Perfect Timing

I used to be blessed with perfect travel karma -- where ever I would go, blue skies would follow while rain poured down or snow fell in my place of departure. Now, it seems that wherever I go, I narrowly miss major upheaval.

BF and I were on vacation in NZ and Australia for the past 2 weeks. We did not have perfect weather. 38° Celsius = FREAKING HOT or 100.4° F. What we did have was perfect timing. We were in Queenstown, NZ and about to leave for Cairns, Australia to go snorkelling at the Great Barrier Reef when we heard about the rioting in Sydney on SKY News. We arrived in Sydney 3 days after the riots ended. While in Sydney, we were again watching SKY News (the only other programming was of either rugby or cricket) and saw images of the Brooklyn Bridge swarmed with pedestrians. We flew back on Christmas Day and missed the strike by 3 days.

More on our travels to the Land Down Under and the Land of the Sheep (NZ) later...

Freaky weather

Last night, I went to S house for Christmas dinner. I arrived in the midst of children unwrapping their extensive Christmas booty. The whole experience was out of a Norman Rockwell painting. S's family had a lovely large spruce, with a model train running along the base. Four generations sat by a roaring fire, as the family just sat in the living room exhausted by the whole days activities. We did what one does on a holiday, eat too much, talk to relatives, take naps, eat some more and watch a little tv. As we sat in the living room, after dinner we chatted, I mentioned to S's sister my love of the hippie organic products. G, S's brother in law, thought it was amusing and said " you can take the girl out of California, but not the California out of the girl."

S's family is from West Hartford a leisurely, hour and a half drive from my apartment. A long drive for people on the East Coast, the commute to work in California. I enjoyed my drive down, catching up on my CD club mixes.

It has been a balmy 45F (7C) this past weekend. So on the drive down I saw something you normally not found in the inland: FOG. Snow and accumulated ice from the frigid days before were evaporating in the sudden warm weather leaving puffs of dense white fog on the roads. On the drive back, it both rainy and foggy. Cars on the interstate were crawling at 40mph. Drivers seemed confused by this odd weather. For me it was like any other winter day in San Francisco. 45 and raining, and on the highway seemed exactly right for Christmas.

Apparently G forgot to mention, "not only can you not take the California out of the girl, but California (weather) will follow her wherever she goes."

Suspicion...

Does anyone else think it is suspicious that Evil Twin #2 is not in Manhattan (not even in this country) during the transit strike?

Mandatory holiday partying

While I do enjoy the occasional holiday party, there is something weird about having to spend this time with your department/office. The holidays should be about home and loves ones, and escaping those you, barely tolerate, everyday. I have two work parties every year. One is a pleasant dinner party thrown by my advisor. He cooks up a feast of exotic Chinese foods, feeds us, liquors us up, and sends us out to enjoy the rest of the weekend.

The bigger less appealing party is the departmental holiday party. In the past, it was homey affair. The party started around lunch time. It was potluck, so there always was a wide variety of exotic (mainly east Asian) dishes, mixed in with a plethora of baked goods. The jovial department chair brought in egg nog, and spiked it with a liter of Jack Daniel's, he smuggled in the building in a french lemonade bottle.

Now, things have gone modern. Our new department chair is a political being and desired a flashier party like the other departments. So now it is catered, beer and wine is served, and there is some form of live entertainment. When I walked into the party with V, we heard the new Chair giving a speech on how happy he was to blah blah blah blah. I almost turned around, but V said not to be ridiculous.

I headed straight to the make shift bar and ordered myself a white wine. Luckily, the bartender understood the situation and filled the goblet to the top. Ah white white wine, stay close to me. (think UB40 circa 1990's)

The live entertainment was salsa dancing. Lessons were given early in the night, but when the instructors were gone so was everyone from the dance floor. H, who has Hispanic blood coursing through him, asked me to dance. Dressed in my large t-shirt, cargo pants, and orthopedic clogs, I was not really suited for a party, let alone dancing. But with enough music and liquor, all inhibitions can be overcome. I'm not sure if my head was spinning from dancing or the 3 glasses of wine I had, but it was fun. So between more glasses of wine, and awkward conversations with awkward scientists, H and I would dance.

Towards the end of the night, our department chair came up to me to chat. He said, "So ET#1, you are a woman of many talents."

"huh?"

"Yes, we did not realize that you could dance and do science."

So 'til next year, in which I am sure to make an ass of myself in some new and disturbing way.

Happy holidays!

X-mas wish list

Dear Santa,

Since I have been only slightly evil this year, I think that I am still deserving of a few things, other than coal, in my stocking. Here is what I want:

1) Peace on earth
2) Luke Wilson
3) My Thesis
4) The HairMax laser comb pictured below. It increases hair growth with low level lasers. $545 on drugstore.com. Hope you and your wife are still enjoying the North Pole and work is going well.

