Boo!

An evil restaurant poisoned me almost a week ago. My recovery's been pretty rocky. The best part is I keep getting more information as to the things I can't eat. The list now consists of:

- caffeine
- alcohol
- fruit
- vegetables
- dairy
- anything sugary
- anything spicy
- fiber
- fat

At one point, I interrupted the nurse to tell her, "I'm a vegetarian, and I'm swiftly running out of food." Seriously, how many meals of simple carbs can one person eat?

To the list I have to add -- after some disasterous experimentation -- Excedrin. I tried taking some for a headache brought on by not drinking caffeine; my stomach exploded. Apparently stomachs don't like aspirin when they're feeling sensitive.

Not all is lost. Though I did end up staying home today, coddling my stomach, trying to woo it back with saltines, soup, and bland pad thai, I broke the 300 barrier on my book. I am officially on page 302. At what point the head of Knopf will call me, begging to sign me to a three-book deal and a six-figure advance, I can only guess. And I've been reading Freakonomics, a nice follow up to The Tipping Point, which I finished last weekend. Both are pretty easily digestible, the vegetable udon of social science books. Still, I hardly read any nonfiction except for the news; doing so feels like something of an accomplishment. Take THAT, gender stereotypes!

Oh, and speaking of stereotypes -- and some serious dumbquattery -- did you happen to see this study showing that short people are less smart than tall people? I could actually discuss the flaws in the reasoning -- like to say, for example, that the [taller than average] people running the study didn't discuss whether, since people on average are taller than they used to be, we're smarter than we used to be -- but I'd rather just say that the findings are clearly impossible because everyone knows jews are not, on average, tall.

Dumbquat is my new favorite word, coined in honor of a fuckwit who broke my friend's heart. But it may be applied liberally.

this birthday brought to you by O. Henry

Set up: Mr. Ben the Birthday Boy had been told by his father to hold Monday evening for a special birthday surprise. Expecting dinner at a fancy restaurant, I am in the office dressed all fancy-pants, waiting for word to trickle to me as to where to go.

Lunchtime, Mr. Ben g-chats me with the trickle.

1:24 PM Benjamin: ester! sweetie.
me: hi babydoll
Benjamin: hiya. just talked to my father.
me: hi :) whassup? and? and? did i dress up for nothing?
Benjamin: he said, as i sort of feared that we're going to mother courage tonight
1:25 PM me: are you serious??
hahahhaahaa
Benjamin: yeah!
me: that's hilarious!
well, we did want to see it again
1:26 PM did you tell him we just saw it last night?
1:27 PM Benjamin: yes.
it's a little ridiculous. i also told him we wanted to see it again,.
1:28 PM apparently lisa got up at 4 in the morning in order to wait in line for us.
so there are only two tickets and we get them.

Apparently no Mother Courage is too much Mother Courage. Considering it was one of the most technically proficient, beautifully acted, emotionally searing theatrical productions I've ever seen (and for free!), I guess that's all right. Especially because, despite having torn up the asphalt to get back to NYC from Philly in order to make it to the show, Mr. Ben the Birthday Boy and I were thwarted by the subway weekend wackiness and missed the first half hour.

Still, two nights in a row of 3+ hours of Brecht might leave me a little loopy. If I come into work tomorrow tearing my cheeks with my fingernails while screaming in German about the bitter unfairness of the world, you'll know why.

ex-cult members. there's no reasoning with them.

R: So my annoying co-worker, the ex-cult member, asked if she could ask me something. I should have run screaming. Instead I said okay. And she said, "You're Israeli, right?" I tried to explain, "I'm an American Jew." And she said, "Same thing. So, as an Israeli ..." I stopped her: "I'm a Jew, but I'm not an Israeli. It's not the same thing. I don't agree with a lot of Israel's policies, and neither do most of my friends; we have a conflicted relationship with the country." She said, "Uh-huh, uh-huh. Okay, so as an Israeli, don't you get annoyed at all the horrible things your country does?"

Me: No!

R: Yeah! I shouldn't have even bothered but I tried to explain again, you know, cuz maybe third time's the charm. I said that historically a lot of people haven't been able to make the distinction and it's sort of dangerous. I told her I haven't even BEEN to Israel.

Me: Boy. You're a really bad Israeli.


