pseudostoops

Oh, friends, how I love New York. I love it even more when my reason for going there is to hang out with old friends, meet new ones, dance wearing glowing plastic jewelry, and eat.  Really, what more could one ask in a weekend?

I have this disease, which I affectionately call “age,” which causes me to forget things, and so rather than compile what I think is an exhaustive list of the delightful people I saw and met, which would certainly result in inadvertent forgetting of one or more followed by feelings of guilt and remorse, I will just say: BlogHer was, for me, even better than last year.  And I had the parties-only pass, so did not go to any sessions.  That should tell you something about my priorities, right there.

But OH MY STARS am I tired now.  Steve Ross and I were doing some yoga this morning and Steve said “my don’t we have a lot of energy this morning!” and I said “fuck you, Steve,” out loud, just like that, and then I realized that I was inverted in a downward dog talking to a man on the teevee, and concluded that maybe I should go to bed earlier today.  Does 7pm seem too early?  Because it sounds positively blissful to me.

I’m helping to plan a baby shower for a friend.  We just decided on the date about a week ago- and it’s two weeks from this Sunday, so we haven’t left ourselves a ton of time to do things like send out invitations.  So the same day we decided on the date, I ordered invitations online.  They arrived arrived yesterday, and I am proud to say they’re already in the mail and on their way.  Last night, I was a model of efficiency, addressing like a fiend while Netflix streamed Center Stage direct to my Wii (”I’m the best goddamned dancer at the American Ballet Company.  Who the hell are you?  NOBODY!”)

But lest I get too smug about this accomplishment, allow me to tell you about the snafu that came with ordering them.  We ordered absolutely adorable invitations on TinyPrints.  We’re having the shower at my cohost’s house, and she was busy at work so I looked up her address, entered it into the invitation, and hit “order.”

Imagine my chagrin when she emailed me two hours later and said “um, Pseudo?  Are we still doing it at my house?  Because that’s not my address on the invite.”

Well, crap.  Turns out I’d gone into our book club email thread to find her address and had just absentmindedly selected the address of an entirely different book club member.  Congratulations, random book clubber!  You are now going to have 40 people bearing baby gifts show up at your house two weeks from Sunday!

So I called Tiny Prints in a panic, hoping against hope that there’d be time to correct the order.  After all, it had only been two hours, right?

“Oh, ma’am, I’m so sorry,” the incredibly nice man on the phone told me.  “Your order has already printed and shipped.”

Side note: holy efficient business model, Tiny Prints!

So I had to order an entirely new batch of invitations.  I’m a genius!  I’m thinking that I should send one of the goofed up ones to the book club member who lives at the goofed up address (she’s invited to the shower) just to freak her out.  Oh, did you not remember that you’d volunteered to host?  Surprise! Haaaaaa!

So yeah: for everything I manage to do where I feel like a somewhat competent adult, it seems like there’s at least one thing that makes me feel like a total numbskull.  It’s probably just as well: I wouldn’t want to get cocky.

We’re back from an incredibly brief trip to Northern California for the wedding of one of John’s good friends from undergrad.  As always happens when we spend a weekend away, I’m now feeling vaguely disoriented, knowing there’s no food in the house and a rapidly dwindling supply of clean underpants demanding I do laundry tonight.

But it was more than worth it: I spent much of the thirty-six hours I was in San Francisco feeling sentimental about how great it is that this group of guys has stayed so close since college, even though they’re now scattered all over the country and the world.  It’s such an incredible treat to have everyone in the same place for a few days and watch these old friends have so much fun together.  (Especially when no one gets arrested or vomits.  Growing up has its perks.)

The night before the wedding, the groom told me that he reads this blog all the time, and it would really hurt his feelings if he were to learn via this space that his wedding sucked.  So this is for him: your wedding did not suck.  In fact, quite the contrary.  It was an excellent time.  Well done.

