to NO ONE'S suprise ...

Which Classic Female Literary Character Are you?

You're Elizabeth Bennett of Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen!
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I mean, duh. We even have the same initials!

a world of porches



This picture makes me want to be back in Louisville. I've uploaded a bunch to my flickr page from my trip to Kentucky and Indiana. Isn't the scenery the lushest thing you've ever seen? Houses are so cheap there, too! Really! You couldn't buy an apartment here for what they cost.

I'm also watching Mildred Pierce currently, trying to get my head back in the right place. You know, feeling lucky that I don't have a spoiled monster for a daughter or a psycho for a mother, rather than anxious about this whole Getting Married business.

Reading/Read List

* denotes currently reading, bold denotes especially good

(after a certain length of time, * also denotes Unfinished)

Have His Carcase* (Sayers, reread)

World War Z* (Brooks)

Mansfield Park (Austen, reread)

Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil

Apex Hides the Hurt* (Whitehead)

The Devil in the White City (Larson)

The Omnivore's Dilemma (Pollan)

The Real Thing (Stoppard)

Enemies, a Love Story* (Singer)

Heat (Buford)

Garlic and Sapphires (reread, Reichl)

Haroun and the Sea of Stories (reread, Rushdie)

Night and Day* (Woolf)

How to Be Alone (Franzen)

The Emperor's Children* (Messud)

England, England* (Barnes)

Shiksa Goddess (Wasserstein)

I Feel Bad About My Neck (Ephron)

Letters from the Earth (Twain)

Remains of the Day (Ishiguru)

Here's to Hindsight (Cobble)

Children of the Alley* (Mahfouz)

Fortress of Solitude* (Lethem)

Special Topics in Calamity Physics* (Pessl)

The End (Snicket)

Two Flappers in Paris (anonymous vintage French erotica. really!)

Heartburn (Ephron)

The Fermata (Baker) Another reread.

The Colossus of Maroussi* (Miller)

Bee Season (Goldberg) -- a reread, but a worthwhile one.

Freakonomics (Levitt & Dubner)

The Tipping Point (Gladwell)

The Amber Spyglass (Pullman)

The Subtle Knife (Pullman)

Water for Elephants* (Gruen)

I Do, But I Don't: Walking Down the Aisle Without Losing Your Mind (Wicoff)

The Golden Compass (Pullman)

Fun Home (Bechdel)

Snow (Pamuk)

The Awakening (Chopin)

The Alchemist (Coelho) 60 million people worldwide have read this book -- and every single one of them probably liked it more than I did.

Veronica (Gaitskill)

Main Street (Lewis)

Housekeeping (Robinson)

The Pursuit of Love & Love in a Cold Climate (Mitford)

Middlemarch (Eliot)

The Eustace Diamonds (Trollope)

These books have a theme, which I am only realizing in retrospect: unhappy women. Young women, too! Brides! Who make bad choices! Which are often the only choices available. Hum.

None of these, unfortunately, appear on Human Events' Top 10 List of Books Liberals Would Like to Burn. What I love about this list is it's compiled by conservatives admittedly speculating about what THEY THINK I'd like to use to char my anti-war tofu pups. What I also love? The number one book is (get ready):

1. Bible by God

The central work of Western Civilization, defines the relationship between God and man and is the foundation of faith in the Judeo-Christian tradition. Liberal groups, like the American Civil Liberties Union and People for the American Way, have sued to keep it out of government buildings, schools and public discourse.

Boo yeah! I know I personally want to burn the Bible ("by God" -- it really should say that on the cover) on a pile of my bras and, by the light of the heathenish conflagration, perform abortions via witchcraft.

Conservatives are too funny. Most of their books I haven't even heard of, or I would totally choose to keep around for kicks. Like the "articulate" Ann Coulter: a day just isn't complete without her hate misting its edges. Plus, I like to keep in mind what's worth fighting for.

The inimitable Sharon Jones!

None of you has heard of Sharon Jones. I know because I grilled everyone about this mystery lady, to whose 50th birthday extravaganza I was being dragged, and no one could do anything but shrug at me. I knew the following: she's black; she's a musician; she's turning 50; and maybe she's like Etta James?

