinks men buy women, or the ridiculous need to come home with flowers or candy on Valentine's Day. I will happily give up the candy (ohmyGoddoIknowwhatI'msaying?) to be able to pull out of my closet, at the last minute, an outfit to wear to an event where I will be photographed multiple times. So I think I have the solution to this dilemma. I need to be rich. Rich enough for a personal Personal Shopper, rich enough for a closet just for the fancy clothes, rich enough to be able to buy things whenever I find them or it strikes my fancy.

If you have any idea where I can find this money to make me rich, please let me know. I'll let you borrow my fabulous shoes and dresses next time you have somewhere to go.

Oh, and before I forget...go look at Chrissy's fab photos from the Marah show.

As we were waiting for our bus to take us to the airport on Friday, my cell phone rang. It was Jodi, calling to see if I was home and talk about things to come. I started to launch into a story about Emily, and she said "Oh, so you are having a good time, then?" "Oh yeah, we're a having a fabulous time, " i enthused. "Oh, that's good," she said, "It's just that I read your blog today..."

Aha! Let me just say, I don't have a journal. I don't have another outlet for every little thought, unless you count my friends, and God knows, they should count for the mind garbage they get to hear. I was totally having "panic time" but we were still having a fabulous time in Disney. One does not preclude the other, and my blog will never, ever be a cry for help or code for what's wrong. I'm super-upfront about what's wrong. And while there are things I won't blog about, I do blog my feelings, so if they seem messy or all over the place, that's why. They're not cleaned up.

Speaking of messy and all over the place...I was so right about dodging post-vacation blues. I'm sure this plan looked crazy to everyone else. I know it did. But it was awesome. Awesome. And I am using awesome because that's all Rob and Richelle say, is "awesome" and "fuck" and "clearly" and I love it.

Here's the first thing I saw when we walked past security:


We got home about midnight, after discovering that we were in the 2 most dangerous miles for terrorism in the United States, thank you Anderson Cooper and CNN. We stayed up and talked until 3am. We got up and went to a football game in the blazing hot sun. We dropped off Emily, came home, got the best subs around, took naps, and went to Brooklyn. We spent hours, days, years in traffic on the BQE. We smoked outside. We drank beer. We ate muffins, oh, sorry, we threw muffins at people and then we ate them. We made friends with strangers and kept our smoking girl company. We stood at the very front of the stage and defended our friends and our territory. We danced like idiots (I feel safe including all of us in this statement). We drank more beer. Some of us felt sick. We collected our swag and we reminded each other that we were number two. (Richelle and I came in second in the set list contest, according to us and sort of according to Yep Roc. )


We did not tell a certain person his set list sucked. But it did. We did ask inappropriate questions. We did have pizza and a calzone. We did whine for cheese fries, and we did tell the other to shut up about the damn cheese fries. We did drunkenly dance with girls we do not know. We did sing "Bittersweet Symphony" in the car on the way home. (Don't worry, one of us was sober.) We did make fun of everyone we could, because we are not nice people. But we are fun. We are super fun.

Sunday we slept, went back to the best sub shop ever, went to the beach, met up with Emily and Matt and Kathleen, took pictures, talked shit some more, discovered one of my fatal flaws (I love Keanu Reeves) and sat in more traffic, this time to JFK. Oh, and I almost forgot - we had cheese fries and the most disgusting carcinogen burgers ever.

It was fun. It was good. And my kid loves Rob and Richelle. She thinks they are so funny, maybe because I told her that they were funny because they are Canadian. Kids are so easy to influence, aren't they? But really, they are so funny and she loved them and they were so nice to her, if I didn't totally love them already, that would have cinched it for me.

My girls were the best - they came up front with me and watched me dance like an idiot and totally hung, even though this band is not their passion. I love my girls.


This weekend was just a really, really good time. More pictures are up. Mine and Richelle's. (Disney pictures are in progess.) Enjoy!

In May of 2002, we took a much-needed vacation. Nick and I went on a 10-day cruise to the Western Caribbean with some friends and family. While on that vacation, I had a realization. In the eight months since September 11, 2001, it was the first time I didn't cry every day.

For a minute, I felt guilty. Then I felt better. Then I came to a second realization, that maybe I wasn't going to cry about it every day for the rest of my life, and that was okay.

Here's the truth: you and I, we will never be true friends unless we have the September 11th conversation. I don't want to have that conversation. In fact, I want to never, ever have that conversation again. But still, it must be had, because you'll never really know me unless we talk about it.

It might not happen immediately, it might take years. But if we are to be real friends, it will happen.