It's been a busy week and there must be a hole in my pocket or something because I've been leaking money. Since Mr. Ben returned from Allemande, we've had a very full social calendar. It's actually been super fun. Courtesy of WNYC, I scored us two free tickets to an advance screening of The Illusionist. It turned out to be a middle-brow brew of middle-browness that falls apart the closer you look at it. However it's enjoyable enough in the during AND it provided me with a much-needed dose of my personal heartthrob, Edward Norton.

The next night, courtesy of my friend Erin, I scored us two free tickets to The Fantasticks, possibly the silliest, most middle-brow musical I've ever seen but also enjoyable enough in the during. Especially the first act, before it gets all Wizard of Oz on you, wagging its finger in your face for DARING to think that happiness might be found outside your own backyard. My friend Erin, of course, was awesome.

To compensate for these intellectually passive activities, I've also been doing the NYT crossword every day. I even managed to finish yesterday's (Thursday!!) with help from co-workers. Today's I couldn't dent. But life is long. I'm going to be ambitious and consistent about this. Just watch me. But first I'm going to Philly for a party weekend to sacrifice a few brain cells for the greater birthday good.

best perks

My corner of the company celebrated a 25th anniversary, in honor of which it decreed every employee would receive a gift. Having worked at offices before, I was not about to hold my breath over said "gift." My first office gave me a thermos with a packet of hot chocolate and $30 for Christmas; my second office gave me a pink slip. So my standards were pretty low.

This office? Gave me an iPod.

Me. iPod. It's even an ester-sized iPod, being a Nano. I don't want know what to call it, except maybe, "Exceeds expectations." And that's a pretty lousy name for something that could get stolen on the subway. I'll keep thinking.

Better still, this week all the bosses have been away at a conference. As per the tradition among the assistants during this annual event, a few of us took a long lunch break and went to see a movie. The new Woody Allen, which answers the question, What does Woody Allen hate more than women? The British!

Seriously, what is with his obsession with those suave, handsome, rich fellows across the pond? Are they the most anti-Woody Allen thing he could think of?

That aside, the movie was cute and enjoyable. I prefer his comedies, when they're funny anyway. And Scarlett Johannsen, though she seems really awkward at first, is mystifyingly sexy -- not so surprising, you might think, considering she has the body of Marilyn Monroe, BUT costume designers always drape her in unflattering clothing. She has to look great in these movies despite her clothing, and I admire that she's up for the challenge.

The movie more or less fried me for the rest of the day, productivity-wise. But it was fun.

somewhat un-PC question

Aren't these "opt out" men of recent NYT fame the new Welfare Queens? Except possibly worse, since at least the so-called welfare queens were usually raising children?

Part of me sympathizes with these fellows. Their skill sets having gone obsolete, they don't feel compelled to work simply for the sake of working. Certainly not having them clogging the pool of job applicants helps more motivated other folks. And they're not hanging out on street corners with 40s, or playing game after game of Grand Theft Auto; they're playing pianos, writing bad novels, having a grand old time.

I enjoyed being unemployed. Far be it from me to begrudge anyone else their early retirement.

But. This article strikes a very interesting tone, in my opinion, staying verrrrry carefully this side of judgement. Is that because the subjects are generally middle-of-the-road white men, men who put the I Am in American? Why isn't the government passing legislation intended to get them from welfare to work? And their poor wives! Where are they in this tale of sloth? While I don't agree with this Huff Poster's cry of sexism, I do think the piece is subtly trying to incite hysteria of a specific kind. White men! In America! Aren't being productive!

Only Laguna Beach type women can get away with being entirely self-indulgent. The vast majority of women work, either outside their homes or inside them or both. Now, an article about WOMEN that showed large numbers of them drifting out of the capitalist system not to have babies or to be wives but to cultivate deadend artistic ambitions and lie around -- what would that look like?

Can you spell 'Schadenfreude'?

M-E-L G-I-B-S-O-N.

The rest of the news of the past week has been so grim, the revelation that when Gibson was arrested for speeding under the influence, he cursed out his captors, called one officer "sugar tits," attempted to piss himself, attempted to run away, and, most notably, finally abandoned all pretense of not being an anti-semitic asshat. "Fucking Jews," he ranted to the cops, and that's just the beginning -- please help yourself to the police report, linked above.

In short, he took the mask off and put the white hood on.

