national airport cell phone waiting area, i thought i knew you

oh, national airport cell phone waiting area! just when i thought we had really gotten to know each other, this happens. we've spent some quality time together, you and i ... listening to music or npr, staring aimlessly out the window, waiting for the phone to ring. (this actually sounds a lot like how The Most Annoying Coworker Ever spends his days. curious.)

but i never expected this kind of behavior from you, national airport cell phone waiting area. and at first i didn't believe it. when the middle-aged, bleached-blond, white-washed jeans woman stepped out of the driver's seat of her small car, opened the passenger's side door and began fiddling with the seat of her companion, i figured he couldn't figure out how to adjust his seat. and when she reclined his seat back all the way, i figured it was going to be a long wait or he was feeling ill. even when she climbed in on him, i still didn't fully realize what was going on. but then the door shut. and as she flipped that dried-out, bleached-blond hair over her shoulder and went in to kiss his neck, and as his hands started running up and down her back ... i lost all respect for you, national airport cell phone waiting area. truly.

you made me look like a fool in front of the people in the car next to me, to whom my head-bobbing must have looked ridiculous, as i kept having to adjust my line of vision so i couldn't see any of this grody middle-aged making out in the car next to me. and when i beeped my horn after b finally called and i was backing out, hoping to remind the pair making out in the chevy cobalt that there happen to be other people in the national airport cell phone waiting area, i'm sure everyone else in the lot thought i was a total weirdo.

but i hope you know the truth, national airport cell phone waiting area. i was simply trying to enjoy some quiet time with you before b arrived, just some me and you time, some npr and staring out the window. and i didn't think that was too much to ask for.

an open letter to the crazy woman that verbally accosted me in giant this afternoon

dear crazy woman:

although i did not get the chance to explain this to you today after you verbally assaulted me at giant, you should know that i parked my grocery cart in front of the stale, iced donuts and left to maneuver the chip aisle for doritos for b (how else, i ask, will he comfort himself when i'm gone this week for nephew-mania 2007?), in no way whatsoever to piss you off. in fact, as i buzzed into the unbelievably crowded chip aisle - the one into which i had decided not to bring my cart for fear of inconveniencing a whole aisle of people - i did not at first realize that i was the recipient of the random bitching. you see, i chose to park my cart in front of the stale, iced donuts because i thought, gosh, i definitely won't be in anyone's way here! obviously, no one is buying these gross chocolate and sprinkled stale things that have been sitting there since yesterday morning. no problems. la la la.


and also, if i'm telling you the truth, i didn't hear 90% of what you actually said, primarily because i truly had no idea that someone could be so angry about my blocking the stale, iced donuts. i thought for sure that someone had taken your cart, or had ran over your foot with a cart, or had taken your cart and then run over your foot with it.

but as i returned to my cart, noticing it had been shoved out into traffic, and seeing you still grumbling under your breath, i realized that, indeed, i was the recipient of your wrath. and i didn't even think about how much you, of all shoppers, so did not need to be buying half a dozen stale, chocolate, sprinkled donuts (and maybe i'm not one to talk, but i wasn't the one buying that shit) until after you barked - I HAD TO MOVE YOUR CART - and then scowled at me for an uncomfortable length of time without even blinking.

after avoiding your glare by noticing that you really didn't need to be buying donuts, i also noticed, you were taken aback by my response. nothing more than so i heard as i walked away.

even still, i didn't quite realize how bad the things you were obviously saying were until, obviously rattled by the fact that i wouldn't engage in your craziness, you said i ... i ... i revised my statement. i revised my statement to concern your behavior only, not necessarily you as a person. i ... i ...

now, this would have been the perfect time to turn around, and explain to you in no uncertain terms that i am not whatever the hell you called me and that, in fact, i was trying to be courteous to the 415 people in the chip aisle by leaving my cart aside. and perhaps even acknowledging that my behavior may have been somewhat inconsiderate and apologizing for my blockage of the donuts that would so shortly be blocking your arteries. and maybe if you weren't so obviously fucking crazy, i would have indulged you.

but i'm glad i just walked away. i'm glad i kept all my smug remarks and explanations to myself. i'm also glad that giant was particularly packed on this late sunday afternoon, and that a good portion of the 415 people in the chip aisle happened to hear your little rampage. i'm glad because this incident was so clearly about whatever crazy things are going on in your life that made it necessary for you to take out your anger on an anonymous shopper who left her cart in front of the day-old glazed donuts and inconvenienced you for all of 3 seconds.

