Rag-Tag Top 10

The new year is quickly approaching and the flood of "Best and Worst Of" lists from every magazine, newspaper, Web site, and TV show has begun. I'm here with my own version, but in typical Catherine the Greatest fashion, my list lacks a focus or theme. It's simply a list of my favorite things (I'm Oprah!) this year--movies, events, music, etc., that played a big role for me in 2008. (Most of the music/movies, etc., weren't even released this year, but this is my list and I make the rules.) Presented in no particular order:

First-rate in '08.

Favorite Book: The Book Thief by Mark Zusak. The Book Thief takes place in Nazi Germany, and is narrated by Death, who tells the story of a little girl who steals books at every opportunity before they are burned by Hitler's soldiers. The way the war spins around her, the suffering she sees and tries to prevent, and the earnestness of her mission to save written words, makes for an incredibly inventive story. The writing is unlike anything I've ever read, and I found myself re-reading sentences over and over. There is something on every page that leaves you breathless. The tenderness with which the story is told, and the overarching understanding of the human condition will sear this book into your memory. We've all read a lot of books about World War II, but I promise you have never read anything like this. As I was reading, I was thinking about how many producers would probably love to make the book into a film, but once I finished, I knew I didn't want them to. This book is perfect, and to see it on film would diminish its power and hold over readers. Not only my favorite book of the year, but certainly on my top 5 favorite books of all time.

Best Personal Triumph: Turning 21. For the preceding 20 years and 11 months of my life, I'd had an inkling that things would be better when I was 21. Weekends would offer more opportunity, doors would open, freedom would ring. And boy did it ever. Simply: being 21 is great. Mostly I appreciate the fact that there's always somewhere to go. I don't need to sit on a barstool every night, drinking rum and diet cokes and chatting off the ears of the bartender. But if I want to get a drink with dinner, or barhop on New Year's I can. Huzzah. Teqila Sunrise, please.

Favorite TV Show: 30 Rock. I started streaming this show on Netflix one day and I hardly got up until I had watched every episode of the first two seasons. It makes me love Alec Baldwin more than I thought possible. He stars alongside the show's writer and producer, Tina Fey, who was named Entertainer of the Year by the AP. She deserves it, and I hope her new fan following follows her to straight 30 Rock. It is really one of the only good shows on TV.

Favorite Rental: The Devil and Daniel Johnston (2005). A riveting documentary about Johnston's music and his interminable struggle with mental illness. He was once haled as a musical genius, but as his illness grew worse, and his life more chaotic, his ability to write and perform was severely compromised. This arresting biography shows how mental illness can gnaw away and swallow up a person, and also poignantly delves into the havoc wrought on a family that struggles to make sense of a senseless situation. His story will leave you unsettled, but you'll probably remember it forever.

Favorite Album: I have been listening non-stop all year to The Arcade Fire's 2004 release, Funeral. It's probably the only album I am always in the mood to listen to. Listen to "Wake Up" and "Neighborhood #1" and get back to me if you still question my taste.

Best Blog Moments: Two words: Hottie McLatte. Probably some of the most (0nly) interesting material I posted all year, and with overwhelming fan response! Missed out? Here are selections from the beginning, middle, and pseudo-end, and real end of our latte love saga.

Best Real-World Moment: I've grown a little tired of seeing President-Elect Obama on every magazine cover, but I'll never get tired of calling him my President. The euphoria in the air on election day was unforgettable, and will probably be my clearest memory of 2008 for years to come.

Best Game: We know I'm a devout lover of board games, and this year Bananagrams took over. It is the ideal intersection of my competitive gaming nature and intense love of words. Best of all: it provided an excuse to spend hours having fun with some of my favorite people. ('Cuse shoutout: I'm moving back Jan. 8th- How soon can we all meet at Funk for some 'nana? :) ) I've introduced this game to a lot of people, and anyone who likes word games loves it. If I could work for the Bananagrams company, I would. That is how deeply I believe in and love this game.

Best Movie Theater Experience: Mamma Mia! This might be a surprising choice, but this movie is 108 minutes of pure, unadulterated joy. I saw it at the drive-in with my mother this summer, and from the opening scene until the final credits, we were smiling. Embrace the campyness, questionable acting, and abominable singing voice of Pierce Brosnan. Let go, and let the movie sweep you away to a Greek island filled with tan people, crystal-blue waters, and a lot of coordinated dancing. When was the last time you smiled for two hours straight?


Best Overall Life Moment: Feel free to laugh at me, but seeing Celine Dion in concert in August tops my list for 2008. I thought my years of Celine obsession were behind me, but when I saw her step out on stage, I absolutely, without question, lost complete control of myself. I cried. I laughed. I sang much louder and longer than I intended (my apologies to those sitting next to me. I probably ruined your $200 seats.) The only word to describe my state is deliriousness. I love Celine. And that night, Celine loved us back. Two-hundred dollars is a lot to shell out for a concert, but that one was more than worth it. That's saying something, coming from me, because I don't think anything is worth $200. I am really, really cheap (and perpetually broke). But I'd go again in a heartbeat. One of the best parts of being there was experiencing it with Calyn, who has loved Celine as much and as long as I have. The whole concert gave me chills. CALL ME SILLY BUT I LOVED IT.

Will work for absolutely nothing

Students are being taken advantage of in an unexpected and underestimated way, and that is through the inherently unfair process of unpaid internships. Sure, internships are not an entirely new invention, but the pressures placed on undergraduates to secure one, and the interminable emphasis on doing so (FIND ONE OR YOU MIGHT AS WELL DIE), certainly weren't a part of my parent's generation. The good news is a lot of people recognize this fact and offer me pitying glances when I talk about paying back student loans while interning for no pay. The bad news? Nothing will ever be done about it, because there will always be privileged students who are able to work for free, and parents who will support them. I am one of the lucky ones, I've been able to live at home, but I've also had to earn my own money as I go. I recently finished my second internship, and I can't lie. I'm a little bitter.

Part of the blame, I suppose, is on myself for being overly ambitious and naive, thinking it would be a smart idea to pursue a career in publishing. These unpaid "internships" are more popular in some professions than others, and in mine, it's almost impossible to find something that pays. The few that do are so highly sought-after that thousands of students apply for only a handful of positions. But apparently, in a world inconceivable to my liberal-arts brain, a world inhabited by mathletes and science-fair winners, students actually get paid for the work that they do, and get meaningful experience at the same time. Oh, to be an engineer.

I am loath to sound like the "entitled interns" that Gawker so readily makes fun of, but I think an oft-forgotten point must be made about unpaid internships. Working for free is one thing, but in many cases, students end up paying through the nose for an internship because the workplace requires you get credit for it. Many schools waive a tuition charge for summer credits. Syracuse, God bless it, does not. Allow me to explain.

Over the summer, I interned a measly two days a week at a snoozefest interior design magazine. My supervisor there absolutely demanded that I get course credit for the internship, because otherwise, I would be completing work without any "compensation."