Abe Foxman condemned him, of course; more interestingly, so did Ari Emanuel, the power-agent represented by Jeremy Piven on Entourage. This leads the cognoscenti to ask, when they're done chuckling: will Hollywood abandon him to his shame, despite Mel's recent mega-success? Or will studio heads, regardless of their personal religious affiliation, choose the allure of the bottom line over the demands of their conscience?

My money's on the money winning out, of course. But it will be fun to watch Mel spend some time eating (kosher) crow. What do you think he'll do to try to convince people he's changed his fuckhead ways? Perhaps he'll be prescribed the Hollywood version of penance: make three miniseries about the Holocaust and one documentary about sexual harrassment.

It's been a hard week in Lake Woebegone for the chosen people. With Israeli airstrikes killing Lebanese civilians at a frightening rate and no end to the violence in sight, Al Qaeda demanding worldwide retaliation against Jews wherever you find them, and one man in Seattle having proven himself eager to do his part, how can you not want to hide under the bed? At least the prospect of mocking Mel in company gives me a reason to leave the apartment.

your face = your life

This MyHeritage site is better than the best web site ever because in addition to being frivolous, entertaining, and a first-class time sucker (all of which any contender for "better than best web site ever" would have to be) it also answers the vital question we face throughout our lives: what celebrity do you most resemble?

Depending on the picture, I resemble: both Olsen twins, Scarlett Johannsen, Heidi Klum, Bobby Fisher, Alexis Bledel, Cristina Ricci, Oscar Wilde, Rachel Corrie, Michelle Rodriguez, The Rock, Reese Witherspoon, Sally Field, Billy Bob Thorton, Kris Kristofferson, Claudia Schiffer, David Carradine, AND Colin Firth. ReMARKable! Did you even know those people looked alike? Me neither! Imagine what it would be like to get them all in a room together. (Just squint hard at my face and I'll assume that's what you're doing.)

I burst out laughing when it delivered "Rachel Corrie" as a result. I feel kinda bad about that. A friend of mine at work tried it and got that she resembled YASSIR ARAFAT. He was in among the movie starlets and Hollywood nymphs. Hilarious! My friend found it disturbing. More soothingly, but incredibly, in the very same picture she also looked like Meryl Streep.

Sad that in no picture do I resemble Kate Winslet. Deep in my heart of hearts, that's what I kinda wanted. Still, Heidi Klum and Billy Bob Thornton. I should consider myself lucky.

but my heart, maria! but my heart!

I may have physically left the Entertainment industry, yet sometimes my fingers still clutch at the air where a copy of Variety should be and I thirst for utterly irrelevant information about movies. For example: we seem to have been inundated with "blockbusters" this summer, even worse than usual. As I haven't ventured out to spend $11 for Death By Superhero IV every weekend, from my perspective it's all been kind of a blur. Today I wondered, How have they been doing? Clearly none has tanked, or we'd know about it; which succeeded, though, and which were the kind of disappointments that get you fired while you're in the maternity ward?

In case you're as weirdly interested in these things as I am, I gathered the data. No, no, don't thank me. I'm increasing your dork quotient by .45 every minute you spend reading this.

#1) Surprisingly, despite its mediocre reviews and what I had thought was a lukewarm reception here in America, the record holder for 2006 is The Da Vinci Code. Closer examination of the numbers explains it: the stupid Catholic conspiracy movie that ended up pulling its punches only made $214 million at home. Its standing in the charts comes from the whopping $740 million it made from the Akiva Goldsman-loving hordes of people worldwide who were desperate to have their beloved religion challenged -- except not too much.

#2) Pirates of the Caribbean II, starring Keira Knightley's ribcage, Mr. Squidface, a translucent Orlando Bloom, and some promising young unknown fellow who's wearing a lot of makeup for some reason, has drawn a whopping $326 million so far domestically and HALF A BILLION DOLLARS worldwide. Some studio should really sign that newbie playing the pirate -- I think he's going places.

#3) X-Men: The Last Stand $232 mil here, $439 out there.

#4) Mission Impossible III: $133 domestically, $373 worldwide.

#5) Superman Returns: $179 domestically, $289 worldwide.

While these movies aren't done running yet, it's fair to say though that their momentums are set. Superman Returns is probably not going to stage a sudden, violent comeback to challenge Ron Howard's work of surpreme nonsense for first place, for example. To know more deeply who's a winner, who's a loser, though, you need more info. Making $200-some million dollars is a huge achievement, UNLESS you cost that much to make. Let's check budgets.