Sincerely, Evil Twin #1

Half-naked girls, clean cut rock 'n' roll, and the O.C.?

'Tis the season for good tidings, credit card debt, holiday parties, and my favorite the multi-act Christmas concert. In December, many radio stations hold a concert with their favorite line up. Often with cute names like, "Rockin' Holiday Jamfest," fans can see 6 bands for the price of one. As seniors in college, Evil Twin #2, W, O and I, sat in Madison Square Garden in the midst of screaming 12 year olds at Jingle Ball to listen to: Fiona Apple, Sarah Machlaughin, Allure, Chumbawumba, Savage Garden, Hanson, the Backstreet Boys, Aerosmith and the Wallflowers. Ah, the names of bands can really date you.

Several weeks ago, I was in my friend's car, and he having OCD like every other boy I know, was flipping through the radio stations searching for something decent. I heard an advertisement WFNX Holiday Show. The ad mentioned that Hot Hot Heat would be playing at this show. Hot Hot Heat is a decent band, and while every song they play sounds the same as the last and the lyrics are unintelligible, they have a catchy sound that makes you want to bop your head. So the next day I e-mailed A, and asked if she wanted to go to the show. A being much more savvy in figuring how to navigate Ticketmaster, bought us tix online and we were set to go on December 6th.

December 6th was a cold Tuesday. Realizing with age comes wisdom, A and I wore fashionable, but warm ensembles of sweaters and jeans. These outfits were a definite bonus as we waited on line to get into the Roxy, next to boys who wore only t-shirts and corduroy blazers, and girls in low slung jeans and a hoodie sweatshirt.

A and I settled into our comfortable balcony spot, in which we could lean against the railing and watch the bands and crowd below. The full holiday line-up was: Morningwood, Hot Hot Heat, The Bravery, and Alkaline Trio.

We arrived as Morningwood was wrapping up their set. For their penultimate song, the lead singer, a woman wearing twenty shades of black, asked if there was anyone in the crowd that wanted to get naked. Of course, twenty eager twenty-somethings stretched their arms up high. The singer choose two blonde ladies from the first row. While I admit I could not watch their striptease act, and spent much of the time looking at the poster of the OC at the other end of the hall, I was a little taken aback by the idea. Yes, I do understand that it was supposed to be an alternative show, and while I am perfectly okay with the occasional F-bomb, this seemed gratuitous. Well, the ladies only got down to their brazeers and unbuttoned their jeans. I guess my puritanical sensibilities were only ruffled, not offended.

While the stage was being set up for the next act, a stream commercials played on a screen above the stage. Why would an alternative station have ads for the OC on repeat? Isn't the idea of rich beautiful Californian teens the antithesis of alternative?

The next band was Hot Hot Heat. Lead by the very energetic very cute very affroed lead singer, their tunes perked us right up. A and I tapped our feet to the catchy hooks and were made happy by their stage presence. No foul language, they revved up the crowd with broad smiles, hand clapping and the lead singers voluminous hair. A said "They are the kind of boys you could take home to your mother."

The opposite of that would be the following band, the Bravery. Their lead singer wore heavy eyeliner, hip hugger jeans, and swaggered as if his pelvis had a mind of its own. He was a little like a less cool Sid Vicious. However, their music was pretty digestible unlike the Sex Pistols.

A and I decided to call it a night. It was 11 on a school night and we had little energy for the last band. As we sat on the T, we discussed our like and dislikes of the night. We came to the conclusion that alternative has gone pretty mainstream, with shows like the OC and movies like Garden State. Bands do not have to be all sexy and gross to be cool, although that is still the favored route. And the radio Holiday concert still lives on.

Patriots vs. Jets

America has a lot of sports to offer. There is baseball, basketball, soccer, competitive eating, fishing, golf, boxing, wrestling, lumberjack olympics, roller derby, candlepin bowling etc.. But the one sport I tend to watch the most is football. Probably out of habit and nothing else. It all started in 1981. My family had just moved to Northern California. In those days, the 49ers were a dominant force. We had a clutch QB, Joe Montana, his go-to guy, Dwight Clark, and an unknown rookie, Ronnie Lott. The whole city was excited about the sport and it was hard to go to the grocery store without hearing how the game on Sunday went. Highways, would be empty on game days, a phenomena Northern California may never again witness.

Well, in 2005 it is slightly depressing being a 49er fan. Being in last place in the NFC west is is a long way from tewnty years ago. With Eddie deBartolo gone, and his sister runnning the show we've wtinessed, management pay ridiculous amounts of money for a rookie QB that does not play. A coach, whose dad was good, whose staff is a mess, which is often reflected on the rag tag team that cannot seem to pull it together. But all of this is not part of the story and I have digressed way too far from the point.