crazy lady, i hope you're a religious woman. first of all, i love the idea of you telling your priest in confession or something that you lashed out at a random young lady at the grocery store. but more importantly, i hope you can come to see that my cart being parked in front of those donuts was most likely a sign from whatever higher being you believe in that it is high time to lay off the donuts.

sincerely,

s

i think cnn is officially dead to me

i go on vacation for a week, and all of a sudden (or not?), cnn.com is using 4th graders to write headlines:

Bertinelli no stranger to f-word, (fat)

first of all, how the hell is the diet program for some soap star from 30 years ago worthy of such prominence on cnn.com?

and if cnn.com was really so concerned with what the headline would've implied without the (fat) - i guess that she's a slut that knows a thing or two about fucking? - couldn't they just rewrite the damn thing? i don't know - perhaps

bertinelli has been fat for a while
people always call bertinelli fat, or
someone you've never heard of has long struggled with people calling her obese

would have been better options.

day four

here i am, in day four of what is supposed to be the glorious month off between fake lawyerdom and the last, irrelevant year of law school and a return to my could-not-be-less-mentally-challenging part-time job working with the-most-annoying-human-being-ever. day four, with the whole of august spread about before me like a blank slate.

this is essentially what i have done in the past 72 hours:

• approximately 48 loads of laundry
• unpacked 3 suitcases
• unloaded the dishwasher twice (after pretending for the first 24 hours that those dirty dishes didn't actually exist)
• actually answered a call from and engaged in a conversation with my crazy and judgmental grandmother
• tried to find everyone i've ever met on myspace
• spent 4 hours unsuccessfully googling one of our college friends (ben desarmeaux, where are you?! jesus.)
• checked my cell phone 1,566 times to make sure the ringer is on so i can hear it when The Call comes
• simpsonized myself, bob, his boss, another summer associate who i fucking hated, my nephews, and a couple of attorneys in my (hopefully, see above) firm that i thought would make good characters
• 3 days staring at the stack of articles on women's property rights in the 19th century wondering why the hell i decided to write on that (or any) topic
• 2 trips to the drycleaners
• grocery shopping at two different stores just because
  
• 2 wholly uneventful trips to target - i knew i shouldn't have glanced at the vacation-bloated credit card statement before i went
• pedicure that resulted in toes painted a shade of hot pink that the bottle totally did not accurately display
• 20 minutes staring at said toes thinking that i need to just repaint them but being too damn lazy to actually do it
• watched ej dance like the white girl she is
  
• reviewed my apartment building on aptratings.com
• reviewed our vacation spot on tripadvisor.com
• just checked my cell again to make sure the ringer is on (you know, The Call)
• 2 episodes of doctor phil (thank you, b, for not being one of those men who requires an extended stay at the dr. phil house)
• 3 trips to the post office
• 1 tour of a condo that i love and is perfect, but to which we are hesitant to commit (more on the hopefully-impending move into the representation-free district when the dust settles and we know we can/should do it)
• returned 4 library books i've been renewing since march and never cracked open.

if this is my life even until the end of august, i think i may actually lose my mind. i was really thinking that a few weeks of just running errands and putzing around online would be sweet, but actually it turns out it fucking sucks. i'm dying here, people. i've got no one to pester, no gossip in which to involve myself, no one to avoid getting work from, no fancy lunches with interesting people in 3 hours (although thank god i met rk for lunch tuesday, and actually engaged in meaningful conversation with someone), nada.

over a glass (or three) of the delicious l. mawby that arrived yesterday from michigan (truly the highlight of my week), i made b promise me that if i EVER told him i thought it'd be a good idea for me to not work and just stay home, he would pull out the emails i've sent him this week that he's been too busy to read (the gist of which are: SWEET BABY JESUS I'M SO BORED I MIGHT LOSE MY EFFING MIND) so i could remember that after 3 days of nothing, i couldn't take it.

dear god, i think i might actually be *looking forward* to returning to my part-time job. which makes it official: i have lost my mind.

on the bright side, as a simpsons character, i am a total babe.