I hit a girl once.  I’m not proud of this.  I was in seventh grade, smack in the middle of a three-year stretch of misery known as junior high.  This girl, a blond-haired freckle-faced HELLBEAST, enjoyed tormenting me.  I was an easy target: I was pudgy, good at school, and worst of all, I really wanted to be liked.  I knew the popular kids didn’t like me, but I couldn’t seem to help myself from trying, again and again, to get them to like me.

Like I said: easy target.

I was substantially luckier than many: I had a nice (if small) group of friends, several of whom I’m still close with today.  The torment was verbal, not physical, and took the form of taunts and mocking, not horrible soul-destroying meanness.  But it was still pretty brutal.

Memory is a funny thing: I cannot remember what it was that freckled hellbeast said that day that caused me to temporarily snap.  But I can picture, with perfect clarity, the middle school soccer field where our gym class was playing.  I remember the reversible gym tshirts we were wearing, mine turned to the white side, hers on green.  And I remember that whatever it was she said was so mean, and I was so fed up, that as she turned on her heel to walk away, I spun around and clocked her… with a palm to the back.

Okay, so it was hardly as hard core as a punch to the face, but I vividly remember the instant afterwards.  I was horrified, convinced that I was going to be sent to the principal’s office, suspended, never able to get into a good college because I was a juvenile delinquent.

What happened instead surprised me: freckles looked at me, stunned and a little afraid, and ran away.  I waited for DAYS for the other shoe to drop, but she never told.

I never got into another physical altercation.

Until this weekend, that is.  This weekend, I got into a physical fight at a Vampire Weekend concert, of all places.   Preppy hipsters gone wild! Wooo!

As you might have guessed, I did not start it.  I was with some friends at the general admission show.  If you’ve ever been to a general admission show, you know there’s some jockeying for position, as everyone tries to find a place to stand where they can glimpse the band through the crowd.  We arrived at what we thought was a good spot, when I heard  someone behind me say “oh HELL no.”

We looked around and behind us, slightly to the left, was a couple- a man and a woman.  The woman was seriously displeased.

“You’re fucking HUGE!” she told me.

Um, nice.

“I’ve been standing here for half an hour,” she said.  “You’ll need to move.”

I was starting to move back when, all of a sudden, she grabbed me by the waist and shoulder, and SHOVED me backwards behind her.  Then, still shoving, she yelled “I mean, how would you like it if I did this to you, manhandling you and standing right in front of you?  You’re fucking huge! [ed note: again! Thank you! You’re a fucking nightmare!]”  All the time, still with the shoving.  Lots of shoving.  And some fingernails in the forearm.

“Look,” I said “I’M MOVING.  You did not give me a chance to move, you just called me huge and started shoving me!”

“Well, you ARE!” she said.

“Well, you’re kind of a bitch!” I said, cheerfully.  “Congratulations!”

I wish I could tell you that I got her thrown out or that it escalated into some frat-boy fantasy orgy of hair pulling and tshirt ripping, but the reality is much more benign: we moved so we spent the balance of the concert standing about a foot behind them.  Jittery from residual adrenaline, I fantasized about pouring my beer over her head while the band played peppy Paul Simon Rhythm-of-the-Saints-esque tunes.  And then the show ended and we went home.  Anticlimactic! Good times!

Postscript: because this experience reminded me of my only other physical altercation in 7th grade, I decided to look up Freckles McHellbeast.  Does it make me a terrible person if I take some comfort in the fact that she appears to have spent too much time in the tanning booth in college and now has skin that looks like luggage?  If so, I can probably live with that.

It seems in my life that there are two kinds of weekends.  Type 1 is filled with vast stretches of nothingness, no plans, plenty of opportunity for lazing and laundry and cooking dishes that require hours of stove time, like osso bucco.  (You know, if osso bucco didn’t gross me out.)  Type 2 is the polar opposite, filled with social engagements and parties and plans, dashing from thing to thing, and waking up on Monday only to realize that you have no (a) clean underpants; (b) clean dishes, and (c) groceries.  Stale graham crackers for breakfast it is!