This is not some "rule", I don't have stupid friendship rules about national tragedies. It's just an observation about my life. I hope one day this ceases to be true. I hope that it fades so much that it no longer feels like this ridiculous ripping out of my heart. But I never want to forget, so maybe part of me hangs onto that, and subconsciously I decide to show it to you and see what you do with that gaping hole and ball of tears.

Let me tell you this, now. I got off lucky. My family and friends are alive. I didn't lose anyone close to me. I was in Manhattan that day, as I was every weekday of my then-working life. I heard a commuter warn another not to take the Path train into the World Trade Center because we thought there was a fire on one of the top floors - that's how it looked to us, approaching Manhattan from NJ on the train. I don't know if that person took the other's advice. I can't even remember if it was a man or woman. But to this day, I still hope they heeded it.

My friends suffered more than I did, in so many different ways. My town was very hard hit. There's a book about it, in fact. I sort of hate that book, so I'm not suggesting you read it. But it's out there, and so was a Vanity Fair article, and numerous newspaper articles. Around the time the Vanity Fair article came out, I was in Providence, RI. I grabbed the issue and kept repeating, this is my town, this is my town, like a stupid idiot.

I spent a lot of time reading the New York Times obits, looking for the people I knew. I walked by the flowers grown men left for their buddies who never got off the train that day. Our station became a makeshift memorial, and one year later, we all filed off the train in silence and went to the groundbreaking for the actual memorial, right next to the train station. Such a fitting spot, I think. It's one thing that felt right to me.

Everything else felt so terribly wrong, I couldn't even began to express it. There was a colossal fucking mistake, and please don't give me that God's will shit. I don't pretend to know God's will, so don't you pretend to, either. I'll believe that God laid down that night and cried His eyes out, His heart breaking. And I'll remember the men who came from miles and miles away to help their brothers, to help people they'd never met. And I'll listen to The Rising and thank God, literally thank God, for Bruce Springsteen.

Those are the things that will make me feel better today. I don't know if you will even think of it, if not for the TV coverage. Oh, I know some of you will because I knew you then, or we've had that conversation already. But as much as I wanted to, I couldn't write a happy, bouncy post about Disney or my weekend with Rob and Richelle. It felt wrong, and this felt closer to right.

On the playlist: whatever the hell they're piping in to whatever ride, park, or monorail I'm currently in.

This vacation is fun. The hotel is absolutely stunningly beautiful. It's super nice here. I feel like I should shut up and appreciate every minute of this.

Yet.

Florida is kicking my ass. The heat is kicking my ass. I love heat. I got married in August because I love humidity and unrelenting sun. It works for me. (Seriously, I look better with a tan and the humidity just makes my hair more curly. It's all good.) But this is unlike anything I know at home, and although I have been here before in adulthood, I was unprepared.

I'm not sure why. Maybe it's because I was really good at this when it was just me and Nick. And now I have a two year old with me. I know it sounds stupid, possibly unbelievably so, but I feel like I sort of failed to understand what this trip would be like, and how to better prepare for it. The very first day, I took Emily to an attraction that was 3-D, not realizing how freaky and loud and intense it was going to be. She cried, she got over it, of course, but I didn't. I wonder if I hadn't done that would she still be wary of going into something that looks dark, as many of the rides here do. Or really, does it not make a difference?

Oh, she's having a wonderful time. A blast. She loves, adores, the characters. She's totally into Small World. She's fond of the Winnie the Pooh ride, Dumbo, all Dumbo-like rides, the train, Jungle Cruise and cannot get over the monorail. If it's dead boring to adults, she loves it. She is really super happy and super well behaved and insists on wearing her Minnie Mouse ears every minute.

Nick tells me it's all okay, we are having a great time, and I know he's right. I put too much pressure on myself. I want everything to be okay all of the time. Here I am, in a luxury hotel, eating amazing meals, watching my kid light up every hour, going on fun rides, and still I feel like I'm holding my breath.

I'm going to be sad to go home, because this will be over, and I'll never have this time with her again, at this age, in this place, and because I spent too much of it concerned. On the other hand, I can't wait to walk off the plane and see my inlaws (yes, I wrote that!) and Rob and Richelle, because if there was anyone meeting me while I'm in this conflicted emotion all over the place state, right now, I want it to be them.

I want my music playing again, a whole night of it, a whole day of friends I can be myself around. No more self-inflicted pressure to be the super planner mom and wife, who always brings the sunscreen and never forgets anything and knows what time our reservation is. I want to get drunk and dance and laugh and be the woman my husband and daughter know, and next time we do this, I want to bring that fun woman with me and tell this one to take a hike.

Here's some pictures, true evidence of the fun we are having, despite what I might feel in my worst moments, late at night.

Appetizer
Name 3 things that you are wearing today.
Shorts, a white v-neck tshirt, and Teva flip flops.