Currently, I live in New England, that is experiencing its own heyday of football. So while I lament my red and gold, I am surrounded by the cheers of the Pats. This Sunday, I watched the New England Patriots battle the New York Jets live at Gillette stadium. I had no idea what I was getting into.

My friend Ti, her boyfriend C, his friends M and To, and myself crammed ourselves into a silver Subaru outback, filled to the brim with tailgating essentials. While chief meteorologist Todd Gross, promised only a slight dusting of snow it, already an inch had fallen by noon. As we drove to Foxborough, it showed little sign of letting up.

We set up camp in a parking lot next to To's friends. They had set up a satelite dish on a tripod along with a television to watch all the football games while they set up their grills for the tailgaiting party of all tailgaiting parties. Picture the whitest, loudest, drunkest, large men and you come nowhere close to what I was amidst.

It kept snowing, as our car grilled up the burgers, chicken, sausages, steaktips. Everyone had brought their own six-twelve pack so the beer ran freely. Ti and I huddled around the grill in hopes to feel our hands and feet again, but that would not happen until 8 hours later, when I was happily in my home. Conversations involved calling various ball players various vulgarities. At some point, M turned on his car stereo, to blast his Patriots pre-game mix. A small sampling included, "Mr. Brownstone," "Runnin' with the Devil," "Thunder," etc..

Other interesting pre-game events included men urinating on a fence nearby, a trashfire, and two people who grilled in their SUV. Before kick-off, we packed up and trekked to the stadium with beers in our hand. (Apparently, open container laws do not apply around the stadium) Yes, I was in some kind of white trash hell.

At the game, we had some fantastic seats on the 40 yardline. Although we were quite high-up, we had a fantastic view of the field. From up above, you could appreciate the strategy and thought that went into the game plan. It was facinating, despite the lackluster performances on both sides.

The one unfortunate thing, was the crowd in parking lot was actually indicative of crown in the stadium. A man one row below me kept yelling about how he hated those virgins who never slept with him. A girl threw up in the aisle. And as I was standing in line, mind you wearing seven layers of
clothing, a man crashed into me attempting to cop a feel.

While I had a fun time, I think that Sundays will be reserved for watching football intermittently through loads of laundry, granding papers, and cooking all in the comfort of my own home.

the inevitable

While washing my hands in the 27th floor ladies room I looked up at the mirror which is behind the sink. I noticed a white hair. It was long and much coarser than the rest of my hairs. I yanked it out. I am getting old.

feeling crafty

I've always wanted to learn how to knit. As a child, my mother taught me how to crochet -- I think that the most complicated item I made was an off-kilter doily and maybe a scarf or two. I was 6. Over a quarter century later, I have finally moved on from one needle to two and am working on a *real* project -- a slightly irregular scarf for BF. What spurred this foray into the world of crafts? Maybe it's the colder weather. Maybe it's my desire to cocoon myself in something soft and warm. Or maybe it's because I was looking for an excuse to buy more crap.

Yesterday, I went to "Smiley's Yarn Riot" for my first yarn purchase. As a side note, I have never seen so many crazy cat ladies in one place. They sure are chatty. Ever the cheapskate, I couldn't resist the bargain basement prices they had on their yarn. The free pattern that I downloaded only required 2 skeins of yarn. I walked out with 18 skeins and am going back for more. I wasn't sure if the prices were really that great since I am a knitting novice, but when I went to Knitting Club last night (my first meeting), the other members confirmed that I did indeed get some bargains. The club's founder, a friend of a friend of BF, only started knitting last year and is now working on a beautiful wrap sweater for a baby -- it looks super professional. She reassured me by telling me that her first project (also a scarf for her bf) was less than perfect. I can only hope that one day I will be as precise as she is in her knitting. A girl can dream, right?

I am not quite sure if this knitting thing will be good for me -- I think I might be too anal to reap all of the stress-relieving qualities that knitting has been touted to have. Last night, I ended up unraveling several rows after I realized that I was off by one stitch. The yarn that I am using is not smooth and is very forgiving. You really can't tell if I add or drop a stitch. But, because I have this insatiable need to make sure that the scarf will be symmetrical, there I was counting stitches and trying to make sure that they were evenly spaced. I have a feeling that BF will be the recipient of many slightly irregular woolen items over the coming months.

Dead weight

Sorry, as I delve into a touchy feely subject matter.

For the most part, those who surround me are fantastic people. When I am blue, they send me words of comfort. When I am whiny, they listen. And when it is time to kick back, they are a hell of a lot of fun. But every once in a while you run into a dud. Someone who can suck the life force out you. Sometimes it is because they are boring, sometimes they just stupid, but most oftenly these duds are selfish, too self involved.