Oh, really, is that right? Well, if I get credit, I must pay tuition. Nevermind that I didn't need the credit at all, as I was about to take a semester off because I had extra credits. To review: I am paying money in order to be given the honor of completing more unpaid work. I chose the cheapest route and took the internship for one credit, which cost $900. Add to that about $400 in transportation costs, not including the special events and shoots I went to. This fall, I worked three days a week at a city magazine, and averaged about $50/week in transportation costs (this time I fortunately was not subject to any credit requirements). I am eternally grateful for public transport; I am sure I would have averaged much more between gas and parking had I been driving. But $50 is a lot of money for a poor student, and I wish internship supervisors, as well as college internship offices, would keep this in mind, especially if they are expecting students to pay for course credits.

I understand that people want to make sure students are committed, and that those students need to prove themselves in a professional environment before anyone wants to hire them. But after a while, I couldn't help but feel a little degraded when I continued to scrape pennies together to go to work in a place where, some days (particularly over the summer), no one acknowledged my presence. A "thank you for coming" every now and then would have been nice, as I sat in my threadbare clothing, hunched over whichever frozen lunch entree was on sale that week. Or, what about the times I wrote an article that the magazine ordinarily would have paid a freelancer to write? But because I, the intern, wrote it, they can rest easy and save some cash. At one point, I seriously thought about forwarding my tuition bill to the magazine's parent company just to see what sort of response I would get. Forgive me everyone, but sometimes it was a challenge to gear myself up to be a motivated, self-starting intern when I was worried about whether I could make enough money at my job during the other four days to pay my loans, bills, and oh yeah, the train fare to get my pathetic intern self to the office.

The reason this stings so badly for me is because, after all of that obnoxiousness, and skipping family vacations, and working seven days a week for months on end, a career in publishing isn't even what I want anymore! I worked hard, and I did good work. So what return do I get on the investment of all of that time? A few lines on my resume, a recommendation from a supervisor? Should I be grateful for the honor of just being given the opportunity, even if it deterred me from a career and set my life askew? Even if I did want to work in magazines, the industry is pretty much going up in flames, so where would I work? How many more of these unpaid internships am I going to have to complete before I am "qualified" enough to get paid?

I think we need a government bailout-- to all of the college-educated, unpaid interns past and present, for anyone who schlepped themselves to and fro, hoping it would pay off some day, only to find out their industry, their dreams, or both, had shattered somewhere along the way. I promise to make like GM and restructure my life, think about how to be greener, the whole nine.... but I cannot promise a pay cut. What's less than zero?

Christmas quote 2008 award

Last year, my dad took the cake by declaring "the emptiness of life" upon opening a present on Christmas morning. He wins the blue ribbon again in 2008, but this time around, with lighter fare.

We were about to play Scattegories, and I was trying to select a good pen from the pile .

-------------
Me: Can I try this out before I commit to it?
Dad: That's called living in sin.
-------------

He's a quick one.

Anyway, I hope you all are having a restful holiday season. Enjoy the leftovers and buy yourself some noisemakers for New Year's. And champagne, we mustn't forget the champagne.

Dear Abby is a crotchity @%#$!

A long-awaited second installment of Dear Abby/Queer Crabby, wherein I post one of the aging advice maiden's strange responses to a letter. She really sucks all the fun out of this poor woman's happy tale:

DEAR ABBY: I have a "pennies from heaven" story you might appreciate. My best friend, "Darrel," was a smoker who collected quarters. His apartment had two distinguishing features -- stacks of quarters and the smell of secondhand smoke. Because we were both busy people, we had seen each other only twice in about a year, but maintained a phone and e-mail friendship.

I had planned a trip out west to spend time with family and had e-mailed him about it. Unbeknownst to me, Darrel had been very ill, and he died the day I sent the e-mail. I learned about it while I was in transit to my destination. There was nothing I could do. I had no way to get to his funeral and no way to say goodbye.

When we reached our hotel -- part of a smoke-free chain -- my husband and I opened the door to our room and were greeted by a familiar odor. It smelled just like Darrel's apartment! And when I walked to the dresser to unpack, two quarters were sitting on top. It was then that my husband and I agreed that Darrel had stopped to say goodbye on his way to heaven. -- QUARTERS FROM HEAVEN

DEAR QUARTERS: Please accept my sympathy for the loss of your friend. I'm glad you received some comfort in your time of need. However, it's entirely possible that the guest who occupied the room before you broke the rules and puffed away in a room that was supposed to be nonsmoking. I hope you notified the front desk so you could be switched to other accommodations, and the room could be thoroughly cleaned and deodorized to prevent someone with a sensitivity to smoke from walking in and experiencing a severe allergic reaction.

So readers, how can we help Abby loosen up? Find her a man? Pour her a stiff drink? Take her to Six Flags and show her what it means to have fun? Orrrrrr, maybe beat her up with a sock full of quarters?

Wherein I complain about something and do nothing to remedy the situation

I'm always delighted when a social trend report is released and crotchity journos get all bent out of shape about the results. They write op-eds like this one, crying out in horror about THE CURRENT STATE OF THE KIDS. Here, the study in question basically said people don't go out on dates anymore.

Well, d'uh. We knew this. As a twenty-one-year-old, I can count on one hand the number of times I've been on a real "date." (Keep your rude comments to yourself.)

Charles Blow, the writer of this op-ed, seems baffled by this new trend, which is surprising because his picture indicates he is not, as you might think, an older brother of Methuselah, living underground since Alexander the Great came of age. To help him out of his cloud of confusion, he consults several experts, who I am sure explained to him in measured tones that these days, people hang out in groups. Formal courtship is a thing of the past. Girls don't get pinned. Boys don't give their letter jackets to their cotillion dates. Parental involvement is a no-go until an exclusive couple has been together for many, many moons. In his last sentence, I think the writer indicates he wants to instigate some sort of dating movement to bring Generation Y back into the dinner-and-a-movie days of yore. Those days do sort of sound like fun.

So I feel a little torn. Right now, relationships and dating are low on my list of priorities. I am not a swoony type, and usually, my friends make better conversation than suitors (no offense, hotcakes). But, ladies, what will happen when we are young professionals? What if, say, I move to Omaha and I'm responsible for finding a steady lover and new set of friends? How does one do that, exactly? I'd hate to be that awkward girl at the office trying to make friends with everyone within shouting distance of her cubicle.

This topic came up when I was talking with Lynda the other day, and we came up with few answers. We wondered if we'll have to sign up for online dating. It's certainly something that has shed its stigma, and attracted tens of millions of eligible singles (and also thousands of creepos and cheaters). Online dating just seems like unfamiliar, undesirable terrain to us; we teens and twentysomethings never been the target demographic for sites like Match.com and EHarmony. You see, we've been too busy signing the Devil's book, hanging out in groups, and macking on strangers we've only just met. In our future as "grown-ups" though, I suppose online dating could be a reasonable option, but then of course we'll have to meet these people on REAL DATES. If nothing else, that should make Blow happy.

What do we think about this? Am I being paranoid; have I been jaded by the college experience of non-committal group hangouts and informal tonsil hockey sessions? Personally, the resurgence of the old-fashioned date sounds sweet to me. Imagine, going somewhere together, and actually engaging someone in conversation. Conversely, there is something to be said for these new, hip methods of dating that the NYT exposed through its vigorous reporting. Hanging out with friends, etc., is a whole heck of a lot of fun, and meeting potential lovahs in that sort of situation is ideal. You can be introduced by mutual friends (character witnesses), and if conversation doesn't take off, you have a quick out.