the highest caliber

on an early winter day six and a half years ago, having been tapped to introduce a performer at my undergraduate college, i was practicing my schpiel in the car with my new boyfriend as we drove to campus. i had written the whole grant proposal to get this musician to michigan from israel, and my professor totally screwed me by not even letting me have a lesson with the guy. instead, apparently, he thought i'd be satisfied getting to introduce him at some recital. which was total bullshit. nonetheless, i wrote a great introduction, and was rehearsing it in the car with b right before the recital when, for some reason, i slipped into the eastern european accent i'd been goofing around with the day before over drinks ... right as i was getting to ... "he is a violist of the highest caliber ..." it was at a point for us when everything was still so new, when we were reveling in those little inside jokes, things we thought we might keep in our pockets for ages, but we didn't quite know for sure. and for some reason, when i said "of the highest caliber" in a crazy eastern european accent, it was the funniest thing either of us had ever heard. i remember driving past the D&W, laughing so hard i was crying, yelling to b that he should pull over because he was laughing so hard.

it's been a phrase for us that has always been hilarious.

but today, today it took a turn.

i was sitting in my k street office, listening to congressional testimony being given by b's boss on cspan radio that i knew he'd written, rummaging through breach of contract cases and minding my own business, when i heard it.

"the staff will be of the highest caliber."

it was like someone came into my office and handed me a box with all the progress we've made, with a map of how far we've come, and shoved it into my arms. suddenly, six years seemed like no time whatsoever. six years ago we were a couple of kids in kalamazoo, busting our guts over some stupid line in a stupid speech about a stupid musician that i said in a stupid accent. all of a sudden, here we are. i'm sitting in my k street office, he's written it into congressional testimony. shit, i wrote congressional testimony a few weeks ago.

how. did. this. happen.

this summer, for me, has been an exercise in walking assertively through doors i'd never thought would be opened for me. literally, figuratively ... it's all the same. but there was something about hearing that phrase on cspan radio. it was like someone asked me, as i was walking into a restaurant that i'd never pay for, whether i belonged. like a doubletake. it was something, i don't know what, but it got to me.

and now i'm wondering - how many more times will we make our powerful bosses utter that phrase just to amuse the other person? or will i utter it in court just for a grin? now it's a challenge - and now i love those two college kids in kalamazoo even more than i did before.

(b's editorial response to my first reading of this: "that is a blog of the highest caliber." indeed.)

man v. wild

it had all the ingredients for a perfect sunday afternoon: a tigers game, a bottle of chateau chantal, a bottle of our old friend chuck , the best steak sandwiches b has ever made and no work to do. but then it happened. b reached that predictable stage when he's a little buzzed where he says, hm, how about a cigarette?

so out onto the balcony we go, after i have adequately pounded on the sliding glass door to make sure there is no pigeon hanging out behind the table top we have leaning against our balcony wall (the pigeons were landing on the table, so we just took the top off). nothing. b follows me out, and i ask him to scooch the table top back a little further, because apparently the 3" gap we inadvertently left between the table and the wall was not too small for the pigeons. obviously, you see where this is going. he picks up the table, and there is obviously a pigeon back there.

awesome.

after regrouping (and hoping that the neighbors didn't hear me scream like a girl) (actually, who cares? i am a girl.) b decides to go back out, knock the table down and scare away the pigeon. i, of course, am concerned he may get a serious pecking, as is he, so he suits up. jacket, vest, hat, gloves, the whole nine yards. no one is pecking my beautiful husband, oh no. i gave him a quick kiss, told him good luck, and sent him into the battle field. he used the end of a broom to knock down the table top, and the pigeon scrambled but flew away. and then we saw it: the nest.

even fricking better.

so now obviously the pigeons are PISSED. daddy pigeon, we realize, has been sitting a couple balconies over this entire time. he's giving us the evil eye. and swearing at us under his breathe. meanwhile, b keep saying, if only we were italian, they'd be goners.*

at this point, i'm ready to throw in the hat. by that i mean, take our wine down to the courtyard and have a cigarette down there. and at first, b was with me. but as we're about to get on the elevator, he turns back.

dude, i'm just going to throw that nest away. i'll go out there, throw it in a trashbag, and be done with it.

are you KIDDING me?

no, i'm going to do it. or at least smash them or something so the pigeons will stay away.