It is often hard to say bye to a friend. Normally, things change gradually and you can slowly drift apart. This method is preferred. Every once in a while, well just twice in my lifetime, you have to end things in a dramatic fashion.

I dated someone this year. I thought he was a nice fellow. He was intelligent, fun and a good kisser. But it became rather apparent that he had "issues." He was manipulating, commitment phobic, and incredibly self involved. I thought that made him bad boyfriend material, but perhaps he could be a decent friend.

So I listened to his problems with work, with his family, with his friends and with himself. And there were a lot of them. In the process of empathizing, I was dragging myself down too. Once when he was away on a business trip to Singapore, I asked for a postcard. (postcards are an obsession of mine) This was his email from Singapore:

ok, ET#1 of the postcard collection ET#1. i have now acquired your postcard. mailing it will be another issue - and i cannot yet commit to that. hope all is well. this place is hot and a long way from home. g

Our friendship was a definite one way street. My supposed friend felt overtaxed sending a postcard, literally the only thing I ever asked from him .

I hate being the bad guy, but I guess I had to be. I don't know what triggered it, but I realized that I had had enough. This Monday night, we spoke on the phone; chaos ensued. Apparently, he was dealing with some intense family issues, but it had gotten to the point that while I felt bad, I just could not deal anymore. It is amazing how pent up frustration with someone can spill out oneself. In retrospect, I wish I was more eloquent or witty like in a 30's black and white picture. But the stuff coming out of my mouth was more like a 70's gangster film. At the end of the conversation, he still misunderstood why I was angry. And surprisingly, I am okay with that. I said my piece, and now I am at peace.

Losing a friend should be a sad event. I am sure in the coming weeks I'll spend time wondering if everything worked out okay for him. But it is nice to know that I am no longer responsible for being a surrogate therapist. He once told me that he had five friends he thought he could rely on and I was one of them. Oh well, at least he has four left. No one should be alone, even if they are dead weight.

By the way, I never did get that postcard.

Turkey = crack

Thanksgiving is a perfect holiday. A family gets together, avoids talking by stuffing their face, and then fall asleep in front of the TV watching football.

I have spent very few Thanksgivings with my own family. I always seemed to find myself thousands of miles away during those fall months. Thankfully, I have friends willing to adopt me for the day. I love getting invited to my friends family's house. I love being able to see what made my friend, my friend. I love seeing the commonalities in all familial relationships. Mom is the last to table. Dad is a little quiet. Siblings have loud stories.

The best part of Thanksgiving is the food. Why turkey is saved for just this time of the year I'll never comprehend. When I was a freshman in college I must have gained 5 pounds eating the roasted turkey lunch. But now that I am without the John Jay cafeteria, I can only get turkey once a year. It is not just the turkey. Its all the fantastic sides. Some sides are particular to each individual family. D's family always has two kinds of beet salad. C made his great grandmother Houton's bourbon sweet potatoes. And of course there is stuffing. I often said I can eat my weight in stuffing. Evil Twin #2 has witnessed my obsession with stuffing. Stuffing with added tidbits like chestnuts, sausage, oysters, or prunes. Corn bread dressing is good too, though I prefer if it was cooked in the turkey's cavity.

This year I went to B's house. Outside there was a light dusting of snow, reminding me that the less appealing holiday of Christmas was around the corner. All the ingredients for a perfect day was there. The meal was delicious, B's mom's citrus fall salad was a hit. While most of the family left the dinner table after only one serving , B, S and I hunkered down for a marathon of eating. We ate a frightening amount of turkey and sides. We ate a frightening amount of desserets. And when S and I took a little break from the gluttony, we poured ourselves a bottle of wine. When seats in the living room opened up, we grabbed a little of that precious couch space. B spent his time bemoaning his stomach could not digest fast enough. Buzzed and full of turkey, S and I took a little nap.

Thanksgiving is definately my favorite holiday. I have eaten the last of the turkey that I packed up on Thursday. The weird thing is that I want more. I am considering going to Stop and Shop and buying a ten pound Butterball. Yup, I think I am addicted.

The Game: a girl's perspective

I am not a physically attractive woman. I write this not to gain pity or fish for false compliments, it is simply a fact. Which is why I find it ever amusing that when I am in the mood to go out, I have never had a problem picking up men. It's easy getting a free drink off a guy, no matter how good looking he may be. But how does this happen? Men, when at a bar with their buds, are essentially shallow and not looking for a girl's personality. Are bars so dimly lit and beer goggles so thick that they just assume that I am a hottie? Is it that heterosexual men are extremely unselective and hit on anything that have breasts?