As it turned out, the concert/birthday party/musical orgy stretched from 9:00 to midnight without a break. One band rolled right into another. Ms. Jones performed, came back and performed some more, performed to the very rafters, until you expected her to drop dead of exhaustion, like she was aiming for that bittersweet headline, "Died Doing What She Loved." Twice, though, she brought Mr. Ben on stage to do it with her, and while I watched I begged fortune that she would continue to live at least until he got back into the audience. "Died Doing What She Loved in Arms of Young, Cute Law Student" is a way weirder obit.

Boy was giddy to have been singled out; he was the only fellow, in fact, she chose to grace the stage TWICE. All our friends gave me half-mocking looks like, Uh-oh! You're gonna have to fight Sharon Jones for your fiancee! Sadly that would have been no fight at all. Ms. Jones and I may be the same height -- the height of genius -- but anyone who, at 50, can outdance James Brown while belting song after song in three-inch silver heels, could take me easy. No contest.

The rumor is that I danced, too. This may have happened; I can confirm or deny nothing. I will say that it was my second concert of the weekend, and both did help to get my mind off my two interviews from the previous week. Three if you count the fact that I went to the one in South Orange, NJ 24 hrs early and had to make the hour-long trek again the following day. My mind is not functioning at its peak these days, as evidenced by the fact that I also seem to have agreed to an August in DC wedding.

Two more interviews this week, too, and both for jobs I'd really like. I'd really like to get this occupation thing settled so I can have something to put on forms besides, "Leave me alone. I'm working on it."

joy upon joy

The Editorial Director of a Washington Agency has read the first three chapters of my novel in progress, and we finally had a chance to discuss them this evening. She gave me valuable and intelligent feedback, lots of things to keep in mind, and most importantly she said: "This is dynamite."

She wouldn't even let me tell her the plot overview because she wanted to read it for herself. Read all of it, in fact, help me edit it, and then help me try to get it published. "Do you have time?" I asked her. "No!" she said. "But this is so much fun!"

Hopefully this will motivate me to get back on a cranking-it-out writing schedule. What with travelling and graduations and accepting everyone's incredibly sweet congratulations (thanks, by the way!) and letting myself get all nervous thinking about Weddings and then subsequently talking myself off the ledge, I've let the creative process move to the back burner lately. Bad ester! Lazy ester!

Well, I'm out of college-age cousins, and having been to Kentucky, Indiana, Boston and back, I think I can be forgiven for staying put for a while; and having been proposed to once, I think I can safely assume it won't happen again (soon). Once I get a job, in fact, I'll have almost nothing left to distract me except passing bluebirds and really cute shoes. Get ready, world! By my birthday, I'd like to have the first draft of this monster finished. You think I can't do it? You just wait.

total eclipse of the heart

So I had this great trip to Bloomington, Indiana -- well, at least it was great once I got off the plane; my journey was delayed at every possible junction and ended with hysterical toddlers kicking me in the back of the head at 1:00 AM as we finally began our very late descent -- followed by a great time in Kentuckiana, which is what the pleasant folks down near Louisville call their lush, Ohio River Valley home. I had stories about my cousin's graduation from IU, what it made me think about becoming a college professor after all, playing cards, drinking mint juleps, and planting tomatoes.

I had a story about the most ironic couple I've ever met: a woman who's been married three times, with a child and child support payments to show for each marriage; and a man who spent the first 15 years of his life in a religious cult. And what do they do? The woman teaches Marriage and Family classes, and the man is a therapist!

I had stories! I meant to tell them as I stumbled upstairs at 2:30 in the morning from my 13 hour car ride home, covered in dog hair, bespectacled and frizzy, not to mention exhausted. Instead, my charmingest of boyfriends, who had cleaned the apartment from top to bottom and bought beautiful, abundant purple flowers, knocked all other stories out of my head, although not the lyrics to that Nellie McKay song. He said, "I was sure when you were here, but I was even more sure when you were gone."

No real talk of the wedding yet or any of those weighty issues. He said he doesn't want to have kids for a long time, and I said I'm keeping my name, and we shook on it. Aside from soliciting congratulations (and in some cases, free food!) that's all we've done so far.

all about art

Man, I was gonna write a long post about all the art I've been consuming recently: an exquisite Sweeney Todd, currently on Broadway, where the small ensemble of actors remain onstage the entire time, doubling as the orchestra, and a coffin in the center doubles as half the set; and Middlemarch, which, along with The Eustace Diamonds, features a male character whose lineage is suspected of being tainted with JEWISH BLOOD! and yet, despite the shame, marries the heroine. Is this a 19th century trope, or a 19th century coincidence?