#1) Production budget: $125 million. That doesn't even include advertising which, as we all know, essentially rented out Times Square as its bitch/billboard for two weeks prior. Let's assume, oh, $40 million for that. That takes the budget up to $165, which means that domestically the film only eked out $49 million in profit. If not for those Frenchmen and Ghanains who needed their faith not so much shaken as lightly stirred, Tom Hanks would never work in this town again.

#2) Production budget: $225 million. Wow. Can we stop and think about that for a second? Wow. I've never heard of a movie costing that much to make. That's how much Catherine the Great would spend, maybe -- except, instead of the Winter Palace, you end up with 2.5 hours of celluloid pirate shenanigans. They've spent on advertising, too, but not as much as the Da Vince folks. Let's assume $25 million. That puts the domestic profit at $76 million.

#3) Budget: $210 million. Jesus! Those are still Marie Antoinette levels, and we saw what happened to her. Assuming $25 million for advertising, it actually LOST $3 million and was saved only by the grace of those spend-happy audiences abroad.

#4) Budget: $150. It only made $133 here! That means, even before you factor in advertising, MI:3 was in the red by a significant amount. Shameful.

#5) Budget: $260. Excuse me, I have to wipe off the monitor -- my head just exploded. Who decided to bet the farm on this dutiful, mediocre remake of what's considered a classic in the genre? Even factoring in worldwide grosses, this one has only barely broken even. Oops, wait -- factoring in advertising, it probably hasn't broken even at all. Astounding.

The last movie I saw in theaters, by the way, hasn't done too shabbily by itself even with competition from these monsters. Inside Man made $88.5 domestically and $185 worldwide, but only cost $45. Let's assume $10 for advertising. That comes out to a respectable $33.5 in domestic profit. AND it was good.

There's a moral to this story somewhere, kiddies. Let me know if you find it (and if you discover the name of that delightful up-and-coming swashbuckler! Let's just hope he doesn't get typecast as fey. Then he'll never get work, poor kid.)

a holman in my heart

Seemingly another run-of-the-mill summer flick, Aniston and Vaugn's The Break-up actually holds a box-office record. Spokespeople claim that it has the highest three-day opening ever in the United States for a romantic comedy that was released in June.

In other news, I hold the record for being the only person who has sat in my room with the lights off watching Simpsons dvds and eating Choco Tacos during the month of June.

The reclusive Eva is back, just in time for summer! Enjoy this limited time offer while supplies last.

So, I turned 24. One of my coworkers draped a shiny metallic birthday sign on the wall by my desk to give everyone who walked by a clue what to say to me instead of just pretending they don't see me checking gmail. Another dropped by to tell me that my birthday was nothing compared to hers, which this year fell on 6/6/06 -- she was so preoccupied with potential apocalypse she ended up celebrating by watching An Inconvenient Truth. By herself.

As I had a more run-of-the-mill sort of day, we decided to take a totally normal two hour lunch and go to Tabla. We brought one of the fellows from this site to help bolster our hoity-toity NYC restaurant cred.

When the chips were down though he failed us: he didn't know what "cru" was either. For a while we played the menu version of Balderdash, all offering our wackiest guesses. Short for "crudite"? Short for "cru d'etat"? A miniature chocolate rowing team (served on a boat, of course!)? Jay-Z's posse? To relieve the confusion, I ordered it in my haughtiest tone of voice and was relieved to discover: cru is hip for delicious. Saying any more would spoil the surprise.

The food was amazing, very Iron Chef (which I'm kinda hooked on), and since it's restaurant week, 3 courses only cost $24.07. Then I hung out with friends, but would the almighty Ruth Reichl describe my friends as "impressively offbeat" and "so powerful, original and unexpected that they evoke intense emotions"? Case closed.

sap sticks to your hands

I opened my mail today to see the face of a tall, skinny, white woman draped with something translucent and bedecked with flowers. She looked very pleased, perhaps because she had just learned from the accompanying text that "DREAMS ARE POSSIBLE!"

