The World According to EDW

There's only one picture I want every year on Emily's birthday, and this is it:


I look exhausted, right? Because I was. I couldn't believe I was awake.

Everything went exactly as you would expect. 8 little kids, from one year to seven years old, at the first party. 14 people for the evening party. We didn't order out, but had quiche, salad, and chicken nuggets for the tykes and their moms and burgers for the evening party. We had games in the day and booze at night. We had some fab decorations I bought at the dollar store and you wouldn't have known if I hadn't told everyone in shouting distance. We had games and a craft for the kid party and champagne for me at the adult party, which could explain why I finally relaxed.

Jackie saved my ass is a big way, in the way only your most devoted friends can and will, as I freaked out the day before because nothing was done. And I mean nothing. No stranger to staying up and cleaning, I managed to whip together what I could and Nick ran the show the whole day - my God, it was like being on vacation. Funny, if I ask for help, I get it. Who would have thunk it? Note to self: ask for help and then take it. Learn to be gracious. Oh, and self? Go to sleep.

Fake Irish, that's what I am, but I really should be Irish. Not just the hair, and the deep, abiding love for St. Patrick's Day, but also the sentimentality, the instant thought that someone is dead if I don't hear from them, the strange morbid fascination with hearing the tragedies of other people's lives, the ridiculous songs that make me cry my eyes out in my beer. Not to mention the I-think-I'm-so-charming thing, my ability to bullshit, and my long, drawn-out stories with tons of meaningless details. I think those are the color, but my details would put my German ancestors to shame. If that's not enough, I have hankering for those charming, drinking, story-tellers like myself, and sometimes I just want to hear the Pogues over and over again. "Tis", though. I hate it when people say "Tis".

This is all to say that the above referenced song makes me teary sometimes, when it gets to this part:

A man and a woman had a little baby,
Yes, they did.
They had three in the family,
And that's a magic number.

Shit, I'm getting chocked up writing about it. Someone pass me a Guinness, quick.

The truth is, three is a magic number. It's our magic number.

Happy Third Birthday, baby girl. I love you.

Dear Godson,

I wanted to expound a bit more on our earlier conversation.

It's an under-appreciated skill. A talent we dismiss. A gift, if you will.

The ability to flirt.

I'm good at flirting. In fact, I am a champ. It's one of my top life skills. I might have mentioned this before, but let me tell you, it's nothing to scoff at. Dismiss it and regret it. You just might need my expertise one day, so pay attention.

I know you think you can flirt; I hope you can. I dearly hope you, in some mysterious way, take after me in this regard.

There are many types of flirts. There are bad flirts, the ones who use cheesy lines and are only half-joking. There are the awkward flirts, those souls who know they need to make themselves known but don't know quite how. There are occasional flirts, who only trot it out when they absolutely have to. There are stingy flirts, who think they're so charming they don't have to be nice. Then there are the worst kind of flirts, those men and women who only do it for the sexual attention.

But the best kind? The best kind of flirt is what I am, and what I hope one day you become, too.

The true flirt is not about attracting attention from the opposite sex. In fact, the true flirt is not about sex at all. I know it's deeply weird to hear me talk about sex, but bear with me here.

The true flirt is interested in other people, genuinely interested. They like people, as a whole. They don't have to be trusting or open or Pollyanna-like, but they do have to find others interesting.

For the true flirt, flirting comes so naturally that they don't event think about it. It's just an extension of their personality. You see a lot of politicians like this, and forgive me for using the easiest example on the planet, Bill Clinton. The years in the White House were not kind to him; his track record is well known. But damn if that man isn't charming as hell. I know you haven't seen Pulp Fiction yet, but one day when your parents do let you watch it, you'll come to know and love one of Samuel L. Jackson's classic lines about personality. But until that day, let me just say, personality goes a long way.

The true flirt, the natural flirt if you will, flirts like they invented it. They make you feel interesting and charming even as you know they are employing their own charm. They don't do it to get something, they do it because that's who they are. The natural flirt might find themselves chatting up old ladies, or smiling at check-out clerks. No one has any expectations of this interaction, and everyone walks away feeling good. That's the gift of a natural flirt.