(Does one need to yell "spoiler!" when discussing books that have been around longer than my family has been in America ...? If so, I apologize.)

Also Inside Man, Friends With Money, The Mistakes Madeline Made, and Happy Endings. No time to comment on any of it! I've gotta go catch a plane and hang out in the heartland for next five days. If you've seen/read any of the above, feel free to post your own opinions in the meantime.

"... and reality has a well-known liberal bias"

If you have yet to see this clip, run, don't walk. Stephen Colbert does not speak Truthiness to Power so much as take Power to dinner, order the restaurant's most expensive bottle of wine, and then DUMP Power, LEAVING Power at the table WITH THE CHECK and spitting on power on the way out to pick up Power's hotter younger sister.

Mr. Colbert perserveres in the face of uncomfortable laughter from the audience and palpable tension in the room. You'll notice, after a while, C-SPAN even stops shuttling over to the President for the reaction shots. This is a performance of such bravura fearlessness (some might say, inappropriate fearlessness, in the face of the leader of the free world) it makes me nervous just watching it, but I imagine you have a stronger contstitution than I have. Try a glass of brandy to bolster yourself, just in case, or a like-minded website or two.

I don't know whose idea it was to tempt Mr. Colbert to do his thing in the presence of his favorite targets, but someone buy that idea-boy a hat and put it on my tab.

Ms. Pollitt, 56, is keeping her name

Did y'all see this nugget of joy, buried in the avalanche of Weddings & Celebrations today? My heart nearly split open from the cuteness of the names of her parents alone.

Best wishes, Ms. Pollitt!

i want two rooms of my own. is that wrong?

You rarely see conservative women engaging with feminism as this author tries to do in her unimaginatively titled, but otherwise thoughtful article, "Room of Her Own." To her credit, the author acknowledges that the Right's habit of maligning & dismissing feminists doesn't address the issue with any depth; and she herself doesn't snub the movement so much as gently uncover what, to her, are its deficiencies. Acceptable.

She leaves out several issues, however. One is the idea that men can do, or even find fulfillment in, house/child-related work. And, more importantly, that women can find fulfillment in *career*. Viz:

Warren and Tyagi write, “When millions of mothers entered the workforce, they ratcheted up the price of a middle-class life for everyone, including families that wanted to keep Mom at home. A generation ago, a single bread-winner who worked diligently and spent carefully could assure his family a comfortable position in the middle class. But the frenzied bidding wars, fueled by families with two incomes, changed the game for single-income families as well, pushing them down the economic ladder.”

It is here that feminism may prove most cruel, for if the ’60s found women languishing in their dollhouses—though scarcely barred from the workforce—the new century finds them no more fulfilled than their mothers but far less free.

To her, once she lays out evidence that two-income households don't actually bring in more money than the old breadwinner households did, she thinks her point is proven: no increase in money = no reason to have dropped the vacuum cleaner. But going to the office can be enough! Leaving the house, to be valued in the outside world, and having a salary instead of an allowance -- the importance of all of that, to me at least, can't be denied.

Here too:

Women’s studies professor Linda Hirshman would go further: “The family—with its repetitious, socially invisible, physical tasks … allows fewer opportunities for full human flourishing than public spheres like the market or the government. This less-flourishing sphere is not the natural or moral responsibility only of women. Therefore assigning it to women is unjust.” Of course this wasn’t true, for it supposes that men at work are developing life-altering technologies or untangling theoretical impossibilities rather than doodling their way through meetings or shoveling paperwork into bureaucracy’s maw. Moreover, it overlooks the unique capacity of men to find fulfillment in provision and women in nurture—and the responsibility of both to tend their intellectual gardens by maintaining lives beyond the demands of home and work.

In her logic, because men spend their time "doodling," women shouldn't want the potential to doodle too. Hell, why not, if she's getting paid for it? Not all men spend their 9 - 5 hours doing so little either: some run the country, and why shouldn't women have the chance to do that as well?