So I don't know. Should we heed Charles Blow's oddly-timed and out-of-touch clarion call, harken back to the days of John Cusack's Lloyd Dobler, and actually call someone up for a date? Or should we relish in our revolutionary ways and continue playing it casual, sometimes to the point of absurdity?

Most of all, I think writers should stop balking at survey data that indicates trends we've known about forever. And also, someone should buy me dinner.

Songs that make your heart sing: Diva edition

I've been a bit sporadic with updates lately, my apologies. The internship has officially wrapped up, so maybe in the next couple of weeks I'll have more brain power/will to live and write up some ideas I've had floating around in my brain. In the meantime, here's an installment of Songs That Make Your Heart Sing. Listening to this song brings me back to freshman year at SU, when we were cloistered in each other's dorm rooms, deliriously dancing, while the soul-shattering winter winds howled outside the window. By the next year, we'd be walking a mile or two through those winds, extremely underdressed, for the sole purpose of dancing in grungy basements to songs that were less poignant and invigorating than this one. But freshman year, we had Whitney. I hear she's making a comeback. So let's get geared up for it; she's been out of commission for a while. I'd like to see her, just as much as I would like to see Britney, be well.

(For some reason, embedding is disabled on this video. Don't be lazy, just click here.)

How The Hills degrades the elderly, and other Stuff You Should Know

I have so much to share with you in this chockablock edition of Stuff You Should Know. You're going to thank me because, by the time you're through with this, you'll have a real cure to your hiccups (Catherine tested, Mother approved!), know where to read some of the best writing on the Internoodle, and more!!! I hope you're on the edge of your seats. I've fallen off mine twice. Once from excitement. Once from drunkenness.

So first. How much do we all hate hiccups, you guys?!??! I personally find few things more unbecoming and obnoxious. But now there's a cure. I heard this advice from a co-worker, who heard it from Dr. Oz, and I have tested it, and I can tell you, it is at once the most effective and oddly satisfying way to rid yourself of the troublesome buggers. Ready? Listening ears on?? Once those harassing hics start, get yourself a cup of water, take a sip, but don't swallow (that is not what he said). Put the cup down, and plug your ears. Swallow, and keep your ears plugged for a few seconds after you feel the water descend into your tummy. It doesn't cure them right away, but within a minute or two, you'll feel the satisfying gurgle of gaseous bubbles rising from your intestines.

Not kidding, and it really works. I had to complete the procedure twice before the bubblies came up, but when they did! Oh! The splendor!

Second, if you don't know already, I am wicked addicted to Gawker, a media blog which brings snarkyness to an entirely new level, and I happen to think their staff of writers is one of most talented around. When I am interning, I probably refresh Gawker 10-15 times a day (the best part about fact-checking? Downtime while you wait for sources to call you back!). My favorite writer on the site is Richard, and each week, he writes prolific recaps of The Hills and Gossip Girl. I don't watch either show, but I always read his recaps of The Hills. His writing is really incredible, and he talks about the show as if, just for a second, there might be some type of meaning to it all, or that maybe we'd have a reason to feel a slight drop of sympathy for scum-of-the-earth Spencer and Heidi. Any writer who can describe a person (in this case Whitney, whoever she is) as "a golden-brown Cornish game hen made animate," is an idol in my book. I've never seen the show, but I almost think reading about it through Richard's eyes makes it so much better. Here are a couple of my recent favorites: 1) "The Hills: Murdering Old People." If I ever teach a history class, I'm passing out the last paragraph of this review on day one. And I'll be the coolest teacher. And 2) "The Hills: My Ex-Best-Friend." Seriously, I love this guy, and I wish I'd been reading this when I took my critical writing class.

Third, in case you hadn't heard, Google has magazine archives now, as part of their Book Search tool. This is pretty much the pinnacle of awesome. You can search through individual magazine archives (I like to look through to see how different publications covered particular historical events, ie the Depression, Kennedy assassination, Vietnam etc. Call me a nerd), or you can also do keyword searches, as with Google Books. They'll be building up more archives as time goes on. Go to town.

While we're talking about media, here's an enjoyable interview with Anderson Cooper, wherein he tells us what we've already known, "There is too much yelling on cable news." It's good to see a reasonable newsman speak out about the fact that, depending on what's on, you could watch 4 hours of cable news and obtain the same amount of information in 30 minutes of reading online.

That's all. Nothing more to see here.

Crunching numbers

I walked into the office this morning, and Christmas had thrown up in the foyer. A tree, obviously fake and desperate for attention, stood in the middle, surrounded by about a dozen poinsettias. These weren't tiny little desktop plants either, they were kind that retail at my other workplace for about $17. I craned my neck around the corner and saw at least a dozen more in the marketing department. I would have traipsed over to do a headcount myself, but it is generally an unfamiliar area, where editorial staff dare not tread, lest ethical ad/edit standards are compromised. But, I'd already seen all there was to see, so I did a little math in my head.

Let's say the magazine bought these seasonal abominations at a bargain price of $12 a pop. There were at least, at least, 25 plants. We'll say about $300 total was spent on covering every square inch of extra floor space with poinsettias.

Separately, but interestingly, there are probably 10 editorial interns on staff. Let's say, in the Christmas spirit, whoever is in charge of buying superfluous flora, instead decided to use the $300 to give the unpaid interns a Christmas bonus. That's $30 per person!!! Ergo, I bring you a top 10.

Top 10 Ways an Intern Can Stretch 30 Smackers

10. 15 medium coffees at Dunkin Donuts, which will sustain me during my 3-hour round-trip commutes, and 7-day work week schedule. On the train, the conductors frequently neglect to announce station stops in the winter months, when it's pitch black outside, and you really have no idea where you are. So I have to stay awake, or else I might miss my stop. Wakefulness is essential. I cannot stay conscious without coffee. You get the drift.
9. Round-trip transportation costs for two days of commuting to Boston. Does not include parking fees.
8. New pair of shoes, and warm socks. Frostbite feels too real a risk in my paper-thin ballet flats, which I have been wearing constantly, due to lack of funds for more appropriate footwear.
7. Replace threadbare dress pants and/or office shirts with more professional looking (read: free of holes, stains) attire.
6. Pay 12 percent of my December Sallie Mae bill. (Merry Christmas, Sallie!!)
5. Get haircut at Costcutters, because it's been months and I look vaguely homeless.
4. Take half a Saturday off work to sleep in.
3. Buy a Christmas present for one, two, or three family members, depending on how generous gift limits are this year.
2. Purchase 7-15 drinks at Starbucks, stage sit-in, and demand the triumphant (and ever-less-likely) return of Hottie McLatte.
1. Procure two five-liter boxes of wine, because I have been doing work for free since May, and sometimes, the only way I can summon the dignity to go on, is if I'm a teensy bit drunk when I leave the house at 7 a.m.

What would you do with 30 greenbacks?

Let me tell you 'bout a girl I know

Love love love it. My affection for music like this is part of what makes me so sad I completely missed the 50s. Here is this week's Songs That Make Your Heart Sing: 

O beautiful, for spacious skies, for amber waves of graaaiiinnn

Our impending graduation has caused me to think an awful lot about my future lately. I might use the phrases 'existential crisis', 'anxiety attack', or perhaps 'crippling self-doubt' to describe my state of mind on any given day. One of the decisions I've been mulling over is whether to pursue the whole journalism thing, or head more toward the non-profit "save the world" side of things. For a variety of reasons, at this point, I see myself doing more with my policy studies degree than my magazine journalism one. A few days ago, Maureen Dowd's column affirmed my horror at the current state of job opportunities with the media.