I was not always this way, Grasshopper. Somewhere between 13 and 25, I realized that it wasn't that I was nice, and it wasn't that I was a stunning beauty. I mean, I am nice and I'm totally pretty (just nod your head), but it's not those characteristics that drew people to me.

I wish I could tell you when and how I learned to flirt; just like I wish I could pinpoint that moment of transition from lovestruck teenage girl to powerful and confident adult woman. I can tell you that I flirt without even thinking. I can tell you that I really have to try not to flirt sometimes, actively try not to come across as interested in a person when I'm just, you know, interested in them. I can tell you how wonderful meeting other adult flirts has been, to know there are other people who flirt just for the shear pleasure of it, who do not confuse sex, attraction, and flirting.

I can tell you this; good flirts, natural flirts, are made, not born. It's a skill that develops over time, that gets refined with each encounter, each break-up, each solo trip, each feeling of dorkiness and awkwardness. We do not come into the world skilled eye lash batters. We learn to smile with that twinkle, to make other people feel good about themselves, to embrace the unexpected in life.

I'm not super good in math; I haven't written the great American novel; my role model potential probably diminishes with each blog post you read. But you've got smarts enough. Even better, though, you've got the ability to become the kind of man who listens to what others say, who stops to help someone out, who looks at the person and not just the job they're doing, and who's not afraid to show the world who he is.

That's what a true flirt, a natural flirt, a good flirt is all about. Go, Grasshopper, and make others happy by being yourself.

Love,

Your Aunt

Crickets.

It's crickets here, on this blog, and in my new, lovely, adored room. I need a pest control guy, but how do you exterminate your thoughts?

I came downstairs this morning, way downstairs, to a huge spider cricket on my butter colored walls. This is not a cute little talking cricket, a la Mulan, this is a big mother evil jumping Liz-eating machine. Of course, I knocked him off my pretty new wall before I ended his life in one swift move of a Teva to the floor.

Maybe I'm too happy; maybe the five people who read this are sick of talking to me. I don't blame you, but gear up, babycakes. You're going to have to spend lots of time with me very soon, and I am so excited about that. Whee!!!

Besides two of my favorite people coming out in umm, 51 days, not that I'm counting or anything...although I would totally have a countdown ticker for it on my signature if I did shit like post on SAHM boards...but I digress. Besides those plans and many others, including Disney for my birthday, and Vegas/Michelle's Wedding in October, I have other fun, exciting things.

My brother in law, Matt, and his wife, Kathleen are here for two weeks. Today we went to the beach and stayed for hours, which I love doing. My inlaws were there for a little bit, but they're not pictured, and all the pics on flickr are private this time around. But here's one for you:


I have completed the bulk of the work on this manuscript I am editing , and I can see the end in sight. I'm so excited. I think we're going to be done with it this week. On other job news, I am sort of freaking out because of reasons I can't explain. So, just keep the faith for me, okay? Because I need this to work out. I need to be able to buy more cricket-killers. And send my kid to preschool.

Speaking of my kid, she turns three this week. Three! Parties will be thrown.

And with that, enough about my daily life. Tomorrow, a list of crappy wedding songs. And maybe I'll finally finish the Harry Potter book.

On the playlist: Violent Femmes, because I felt like it.

The weekend went really well. Nick left Thursday night, after we all had dinner together. We had lunch on Friday with Jodi and Kathy and her baby daughter Lauren. That day Nick's brother Matt and his wife Kathleen came home from Dublin, so we saw them, too.

Saturday we went to the beach and it was absolutely lovely. In addition, I managed not to be a stress-ball on this outing with my nearly 3 year old daughter. This is quite an accomplishment, because the beach has huge stress-ball potential with a nearly three year old.

Saturday night was book club, and my trusty babysitter Andrew (formerly known as my godson) cam over to help me, and let me repeat, everyone needs a babysitter. I want him to move in. Jackie says if he does I have to pay for his expensive private high school. Umm, maybe we can just dodge that somehow?

Anyhoo, my house looked clean, the table was nicely set, and best of all, I was relaxed and happy the whole time before my guests arrived. I still bullied them into the living room, because I can't stand people hanging around the kitchen and I wanted to show them the beauty of a living room lacking the detritus of toys. A thing of beauty, indeed. Have I mentioned I love my new playroom/office that the door can be shut on?