The fact that feminism has also forced the world to take women seriously is also something the author doesn't acknowledge. If she is comfortable going back to an age where her tiny, delicate female brain was considered unfit for the harshness of math and Latin, as it was in the time that Stowe, who she quotes, lived (and which is described so well in the 19th century novel I'm currently reading, Elliot's Middlemarch,) then God bless her; but I'd rather turn my hair gray juggling baby toys and a Blackberry than contend with that condescention.

Perhaps the author doesn't mind that frightening prospect so much because in part she buys into the logic of the times, at least in terms of Gender being determinative. She says, referring to the average women who signed onto feminism,

They were disappointed not because feminism failed to make them equal, but because in so doing it made them less female.

Um, what? Are you serious? Lady, have you seen my bosoms lately? Talked to my gynecologist? I think everything's in working order. I'm exactly as "female" as I want to be -- and sometimes, like when I get hooted at on the street or when I have to walk home at night, I'd like to be far less. Working women aren't all Lady Macbeths, shouting at the sky to "unsex me here!" in order to have an opportunity to chat by the water cooler and bring home paychecks (that, by the way, also allow us to live independently: not all working women, or feminists, are married to men).

All of these anti-feminist women come off as ungrateful, frankly. Without Friedan & the rest of her crew, there's no way Kara Hopkins would be writing a serious intellectual piece for a serious intellectual magazine. At best she'd be writing about baby food or how to please your husband. Some thanks wouldn't be out of line, Ms. Hopkins.

This is my new hair, by the way. Hello hair!



And these are my "training heels," which I wore in my attempt to impersonate an adult woman to my interview yesterday.

Want more visuals? I finally got some of the AZ photos uploaded to Flickr.

aw, look!

The NYT hearts Swarthmore. They're trying to keep it subtle, but you can totally tell. Awwww. Now what would a baby of the college and the paper look like? And just how liberal would it be?

final four

This NYT article draws your attention to the last four all-male non-seminary colleges in the country. One is Deep Springs, which hardly counts since most students proceed, after graduating, to attend other co-ed schools; that leaves us then with three to compare. One is Southern good-ol'-boy; one is a strict liberal arts college in (and largely for) Indiana; and one is a historically black school next to all-women's historically black Spellman.

The tone of the article, you will notice, is very mild: the author seems intent on describing, not judging. S/he does list some issues that people have with the notion of single-sex male education, and just as quickly addresses them. The impression I was left with at the end of the article was that the author believed that there's some merit to the overall idea, especially in light of the Trouble With Boys that plaguing America.

That's perfectly legitimate, of course -- but it does leave me wondering, What would Twisty think? Not being privy to the inner-workings of the brilliant, patriarchy-blamer's mind, I can only humbly put forward my own two cents.

1) The Trouble With Boys is an irritating bugaboo that will not die. The idea that many boys are feisty, exciteable, and in general not as willing as girls to sit quietly in their seats and learn something is at least as old as Huck Finn. And at least Huck Finn didn't blame Becky Thatcher for his attention problems.

2) Arguing that simply because all-girls schools still exist, all-boys schools have a right to exist as well disregards the important historical differences in how those groups have been treated. It has long been expected that boys will have to find jobs, support families, and prove themselves in the world. It's only in the past fifty years that girls have heard that they CAN do similar things. In the same way, all-black schools can be justified, but could an all-white school be?

3) This is my biggest problem: in all-boys schools, how does a boy learn that a girl can be smarter than he is? If not confronted with it daily in the classrom, or in student groups where girls act as leaders, or on sports teams, how does a boy not just maybe "understand" intellectually but really KNOW that a girl can be bright, confident, and strong? How does a female become more than a sexual object? Justice Alito is a perfect example of how a smart guy in an all-male environment can disrespect women, no matter how intent he is on being a Gentleman (an old-fashioned but not worthless idea that these schools champion).

4) It shouldn't require an absence of women to make men Gentlemen anyway. We should all aspire to the qualities that define the mythical Gentleman: a considerate, concerned citizen. And that leads me to my last point. Men and women really aren't that different. Single-sex environments let us believe otherwise.

first Time, now Newsweek ... what's wrong with me?