You should read it, but I'll summarize for the word-weary or functionally illiterate. Basically, Pasadena Now, a lifestyle and news site in California, outsourced ALL OF ITS REPORTERS TO INDIA. I thought maybe it was a dinky site, and the outsourcing only meant that Indians would be surfing the Web, compiling event listings for the peeps in Pasadena. NOPE. It's a pretty legit site, and now, all of the stories are written by Indians, using Web searches and telephone reporting. Pardon me? I thought the whole point of city/regional sites, papers, and magazines was to give readers an insider's guide to where they live, dispensed by people who live there. But apparently you can provide that perspective from any corner of the globe?

I don't stand a chance.

Think I'm being pessimistic? Maybe. But two weeks ago I read this article, which says children of Indian parents, who moved their families to the States for more opportunities, are now going back to India. Because that's where the jobs are. To give you an idea, a quote from the article: "Exact data on émigrés working in India or spending more time here are scarce. But this is one indicator: India unveiled an Overseas Citizen of India card in 2006, offering foreign citizens of Indian origin visa-free entry for life and making it easier to work in the country. By this July, more than 280,000 émigrés had signed up, according to The Economic Times..."

Okay.

So what does this mean for me? India here I come. Although, maybe now isn't really the best time. Oooh, what about China? It's the future!! No, there's that whole censorship thing. I don't know how kindly they would take to my outspoken diatribes.

Maybe there's another solution. I have always been fond of harkening back to the days of the Depression and riding the rails. There's a lot of country out there to see people, and it's about time we took a look. I might look rather fetching with oil smudges on my face, and rocking a little Newsies outfit. And it really is about time I went farther west than New Orleans. Who's with me?

Adventures in customer service

Despite my constant yammering about the injustices of unpaid internships, I've worked several jobs that actually pay money (*gasp*) and for all of them, I've had the pleasure of constantly interacting with the public. I generally enjoy this, and on some days, I would even describe myself as a "people person." Ninety-eight percent of the customers I've seen are kind and polite; some even go out of their way to "notice" that the person behind the counter/register is in fact a human being with a beating heart. Anyone who has ever worked in any kind of retail/business/restaurant situation (which is pretty much everyone on the planet) can probably attest to this.

And then there are The Others. So I would like to preface this story by saying that I've never been one of The Others. I have never sent back food, even when I probably should have, caused a scene, or complained when it wasn't necessary. In fact, I don't think I've ever complained to a sales person, waitress, or manager face-to-face.

My mode of complaint communication is e-mail. Last week, I sent this to Dunkin Donuts after making an alarming discovery:

This morning I got a coffee from your location in Boston's Back Bay train station. I've always loved DD coffee, but I'm afraid that today you gave me reason to doubt my allegiance. As I got to the bottom of the coffee, there was a foreign object in it. It was hard and dark, maybe a piece of a coffee bean? My guess is a piece of broken plastic. Nevertheless, not supposed to be there and certainly an unpleasant surprise in my mouth. Please be aware of this. I won't be rushing back to DD anytime soon.

I received a reply within a day or two from some corporate handler, who apologized for my experience, let me know that all DD shops are franchised, and that she would be sending along my e-mail to the owner of the Back Bay store.

This isn't the first time I sent an e-mail with regards to unsatisfactory consumer experiences. I had success letting IMax know that, when I went to see Spiderman 2, the volume was much too loud and the theater much too cold. Two complimentary tickets. CHA CHING. That was very generous of them, because, what am I, 86? The IMax is too loud? In my defense, it was so loud that I could feel my ear drums vibrate during all of the action-packed scenes, and I heard ringing for about an hour after I left the theater. But don't worry, I've written many complimentary e-mails too, once exchanging in weeks-long banter with the lovely people at Reebok.

So, back to how I was wronged by Dunkin Donuts. On Friday of last week, I was out with my brothers and received a phone call, oh yes, a personal phone call, from the manager of the train station Dunkies. Profuse apologizing ensued, and strangely, he asked me if I saved the piece of Whatever-It-Was that found its way into my drink.

When was the last time you had some foreign body in your mouth, which you had to spit out, and then said "hey, let's put this in a Ziploc in case anyone wants to take a look later."

No sir, I did not save it.

Anyway, he asked for my address and said he's pop a gift card in the mail. Today it arrived, with a little note saying, "Hope we see you again." The card was for $10, which will buy me 5 medium regulahs. Totes worth the 3 minutes it took me to send out that e-mail. SO TOTES WORTH IT. You will see me again, good sir.

Note: This never would have happened if Hottie McLatte poured me that cup of coffee.

Offended over dinner

If you don't have anything nice to say, don't say anything at all. My kindergarten teacher repeated this often, and it's stuck with me through life. And if you ask me, someone needs to tell this timeless piece of advice to fortune cookies. Yes, tell those cookies. More than once I've gotten fortunes that make you wonder if whoever wrote them was just setting out to ruin a stranger's day. Even if a message doesn't necessarily predict luck, I would hope, at least, that it would be something hopeful, or an optimistic outlook for the future. Not always so, my little lamb chops. Once, when Ashley and I ordered Chinese for dinner, my cookie essentially told me I have no standards. Isn't that a bit presumptuous? I wasn't expecting to be called promiscuous or direction-less by a tiny (arrogant) slip of paper enclosed in a stale sugar crisp. But tonight, my jaw literally dropped as I sat with my brothers after finishing our meal. I eagerly cracked open the fortune cookie and unraveled the fortune. It read:

Love or money..
or neither?

What the hell? Thanks for predicting that I will have neither of life's greatest happinesses. You know what? Go to hell, fortune cookie. Who asked you anyway? I suppose technically I did, but you don't have to be such a twit about it.

I'm not quite as well, I thought you should know

When I was in fourth grade, there were three CDs on constant rotation in my boom box. No Doubt's "Tragic Kingdom," Matchbox 20's "Yourself or Someone Like You," and Alanis's "Jagged Little Pill," which I actually had on cassette.

I remember listening to Alanis's mournful wailing on the floor of my bedroom floor, reading along to the lyrics and thinking "This is what life is like. This is what my life is like." And now, I wonder why, and what I could possibly have been thinking. I was nine. How did I "relate" to lyrics like:

Is she perverted like me
Would she go down on you in a theatre

Or:

I'm hard but I'm friendly baby
I'm sad but I'm laughing
I'm brave but I'm chickenshit
I'm sick but I'm pretty baby

But we all loved her. And when we found out that "You Oughta Know" was really about Alanis's relationship with Dave Coulier (Uncle Joey, of "Full House" fame), didn't we feel shocked, and a little bit hurt for her? I continued to support Alanis through her "Thank U" and especially "Uninvited" phases. City of Angels soundtrack, anyone? When I was a freshman in high school, and most of the formerly pre-pubescent Alanis fans had long since outgrown her bitter rage, I gave her CD "Under Rug Swept" a try. It had some good songs for an insecure, overimaginative fourteen-year-old to latch onto, such as "Unsexy" or my favorite "Hands Clean", about a May-December romance cloaked in deception and disappointment.