In my next kitchen, the one we will do in a few years (read: when we have the money), I am having it set up so radically different from every home kitchen I have ever seen. It will look like a TV set, the sink and cooking top and dishwasher in a semi-circle in the middle of the room, and a wall of glass cabinets behind me, with the oven and fridge and dishes and pantry. Then I can cook and see people at the same time, no more of my back to my guests or my child. Want to see what I mean? Check out this link. When that kitchen is here, there will be more room for everyone to hang out, and I won't have to bully them anymore. Ha!

Back to book club. We read Snow Flower and the Secret Fan by Lisa See. We had a good conversation. I ordered in Chinese food, which sort of felt like cheating but did contribute to my blissed out mood, as did the massive quantities of wine I consumed that night. Yummy, yummy wine. I took pictures and if you are bored, go have a look.

Sunday we did absolutely nothing, due to the massive quantities of wine I consumed. I started Harry Potter. Nick came home. The weekend was probably as thrilling as this blog entry has been. But much more fun than reading this was. I'll try to dredge up some angst or longing or trot out some moldy stories for you tomorrow. I'm sure a rant is due, soon. Hang on, dear readers.

On the playlist: one of my very favorite songs of all time.

On the playlist: Rufus Wainwright

Do you ever start to do something only to realize that you need to do a few more things before you can properly do that original thing? Jackie calls it perfectionism. I call it my life. We're both right, I think.

That is especially my life tonight. I have this impossible list of things I need to think about, which is worse than having a list of things to do. It's much easier to do things than to think about them. You know when you're done with doing. But sorting out and processing takes a lot longer than vacuuming. and I'm damn good with the vacuum.

But instead of thinking or doing, I am relaxing. I had my Diet Coke and dark chocolate M&M's. I had a marathon conversation with Stephanie (my friend who moved to Texas, the moniker that won't die and doesn't really tell you who she is). I did some laundry, because, after all, I am still me. I watched a game show that Molly is prodding me to apply to.

Today was my Grandma's birthday. I've written about that before - nothing to add, just an acknowledgment. Next week is Emily's birthday, and that's another thing I need to be thinking about. Instead, I chatted, ate, and combed through my iTunes. I really like this Rufus Wainwright song; in fact, I like the whole album.

Nick is off for the weekend, and the combination of feeling the weight of being responsible and the joy of being responsible all weekend is an interesting one. Do you know what I mean? I'm free to make the weekend what I wish of it, but I'm also solely responsible for my child the entire weekend. It feels exciting and heavy at the same time. It's a familiar juxtaposition; but it still elicits a response. A feeling in my stomach of jittery possibility, uncertainty mixed with certainty, experience married to the novel.

Sometimes I feel very keenly the open adventure of life. Strange, maybe, to think that when I'm sitting, home bound, with my child asleep upstairs. But still. It's there, and those restrictions aren't a deterrent to the possibilities in my head.

A few weeks ago we were playing a version of the iPod game, What is the Most Embarrassing Song on Your iPod. Only we changed it to What is the Most Embarrassing Song on Your iTunes?

We went through the regulars. What was once lame is now cool, so my guys, like Tom, Barry, Neil, and Kenny are safe. We considered Steve Winwood. We clashed over Steely Dan (me for totally cool, and Jon P for lame-o) In turn, I mocked Everclear. I argued for Boston and Europe to be on the lame list. Nick argued back on the coolness of Boston. Nick countered with Bob Seger. I deflected. Jodi tried to preempt any bashing of Nickelback, to no avail.

We decided Richard Marx would be high on the list. Michael Bolton. New Kids on the Block. Tiffany. Debbie Gibson.

Thankfully, I have none of those.

I do, however, have Biz Markie.

I'm not sure why, exactly. Once, in the days of free downloading, I mean file sharing, those halcyon days of the late 1990's, we downloaded it. Possibly there was alcohol involved, probably to prove a point during an inane discussion of music. I fear this may have been the night we downloaded "We Don't Have to Take Our Clothes Off" by Jermaine Jackson. Thankfully, that was at least three computers ago and apparently did not survive all the moves.

But "Just a Friend" did.

I also have "My Love is Your Love" by Whitney Houston, "Caught Up in You" by .38 Special, and "Follow Me" by Uncle Kracker. Still, I think "Just A Friend" might be my most embarrassing, but it's a close call, no?