Mr. Ben sent me this article about a black doctor's frustration with a patient population that can't conceive of her as a doctor. It's a short, poignant piece: the doctor diagnoses her own problem bluntly and describes it with a lack of self-pity that reminds of me of the awesome emergency room doctor I saw almost exactly a year ago. That ER doctor looked like Pippi Longstocking, and although she didn't have the liability of dark skin, I remember wondering whether her youth & gender acted as obstacles for her.

Two of my closest friends are currently getting their MDs. They're short, like I am, and when we're 35 we'll all probably still look 16. I can only hope that at that age, they'll be taken seriously regardless; indeed I hope they'll be helping scared, disoriented ER patients who are about to have to quit their jobs, rather than be fired, for having gone to the hospital at all. (True story! But what was it I just said about self pity ... ?)

I also hope by the time we're 35, if not before, a black woman wearing a lab coat will no longer be something worth looking twice at. Maybe shows like Gray's Anatomy, with its Crayola-approved team of surgeons, will have burrowed their way into the public's consciousness by then? But the harder thing to remember is that this shit starts with me. It's not "other people" who have to adjust their preconceptions. The first time I saw my black gynecologist I remember doing a double-take; I remember that fleeting moment of doubt. That woman, as it turned out, was not just a dream of a doctor (and a hero to the women of my college); part of the reason she was so good with us was that she had earned her stripes working with pre-teen inner city girls at a Philly clinic.

On a lighter note, three cheers for the end of Passover! I've fulled exorcised the holiday now, having spent a day eating chocolate covered pretzels and dry cereal. Phew. I don't think I thought ONCE, over the entire course of the 8 days of deprivation, about being a slave in Egypt. Or how Egypt feels about the Jewish community celebrating our ancestors' exodus from their ancestors (some of whose first born sons were sacrificed for our freedom, or so the story goes). That has to be a little weird for them, don't you think?

Two different ears, two different stories

Today in the Starting Over house, the women -- and we millions of women watching, for some reason!, at home -- learned two very different lessons. One young woman, let's call her A., the latest addition to the group, got a intense lesson about fiscal responsibility. Her debt has been mounting for years until at last it's swamped her: she can't rent apartments, she can't get a job, and she owes a total of $24,000. Life Coach Iyanla fashioned obstructive bracelets out of fake credit cards, each of which represents a bill A. hasn't paid.

Meanwhile, Z., a long-time resident of the Starting Over house, is about to graduate. Yay for Z.! She's learned to hug. (I'm not kidding -- apparently her mother once accused her of trying to seduce her father, and it scarred her to the extent that she couldn't comfortably touch anyone, even family members.) To celebrate her growth, a Style and Beauty Expert appears in the House. The Style & Beauty Expert takes one look at Z.'s casual hairstyle and worn out, bland outfit and diagnoses her.

"Honey," says Style and Beauty expert, "you are a victim of the C-word. Comfort." (At this point, the other women make low, agreeing "mm-mm" noises as though they were in church and the pastor invoked turning one's back on sin.) "The truth is, nothing's more comfortable than being beautiful."

Score one for -- what? I'm not sure. The Style & Beauty Expert takes Z. on the reality TV whirlwind makeover tour of a clothing shop, salon, and dematologist's chair. As the dermatologist peels the dead skin off of Z., she says encouragingly, "This doesn't hurt, right? So you should do this all the time! Because you're worth it."

Amazingly, L'Oreal is NOT a sponsor of this program; but the effectiveness of its advertising has clearly infiltrated everyone on the show. "Because you're worth it" is a mantra all the women repeat as Z. is treated like Dorothy in Emerald City. She says it too.

Meanwhile, back in the House, A. is still putting her past in order. What did she spend the $24K on? She can't even remember. Why did she spend it? Oh, that she recalls: she felt entitled. She wanted "pearls, diamonds. To look cute," as she puts it. Ominous music plays.

A financial counselor visits A. and talks to her about how rich people, middle class, and poor people spend their money differently. Immediately A. tenses up. "I don't like people telling me to live within my means," she says. More ominous music. Oy.

Here we have it friends, perfectly captured in a half-hour of televised entertainment, the eternal conundrum women in this country face. Look cute! You're worth it, and anyway, it's your responsibility! Go ahead and get that microdermabrasion, or credit card, or pretty green dress and heels. Simply being comfortable means you're not doing your part to be a fully realized woman, and it probably also means your mother did wicked Freudian stuff to you as a child.
-- But wait, don't overspend, don't get that credit card. Actually you're not entitled to any of that shit and you need to put fiscal responsibility ahead of personal attractiveness. Come on, what's the matter with you? You're acting like a selfish kid.