Not if you've just been killed by a rocket fired by someone in an adjoining country who doesn't know you yet cheerfully hates you on principle; but if you're a typical tall skinny white woman? Sure, why not. On that note, I have to wonder why Israel is bothering bombing the middleman, as it were. Yes, Lebanon serves as Hezbollah's happy host. If Syria and Iran are funding the crazies, though, you have to assume the craziness won't stop until you attack them. Of course that might be suicide, but there's a certain nobility (not to mention efficiency) in trying to destroy the nerve center, as opposed to just hacking at tentacles and not caring what innocents you hit along the way.

I'm not sure how many metaphors I mixed there; let's just move on. I was going to talk about weddings! They're way easier to make light of than war, especially when cities you get really nostalgic for are being targeted. ("Dear Sir or Madam Hezbollah: Perhaps you know that your rockets are hitting Haifa. Haifa is a very pretty, apolitical city, and Jewish-Israelis and Arab-Israelis have a record of getting along well inside it. Also there are Bahi gardens. Have you been? They're splendid, almost as splendid as the beaches. Please aim elsewhere. Sincerely yours, An Infidel.")

One of the charming women in my book club -- which basically consists of six post-menopausal women named Jane, and me -- gave me a copy of I Do, But I Don't: Walking Down the Aisle Without Losing Your Mind. Author Kamy Wicoff struggles in retrospect with all of the societal nonsense that surrounded her wedding like The Fog, rendering obscure her feminist objections to the process. Essentially Wicoff, having been a relatively typical bride despite herself, is trying to atone for that sin by writing about it. Since I'm sure she received a hefty advance and got, you know, published in the first place, I'm a little skeptical: isn't she basically trying to have her wedding cake and eat it too?

Still, Wicoff comes off as an honest narrator. She exposes her flaws as well as her decision-making processes as she attempts to retrace her steps from Thinking Feminist Person to Drone Bride #1,140,562,311. It's interesting reading for me. Some of it doesn't apply since luckily my mother, a party-planning goddess, has taken charge of everything stressful; and I'm young, and not a lot is expected of me as a Woman, let alone a Wife in Training, yet. But a lot of it rings true. The nahrishkeit about the diamond ring, for example. Oy! Who needs it. The idea of carrying your wealth around with you on your hand makes me tired, and that's before I even start to think in terms of carats and cartels.

It is odd, being so young a person and having a wedding in the works. It means that in many respects the thing seems like a second bat-mitzvah. I get to make some decisions; my mother retains most of the control and the veto power. On the other hand, the resulting event, I'm sure, will be more memorable and classy than anything I could arrange, and we have compromised on most things that matter. And I do get to occupy myself with wondering Who Will Come to the Wedding?, an inversion of the question I used to ask my morbid teen self, Who Will Come to my Funeral? That morbid part of me still wonders to what extent the guest lists will overlap.

crazy vampire doctor and his blown-up house

I'm not sure if this awesome story made it out of New York and I'd hate for you folks not lucky enough to be here to miss it. Precis: an Eastern-European immigrant, Dr. Bartha, marries, moves to America, buys a house, succeeds. Has two little girls. House appreciates in value. It's the American dream!

However. (Cue the ominous music.) Things begin to go sour between the doctor and his wife. Husband is dark, angry, abusive. His harrassment includes decorating the house with swastikas. Wife, whose Dutch Jewish family was persecuted in Nazi-occupied Holland, cannot stand it anymore and moves with her daughters to a tiny apartment in Washington Heights. Begins divorce proceedings. House is valued at $12 million. Wife feels entitled to part of that money. Judge agrees.

Dr. Bartha says, Over my dead body. And, with a consistency I frankly find refreshing, next thing you know, Dr. Bartha's charred body is being dragged from the 62nd street rubble. Not dead, though -- those who want to die never do. They end up wasting away, increasingly bitter and frail, until their expiration comes not as relief but as the ironic nail in the coffin. (Viz., Dorothy Parker.) Besides, in my professional opinion, Dr. Bartha is a vampire, and it takes more than some gas and brick to kill one of those.

The other great spat currently accesible over the internet is between Katha Pollit and Ana Marie Cox. As you may or may not be aware, Cox panned Pollit's new book last weekend in the NYT book review. Pollit responded today with an Op-Ed: "Thank You for Hating My Book." Now you might think these intelligent, talented, professional women were arguing about the state of feminism in this country. The second wave vs. the third wave! The old vs. the young! The rational vs. the sexy! The past vs. the future! In actuality, I think the disagreement is more subtle (and the review less damning) than it seems.