But as I watched Alanis perform a new song on TV this week, it occurred to me that I had forgotten what a unique...erm, voice she has. While it's certainly powerful, and can be moving, her pronunciation and phrasing is particularly unusual. Which made me think: What if you learned English by listening to Alanis Morissette? How on Earth would you talk? I could go on, but I'll let you listen to the song I heard her perform, and you can let your imagination run wild. I can't decide whether I should fully endorse an Alanis resurgence, especially since I'm sure she has some good angry material after her break up with Ryan Reynolds, or if we should choose to remember the Alanis we loved in elementary school, when we really loved her best.

Spending every dime for a wonderful time

I didn't want to leave you with a sour taste in your mouth after my last entry. After all, tomorrow's Thanksgiving, my favorite holiday ohmygodyouguysiloveitsomuch. Let's lighten things up. Here's an edition of "Songs that Make Your Heart Sing." This one always makes me want to dance. But, trust me, it's better to led Fred Astaire do it:



Happy Thanksgiving, everyone! Here's to good food and good company.

(If it's just not Thanksgiving without a little white guilt, someone put together a pretty serious slide show to a Tracy Chapman song)

Pass the gravy and a copy of your 'Do Not Resuscitate' form.

I'm a dedicated reader of the New York Times health section, and lately I've noticed a bombardment of stories about end-of-life care. They even have a whole blog called "The New Old Age" about caring for elderly parents. What to do with Mom when she can't live alone. How to make sense of Dad's Alzheimer's. How to help your parents move into an old folks home when they can't sell their house in a collapsed real estate market.

But this takes the cake. Today's Boston Globe features a story about a blogging movement called Engage with Grace that encourages people to talk with their families about their what to do when their number's up. At Thanksgiving.

I don't mean to diminish the importance of this, because I think their message is certainly a good one. We should have these conversations. And it makes sense to have them when everyone is around, and there are plenty of witnesses. The death of a loved one is obviously a miserable subject, and it can be helpful to negotiate a person's wishes with several people around, who can help each other from getting too emotional. It's also important to do it before you think you need to, lest someone dies unexpectedly.

But really, guys? At Thanksgiving?

"Hi, James. How is everything at Penn State? And in the event that you are unable to speak or decide for yourself, would you prefer to die at home or in a hospital? Are you gonna have the pumpkin or apple pie?"

I think my family holidays are awkward enough, thanks. My bigger concern is with the media's obsession with these kinds of stories. Mostly leaning toward the "taking care of your parents" side of things So many sad stories to tell, but why so many right now? On one side we have the media squeezing every last saccharine drop of human interest fluff out of the Obama family (national crisis, anyone?), and everyone else is busy writing about whether euthanising your mother is appropriate.

I guess I can't catch my break. I'm already worried about never being able to find a job, buy a house, get credit, or pay off my student loan debt. This Thanksgiving, I was hoping to enjoy my day off, overeat, overdrink, and oh, I don't know. Maybe laugh. But no. You know what? I am being told to think about my death and the deaths of everyone around me. Let's just invite a lawyer along and make sure everyone's will is in order. I want to make sure that if I meet an untimely death that Kermit gets a good home, and someone makes sure to tell Celine how much I love her.

Photo courtesy of Connie.

Shit happens

I've had some well-documented trouble getting over (and under...) Hottie McLatte. After more than two weeks of rushing to Starbucks after work, hopefully scanning the counter for his perfect face, I came up empty every time. He was really gone.

I used to love Starbucks, especially in the winter, when I would indulge in its seasonal drinks, and take shelter in its super-heated, gently lit interior. All that nostalgia is gone now. The coffee doesn't taste as good if McLatte doesn't pour it. Living in the fallout of our love affair, even the service seems less friendly.

But this morning, I was the subject of a divine intervention, orchestrated by Howard Schultz himself. He felt me slip away. He also needs to find a way to keep his customers paying $4.00 for coffee that takes 43 cents to make, all while they foreclose their houses and file for bankruptcy. So this morning, there was a girl on the corner near Copley Square, handing out $5 gift cards. At first I didn't see what she was giving away, but I smiled and made eye contact, because that's what I do. I analyze the irises of poor little creatures banished to the city streets in the name of marketing promotions. I was especially grateful when she handed me my gift card.

So this afternoon, when I left work, I decided to stop by Starbucks and treat myself to the gingersnap latte that I've been dying to try. I was delighted to find that the girl on the corner had given me not one, but two! gift cards. Double the latte, double the fun. This was a good sign. Would McLatte be back where he belongs?

It should be noted there is a Starbucks right near where my internship is, but I rarely go there, because McLatte's ghost does not linger in those walls. So, I headed to my old haunt, placed my order, and waited for the barista to make my drink. He seemed backed up, so I texted Ashley that H.M. was officially gone, never to be heard from again, and oh, woe is me, how will I ever go on?

I hit send, and McLatte LITERALLY COMES RIGHT AROUND THE CORNER. He is dressed in street clothes, and had been talking to a manager in the atrium area that adjoins the store. McLatte didn't see me, and he headed for the door. I watched him walk in the direction of the train station I go to... could McLatte be commuting, like me? He slipped away into the night before Dumby McStupid could put together my gingersnap latte. As soon as the drink was made, I ran out into the street. I don't know why, because what did I think would happen? But I guess by now, you all should know about my unreasonable amount of emotional investment in this invented friendship. Clear thinking went out the window after I got my first discount.

So I crossed the street and was walking toward the station, when I felt a cool wetness on my pants. I looked down. Poop. Bird poop, on my leg. I was pooped on. In my quest to find McLatte love, I was literally shat upon. The world is laughing at me.

There are two ways to think about this. One, that it is a final sign that McLatte and I were not McMeantToBe. Or, my mother's school of thought, which says that if you are pooped on by a bird, you should buy a lottery ticket. The poop, you see, is a good luck charm.

I am curious as to your thoughts, and if you will sit with me, here, just for a moment, and picture the torture of McLatte wandering into the dark night, out of sight, as I stood waiting impatiently for my drink. And tell me in the comments... is the poop good luck, or a death certificate for my pretend romance?

Just for good measure, I don't drive to work, but if I did... could this happen?

Another edition of "Stuff You Should Know"

I was originally going to do a SYSK post because I read that some rando dude in Utah found dinosaur prints in the land behind his house. But apparently, that was a false report, so I can't write about that anymore. And thank God, because what the hell? Dinosaur footprints? I suppose these things can happen in Germany, but I don't think the Mormons in Utah should be forced to deal with such scientific wonders as dinosaurs. And certainly not dinosaurs who risk breaking their prehistoric purity pledges with risque dancing. (Just kidding, Mormons are actually OK with dancing. But I think some others really need to think about putting the fun back in fundamentalism.) In other freaky-ass science news, Furbys are actually real. And lastly, you all can rest easy, because scientists have mapped the genome for those adorable woolly mammoths. True story: a few months ago, I was driving home and saw a tractor off in the distance, with piles of dark hay piled up in the back of it. But I couldn't make it all out right away, so given its relative shape, and the fact I am mostly blind, my actual thought was "That's a woolly mammoth." Who thinks that?