In other news, I got my hair chopped. And dyed. Here's the picture. It's not as dark as it looks, I swear. I'm loving it.


Tomorrow Nick leaves for the weekend, so expect lots of those drinking alone posts - just kidding! I have the weekend kind of packed. How about you?

I was wrong. I want it all.

I don't want to compromise anymore. I want it all. I want more time. I want more money for plane tickets. I want more days on the beach with the women I love. I want more visits from much-loved friends. I want to work, to be with my child, to see my friends, to be alone with my husband. All of it.

My daughter will be three next week. I want the world for her. I want the world for me.

I want the things they say you cannot have all at once. I have a life full to bursting, and I don't want to back down from it, but yet I want some quiet, too.

This is one of those posts that you will either get on an instinctual level or you will write me and ask me what it's about. Either way is fine with me. Ask, comment, question, and if you feel it too, say so.

I want this for, you, too, everything you dream about. The job that makes your spirit soar, the travel, the friends, the passion. The love.

But we have the passion, don't we? And the love. And the friends. That's a damn good start. It's not everything, it's not all at once with the space to breath, but it's something.

And while we are on the topic, I wish that you would write. If not to the world, than to me. Tell me what you are doing, tell me what's rattling around in your head. Just an email every few days, a story for me, a thought. A rant, even.

So be well, my friend. These words, they mean nothing. They're just words, like light isn't really light at all but a reflection. My reflections for you, late at night. Talk before sleep. Goodnight.

"No Springsteen is leaving this house."

I used to watch this movie with my gang of friends - Summer and Kathy, Max and Pat, and a few others. Jackie, sometimes, but she had a boyfriend when we were really into this movie. Colleen and Marc probably watched it with us. But mostly us three girls and those two guys, St. Elmo's Fire, over and over again.

I watched it last night. A lot of the movie is stupid, okay? But I love and hate two things about it. One, Andrew McCarthy's complete devotion to Ally Sheedy still makes me swoon. I absolutely adore that sex scene between them. 18 years later and I still think it's hot. I so want them to end up together and they don't. Which I hate, of course, and which is the right thing for her to do, and that brings me to my second thing I love and hate about this movie. It's not all sewn up nicely. They don't pair off like I want them to. It's messy, like real life, and their are no guarantees that what they once shared will remain with them forever.

I have had friends I thought would last forever, people I was really tight with. Friends I had through high school and into college. That right there is a long time. Some of us lasted from grade school into adulthood - some of us from high school to right now. I look around occasionally at parties and realize I have known these guys since I was 14, 15, 16, 17, 18. Jackie, of course, I have been friends with since 1983. Molly, since 1991.

I'm not sad about those friendships that didn't last. I used to be, but I'm not anymore. I just think it's interesting that movies and songs and books capture what we all wish was true at some point - that this feeling would last forever. That these people around us would be in our lives always. They we'd always be as good of friends as we are today.

I'm happy with my life; I'm overjoyed, blessed, grateful for all my friends. I don't look around at parties and wish Max were there with us. I wish he knew our godson Andrew, but that's his loss, really. I accept, now, that some friends are with you for a long time and some are simply not.

But here's the really crazy thing.

Some of it lasts. Sometimes, that shit we watched late at night while eating Doritos in our friends' parents' living rooms comes true.

We keep the ones we came with.

We laugh, years later, about the things we did back then. We end up in our own driveways dancing to "It Takes Two" by Rob Bass while our kid throws a party like we used to, oh, 19 years ago.

Friendship isn't easy. It might look like cake compared to marriage, and to me it does, because my friends are less demanding and more forgiving, and I to them, too. As it should be. But it's still not easy, and requires effort and lots of forgiveness and love and understanding, especially if you're going to make it to 25 years.

But I love when it lasts. I love when it comes around again. I love that you pick up new friends along the way, real friends, not just the for-nows.

Oh, there's no point to this post, except that I still like St. Elmo's Fire. And I wish those I watched it with well. And I love those I've got.

I am happy today, and this is what happy makes me want to do: it makes me want to make everyone my friend. It makes me want to ask everyone I know over for dinner, and to invite you into my life. Be my friend! Have some food! How about a drink? It will be fun!