I personally am so frightened by both of these extremes, or rather of the judgement that seems to accompany them, that I spend almost nothing. Money sits in my bank account, growing at its incremental rate, and I watch it from afar wondering at what point I'll reach the point where I can relax. For this I am rewarded: my parents tell me I can handle money. It would be funny if it weren't so sad.

Women seem to very rarely receive any constructive advice on how to handle money. They're told only that they should spend and spend and spend, but not too much and, somehow, wisely. Maybe men aren't treated better, maybe it just seems that way to me; certainly I've heard that no one in America knows how to save anymore.

I do have to say though after watching this episode I feel better about setting up that IRA.

what makes a good senator?

Time magazine, in listing its top ten senators (and bottom five), inspires as many questions as it answers. The report seems to indicate that no matter a senator's personal beliefs, their ability to agitate for their causes is what makes or breaks them. No judgement!, adds Time, as it more or less evenly distributes its accolades between the parties. (Republicans claim 3 of the 5 slots for "worst" senators. But the report is so careful it still gives all five points for trying hard and for being really super people. E for effort!)

The root of the problem might be that "best" is a word so bland as to be virtually meaningless. If Time really means "most effective," wouldn't saying that be -- well, most effective? Because John Kyl (R-AZ) is not the "best" anything, except possibly "target for a much needed ass-kicking from the Hispanic community."

And John McCain, his companion from AZ? What, is consistency no longer a value in our leaders? Who the fuck knows what McCain stands for anymore besides getting elected to higher office and, possibly, not torturing people? Is that the standard we're holding senators to now, besides?: they denounce something as repellent as TORTURE and we swoon?

I'd like to see categories like "most entertaining representatives" -- you'd have to include the House -- ; "highest moral fiber"; and the Aaron Sorkin award for most convincing and passionate speech given on the floor of either chamber. They could give out the awards on C-Span!

Well, until that happens, I'll have to be satisfied with continually revisiting the website for Conte, where I've just had a poem published. Try to guess which one. Because virtue is rewarded only in the next world, it's spiteful and hostile, while my poems about bunnies and flowers languish in a metaphorical drawer. Oh, life.

I also may have been the only unemployed 23 year old girl in all of New York City setting up an IRA this morning. It is distinctly possible.

K for P to the nth degree

Your weighty questions, finally answered: Is quinoa kosher for passover, that crazy crumbly holiday where the jews walk around malnourished and grumpy for 8 days, made crazy by the realization that, despite themselves, they're probably breaking half the obscure rules by accident?

Yes.

Sweet! Now if only it tasted better.

My mother, bless her heart, put on two jam-packed seders: 25 people at the first one, 20 at the second. Since this Passover was the first major holiday to be celebrated in the new apartment, it was necessarily bittersweet. But she made excellent food in army-type quantities and no one spilled anything major on the new white carpet and even when a picture fell off the wall onto a pile of china plates, only one of the plates broke. And even that one was careful to split perfectly down the middle, so it can be repaired. We were blessed.

Still, it is BEYOND time to replace the crazy haggadahs my family's been using for as long as I can remember. It's all "mankind" this and "forefathers" that. The only woman in the whole book is "the barren woman that God makes a happy mother with children -- hallelujah!" It's even the "men" who couldn't wait for bread to rise. Sure, cuz I so believe men were doing all the slaving over a stove. I'm sure there was the occasional BCE Emeril, but in general? Come on.

Worse is the section that precedes the Ten Plagues. As you may know, during the seder, we take ten drops of wine out of our glasses, one for each of the plagues God visited upon the Egyptians, because as great as it was for the Hebrews to be able to escape from slavery, it's not nice to glory in other people's downfall and defeat. In our haggadah, however, this part is totally disingenuous. You can hear the authors rolling their eyes as they say, "Yes, it was THEIR FAULT and THEY ASKED FOR IT but we're SO COOL that we'll feel a tiny bit sorry for them anyway. Except not really. Love, the unspoken authorities. PS - they deserved it!"