Let's add it up. Ana Marie Cox once helmed the almighty site, Wonkette. Was funny, nasty, raunchy, smart, but was not confined to Sex and the City and so was also taken seriously. +5
Cox left Wonkette at the height of her popularity. +2
Wrote a disappointing book that didn't end up doing very well, causing people to wonder, Was she overrated in the first place? And why aren't those new Wonkettes very funny? -2
Hasn't done much since the book to resume vaunted place in spotlight. -1
In review, bashes "feminism" while calling herself a feminist. References high heels and Hilary Clinton, bra burning, and other cliches. Tries to be snarky, yet profound; kinda fails at both. Does, however, make the valid point that people just aren't on the Pollit wavelength anymore; acknowledges war on contraception/abortion; nods at complexity of situation. 0
(Bonus points for being sexy AND funny: +3)

Total score = 7

Katha Pollit writes for The Nation and has been around, making herself heard as unapologetic and intelligent, for decades, without getting written off as a Crazy. +5
She spoke at Swarthmore though and actually wasn't that great. -1
Has written books, articles, poetry, op-eds up the wazoo. +2
Her most recent book was panned (or didn't you hear?) -1
Although she then wrote a funny piece about the experience, which takes some serious can't-buy-'em-online balls of steels. Also, her title "Virginity or Death!" is a reference, whether inadvertent or not, to the fantastic Eddie Izzard "Cake or Death!" routine. +2

Total score = 7

Holy smokes, it's a tie! What are we going to do? Examine the funny in their respective recent works to see who really holds sway? No! This is America! The bottom line is THE BOTTOM LINE: the Amazon sales rank. Virginity or Death is currently #423. Dog Days? #137,949. Today, at least, Katha Pollit wins the title. Better luck next time, Cox.

music

I realized this evening, as I sat at one of those tiny black CBGB tables that will soon be a dimly-lit memory, that the only music shows I see in the city are those of my friends who need bodies in their audience. There are worse things than seeing your friends do what they love, brazenly; I'm not complaining. Tonight it was my friend Erin and her sci-fi harp band, the Telepathic Space Rats. Despite the line around the block of mini-punks to see 30 Degrees to Mars next door -- I think that the name the skinny white boy with the mohawk and the "no fur" button told me -- she had a good crowd. Unfortunately, it included all these people I used to work with at the Very Important Talent Agency: actors I last saw a year ago when I left that wretched place, actors I never expected to see again.

One of these actors once, when displeased with me in the voiceover booth because I wouldn't let her audition for something she wasn't scheduled for, grabbed my hair. That's not something I forgive, unless maybe the perpetrator is a six year old. MAYBE. Still, I was polite and friendly. When she asked me what I was doing now, and I told her publishing, her face blanked over, like the page had turned.

Well, she might not be impressed that I'm no longer in entertainment, but I'm in employee heaven. I don't have to ask anyone's permission to go to the bathroom! People occasionally say "thank you" when I do something for them! Nobody even THINKS of touching my hair. I have no regrets.

Still, when the next actor who asked what I was doing now, I replied, "I wrote a novel, got engaged, and now I'm working in publishing." Cuz it couldn't hurt to be precise, could it?

"my goal is - i'd like a career or something"

Reality Bites isn't even my favorite Isn't Winona Ryder Annoying? movie. That would be Heathers, followed by Girl, Interrupted, and maybe even Beetlejuice. In my personal teen movie pantheon, it comes in way under Empire Records and Clueless -- although, yes, way above Say Anything. John Cusack is cute, sure, but there's no chemistry at all between him and his weird-looking love interest. And the whole dad going to prison subplot? What is that about? The best scene in that flick is the last one and I have to admit I still of that from time to time when I'm on a plane.

Fun fact: Winona Ryder's boss in Reality Bites, the host of the unbelievably low-tech morning show, though, does play the dad who goes to jail in Say Anything. I think he's in every movie this late 80s - early 90s era has to offer.

Fun fact II: "Baby I Love Your Way" by peter frampton plays a pivotal role in this movie as well as in that other, way better john cusack one, High Fidelity.

But the uneven Reality Bites does feature some super quotable quotes and a fantastic Janeane Garofolo (with bangs!) Just fast-forward through the Ben Stiller courtship scenes.