Anyway, here's how happy I am today. I am so happy I am directing you to my latest photos of my home - come on in! See how I live! Enjoy my very white furniture! Also, while you are there, check out my white trash backyard and my stunning lack of make-up and very pale face! And, if you like, look at my pictures from this weekend with my cousin Lisa! Oh, and please note the one of the infamous kitty-cat shirt, as modeled by my mom. Now you can see what I meant.

Also, please tell me: do I cut my hair off? Do I leave it long? I'm not going really short, folks, no matter what. I personally think long hair is rather sexy on me, but it's at a bad stage right now. It needs to be brushed far too often. But does it look good? Is it worth it? Also, what about the color? Leave it red or go a bit blonde? After all, it is summertime. These are the questions that occupy my mind. My appointment is Thursday night. Weigh in now or be horrified by what I cook up in a moment of daring and with a glass of wine in my hand.

Changing topics, and in case you are keeping track, which I am sure you are not, I have now been to three Broadway shows in three weeks. Curtains with Molly, Michelle, and Lori. The Drowsy Chaperone with Michelle and Tom. Avenue Q with my cousin Lisa. God Bless the TKTS booth. This weekend with Lisa flew by. We had dinner and drinks on Friday, went to the beach on Saturday, then to a lobster dinner at my mom's, followed by a night out at the Jersey Shore. Sunday we worked in some shoe shopping, a hunt for Webkinz and Vera Bradley bags, and a trip into NYC. Monday we only managed to wrangle breakfast at the diner before she had to leave. We were exhausted, but damn, was it fun. Time to plan the next girls' trip to Vegas, I think.

Tonight I have the TV to myself, popcorn ready to be eaten, and books to be read. I can go to bed early or stay up late. My husband is on a business trip, and while it's only for one night, it's a big night alone at home. Perfect after an action-packed weekend. Lovely. Maybe, just maybe, I'll even catch up on some work.

Oh, one more thing - keep your fingers crossed for me, okay? Job stuff. Thanks!

I woke up today with some dreams in my head, dreams of people I used to know. Lately, I've had several of these dreams.

In one dream, a formerly good friend wrote me a letter and a boy I used to be romantically involved with showed up to help translate it for me, because I couldn't read the language she used. The dream before that involved a guy friend I liked a lot and haven't seen in years, and the one the week or so before that featured a really good former friend I lost touch with. In every dream, these people from my past were helping me by reconnecting with me.

As you do, I shoved the dreams out of my head. I started my day. I didn't think about them until the dreams started coming back to me in the quiet of the car. I started to think about the stories we tell ourselves when relationships end. Then I walked in the door and read this post.

I love this quote:

"I do miss him already. Still. I’m hoping now for space in our togetherness. I would love for us to keep in touch, peppered witty emails and calls just to reach out here and there, looking further ahead to a time when he and I might reconnect after weeks or months or years spent in our own lives, evolving and working and heading off avoidance instead of accepting the familiar, the comfortable, the not so good for us."

She's talking about a new end to a relationship, and I'm looking back after time, but the sentiment is the same. I always wished that, more or less. I always wished I knew what story they told themselves about the beginning, the middle, and the end.

I love to deconstruct. I want to talk over the book I've just read, the movie we saw, even the TV show. This is why I have friends; this is why I have those friends in particular. I love a good post-mortem. How did it go? Why did it go that way? What do we do next time? I watched my mom do this with cooking, with recipes. I know it's key to debates and competition and campaigns. I'm good at it and I like it.

Eventually, if I don't deconstruct my relationships, they will do it for me. They will show up in dreams, or on the subway. They will pop up in a song in the car, or in the middle of a crowded stadium. They will make me think about them. But what I really want to do is pick up the phone and say, what story do you tell about this? What's your line? I've told the wrong story before. I've said some things were disasters when they weren't, because it was easier than figuring out what the truth was. I've painted some pictures that didn't look like the real thing. And some few, I've deconstructed properly. I've been able to say, years later, I loved you and you meant something to me, and whatever story you choose to tell, know that much is true. And, in turn, I've heard what I needed to hear, what some part of me wondered about on quiet car drives. I have been lucky, to have a few people who came back into my life in one way or another and let me know that whatever harm we did to one another is no longer the point. The important thing is the good we did.