This weekend fell decidedly, deliciously in the Type 2 column, and as I sit here munching on a leftover third of a burrito from lunch (see “no groceries,” supra), I can’t really believe what-all I crammed into the hours between 5pm on Friday and 6:30 frickin am this morning.  (Why yes I DID go to work at 6:30 am! How did you guess?  And no, I’m not in the least bitter about it, thanks for asking!)  There was happy hour and brunch with friends and a coffee date and another brunch with friends and a superbowl party featuring homemade wings and gumbo and soft pretzels, plus a cutie 3 month old baby.  Not too shabby.

But the highlight, unsurprisingly, was the lovely day and night I spent with a truly, astonishingly fun group of women who’d come in from ALL OVER THE WORLD (what, we had a canadian, that makes us international) to hang out.  Being a total moron I forgot my camera, and being a totally exhausted space case I’m forgetting all the nice things I wanted to say about them but suffice it to say that hanging out with these women was the kind of experience I used to daydream about when I was a teenager- a smart, racaously funny group of women who can talk about things both silly and serious for hours and hours while drinking wine and enjoying cheese fondue.  A little cliche and predictable for a girls weekend, you say, with the wine and the fondue?  DO NOT CARE.  WAS BLISS.

Making friends as an adult is hard, yo, and I feel incredibly fortunate to have found these ladies.

Then, after an evening where I mixed beer, whiskey, baileys (ew), wine, tequila (not my idea) and more beer, I somehow woke up with a headache.  I cannot fathom why.

Dear Birmingham, Alabama: you are surprisingly hilly.  Substantially hillier than I expected.  Also: rainy. Remind me not to sign up for any marathons that take place in your fair city.

But for a wedding, the rolling hilliness of Birmingham is a perfect backdrop.  The rain cleared up right before the ceremony, leaving behind a perfect chilly clear fall day.  As the bride and we bridesmaids were taking pictures, a group of trick or treaters walked by, and we took a bunch of pictures with little girls dressed as witches and fairies and Hannah Montana.  It was hard to tell who was most tickled: the wedding party, the trick or treaters who got to feel special taking pictures with the bride, or their mothers who caught the whole thing on their cameras.

All in all: a lovely, joy-filled, happy wedding.  It was my first experience as a bridesmaid, and I think I did a pretty good job.  I buttoned difficult wedding dress buttons, I mended hems, I brought Swedish Fish into the bridal preparation suite.  Really, what more could I do? Now the happy bride and groom are off in Peru, and the rest of us are back to Chicago, where it is cold and not hilly, thinking fondly of Halloween weddings with costume party rehearsal dinners and bright, bright orange shoes.

Now, as happened the last time I went to a wedding in a non-local place, I have some questions.  Specifically, questions about Alabama:

• Are vegetables prohibited, or merely discouraged?
• The wedding emcee insisted that toasts at the reception aren’t a tradition in the South.  I call bullshit.  Southerners: is this really true?  I mean, no one likes a trainwreck wedding toast, but it doesn’t really feel like a wedding unless there’s SOME talk of the couple, toasting, wishing them well, etc.
• What is the average age of a couple getting married in Presbyterian churches in Alabama?  Because the church’s wedding coordinator lady insisted on treating us like we were 19, and it was kind of tiresome.  Example:  “you girls can pray beforehand if you want, but you’ll need to find a responsible older woman to lead you in the prayer.”  News flash: bride and all bridesmaids were in their 30s.  Really?  We can’t pray on our own?  I’m not super-churchy, but I thought one of the tenants of Protestantism was that everyone can pray.  Right?

We spent the weekend in Quebec City, at the lovely wedding of one of John’s closest college friends.  The wedding was held at the Chateau Frontenac, a small, rustic, casual, no big deal kind of place:

You know, just like my house.