Since I got off on a religious tangent, let's look at this web site: IveScrewedUp.com. Not much information on the site, but it seems to be run by a church based in Florida, and offers people an anonymous outlet to confess their various indiscretions. A lot of them relate to sex, masturbation, porn, and other things that are likely to make one feel guilt-ridden. But some are of a much more upsetting nature:

I love my best friend and have not told my boyfriend. I killed my son after a so called friend got me drunk. I don't like my ex but her boyfriend I do like. I love my family but sometimes wish my grandfather would pass because he is so hard on me,I am jealous over my brother because he gets all the attention. I feel worthless. I might leave my boyfriend to have a life and a family with my best friend.

That's a lot to process. Interesting how this person murdered their child, but then gets carried away with more pressing matters, such as grandfather issues, and sibling rivalry?

And:

I am in love with my teacher who is 30 years old... I'm also cheating on my boyfriend with 4 other guys. Not to mention, my mom doesn't know I'm dating at all. My father would kill me if he found out. I started dating at age 9. The first guy I dated was a year older than me. I also dated his brother and his cousin. I have gone out with several guys up to 5 years older than me.

Four others? I suppose that is deserving of some type of recognition.

But it's not at all bad. Let's close with a story of rehabilitation and triumph:

I was a peeping tom. I don't do that any more.

So long, psychotic delusions. I will miss you.

I had a feeling the last time I saw him. The way he lingered after his shift was over, hesitant to leave the job he seemed to like so much. I felt a new level of electricity in his gaze, an unfamiliar urgency. It dripped from his words, when he told me he would start school again soon. I had a feeling then.

Hottie McLatte was going to leave me.

Like most amateur psychic mediums, I downplayed my intuition, told myself I was looking too much into it.

But now it's been two weeks since I last saw McLatte. New, strange men work his shift, ignorant of the fact that an integral part of their labor force is missing in action. What an anti-climactic end to the pseudo-romance I blogged about for you, dear readers. Our spark ended in a desperate fizzle.

I am reminded now of an oft-quoted poem, which serves as a comment not only on the cycles of nature, but also the undulations of every day life. Robert Frost's words are so apropos for this romance that blossomed as the crisp autumn leaves turned brilliant reds and golds, and then faded away as those same leaves fell to the ground, curled and crunchy, their vibrance only a memory.

Nature's first green is gold,
Her hardest hue to hold.
Her early leaf's a flower;
But only so an hour.
Then leaf subsides to leaf.
So Eden sank to grief,
So dawn goes down to day.
Nothing gold can stay

Was Robert Frost writing about McLatte, just as Kristin Chenoweth sang about him? We will never know. I do know that I will miss McLatte dearly, his playful conversation, his easy smile.

Most of all, I will miss those discounts.

Songs that make your heart sing, Sesame

I realize this is coming only a few days after the first installment, but this song is too contagious to keep to myself. Your day instantly becomes better when you hear it. It is impossible to be unhappy in the presence of muppets and the simple joys of numerals. You are welcome.

Body recovered among 25 years of old newspapers, receipts

I am an inherently cluttered individual. I leave piles of detritus everywhere I go, and I avoid putting things back where they belong. But it's all rather unintentional. I am not one of those messy people who has piles of mold growing in her refrigerator, or a litter of baby mice living undiscovered on the bottom of her closet. I just attract, create, and perpetuate clutter. I have trouble throwing things away-- for example, at any given moment, there are between 20-30 receipts in my wallet, none of which serve any purpose, as I don't generally bring things back to the store. I am not a sorter, categorizer, or organizer. To make it simple: I have piles of my crap everywhere, and I do not clean them up.

At school, because I've had roommates, and fewer things with me, I keep the mess to a (relative) minimum, by my standards at least. But when I come home, all bets are off. I am not trying to make excuses, but part of the problem stems from the fact that I just don't have storage space for everything I own. Admittedly, most of the problem is that I am too lazy to hang up my clothes. Consequently, I live among mounds of garments, some dirty, most clean, and sleep next to a desk that is filled with mail, reminding me of my financial burdens and, um, other financial burdens (Does Sallie Mae need to send me mail every day? I haven't forgotten, Sallie, I see you.).

Today I decided to fix things. Here is what my room looked like before I started cleaning:


Most of my afters came out too blurry, but here's a glimpse:



Room for old friends!


Ignore the trash can. I hadn't taken it out yet!



I have more to do, but at least now I can get out of bed without having to worry about losing a limb or my precious working eye ball. YAAAY for cleaning. I am pretty sure blogging about cleaning you room is the number one most boring thing to write about, but sometimes we just need to celebrate our small accomplishments, don't we? Sometimes, in the wake of quarterlife crises, the small accomplishments are the biggest ones we have!

Quarterlife Crisis, Part one: Kickboxing is out.

This is the beginning of the end. It is the fall of my senior year, and it's time to start thinking about jobs. Time to start thinking about where I want to live, what I want to spend the rest of my life doing, and how much money it will take to keep myself off the streets and out of my parents' house. I need to decide on a basic career path, or at least formulate some type of coherent answer to the question, "What do you want to do?" 

 The problem is, I have no idea. I realize that some people spend a lifetime figuring this sort of thing out. After all, I have a 57-year-old mother who says she still doesn't know what she wants to be when she "grows up." But graduation is approaching, and frankly, I can't envision myself doing much of anything. It's not because I feel that I didn't get a good education, or that I don't have enough experience getting my feet wet in semi-professional environments. It’s simple.  I. just. don't. know. what. I. should. do. I don't know what I'll be best at. And I don't know will be best for me.

There is one thing I’m sure about, and I didn’t even come up with it myself. Lloyd Dobler, the man after whom I will lust for all of eternity, said in Say Anything, “ I don't want to sell anything, buy anything, or process anything as a career. I don't want to sell anything bought or processed, or buy anything sold or processed, or process anything sold, bought, or processed, or repair anything sold, bought, or processed. You know, as a career, I don't want to do that.” (View a clip here.) 

Same for me. Of that much, I am completely, wholeheartedly sure.  That's good enough for now, right? 

J.Crew, you know I love you but...

didn't this picture make anyone else giggle? She looks a little silly. 

 

Baby, what's your sign?

Every once in a while, I like to read my horoscope and see what's going on in my personal cosmic forecast. I don't put any stock in what it says, but it's still fun to seek it out in a newspaper sometimes. I just looked at mine on astrology.com, and it makes absolutely no sense:

Whether you're long-partnered or totally single, you need to express your romantic energy through flirtation. It may not pay off in your love life, but others can see that you're the one

Um? So let me get this straight. I should be flirtatious, and good things will come of it, but not romantic things? I have only heard the term "the one" used in a dating-marriage scenario, so who exactly am I going to be attracting if not a potential mate? Will someone see me twisting my hair in my fingers, and coquettishly glancing at strange men and think, "That's the girl I want to hire. She belongs at my company!"? Or will it be a person in desperate need of a kidney transplant, who thinks "That girl! The one in the inappropriately low-cut top, she's the rare match for our one-in-a-million blood type!" 

Just saying, astrologists. I understand you need to be cryptic to stay in business, but at least try and make a little bit of sense. 