Recently, a book called "The Game: Penetrating the Secret Society of Pickup Artists" has hit the New York Bestsellers list. It is a book about how a balding unattractive man was able to get any woman by mastering pick-up techniques. Don't get me wrong, Mr. Strauss is not a stellar writer and his book loses its focus with a sappy love story, but the idea that getting the attention of the opposite sex can be distilled into a few moves is facinating.

So here are some techniques I use and therefore want to share with my readers. These rules only apply to the bar scene, so alcohol plays a big proponent of it. (I am still working on the gym/coffee house/bookstore pick-up.)

- Go out with only one or two friends. More than that and your posse is too intimidating.

- Don't dress too hoochie. Try to keep it simple, it gives you an aura of cool.

- To get a drink, you need to have a drink in you hand. So there is always the initial investment of one drink.

- Choose you drink appropriately. Check out what the bar is like. If all the guys are drinking a bottle of Bud, drink beer. Drink wine at restaurant or hotel bars, and cocktails at yuppie theme bars.

- If the place is crowded, sit at the bar. You and your friend should face each other or outward, never towards the bar. This position creates a space that looks open and allows for high foot traffic towards your position. Men will try to order drinks between you and your friend. Help him get the bartenders attention, if he is worth your time.

- Never look bored, and smile a lot.

- Be bold. You can interupt the conversation of a group of guy three or less. The best "in" is to start talking to either the shortest or the ugliest guy in the group. This man is the most vunerable and his buds are there trying to help him out. In the end, the good looking guy will ask you for your number, because he is confused why you don't want him and he thinks you are nice.

- Initially, offer to buy you own drink. Don't worry, it is just a play because he will say every time "No, I go it."

- Be lady like, at least in the beginning. Leave making out on the dance floor to sometime after midnight.

- When he asks for your number pretend you do not have a pen or a purse. Let him sweat it out a bit. Normally, you end up with his business card, a good record of your night's conquest.

Of course, it takes a while to perfect these techniques. Between Mr. Strauss's readers and this blogs readers soon the bars will only be filled with average looking people hitting on each other. Frightening. 'Til then enjoy. Please remember practice makes perfect and this knowledge should only be used for evil and not true love.

Playing Dress Up

The other night's event did not go as I had expected. Not that I didn't enjoy the evening, it just wasn't quite what I had in mind. First off, it was pouring down rain when it was time to head out -- our cars were scheduled for 6:15, I didn't get into one until 7:00. There were 9 of us going in 3 cars, and I was in the last car to leave. The ride up was . . . interesting as I shared it with the quietest man in the world ("QM"). I gave up on small talk after approximately 15 minutes. Fifteen minutes of complete silence followed. When we pulled up to the Met, the grand staircase that leads to the main the entrance was completely covered in scaffolding. It was more claustrophobic than grand.

I sprinted up the stairs holding my dress (I opted for the long velvet number -- Mamacita, if only I had read your comment earlier, I would have gone with the blazer and skirt!) so as not to drag it along the wet marble. They were in the middle of the cocktail hour when we walked in. Instead of harried tourists and old ladies ambling about the entrance hall, there were about 500 people dressed in black-tie and evening gowns sipping cocktails. I liked that they turned the information booth into a bar that was lined with rows and rows of wine glasses. The ledge that usually props up maps and pamphlets made an excellent catch basin for spilled drinks. We were supposed to be able to get a private tour of the Van Gogh special exhibit, but we got there too late (thanks, Odyssey car-service) and I was forced to make small talk with a bunch of seemingly important people instead.

It was an interesting mix of real estate types -- developers, architects, politicians, and some lawyers. I got to meet Senator Alfonse D'Amato (although I really had no idea who he was, I thought he was just some bald guy that smiled alot) and Gifford Miller (not sure what he's going to do now after his failed mayoral bid), David Childs (an architect at Skidmore, Owings & Merril who is working on the re-design of the Freedom Tower), and a bunch of other people whose names escape me. I got a bit toasted on a few glasses of red wine -- yummy stuff, this was no 2 Buck Chuck. The dinner itself was in the Sackler Wing, in the the room that houses the Temple of Dendur. For those of you that are not familiar with that room, it contains portions of an ancient Egyptian temple that was given to the US by Egypt back in the 1960's when they were constructing the Aswan High Dam (the temple was in the way). The temple sits on a raised platform that is surrounded by water. The museum had surrounded the "moat" with hundreds of votives and the candle light reflected off the water and helped light the room. Absolutely beautiful. I wonder if when they were designing this space they planned for it to be a possible party area. The food was good, the wine even better. I guess for $3,000 a plate, they had to keep us well fed/inebriated. I think the bottomless glasses of wine had a lot to do with what followed.