ok, gross. no. what if the pigeon sees you?! they're going to peck the shit out of you. seriously.

s, you're being ridiculous. they're not going to peck me.

yes they are.

no they aren't.

yes. they. are.

ok, maybe they are.

let's just tell the management. we pay enough in rent for someone else to deal with this.

s wins. s also hopes that none of the neighbors have heard this bizarre argument that we've just had in the hallway from their apartments.

sitting down in the courtyard, we positioned our chairs so we could see our balcony. and it didn't take long before the pigeons started circling. eventually, momma hopped back onto the balcony, we hoped to kill the eggs and then leave, since we'd tampered with them or some shit. but no.

we got back to the apartment, and she was there sitting on the nest, daring us. we banged on the door a couple times, and she just yelled in to us, FUCK OFF ASSHOLES.

right after she called us assholes, b started to feel a little bad about the whole situation.

s, are we, like, impeding nature or something? i mean, she's just a bird with her eggs.

no we are not. nature doesn't count if it's gross. and that's gross.

fair enough.




*b has recently learned that italians eat pigeons.

chicago (i fell in love again)

as a kid, i thought chicago had to be the biggest city on earth. and i used to love that it touched my lake ... the lake i swam in every day, back in my little town. i remember holding my breathe as we drove through gary, thinking that it was some kind of moat, some protection for this beautiful city, so that only the people who really wanted to be in chicago could get there.

when i was in college, just a few hours east on I-94, chicago became something of a center for self-realization. it was staring down a terminal in o'hare as my high school boyfriend walked away that i knew that relationship was over. and where, a year later, i boarded my first (ok, only) flight to europe. it was after a daytrip to chicago, as a college boyfriend slept and i drove us back to kalamazoo in my crappy cavalier, that i looked over at him and thought, what the hell am i doing with this chump? and not just because he basically made me pay for everything all day. there were a lot of little things wrong with him, all of which added up to him just not being a man.

and then there was that perfect june afternoon in chicago, six years ago, sitting by the chicago river in the few hours between being dropped off after a long drive back from a two week music festival and catching a train back to kalamazoo, my instrument and luggage stuffed into a locker at the train station. in my mind, i remember this day like one of those pictures where one person is standing still and the whole world around her is buzzing by. having the hurt still fresh from being stood up (again) and left sitting on the steps in front of the building where i was staying until 2am waiting (again), ashamed (again) to return to my room and my roommate, i finally got it. sometimes no matter how much shit you put up with or how badly you want a relationship to work, it can't. or maybe even if it could, it isn't worth it. i realized i didn't want to spend my whole life standing still, waiting, while everyone around me ... lived their lives. a girl has to stand up for herself, and that guy wasn't a man either. more importantly, even if i bought his excuses (again) and somehow it worked out, i didn't really want to live the life i'd have with him anyway. i wanted to fall in line with the suited, happy chicagoans bustling between their highrise office buildings, follow them back to their jobs where they got to think and work hard and laugh with their smart coworkers - and i wanted to leave that instrument in the train station locker, along with everyone's goals and expectations for my music career. i wanted to tell someone that i wanted out, but i had no one (yet). i knew, or at least in hindsight i'd like to think i knew, that i'd find my place and it wouldn't have anything to do with that expensive hunk of wood back at the train station.

i haven't been to chicago since that afternoon. until last weekend.

leaving chicago this time was not on an amtrak back to kalamazoo with my instrument, but asking the bellhop for my luxury hotel to please whistle me a cab to o'hare ... sleeping on the sticky leather bench seat in the back through traffic, and asking the driver for a receipt (so someone else could pay for it) ... watching the skyline disappear under me as my lake glimmered in the evening sun under the plane.

it was like leaving home, and it hurt like hell.

i've had a crush on chicago for a long, long time... and that weekend was the first time i really thought i had a chance with her. she's not out of my league. we are so in the same league. i could get a job, and we'd have enough money to see the lake from our condo, we could spend a random saturday on the michigan avenue side of my lake, gazing out on that big old childhood friend, whose gravity is tangible, like a lasso around my gut. walking through the gold coast neighborhood, i could see us there, with a dog and a newspaper tucked under an arm, looking for a restaurant to sit in front of all afternoon. those were our people - the smart young smiley ones enjoying the big city but (more likely than not) still close enough to home home to visit on weekends. to be a part of both worlds - city and home home.