How do you deconstruct your relationships? Do you bother? Do you do it alone, have you ever reached out to ask? And you, who will probably not read this, what stories do you tell about me?

It's nearly 2am.

I've had the best day, and it might sound horrible when I tell you why. Or, at the very least, strange.

Today started out rather challenging, with me on the phone to my mother asking when and if Emily was ever going to stop doing some of the things that are currently driving me crazy. A few months, she assured me. I can live with a few months.

The weird part is I really want this stage to be over, but I don't want her to get any older because I feel like it's going fast and one day I might turn around and find the sweetness I love so much gone, trampled out by the world. That would make me very sad, to see that.

I held it together until this afternoon when I picked up Andrew, formerly known as my godson, currently my babysitter. He came over and stayed while I ran errands. Then I kept him so I could clean the house and think about actually doing some editing work. Then I had the brilliant idea to keep him until after Emily's dinner and bath, because Nick wasn't going to be home until later. And then we decided to watch The Simpsons, Season 4, on DVD, so I called and his parents released him to my care for the night with nary a blink. We made popcorn and ice cream floats.

I cleaned a lot of shit today. I ran those errands that are totally time consuming and exhausting, and make you want to lie down. But it was a great day. It was great to do it without, God forgive me, an average toddler attached to me. It was great to spend some time with Andrew, whom I haven't seen as much since school let out. It's great to see my house looking clean and organized and ready.

I'm excited for my cousin to arrive tomorrow, and for the things we have planned for the weekend. I'm grateful to have had Andrew's help and his company, which gave both me and Emily a break from each other. I'm happy to have her all day tomorrow, because, I admit, I kind of miss her.

It was a really good day.

But the bottom line? Dear readers, I know now why rich people have nannies.

Have a good weekend!

Is it Wednesday already? How the hell did that happen? The week has totally gotten away from me. I feel like it's Friday and I'm freaking.

I miss you. I wish I could come to your party, that I could jump on a plane and just call you from the airport and tell you to get your asses over and pick us up. Instead, I am moving into the new floor of my house - I'll take a picture, because that beautiful wood floor is what a trip out there would cost and that's with non-stop drinking at NYC prices. Sigh.

I'm trying to finish my work on the book I have been hired to edit, I'm moving into the lower level of my home, and I'm getting ready for my cousin's visit this Friday. That means, mostly, that I freak out and plan to completely reorganize the entire house and deep clean it. Now, the truth is my cousin is never going to think I'm a dirty slob. And if my house was dirty, she wouldn't care and she would help me clean it. That's the truth. But in my mind? I have to have everything perfect. But my mind is spinning with the shit I have to do, and I need it to take a chill pill ASAP.

Nick has been working on the little details of our lower level, which will serve as the office, playroom, exercise space, and hang room. I have been moving things in, buying curtains and rugs, making lists of what needs to be done on what day. We're busy. I'm stressed.

But the room is done. Harry Potter comes out tonight, and I'm there. My cousin arrives on Friday for four whole days. All good things.

I don't like time crunch. I like lots of time unfolding in front of me, days that are fun to fill, possibilities not deadlines. I like time to write and time to read books. I like returning emails. I like reading blogs. I do not like kamikaze cleaning and lying awake thinking of more things to do.

So I'm off like a prom dress. I'll catch up with you after my weekend of drink and sun and family and friends. If I make it to then!

I love New York City. I think, unequivocally, that it's the best city in the world. I've been to other cities and liked some and loved others and didn't care for a few. But nothing, nowhere, tops NYC.

Chicago is familiar to me, and I like it there. I get kick out of Boston. I love DC. I do a happy dance when the plane touches down in Las Vegas. I had to be dragged home from London. I think Dublin is a cool place to live. I dug the pubs in Edinburgh. Paris was just like the pictures you see. Rome was a bit too big for me, with not enough intimacy. Venice, stinky but beautiful. Florence, also, was like walking in a story-book. Philadelphia is Nick's turf, but I find myself looking at houses there, because it's a city I could live in. I fell for the cowboy culture in Austin. I, like Randy Newman, love LA.

I could go on and on, touching on every city, big and small, I've been to. I could list them all and my impressions of them. But my heart would remain unchanged, and it belongs to New York City.