The gift of song

A quick shuffle through my Zune will reveal a few basic truths: I have a lot of classical and jazz music, a fondness for the occasional shameless pop song, and a heavy leaning toward hushed, melancholy music. I've made several mix tapes for people, and a frequent response is, "I liked it a lot, but it made me sooo sleepy." Maybe it's a subconscious effort on my part to lower my blood pressure and prevent future hair loss. And it doesn't help that I was raised by a mother who blared songs like this and this through the house on a daily basis. I am used to the morose. But sometimes, when I'm in a really sour mood, and don't particularly feel like wallowing in self pity all day, I wish I had a more uplifting, energizing library of ditties to chose from. And as the days get shorter, and we enter to the interminable stretch of a sunless winter, I think now is as good a time as any to introduce a new feature to my blog. Until now, I've recommend singing a few bars of "This Little Light of Mine" or "Pocketful of Sunshine" to the world-weary who have trouble crawling out of their cozy beds. But now, each week (negotiable), I'll introduce a new little song that will make your heart sing. Titles for this semi-regular column can be left in the comments section.

This week's selection, at Meaghen's suggestion, is "Taylor the Latte Boy," in honor of my burgeoning romance with Hottie McLatte. This song was practically written for our love affair. I saw Kristin Chenoweth perform this on the Rosie show back in the 90s, and it has been a favorite of mine and my mother's since then. (And yes, sometimes my mother does turn off what she so sensitively calls "slit-your-wrist music" for some lighter fare.) Here's Kristin singing it for my fave late night show host, Craig Ferguson. Enjoy.

Peppermint mocha with a side of McLatte

Recently, I received several queries about the status of my budding "romance" with Hottie McLatte. Unfortunately, I had no news to report, as I hadn't been by his Starbucks in a couple weeks. When we left things, I was worried Hottie McLatte and I might have lost our spark, because I was the recipient of neither a friendly discount nor so much as a lustful gaze. I figured either he fell out of love, or his manager told him he should stop giving employee discounts to every girl who bats her eye lashes. 

But today, boys and girls, our affections reemerged. It bubbled over, steaming and sweet, with the bold jolt of new love. 

Okay, maybe not exactly, but can you humor me here? I took a one-time semi-flirtation and managed to stretch it out over several weeks in the interest of editorial content. This is for you, readers. 

Okay, maybe not exactly. It's really an entirely self-serving endeavor. But I'm not here to talk about my motives. I am here to tell you that today, McLatte and I sallied forth into new territory-- he opened up to me about his past. We shared laughs, prolonged eye contact (my fave), and a warm goodbye. I left with a mocha in my hand, and McLatte on the brain. 

Here's how it went down. I strolled into the Back Bay Starbucks, and saw McLatte placing an order at the counter. I think he glanced my way, but I was too busy nonchalantly drooling over the tempting treats in the glass display. I consider my even seeing him today a serendipitous occasion orchestrated by our Creator because I probably would have missed him, had I not decided to cut out of work a half hour early to stop a Barnes and Noble to pick up this month's gal-pals book club selection.

McLatte and I eventually caught each other's eyes, and he came over to say hello. I asked him if he was working, and he said he was just about to leave, to go home and relax, which might be the last time in a while, because he was starting up school again in January. Woah, holy overshare, Batman. Except not all, because I love oversharing, and I even have a tag in this blog called "Sharing is caring." Turns out McLatte is going back to school to study civil engineering, and the socially-awkward dateless girl inside of me emerged; I grinned like an idiot and exclaimed, "SMARTYPANTS!" Because some things are beyond my intellectual capacity. Things like science. Or engineering. Or the Internet. 

Mercifully, it was time for me to place my order, which I did, while McLatte McSauntered over to the counter to wait for his drink. I played it cool, and stared lustfully at their holiday coffee beans (special brews for Thanksgiving, people) while he made conversation with a man. The queued crowd waiting for their coffees eventually dispersed, until there was a lone cup, which had been sitting there for several minutes. I picked it up; the name written on the side said "Harvey." By this time, McLatte's friend had also left, and he asked the name on the cup. I told him, and he said it was his. 

I knew his name isn't Harvey, so I teased him about picking such a pseudonym that is not at all befitting of his countenance of demeanor. Then, in overarching overshare number 2, he started telling me about how in high school his nickname was Tyson, which led us into discussions about his successes in boxing and football. 

*swoon* 

It was in this moment, however, that I realized McLatte appeared significantly older than I remember. We're all familiar with the forgiving, if not downright flattering, lighting of Starbucks, and he always looked especially fetching behind the counter in the dim lights. In the slightly brighter area of the store, I could see McLatte looked more like 26, instead of the 23 I had guessed, which, let's be honest, only made him more attractive. Also, upon his mention of boxing, it was as if some scars on his forehead emerged like Rudolph's glowing nose, but in a hotter, much more erotic way. Are you still with me? We know how I love a weathered gentleman lover. 

As we continued our conversation, I saw McLatte pour approximately a third of a cup of sugar into his coffee. Conservative estimate. I exclaimed in horror, to McLatte's surprise and delight. This is the man who had made fun of me on more than one occasion for refusing whipped cream, or requesting sugar-free syrup ("You have to live a little!).  Well McLatte, tell me this, will you still love me if I can only wear pants with elastic waists and shirts I sew at home out of bedsheets? 

 While our laughter hung in the air, I figured it was best to make a quick exit while I was ahead. Before I yelled something like "SMARTYPANTS!" again or accidentally referred outloud to him as "Hottie McLatte." I said I had to be on my way, and as I turned to go, he said "All right, Catherine." He said my name with such warm affection. It made my heart swell and my uterus contract just a teensy bit. 

Until next time, McLatte. Until next time. 

Found Magazine

My mother found this stashed away in the drawer of an old table. It appears to be a relic from a time of great anguish in my childhood. Maybe the "you guys" were my brothers, who are awesome and couldn't help but be amazing at everything the earth has to offer. This reminds me of something you might see on Found Magazine, but I would hate to violate their editorial integrity by submitting something I wrote myself, even though I constantly search piles of litter for a gem to send in. So I'll post it here.

We all remember these desperate feelings of inadequacy from our elementary school days, don't we? Also, side note, I don't recall ever going by the name by Cat. I must have been quite young as my spelling is atrocious and the "then/than" confusion is certainly something I cleared up by third grade. Perhaps I thought a new name would bring me better luck:

Victory is mine, acceptance speech, shout outs

I reached my goal of 20 posts in 30 days! You said it couldn't be done! Actually I was the only one who said that. You were all so supportive. I'd like to take this opportunity to thank my agent, who still promises I'll find a real job one day, my parents, who always told me to follow my dreams. I would like to thank the hair and makeup people, who always made sure I looked my best for my Internet job where no one can see me. Most of all I would like to thank God, who obviously has nothing better to do than make sure people who blog as a hobby reach their self-imposed goals. And I would like to thank Blogger, because without them none of this could have been possible. Wow, this award is so heavy.

Also, hat tip to my colleague Ashley/Connie who far exceeded expectations with 23 posts, even writing six in one day. Way to go, Constance.

Maybe this will be the beginning of me blogging more regularly. In the last month I hit my 50th post. Which pretty much means I have established myself in the blogosphere and I should be ascending to the top ten on Technorati any day now. Soon I'll start running ads and I will no longer have to work. Then I can move to Dublin and be reunited with Meaghen and share with her the fruits of my blogging labors, because after all Meaghen's demand is pretty much the only thing that fuels the blogging supply.