We were at Table 40, near the head table. I had assumed that I would sit with members of my old group (we defected as a group from our old firm), but it was actually formal seating and I was seated between QM and the partner that heads up the other half of our super-specialized group. He's a scary guy ("SG") -- one of those people that can be super nice one minute and then screaming at you for being an idiot the next. He hasn't yelled at me. . . yet. Anyway, SG was seated to my right and in between our fish course and entrée he turns to me, takes me by the elbow and says, "I just had to tell you. . . I have to watch what I say in this group, I don't want to get in trouble. . . I think your dress is lovely. A lot of these women look like they're going to the prom. You look understated and elegant." And then he told me that one of the nicest things his ex had said about him was that "for a straight man, he had excellent taste". Huh?? I laughed (nervously) and said, "Actually, this dress is one that I wore to my high school homecoming dance; I just bought a new top to wear over it. This is actually my first black-tie event ever." At that point, SG started to raise his wine glass and wanted to make a toast to me. I convinced him not to. Later that evening, SG felt the need to make sure that I got a cab (even though there were abouta dozen of them lined up outside of the Met), taking me by the elbow and escorting me down the grand staircase, telling me to "be careful, it's very slippery". In my head I thought, "why are you touching me?"

He got soaked, I hopped into a cab and made my way back to el barrio. This reminds me of the time that one of my supervisors during a job I had back in college tried to get me to move in with him. But, that's a story for another day. I don't know why I always seem to attract the freaks. . .

Fashion Emergency!

I am going to my first real black-tie affair this evening. It's being held at the Metropolitan Museum of Art -- in the room that houses the Temple of Dendur. I am pretty excited to go, but at the same time having a minor panic attack over what to wear to the event--so much so that I schlepped 3 outfits in a very crowded garment bag into work this morning.

Here are my options:

1. Long (not floor length, stops right above the ankle), black velvet dress that has a high neckline and spaghetti straps - similar to a halter style on top - to be worn with a cropped sequined capelet on top, and held closed with a (fake) diamond-like art nouveau style pin.

My fear is that the fakeness of everything will be apparent. BF seemed to like this outfit, but it seems a bit prom-ish to me.

2. Black velvet H&M jacket to be worn with the above-mentioned pin on the lapel, with a black cap-sleeved top with satin trim beneath, and peacock blue multilayered satin skirt that hits about 2 inches below the knee.

While this is the most modern/sophisticated of the three ensembles, my fear is that it is not formal enough.

3. Black chiffon dress with some sequins in a geometric pattern (a bargain from Filene's basement at only $39.99) that hits mid-calf (unfortunate).

This one is not that flattering and seems more "cocktail" than black-tie, plus, I forgot my shawl so I will probably freeze to death. However, it is a "black dress" and I doubt that anyone would fault me for showing up in it.

Help!!

Evil Twin #1's A Series of Fortunate Events

When life hands you lemons, you can make lemonade or even better you can completely ignore they exist and wait until next week. The past week was horrific due to a dastardly individual who was supposed to help my scholarly pursuits, but instead decided ethics be damned and to see what would happen if he started researching what I am researching. I am not so great at office politics, so I spent much of the week just sulking.

Luckily, I had planned a Friday night with D&H. What a perfect way to ignore my ever depressing work life. D&H have just recently been married and have moved to an affordable condo in an up and coming suburb of Boston (minutes away from the new IKEA). Just minutes from the commuter rail line, D&H came out to meet me at the station. Friday night in Boston is noisy with college kids, but it was quiet in the cul-de-sac of condos. Inside D&H gave me a grand tour, and H said to me "Do you want to see the best part of this place?" He opened some slatted doors to reveal a washer and dryer. I suddenly had visions of not having to drag my laundry to the next building through the snow. Yes, H, I agree that it is a bonus. D was cooking up quite a storm, and I drank my beer as I watched her slave over a home cooked meal. Delicious healthy soup, rice and turkey gave me a sense of calm and I kind of felt that peace you get when you are home. After eating way too much we settled down for a movie.

"Lemony Snickett's A Series of Unfortunate Events" is a tale of gutsy children who overcome horrible tragedies. Slightly scary, the movie made me realize that my life was the exact opposite. For the most part, my life has been a series of very fortunate events, like being invited for a sleepover at friends' apartment when I needed some distance from work.

The next morning D,H, and I went to IHOP. I know this may sound a little odd, but I had never been to an IHOP before. Denny's, yes; IHOP, no. I ordered the International breakfast mainly so I could tell people I ate Swedish pancakes with lingonberries. (I was tempted to get the Rooty Tooty Fresh and fruity, but chickened out.)