Last weekend, Molly and I went into Manhattan to meet up with Michelle (of Ann Arbor) and her friend Lori. They were in town for a conference, and stayed through the weekend to spend some time with us. We went for drinks at the Algonquin, and I'd like to note that I have officially become the person that strong-arms you into going to her favorite drinking spot (well, favorite in Midtown). I am addicted to those Ten Thyme Smashes, and when you next come to NYC, I'll take you there. Bring lots of cash, it's pricey. But so, so worth it. I love everything about that place, from the aforementioned, ever-adored drink, to the simple but just perfect for me food to the couches that first made me a fan. I even have a favorite couch for the early hours and one for the night-time. I've been there with many friends over the years, and I like that. I like those memories.

But I digress.

We met up, first, at South Street Seaport. It's been years since I was there, eons, probably, since I walked around and ate and drank and shopped there. Our hotel was free (yeah, Michelle's points) and not far from the Seaport. We got tickets for a Broadway show, bought some jewelry, and had the requisite fueling up for the night's events. The pictures are on flickr, so you can tell me, gently please, how awful my dress is. I sort of liked it, in the way you like a dress that's basically a sack that shows your always-prominent cleavage. Nick thought it looked like it had pretzels all over it. It's not the most flattering dress ever, but it was super cute in the moment.

My shoes, however, were an ill-advised choice, and that's an understatement. They were horrific, burning pain horrific. White, high heeled Steve Madden's, so cute, but Lord, so uncomfortable that I was hobbling. Michelle traded shoes with me, on and off, an act of kindness only the best of friends would suffer. Finally, when it became clear I was getting home barefoot, we headed to an all-night drugstore and bought these beauties:

Lovely, no? But very comfortable. But really, what's a woman's life without some bad shoe days? The smartest choice I made that day, besides going to Bliss for my grooming - and by the way, ladies, their technique really is practically painless - was the pot, or as Michelle calls it, the kitty. I am the holder of the money in most group girl nights, paying cheques and cabs, and making sure we have enough to drink and dine the night away. We put in the same amount, and recontribute, as need be. It's the best system, ever. I never really do this with guys, though, and I wonder why. Do men not do this?

The rest of the details of the night are better left to pictures, and remember my enjoiner to be kind. Agreeing with Nick does not get you anywhere in my book.

I feel I must tell you the lyric comes from Ace Frehley's song "New York Groove".

Not on my playlist, but I can't escape from "Hey There Delilah" by the Plain White T's.

I have a nice post all ready to go, but it depends on me getting my pictures up on flickr, and I have not done that as of yet. I don't feel like it.

What I do feel like is ranting, about music and maybe some other things that will dissolve into babble, so consider yourself forewarned.

For starters, what do I have to do to make the title song go away? Seriously. It was cute and sweet and sad the very first time I heard it. By the second I could sing along. Now, it's playing everywhere I go - in the movie theater! The grocery store! On the radio! Make. It. Stop.

The very first time I listened to it, the Godson played it for me, and I discovered angst-ridden teens believe this to be like, the saddest song ever. I broke down and laughed, explaining that while it comes nowhere close to "The Drugs Don't Work" by The Verve, it is sad. It's sad because she's going to dump him in like 2 months for some guy she meets in accounting class, and he's not going anywhere with that band, and she's tired of having to pay every time they go out, and worse, if they do stay together and get married, she'll just end up resenting his poor artistic ass. And then I laughed uproariously like psychotic godmothers who haven't had their dose of Diet Coke tend to do. And he patted me on the arm, because that's what you do with the insane. Placate them.

So. Please. Make. That. Song. Stop. Or I will start terrorizing teens randomly with my adult bitterness.

And while we're on the subject, I don't like the White Stripes. Okay? I don't like them and you can't make me. I think their color thing is stupid and pompous and akin to something 15 year old kids do. Wear another freaking color! I think they are more overrated than Coldplay, more overrated than Moby. Possibly just as self-congratulatory as Moby, and he just makes me want to scream SHUT UP all the time.

I think "We're Going to Be Friends" is adorable but I can do without every other song. I'm tired of explaining why I find them unoriginal and derivative. Their sound, not their oh-so-cool constraints. Name me the album I've just passed over, the collection of songs that's going to break it for me. Or, you could let me not like them. I'll hand in my hipster card and we'll call it a day.