And in the spirit of all things blog, I am sure I am committing some type of infringement by pasting this cartoon below. I found it on catchtheposts.com:

Someone slap some sense into that woman

I am a dedicated Dear Abby reader, and I check out her columns several times a week. For a woman whose job it is to dispense advice, I find she misses the point rather often, or offers people advice I just can't make sense of. So I'm going to start a new semi-regular section on this blog called Dear Abby/Queer Crabby? And I mean queer in the "odd, unusual" sense, not the LGBT way. And crabby because sometimes she sounds like an old neighbor shaking her newspaper at the kids across the street who stepped on her garden gnome. Let's look at today's column where she seems to miss an obvious solution to a couple's problem: 

DEAR ABBY: I'm a single 59-year-old man who is dating an attractive 40-year-old woman. I wear glasses, and she wears contact lenses, which she takes out before we go to bed at night. Of course, I remove my glasses.

The problem is, when we become intimate, we can barely see each other -- even with the lights on. We want to know what each other looks like when we're making love. Any suggestions? -- EYES WIDE OPEN IN ROGERS, ARK.

DEAR EYES WIDE OPEN: I am not a vision expert, and this is something you should discuss with your eye-care professional. However, because you are both blind as bats without corrective lenses, perhaps it's time you considered the Braille method.

Okay, have I lost my mind? Shouldn't the couple's solution to this be: leave your eye glasses/contacts on until you're done boning? I mean Abby, suggesting they learn Braille is a bit extreme. Were you referring to them enhancing the role of touch in their lovemaking, or were you just talking about straight up Hellen Keller Braille? Sometimes I can't tell with you and your inappropriate old people jokes. 

Everything's the same back in my little town

As you know, I took a semester off from college. I apparently took leave of my senses and thought it would be a wise idea to live at home for the fall. I could work and intern, all while making some money (not) and gaining more professional experience. While it was certainly nice to save myself a semester's tuition bill, other aspect haven't been so sweet.

I think I'm most tired of explaining what it is exactly I'm doing. People see me around town, and either a) think I dropped out or b) graduated and have done nothing but hang around and work the dead-end same jobs I always did. So I get a lot of hairy eye balls and awkward stares, and when someone asks and I explain the situation, they are disbelieving my story. How did I have enough credits to just leave? What am I running away from? They figure it's much more likely I got busted for something bad or failed out of college, shaming the family name.

The other deleterious aspect of this homeward sojourn is the toll it takes on my social life. Principally the problem is that I no longer have one. All of my friends are in Syracuse, and it's not exactly like my suburban bubble has a bustling nightlife scene. While downing a pint with the locals is certainly an option, I'm more of a "let's drink too much and embarrass ourselves in the company of strangers kind of gal." The hardest part of all of this is being apart from the people I like to be around the most. There are lots of times when I really wanted to relay an anecdote to Connie or complain to Paige about something related to the self-torture that is journalism. Thankfully there's the Internet, so we keep in touch, but sometimes I long for an afternoon spent in the cozy confines of Funk 'N Waffles wtih my nearest and dearest. And I am sure they really miss getting their butts whipped at Bananagrams.

To be fair, I've gained a few things by being home this semester. Mainly I have another line to add to my resume, this time a credible publication people will recognize. I dipped my feet in the churning waters of the real world, and depending on the day, my crippling lack of confidence in my professional future is either somewhat lessened or multiplied by a factor of 10. Stepping out of the protective bubble of a college campus has helped me think more critically about what I really see myself doing in the future. (I said it helps me think; I certainly haven't made any decisions.) I've realized I need to be honest, and not try to force myself into a career because I think it would be the easier, or "right" thing to do.

I have also read more books for pleasure than I have in the last four years at college. The two-plus hours I spend each day commuting allow me to read about a book a week. This may sound like a stupid thing to list as a pro of living at home and dropping out of college, but I certainly value it. And they say to become a writer, you have to read a lot of good writing, so I like to tell myself it's educational.

The last aspect of my somewhat-impromptu sabbatical (got fifteen minutes? fill out those withdrawal papers!) is that it has made me appreciate my college experience so much more. I'm not exactly a recruiter for Syracuse University, and at times I've been rather disenchanted with the whole thing. But after getting a taste of what life could be like after graduation (poverty-stricken, boring), I am prepared to live up my last semester to the fullest. This is our last chance to be irresponsible, to be surrounded by friends, and in a place where it's OK to routinely drink on school nights instead of taking a shower (don't ask). I am exceptionally eager to come back. I hope you guys are ready for me.

Stuff you should know part deux

How can the day after an election be a slow news day? Obscure headline of the week: Photographer who took LBJ's swearing-in photo dies.

-----

And, in this week's "Stuff You Should Know" segment, I am bringing you a series of articles from the frontlines of science. 

First, magnetic portals open up every eight minutes or so and "connect" the Earth to the Sun. Those who know me know that I don't really believe in "space" and the idea of magnetism on a planetary level is just too far past my brain capacity. So you can imagine my face when I read the article.

The headline pretty much says it all: The Stink in Farts Controls Blood Pressure. Do you think the doctors who author these studies feel a wee bit silly? 

Maybe this substantiates my in-depth eye contact and human interaction theories: Video conferencing makes it harder to make important decisions!

Notes from the intern desk

This week was a tough week at the old internship. Mostly I was put into a sour mood by a fashion piece that took me three days to fact check, when it should have taken three hours. An utter lack of cooperation and coordination by staff members and stylists left me to pick up the pieces. It was a frustrating and time consuming endeavor to say the least. And as you can imagine, a girl begins to question her reason for living after making call after call to inquire about prices, fabrics and styles of designer duds. President-elect Obama would not be happy with me pursuing this materialistic effort instead of offering a service to my country. 

However, this week did have a couple of highlights. First, after four months of unpaid, noneducational drudgery at my summer internship, they finally published one of the articles I wrote. Of course they didn't tell me. Good thing I was about to send a hateful e-mail or else I never would have logged onto the site. 

The other highlight came when I was fact-checking oodles of contact information for physicians featured in an upcoming issue. Among other things, we asked them to provide a quote pertaining to another article, and as I sifted through some of their e-mails, I was rather surprised by some of what I found. First, while many did not respond to a request for a quote at all, some went so far as to exercise their literary muscles and write up a whole little paragraph, complete with accurate attribution. Such as: 

Dr. Freezie McSpeculum of Boston Hospital for the Infertile says nothing is more important than a patient's sense of humor. "I tell every patient I see that they have to sit through at least five minutes of my knock knock jokes before we even start medical histories," says the doctor, who's recent book "Blonde Jokes and Emergency Medicine: An Unlikely Pairing" recently made several national best seller lists. 

Granted, only a couple of docs did this, but don't they have more important things to do than to try and do a journalists's work for them? 

Also, in hearing he'd be featured in our magazine, one doctor enthused that his mother would be so delighted,but his wife is harder to please (?). a) That is what we call an overshare. b) How is being published in a city magazine the pinnacle of your career? You are a renowned doctor in your field, in one of the medical Meccas of the world. 

Finally, the number of doctors who answered "yes" to a multiple choice question was truly astounding. You folks made it through medical school. You can do better than that.