This was my first trip to Quebec, and it raised some questions for any Canadians in the audience:

1.  As you likely know, they speak French in Quebec.  I also speak French, in a sort of vaguely above-average schoolgirl kind of way.  Thing is, I LOVE speaking and practicing French, which makes a trip to Quebec particularly appealing.  But: Canadians also speak English, typically WAY better than I speak French, and I struggle sometimes to understand the Quebecois accent, so my French skills are even less sharp in Canada then elsewhere.  So I ask you, francophone Canadians: is a friendly, enthusiastic American girl who wants to practice her French charming, or tiresome and annoying?  I couldn’t quite decide whether everyone I talked to was happy to see me trying, or simply resigned to put up with my amateur efforts.

2. When we were driving from Montreal to Quebec City, we encountered several traffic lights that would blink green for a while before turning to solid green.  What does that mean? We kept worrying we were violating traffic laws when we just treated them like regular green lights.

3. During the wedding reception, there was a large video screen assembled over the dance floor.  It was first used for a slideshow of childhood pictures of the bride and groom (awwww) then for a running slideshow of photos that had been taken of wedding guests during the cocktail hour (cool).  But then, when the dancing portion of the evening started, the screen started showing the music video for whatever song the DJ was playing at the time.  Have you ever seen the music videos for We Like to Party, or 500 Miles, or Celebration?  I have!  (Who knew “The Gang”in Kool & the Gang was so large?)

I have to admit, I found it a little distracting- instead of dancing my fool head off, I ended up watching a lot of really strange music videos.  “Like a Prayer” might be a fun song to play at a dance party, but the whole burning crosses/ black Jesus imagery was a little much for a wedding reception.  Is this “showing of music videos” thing normal at Canadian weddings?  Am I the one who is out of the loop, that I have never seen a DJ who brings his own video feed before?  I mean, yes, I was distracted, but on the whole I would have to say it was a good thing, if only because it led me to the following video, which I had never seen before, which I demand you all watch immediately.  There are so many good parts! The fur suit! The dancing on the seat of the motorcycle! The earnest fist pumping in the shiny blazer!  If it weren’t for Canadian wedding DJs and their extensive music video collections, I’d still be in the dark!  So thank you, Canadian DJ.  My life is richer because of you.

I cashed the check, and wrote them a newsy note thanking them and giving them life updates.  As many of you noted, I’m certain that they were not trying to be snarky jerks with the note, that it was just an ill-conceived and poorly executed attempt to reach out.  They are nice people, just a little brusque.  (My godmother, for example, once counseled against going to law school in Chicago, also known as the city where I grew up, because “God, Chicago is such an effing backwater, you might as well go to law school in Nebraska.”  Helpful!)

Am I the only one who feels like a total moron when writing chatty letters with life updates? It feels narcissistic, to assume that people are going to care where I went on my three-day weekend or what my plans are for this summer.  I know that family and friends want these updates, so I’m working on getting better about writing more regularly, but I struggle to write them without feeling life a doofus, is all I’m saying.

Speaking of feeling like a total doofus:  I had the first ticklings of a cold on Saturday morning, made worse by all the dust I kicked up doing our annual spring cleaning.  How did I respond to those tickings of a cold?  Did I take to my bed early, rest, push fluids?  No! Instead I went to a bar where a friend and I were cohosting a birthday party, drank more adult beverages than I have consumed in a single evening in at least a year, and ended the night with an embarrassing, if predictable, Very Serious Conversation with a friend, complete with crying from both parties.  Needless to say, I woke up Sunday morning with a full-fledged case of Death By Headcold.  If you need me, I’ll be the one snurfling into a kleenex and pounding gatorade.

I feel obligated to clarify after my last post:

Sharp knives are your friend! Do not fear your sharp knives! They are actually way less likely to injure you than dull knives, which have a tendency to slip or snag on food and slice your fingers off.  The only reason they served me ill in this case was that I decided to try to preserve the newly sharpened blade by using the dull side of the knife to slide under the box flap.  Dumb!  If I’d used the sharp side, it would have slipped through the glue no problem and I would not have a large (and, as of this morning, worryingly puffy) gash on my hand.