My job continues to be lovely, even more so since I've received my very first paycheck. I haven't been able to conceive of it as permanent yet -- time will do that for me. Very slowly, I imagine. If nothing goes wrong.

dude. so proud (of you)

In honor of Pride weekend, though I didn't get to see any parades or strip down on a club dance floor to the intoxicating sounds of 80s Madonna, I got to see the almighty Alison Bechdel at the NYGLTQ center. The room was draped in floor-to-ceiling rainbows for the occasion and it just shuddered with anticipation as all the sensibly-clad audience members waited for the Dyke to Watch Out For herself to read to us.

She really is incredible, in case you don't know. When someone asked whether she bases her comic strip characters on a real life queer community in Vermont, she said, "No. It's just me up there. They're all my imaginary friends."

Her new graphic-novel memoir is a morbid, totally funny examination of her growing up butch in contrast to her distant, demanding dad who ran a funeral home, taught English literature, forced all of his children to become slaves to his fierce opinions about interior design, and -- Alison eventually learns -- had sex with boys. It's intense stuff done with a light touch.

Also in the spirit of the weekend, I met for lunch a boy I last saw ten years ago, when we were both at camp together. He found me via a mass email my new publishing company sent out, a sort of "let's welcome the new employees to the family!" thing, and he emailed to ask if I was the ester he remembered. (Existential question: Am I? Essential answer: Well, yes. Same height, too!)

This boy was one of my first in a short string of -friends, as well as my second kiss. Now he's gay. He looks about 30, which is more alarming, and he's really sweet. We had fun picnicing in Union Square, catching each other up on our narrative arcs from the past decade.

And what, I asked, does he remember of little ester from way back when? He pauses to think for a minute, then replies, "You were pretty cynical for a twelve year old."

ages and ages

The combination of no internet in the apartment and a full-time job has not been kind to my blogging intentions. There's so much to relate, too. For instance, I have set a RECORD for wedding dress shopping. It was such an amazing record, Guiness couldn't even contain it; they had to issue a whole new book, exclusively for me, and containing nothing but this achievement.

Wedding dress shopping time, from start to finish: 2 hrs, 0 minutes.

Mind you, the dress we found is no "it has a skirt and a top: it'll do" satisfizer dress. It's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen. Among its other qualities, it's criticism-proof: it faced an array of critics -- Mr. Ben, my mother, my father, my grandmother, my uncle, and even my oldest friend (and her new girlfriend) -- and emerged absolutely unscathed. There is nothing to say about this dress except that it is beautiful. It's even NOT WHITE and nobody cares, because that is how outstanding it is.

It'll be a year or so before we see each other again, my dress and I. The little fancy frock store where we found it, with the help of a career saleslady (my favorite kind!), is kindly storing it for us until time comes to cut it down to my size. It is crazy to realize that this wedding shebang is over a year away, when so much feels like it has be done RIGHT NOW.

Meanwhile I have also spent a week and a half at my new job, whose loveliness cannot be compared to anything I have known, except the summer I spent interning at Americans United for the Separation of Church and State. As I did there, in this office, I have freedom and responsibility, intelligent people to talk to, and my own computer. The atmosphere is civil and civilized. Apart from being over-airconditioned, in fact, I have nothing bad to say about it at all. Cross your fingers that that continues.

luckily flourescent lighting is a good look for me

I feel like Goldilocks. The first office was too big, the second office was too small ... the third office? Comes with SNACKS. Free snacks, in the kitchen! And I have my own desk! Fo shizzle. There's my name on it and everything. And when I answer the phone, I can say ANYTHING I WANT. Granted, I haven't really tested that, but for the first time in my employment history, no one has given me direction.

It's kind of astounding. I've never been treated this well. They took me out to lunch my first day, and get this. No one has yelled at me yet. I know! Crazy! I can't explain it. I'm just doing my best not to fuck it up.

still here ...

I'm not starting the new job until Wednesday, as it turns out. I'm pretty excited, about as excited as I could be, I think, to be exchanging a subsidized 2-day workweek for a regular old 40 hour one. I don't feel comfortable talking about it in too much detail, except to say I'll be an editorial assistant at a publishing company in the city. I'm going to be a paper-pusher! A wordsmith! It is a dream come true, and the cherry on the sundae is that I'll be near Trader Joe's.