but b's career path, as unclear and windy as i'm sure it will be, will by my estimates be long confined to the beltway. i like it here, and we can find a neighborhood in this city where we'll be content, where we'll find restaurants to sit in front of and drink away a saturday afternoon (evidence: yesterday). sure, we won't be near my lake, but luckily b is more magnetic. his lasso around my gut has a much, much stronger pull.

did you hear that? it was my my last shred of hope that there is justice in america being torn out of my totally unsurprised hands

dear neglected internet,

let me first be clear: there is no love lost between myself and paris hilton. i think she's a terrible excuse for a twenty-something woman, and i frankly find it insulting that my generation is associated with her. but having said that, all she did was drive without a license a couple times after being caught driving drunk. and initially i thought her jail sentence was totally fair. teach that girl a lesson, right? i mean, don't tell me that girl doesn't have a fine, fine lawyer who knows damn well what a suspended license is.

but then.

but then, today, someone who exposed a mother fucking CIA agent for political reasons got his goddamn sentence commuted.

he exposed a CIA agent. and he is not even serving as much time as paris hilton.

you have got to be fucking kidding me.

i know, cry me a river.

am i really so busy that i can't spare a few moments for a blog? or that i can't be bothered to unzip my suitcase from last weekend's quick trip to michigan for a wine festival? or to do the four loads of laundry piled up by the washing machine? or put the iron or this morning's paper away? or drop off those shoes from zappo's we need to ship back at the nearest fedex store?

to be fair, i can't exactly skip those obligatory margarita-laden, four-hour happy hours - wherein i further charm people and convince them that i really should get an offer to come back after law school - to clean my apartment. or buy groceries. i mean, i have to get face time, right? and drink margaritas? and stumble out of the cab nearly drunk to make b dinner because it's past ten and he's just left work?

i've been stewing over a debriefing blog, where i plan to detail all the things i've learned over my summer vacation. but i can tell you one thing i've definitely already learned: i am definitely going to need to hire a cleaning service. for real.

an open letter to nascar

dear nascar,

let's be honest right out of the gate. i don't care for you. and even though rk will perhaps scowl at me for a few days after this revelation, i'm being honest. i don't like you. and b really doesn't like you.

but, i could. really. if you changed. and i have a few suggestions, a few ways i think you could broaden your appeal past the drunken southern white trash crowd.* b might reconsider. that is saying something.

let's make this a real sport.

option 1:
you know how nascar fans are always drunk? (yes, s, of course they're always drunk. they're watching cars drive around in circles for hundreds. of. miles. they'd have to be drunk. or, probably, they'd pull out that concealed weapon the 2nd amendment allegedly gives them the right to and blow their brains out.) well, if the fans are always drunk, maybe the drivers should follow their lead. if the drivers were legally drunk (and for variety, we could just apply the DUI level for the state in which the race is taking place), then i would totally watch. because we all know that driving drunk is not easy. don't act all shocked like you've never done it. we've all done it. and it's a feat. if these guys were drunk, hurling their white trash souped up cars in a circle at 180mph, i would watch. and i would be impressed.

option 2:
let's shorten the race to about 50 miles and give each driver a nice joint before they jump behind the wheel. first of all, the drivers would feel like it was 800 miles, minimum. and that shit would be hilarious. extra points if they broadcast the radio conversations between the drivers and the pit crew: "duuuude. i feel like my head weighs 50 pounds and i've been driving in this car for two weeks. and i can't find the doritos." ooh, the pit stops would include gas, tire changes, and snacks. and drive thrus? taco bell, white castle, you should really look into this. it would be awesome.

i'm just sayin. you've already really won over the south. why don't you work on us yuppie yankees? expand. although, you might have to ditch the protestant minister that says grace before each race. i find that offensive, and even if the drivers were drunk and/or high (and/or? oh, option 3 perhaps???) i'd have a hard time getting over the prayer. what's more, i assume that you'd rather add alcohol or drugs to your races than, oh i don't know, minorities or women.



*yes. i said it. so what! this is my blog. i'll engage in broad generalizations if i damn well please. rk is the obvious exception. frankly, i'm still perplexed over her nascar affection. she's an enigma. truly.