Also, we did briefly consider going to the ER, but our thinking went something like this:

• This looks like it might need stitches
• Yeah, it definitely needs stitches.  There is some serious skin gaping going on here.
• Where does one get stitches at 8pm on a Saturday night?
• The emergency room, that’s where.
• Going to the emergency room on a Saturday night with a comparatively minor flesh wound seems like a recipe for a verrrrry long wait.
• Also: ER on a Saturday night?  Could be kind of a crazy scene.
• Also: our insurance blows.  We’d probably end up paying like $1000 for three stitches.
• On second thought, this cut doesn’t look so bad.

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Also, I forgot to mention- mere hours before the ill-fated cereal box incident of ought-nine, I was at the first birthday party for this fetching fellow:

Good times- a large group of adults watching Theo try to eat all the wrapping paper while he studiously ignored most of the toys.

Also, since the people I knew at this party consisted of: birthday boy, mother of the birthday boy, and father of the birthday boy (all of whom were a little busy) I was SO delighted and relieved to finally meet Kristen and hit it off immediately, so that we could stand by the Fritos table and chat and I didn’t have to stand awkwardly in a corner by myself.  Thanks, Kristen!

Thursday, I flew to New York for work and stayed through the weekend. In my experience (and I’ve been to New York a bunch) there are two kinds of trips to New York: those that make you wonder why anyone lives in such a busy, crowded, dirty, frustrating place, and those that make you wonder why people live anywhere else.

This trip was the latter.  I actually sort of started thinking through in my head ways that John and I could swing a move.  (Answer? We can’t.)

I did a lot in four days, too much to recount in any way other than a boring recitation, which I’ll spare you. There were some tremendous highlights from the resumes of the hundreds of students I met at the career fair I was attending, which I might assemble into a separate post sometime this week. (Seriously, people, have we learned nothing from my past posts on resumes? DO NOT list your character and avatar and screen names for WoW on your resume! Just don’t!)

Some longtime readers might remember the summer of 2006, when I lived in New York and worked an unpaid legal internship and lived in a series of very grimy apartments. (Remember my roommate Jonas? The cockroach? What I didn’t tell you at the time was that I actually had a pretty robust debate with myself about whether I could afford NOT to eat the food from the roach-infested fridge. That’s how tight my budget was.)

This weekend I was that neighborhood again for two days, and it was a total delight to be able to go into the delicious coffee shop and order an amazing latte without stressing about money.  See also: delicious bagel shop, delicious deli selling delicious black and white cookies, delicious Belgian beer bar, and delicious eggs benedict at place where brunch comes with 3 free mimosas.

Um, so yeah- recommitment to healthy eating starts TODAY!  Or, more likely, starts tomorrow, after John and I finish the black and white cookie I brought home as a souvenir.  (WHAT? I like black and whites and you can’t get them here.  Don’t you judge me!)

Saturday night, to recover from Friday night’s Milk and Honey-induced hangover, Murphy and I decided to lay low and go to the movies.  We were waiting outside for the theater doors to open (this is apparently a Thing in New York: you have to wait in a line that snakes around the block to get into the movies) when this woman who looks AWFULLY FAMILIAR walks by me.  I do a double take, then whisper to Murphy “Did you see that?  That was Kelly Rutherford!”

“Who?” she said.

“Kelly Rutherford!  Lily van der Woodsen! Just walked by us!”

“Probably wasn’t her,” said Murphy.

We made our way into the theater, got our seats, and were chatting as we waited for the movie to start when who should walk up the steps and seat herself in the row immediately in front of us?  Lily van der Woodsen!  No question about it- it was her.  She was totally like 6 feet away from us!  And because we were seeing the chick-iest of all chick flicks, the theater was 98% women, all of whom probably watch Gossip Girl, and you could hear the buzz rising as everyone realized who it was.  The girls in front of us actually tried to strike up a conversation with her (”oh my god, we LOVE your work!”) which struck me as awfully rude- let the woman go to the movies in peace!

I am proud to say that Murphy and I were much more nonchalant, and waited until the movie was over and we were out of the theater to announce via Twitter and facebook that we were, like, totally besties with a famous actress now.