On the other hand, I have to admit I love all the dipping. I made the haroset this year, and I threw in craisins. Mmmmm. And we found awesome hardcore horseradish at Whole Foods. It's a very comforting holiday, somehow, overall, and I was glad to be home for it.

demons!

Someone's playing with me. All of a sudden, I can't FIND anything. It should not be difficult, in the first place. I live in a studio!

My Season 3 of Sopranos is off partying somewhere in this 450 sqft square with my digital camera and my copy of the Eustace Diamonds. They may be having fun but I am not amused.

At least I am feeling better. No more entire days spent watching TLC, half-wishing I were a DIY kind of girl. (Or any kind of girl at all, really ...) Getting out this weekend was fabulous: I spent all of sunny Sunday afternoon playing the-most-intense-Scrabble-ever on a Scrabble-obsessed friend's gorgeous roofdeck. That's a link to a list of 2 letter words, by the way, which you should have (and she has) memorized, except it's missing the most recent additions, which include FE and ZA. I'm not kidding. I lost to her by 2 points, my first Scrabble loss in, um, a long time, but I learned a lot and considering that she's the fiercest competitor I've ever played, I could handle the disappointment.

I also veggie brunched; contributed to the best homemade pad thai I've ever had; and bought and read the totally enjoyable Ruth Reichl memoir, Garlic and Sapphires. A tiny bit more exciting than Trollope. Don't tell my father!

And THEN, I got my hair cut, and I mean cut, by my favorite New York City bizarro hairdresser: a straight, socially awkward fellow who does nothing except crop women's hair short 7 days a week in the Lower East Side. Like so many geniuses, he's not comfortable *talking* about his craft; asking questions while he works doesn't get you anywhere. You have to sit back in his presence and trust that, while nothing about him inspires confidence, his results will.

I'm going to upload a picture, too. As soon as I find my damn camera! Come home, little camera -- nothing is forgiven.

my mother suggests bourbon

Somehow, I brought illness back with me to the East Coast. I did manage to make it through the two days of my internship while my headcold was warming up in the batting cages. In case I haven’t mentioned it before, my internship is in the development department of a small indie film company, which means I read scripts and pitches all day long.

In doing so, I have identified several words you should NEVER use if you want the person in my position to pass your idea along:

1) Vampires
2) Conspiracy
3) Vampire-conspiracy
4) Al-Qaeda
5) Based on true events from my own life

On the positive side, made sure to include a cover letter, make sure to consult your good friend spell check, and make sure not to begin, "CHOAS!!"

Using the very sophisticated above formula, I managed to eliminate virtually every offering except the ones about lesbians (one contributor advised us, “they’re really hot right now, especially with straight men”). Those the development director nixed, cuz the company already has a picture in post-production about lesbians.

Then, right at the end of the workday yesterday, the Barry Bonds of headcolds finally stepped to the plate, wound up, and smacked me in the face with its baseball bat. Homerun! Big surprise.

The bottom line is, my face hurts, and, to give you the full mental picture, I'm wearing my ketchup-colored fleece pajamas & my glasses and basking in the comforting presence of Rachel Ray on the Food network. Thank god for the bare-bones basic cable that came with the apartment. No Iron Chef America though, and that's too bad. Just from the two episodes I saw on the plane ride, I discovered I could totally develop a crush on the chairman.

This is the new twinkie defense, apparently, by the way: this Homeland Security pervert's lawyer says he was depressed. Is sending 14 year old girls porn what you do when you need a little pick-me-upper? But I guess we should endeavor to be supportive. After all, these guys have a very stressful job to bungle at every opportunity.

April Fools week?

Faced with the prospect of a Hamas-led Palestinian authority, Israel elects a center-LEFT government;

AND, Tom DeLay decides to retire rather than risk running again and losing;

AND, Josh and Donna finally get it on? It's enough to make a sane person look for flying bananas, and other signs that the universe is ripping in two.

When I finally stumbled home from my horrendous red-eye flight Sunday morning, I moaned to still sleeping Mr. Ben, "I'm done with the Southwest! I want nothing more to do with the Southwest! Did you hear me? Finished! Finito! -- What are those ingredients for on the table?"
And he replied, "Refried beans."

Now that I've made double portions of refried beans, accomplished in true frontierswoman style by mashing the beans by hand with a heavy wooden spoon, NOW I'm officially done with the Southwest. Except the eating of it.