I went back to work refreshed that afternoon, when a different friend D invited me out to lunner. Sure. We went to the ever hip South End and chatted over soup and decadent desserts. In order to burn the inordinate number of calories, we and ingested we walked around window shopping for our mutual friend's wedding. Inside Shreve, Crump & Low, there was a sale on jewelry. Three thousand dollars for a diamond encrusted pendant, what a steal! Except it was hideous so don't think it could be stolen even if the display case was wide open.

Saturday night, I went to the Beacon Hill Pub for my friend's C's birthday. It was quite the reunion as M, who has been hiding in Attleboro after Hurricane Katrina long story, came out to play. Two dollar beers is a great inducer of bad behavior and a little bad behavior is what I was in the mood for. I convinced M to circle the bar with me to hit on the frat boy/ meat head clientele. When that failed, I moved on to helping A find perky blonde girls to hit on. Yes, I am back, kids. I should mention that this was the first time I had ever met A. When all the other coupled people left, it was only A and I hanging out. At some point I was so drunk that I thought he left without me so I took off. This lead me to write the following drunken e-mail to him as soon as I got home.

hi a,
i am slightly inebriated but i thought i should shoot you an e-mail to tell you that i was serious about the hanging out part. i don't know what happened with meagan at the bar but i can only hope for good things.
i hope to hear from you soon becaue it is always nice to meet single people in the city.
-evil twin #1

Luckily, A was not too offended and e-mailed me this Monday morning. Yay, new friend!

Well, it is Monday morning. I know I have to talk to the dastardly individual. I have been bolstered by good will from a good weekend. See when life hands you lemons, ignore them and pelt the SOB with them on Monday.

Affirmation. . .

Nice to know I made the right choice...

You Should Get a JD (Juris Doctor)

You're logical, driven, and ruthless. You'd make a mighty fine lawyer.

What Advanced Degree Should You Get?

Vindication

As Evil Twin #1 has pointed out, I have been slacking when it comes to posting lately. The reason for this? Work has been crazy lately. Without getting into specifics, opposing counsel on one of the deals that I have been working on has been driving me insane. Why and how one might ask? Because opposing counsel (the "f*cking whore" or "FW" as I like to think of her) thinks that just because she is a partner she can treat me (a lowly associate whose admission to the NY Bar is still pending) like absolute crap. FW is one of those people that likes to shift the blame -- especially when it is her fault. She seemed nice enough in the beginning, apologizing for leaving early to pick up her 5 year old son when we were supposed to be finalizing the documents. I didn't hold it against her. . . at that time. Then I got her first round of comments. She was obviously not a zoning lawyer as her comments were really stupid. I mean, I am only a third year and even I don't make those sorts of comments.

An example: Change "as referred to herein" to "as referred to in this Agreement".

Herein MEANS in this Agreement. Come on lady. Give me some substantive comments!!

After making many dumb changes in the document just to shut her up, FW responded to the entire working group (including my client and her client, our respective co-counsel and the lender) that "At a quick glance, there are still items not included that were asked for 2 drafts ago. Please give me a call to discuss." WTF?? I gave her everything that she wanted, except for stuff that was obviously wrong. I even corrected many of HER drafting mistakes. The purchase price was supposed to be $17 Million Dollars. She said that I got it wrong and that it is supposed to be $1.7 Million Dollars. Umm... OK. If you say so. As anyone who knows me really well will affirm, you really don't want to get on my bad side. Partner or not, I wanted to shoot her. But I digress, the "items not included" were things that we had already discussed and that I explained why it was stupid to include in our last call. My favorite part is when she was getting all worked up and said that I failed to include something that I said I would and I said, "See Section 6." Then she got all quiet. Whenever I mention her name to our co-counsel his response is to sigh loudly, pause and then say, "What a dip." Our co-counsel is 78 years old, this explains why he uses the word dip as an insult.

Anyway, we finally signed the contract today -- we were supposed to sign everything up yesterday, but FW wasn't able to get her act together. Since she was such a fan of using the reply to all button, I drafted an e-mail to everyone that said:

[FW], please advise as to whether [completely unnecessary language that you are requesting, but my client has agreed to because he wants to end this painful experience] should be included in the Agreement. Also, since it is after 4:00, the wire will have to go out tomorrow morning. Thanks [to your incompetence the money will not go out until tomorrow and your client needs it more than my client does, hah!].

Today I decided to play a waiting game to see if she would ever get in touch with me. Veteran's Day is a bank holiday and we would have to fund by 4:00 pm or else the wire would have to wait until Monday. Both of our clients have been anxious to close and FW has been passively aggressively been blaming me for dragging the deal along.

3:30 PM: I send FW an e-mail (cc'ing the entire group) asking her to forward her client's signature on the contract so that I could release the wire. No response.

3:45 PM: I call FW to remind her that the banks will be closed on Friday. She freaks and hangs up on me, right after telling me that she will have the associate that has now been staffed on the deal with her to PDF it to me.