Soup
Who was the last person you hugged?
My daughter.

Salad
What do you like to order from your favorite fast food place?
A frosty!

Main Course
What time of day do you usually feel most energized?
Depends on what kind of day it is, really. Probably early evening if I'm doing what i like that day in the way I like to do it - in other words, if left to my own devices for that day. It's different if I'm working or at home with my daughter

Dessert
Using the letters in your first name, write a sentence. (Example: Sweet unusual spaniels are nice.)
Especially late, it's Zelda, after bathing, entering the house.
(Imagine it comes in the middle of a paragraph, so it makes sense.)

We woke up to the smell of something burning. Quickly, Nick realized it was the power strip behind our bed. Before I knew it, he was hustling me outside and we were cutting down the tree that had fallen on our power line.

Leaving for vacation is always stressful. There's so many things to do. Lists of packing, in my case, maybe a few more lists than technically normal. But still. Things to do. Stuff to get ready. Tasks, errands, packing. You've got your hands full.

Saturday morning Ernesto swept through NJ, among other states, and in my state alone approximately 8,300 people were without power. We were one of them.

No big deal right? So what? It's not like it's something serious. And we weren't strictly without power. We had power. We had too much power. We had what I like to call power plus. We experienced power surges, frying some of our appliances I'm afraid, and causing us to turn off power to our whole house. Empty the fridge and freezer, unplug eveything, shut off every circuit breaker.

So it was a little stressful, but taking everything out of the fridge was actually kind of fun. There was one tense moment when Nick jokingly threatened to throw out my tamari, but once it landed safely in the bag to go to his mom and dad's, all was good. We spend Sunday night there and left for the airport Monday morning.

Now I am in the lobby of the Grand Floridian, typing on my trusty Powerbook, thinking about stories to tell. Trying to take a full, deep, breath. So how about I give you a picture to laugh at while I breathe?

This story comes from a challenge issued by The Whining Stranger here. Go read his original post and maybe, just maybe, my little story will make sense.


How did we meet? It’s a funny story. When I was nine my family moved – away from anything I’d ever known or loved. My first night in my new room, I was terrified. Did I mention the move wasn’t happy? My dad was…oh, my father was a man of intrigue, of mystery. He was dashing and charming and a crook, really. A fancy thug. So we had to take off, in the night, move several states away. I knew, even as a child, that I wasn’t safe.

Not the life you want for a child, darling, so take better care of yours. Where was I? Oh, yes, so there I am, a scared and lonely girl. I ducked into the closet, it drowned out the noise of my mother crying. She loved him, you see, and she believed in him like a girl does, only she wasn’t a girl anymore. I made myself a cozy little hideaway there, that first night. My precious dolls moved in with me, and we had all sorts of imaginary parties. They were my only friends for so long.

Eventually I made friends at school, though none of them ever came home with me. It seems I had my father’s charm working for me. After high school, I went to college in the city, on a scholarship – I’ll never forget how proud Dad was of me, and how embarrassed I was of him. I was pretending, you see, to be someone I wasn’t. At college, I was free, and refashioned myself into a Westchester Girl of Good Breeding.

I had one small secret I still carried with me from those lonely days, though. That first night, I found a name written in the depths of my closet, and although I quickly pasted over it with pictures torn from magazines, I committed it to memory. I wanted to find that person, who I’d imagined to be my friend, my savior, really. The one I’d made up all those fantasies about. New York was a different place then. Everyone was listed. And since our shared home was not so far from the city, I knew I had a good chance of finding him. He’d fashioned himself a writer back then, but he was no more than a boy when he’d proclaimed that.

Of course, by the time I’d met him, he was beginning to be well known, a serious young man in his thirties, and me a coed. We ran into each other, so carefully orchestrated, at a party. It had taken me months to wrangle that invitation. I studied him at first, and once I determined he was a kind man, I made sure we were introduced. Many people have come to talk to me, about him or our life, but not many people know how truly good he was. So remember that. We had a fabulous life together, but in truth, we were two lost souls who found each other, at the end, and the beginning.

On the playlist: Gnarls Barkley, "Crazy"

I'm making my end-of-summer mix today, doing laundry, and wishing it was sunny so we could ditch all this and go to the beach. My daughter woke up on Thursday, walked downstairs, opened the hall closet and took out all her beach toys. "I want to go to the beach" she insisted. I was so sad and so proud at the same time. Sad that it was raining and I had to tell her no (also, I was working and couldn't take her, but that's a minor detail.) Proud because it seems I'm raising a Jersey Girl, beach style. Only two, and she's already got the pull to the water. That's my girl!