Oh. One more thing. Your child under the age of 8 does not belong in the movie theater for a show that ends at 11:30pm. Yes, it's cute that they call you "Mama", loudly. Yes, it's a kids' movie. But it's the very last showing that some of us have gone to so we didn't have to have kids with us. Either get a babysitter or take your kid to a show that starts before 9pm. Thank you!

Hmm. What else? I think for the moment, I might be out of rants. Have a nice weekend!

I heart Optimus Prime.

Let me start with an explanation, in two parts:

I love to go to opening night.

I did not know anything about the Transformers.

Part One, movie opening night. Jodi and I go to the movies almost every week. When it's the height of summer season, we prefer opening night, so we don't fall behind. And make no mistake, there is no falling behind. There's commitment here, people, dedication. We go to all the blockbusters and completely ignore the depressing arty films that we'll end up seeing on DVD with our husbands or be tricked into by other friends. Big theaters, big movies, and to hell with things that make us cry or think. We're there for entertainment and escapism, and our dose of pop.

Pop culture, of course, as so perfectly outlined by Stephen King in his regular columns in Entertainment Weekly. Not to be confused with that crappy daily network show whose name I won't mention. I mean the weekly magazine that pop culture junkies devour.

After reading his latest column, Jodi rang me and asked, as a starter, if I was sure that I married well by choosing Nick. She was wondering if maybe I missed my true soulmate, Stephen King. See, his latest article is all about "pop dope". And he mentions that he's going to be in the audience of Transformers on opening night.

So tonight, sitting there, Jodi and both thought about how we were doing the same exact thing as Stephen King. Which, frankly, is pretty cool. But I digress.

I went to see the Transformers movie not because I have a deep-seated love for the characters - hell, I didn't even know there were good and bad ones until I saw the previews - but because I, too, crave the pop dope.

And onto point number two: I didn't know anything about the Transformers. See, I'm a girl. The last Saturday morning cartoon I watched was the Smurfs. I didn't watch any after school, unless you count Schoolhouse Rocks. Of course I watched Scooby Doo, The Flintstones, Bugs Bunny and friends, Super Friends, Josie and the Pussycats (shit, I named my car after her!), and my share of Woody Woodpecker and Tom and Jerry. Oh, and Star Blazers. Loved it.

In the 1980's I was not watching the Transformers, Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, GI Joe, or that Greyskull thing. Maybe I was too busy playing with dolls or learning to braid hair or becoming the ass-kicking name calling sweetheart I am today. Whatever. I made it to adulthood without ever knowing that there were some good Transformers and some bad Transformers.

So many moons ago, Jodi and I were sitting in the theater, eagerly watching the previews. The preview for Transformers came on, and the first thing I noticed was Josh Duhamel. Now, if Josh Duhamel decided to make a movie about sitting at a desk all day long staring into space, I'd go see it. I did not go see Hostel because that was too violent and messed up for my very sensitive tastes. But a movie that's about some cartoon I never watched? If Josh is in it, I'm there.

I realized, after seeing the preview a few times, that some came to destroy and others came to protect. That's what the Voice intoned, and I believe every preview voice-over. So I did a little recon, aka asked former geek boys, and found out that there were, indeed, two kinds of robot things and they were called autobots. And they came from some planet, but the point is, they are aliens and the good ones are lame things, like a crappy Camaro, and the bad ones are cool things, like a fighter jet. And Optimus Prime is the very good one and he's a big truck thing. (How'd I do? Not bad? Now let's see you explain some random girl-thing, like second-best friends. Or French braids. Or the name the different kinds of eyeliner.)

Tonight we went. Tonight we saw. Tonight I will review the movie on our movie review blog, Circle of Friends Reviews. but for now, let me say this: It was cool. And as with every movie released close to Independence Day, I learned some important life lessons:

Some aliens are good and some are bad.
Bad things look cooler than good things.
There's no victory without sacrifice.
Josh Duhamel is hot.
If you're pretty, your eye makeup can stay on in the most heinous conditions.
The United States Air Force kicks ass.

Happy movie-going, and happy celebration of Independence.