Still, I have a couple more breakdowns scheduled before I'm cool with everything that's happening. I'm never allowed to forget about the impending wedding for more than 48 hours at a stretch because I'm guaranteed a call from one of my parents within that time frame with a new question or comment. I can't hold their excitement against them -- of couse I'd rather they be thrilled than passive & sullen; and Mr. Ben and I are going to be in DC this coming weekend to encourage them.

But it's a lot to digest.

At Mr. Ben's law firm's clambake yesterday at a majesterial estate in Larchmont, a fellow who is a year closer to his wedding than I am to mine had lots of advice for me, much of it delivered as he held me by the shoulders. He is attempting to coordinate an interfaith, 400 person mega-marriage in New Jersey. Good luck, friend!

I am not so ambitious. I did, however, wonder idly about how many romance novels I'd have to write and sell to afford a gorgeous 1770s farmhouse on Long Island Sound, complete with barn cum guest house, a croquet lawn, kayaks, a pool table, a ping pong table, and the means to offer my hundred guests a raw bar, a regular bar, and a buffet lobster dinner.

anyung! gobias!

There should be a word that captures the feeling of laughing while feeling guilty about it, laughing even when you KNOW it's kind of wrong. There probably is a word, actually, in German. The Germans have all the good words.

That magical German word would capture exactly how it feels to watch Arrested Development, which I'm doing now, courtesy of Netflix, by the DVD-full. Part of it is in celebration of new status!: ALMOST EMPLOYED. Yes, you read that right. If all goes well, I start my new job on Monday!

For the record, I received that job offer on 6/6/06. I wonder if that means this new job is cursed, or somehow related to the Beast slouching towards Bethlehem to be born. ... Well, as long as it comes with health insurance, who can complain?

6/6/06

Apparently today's the day that the apocalypse is supposed to start. Sixth day of the sixth month in the six year of the new millenium.

Yesterday I was tense from 5:30 AM (when I woke up) until I went to sleep, so tense that today my shoulder muscles are SORE -- and I was just waiting to hear about a job. I wish I'd realized we were waiting for the Beast today; I could have consolidated. Maybe both will happen! Maybe I'll get the job offer, and then the world will end. As long as it's not vice versa.

I'll be pretty upset if it turns out I spent my last full day on earth with my shoulders hunched up next to my ears, staring at my cell phone, knowing that a strong wind would be enough to start me crying. Could have been worse, I guess? (How could it have been worse?)

this war makes me tired

The WP is now reportering, in their reportery way, that we no longer have anything to worry about, here in America. Those of us turned into despairing head-shakers of the behavior of our soliders in the middle east can finally relax our neck muscles, go take in a movie or something. The problems of behavior -- which is to say, the massacres like Haditha, the prison tortures like Abu Ghraib, the shootings of pregnant civilian women racing to hospitals, as just happened yesterday -- NONE OF THAT will remain to make us uncomfortable, after the marines watch a slideshow about "ethics" and "morals."

Oh no, you say. (You skeptic.) A slideshow? Are you SURE that's going to do the trick?

Ah, but this is not just any slideshow. Not like the sexual harrassment awareness luncheons at your office where everyone rolls their eyes, searches through the free sandwiches for the one they really like, and waits til it's over. No: this is a slideshow that will emphasize "'core values' training in how to operate professionally and humanely."


If soldiers in active duty don't understand DON'T KILL CIVILIANS, what on earth are you going to put in a slideshow to get through to them?


Okay, I feel a little better. Jesus god, this war is exhausting. Sarcasm falls in the face of it.

The truth is, I feel for the soldiers -- they're in an impossible position, embedded in an increasingly hostile community, facing an invisible enemy that never weakens, knowing that the government that sent them there has no plan for how to get them out and knowing that support for their mission back home has dwindled. That must suck. But you know who I feel worse for? The increasingly hostile community that's stuck in the middle of what may turn into a civil war, patrolled by soliders growing ever more trigger-happy and stressed out.

I just finished reading Assassination Vacation by Sarah Vowell and I'm currently reading Plan B: Further Thoughts on Faith by Anne Lamott. Both women take their frustration at the president, specifically at his drawing us into this unwinable war, and mold interesting books out of it: in Vowell's case, she takes the reader on a guided tour through the three successful presidential assassinations in American history (Lincoln, Garfield, McKinley). Lamott struggles to love Bush the way Jesus loves him or, failing that, to be funny.

If you're as tired and cynical at this point as I am, I recommend both books. They may have been written as coping mechanisms, but reading them works as one too.