So I'm dancing around to the music because, let's face it, who wants to do laundry? Boring! Tedious! Sometimes I wonder what Emily will remember from being raised by her music-obsessed mom and dad. Already she says "good song!" whenever Marah comes on. And she says "more rock!" when she wants to hear something with a beat. And she can dance, and tries really hard to clap her hands in time.

But one day is she going to go to a friend's house and realize that not everyone's mom turns up the music really loud and sings all the words and dances like we're in a club or at a concert? Is she going to be all, "oh, Mom, stop with the dancing already!"

I hope not.

In part of planning for this trip, I did a little bit of an OCD/Virgo thing. I laminated the pages from a travel book I like and the schedule I made on Excel. Yes, I made a schedule on Excel, with the basic plan and our reservation numbers for lunches and dinners. (it's all about the food, remember?) And then I took it all a step further and laminated it all.
This way it won't get wet or gross, and it will be easy to take with us...am I convincing anyone yet? The travel book has recommended touring plans for Disney, with lists of food and services and attactions, all ready so you can clip them out and take them with you....I just took it a step better, I think. Maybe three steps?

Here's my plan while I'm away: I have a ton of posts, probably 20, stored up and ready. We are bringing our laptops to download pictures and I'm hoping to do some writing. (We'll see.) So I plan to be posting and cruising by your blogs, too. I think it might be nice to have a break from the Mouse once a day. If you want to keep reading, I'm going to be writing.

Happy weekend!

This is my birthday month. That's right, month.

Like every other person on the planet, I've had birthdays that did not live up to "happy". I've learned that I have to make my own happiness, to celebrate the good things in my life as they are standing right in front of me. I've got a great story about one of the people who taught me that, Alma Levis, but it would make you cry so I'll save it for another time. (I think of you, though, when I write or say that. I remember.) I've finally figured out sitting and waiting for someone to else to make me happy is not going to work. In birthdays, or in life.

I have a lot to celebrate this year. I've thought, on and off, for the last ten years, that my mom might not be alive to see me or my child celebrate another birthday. But she is. I never imagined the husband and friend I'd have in Nick, or the joy Emily would bring me, or the complete love and fun my friends have surrounded me with.

But more than all that, I'm happy with who I am. It's not all sunshine and roses, and it's not perfect, but I like who I am, who I have become.

This year, I am going to celebrate the entire month of September. I'll start with a relaxing Labor Day weekend - drinks to say goodbye to summer on the Jersey shore, and hello to birthday month. We'll go to Philly for a family party and meet the newest member of Nick's huge family, baby Mark, who is about 10 days old. Monday we leave for Disney, and that is going to be one big happy present of a trip. We are staying in the nicest place possible there, and I just love a nice hotel.

Then, the night we come home, Rob and Richelle (from Canada, baby!) and Matt and Kathleen (my brother and sister in law) arrive, too. It's going to be a crazy ride late at night - I can't wait. No post-vacation blues for me! The six of us will spend Saturday at the Rutgers tailgate and the Marah show that night. (Come on, you know you want to meet us in Brooklyn on the 9th!) I've finally convinced my non-Marah friends to come to a show, so joining us will be Jackie and Andrew, Jodi and Greg, and Stephanie and Stephen. Plus, all our Marah friends, like Chrissy and Andrea.

If I went to that show alone, it would still feel like a party, and I can't tell you how excited I am to have everyone with me. Of course, I'll have to work on dragging them to the front of the stage. (Except for you, Richelle, right? You're there with me, dancing like a fool, too, snapping pictures of everything.) Sunday the 10th we'll go to the beach, hopefully, or our town's street fair and festival.

The next week will be back to work, visiting my friend's new baby, and spending time with Matt and Kathleen.

The weekend of the 15th-17th, we have a wedding, so we'll get to reunite and dance and drink and have a great time with the friends who are family to Nick and I. And another nice hotel stay, plus a full weekend with M&K.

The 19th is my birthday. I'm thinking dinner, maybe drinks with friends. The 21st, I'm going to see The Who, and the 22nd I fly to Detroit to spend the weekend with my college friends Molly and Michelle. We are going drinking and dancing there, too. Michelle has organized a girl's night out for us to see the friends we know of hers and meet the other ones - and we're going to celebrate my birthday that night, too.

Which leaves open the last weekend in September to fill. I think dancing must be included, to round things off. Maybe more music. Of course more music. And drinking and friends.

And that will be my birthday month. Only, it's going to be better in person than on paper, because I can't write my joy in, make you feel the fun, or bring you with me. But there will be pictures, oh, yes, many pictures. Pictures in Disney, smiling like a five year old, pictures only Richelle can take of me and get away with it, pictures of my favorite people in the world doing my favorite things with me...it will be quite the party. If you find yourself in the neighborhood, be sure to come along for the ride.