3:51 PM: Still nothing.

3:53 PM: I receive signatures, but they are to the WRONG agreement! Ha! I am loving this. I reply to all and say that these are for the wrong agreement, please send the pages to the correct agreement.

3:55 PM: FW replies to all and e-mails her associate "Get her the right pages NOW!!! Thanks."

3:57 PM: I call our client to get the wire ready, but tell them to wait until I actually receive a copy of the executed page.

3:59 PM: I receive the page, the wire goes out. FW looks like an ass. Hurrah!

Hmm...

I dyed my hair this color back in junior high. You really couldn't tell, though.

Your Hair Should Be Blue

Wild, brilliant, and out of control. You're a risk taker with an eye to the future.

What's Your Funky Inner Hair Color?

While we wait for Evil Twin #2 ......

So I checked a list of our postings and realized that ET#2 has a started 2 different postings and has yet to post them. What joyous tales we all could be reading. In the meantime, here is my latest story.

Yesterday, at about 5:30pm I was doing what I am always doing at 5:30pm. I was sitting at my desk reading the BBC News headlines, and waiting for one of my labmates to finish up in the cell culture hoods. Another constant in the lab, besides my procrastination, is the ever present noise, the whir of refridgerators, shakers, and other equipment. Anyway it is 5:30pm and the sun has set now that daylight savings is finished. All of a sudden all the lights go out. Pitch black and silent. I freaked out a little. J told me to get a grip. So I did. The emergency generator kicked in, and the creepy fluorescent emergency lights flooded the hallway, but the labs and offices were still silent and dark. First order of business was to make sure that all the necessary equipment was connected to emergency generator oulets. Members from the lab next door, joined us in checking everything.

After we were assured that most of our essentials were okay, V and I went exploring. There was the distinct smell of burnt rubber in one stairwell, so we decided to check out the other. When we got to the second floor, we realized that people were being evacuated from the building. Odd. In the twenty minutes we were upstairs, we did not hear a single announcement over the emergency PA system, nor did we see a single person come up to warn us. In a sick twisted sense of logic, V and I went back upstairs so that we could stay with our experiments just in case power was not restored. We were afraid that once we were kicked out of the building it would be impossible to reenter. So for another 20 minutes. 4 of us, J, V, my boss Z, and I sat in the dark chatting. I put my phone under my chin and use the light to freak out V. Childish. Yes. Hilarious. Yes.

Anyway I went home early last night. Sitting in the dark lost its appeal. Finally, got a legitimate reason for having less work done.

Side note: 1) Security assumed any sane person would have left a dark building and did not realize the need for an announcement. 2) Two turbines broke simultaneously. Perhaps scientific intrigue?

Natural uppers

Last week I was feeling blue. But being the proactive individual that I am and I decided to take action to snap my mood. Maybe I should gone to a psychiatrist, but that could have taken years and unburied more neurosis that should stay stuffed way in the corner of my mind. No, I decided to take matters into my own hands and follow some solid advice.

- Stay active - I attended book club, and actually discussed book. Was forced to watch "the Biggest Loser." Was grateful that I did not cry as much as Matt. Went out on Friday and to birthday party on Saturday.

- Don't isolate yourself from loved ones - Recieved a phone call from Boo all the way in England. Talked for a long time about her wedding arrangements and opera singing education. Visited friends to watch cable TV. Unfortunately, cable sucks and watched "Rookie of the Year" on ABC Family, but the company was excellent.

- Shoes - Went to DSW with V. Bought a pair of burgundy velvet heels. Very cute, very impractical. Spent much of the night walking around apartment in painful shoes dreaming of possible outfits.

- Get a minor ego boost - Girl's night on Friday. Ate dessert in a restaurant bar, partially spying on a couple on their first date. Went to a really cheesy club. Did not have to pay for cover because S impressed the bouncer with her exotic ID. At the next bar, got hit on by a magician, a definite first for ET#1.

- Remember good times - The lyrics to a Counting Crows's song reads "On certain Sundays in November/When the weather bothers me/I empty drawers of other summer's/Where my shadows used to be." I took these lyrics literally. I found a sweatshirt given to me by Mike L. after a crew race. Part of crew tradition is to throw the coxswain into the river after winning a race. It was cold that day, and I had not brought a warm enough change of clothes. He felt bad, so gave me his favorite sweatshirt for the bus ride home. Obviously I never returned it. Looked ridiculous is XXL sweatshirt, but wore it around town all day.

- Give a little love back - Went to go visit patients at local hospital. Read the paper outloud to nice man getting or got his (it was unclear) gall bladder removed. Avoided NY times Magazine, just in case more installations of Maureen Dowd's essay on Modern women were included. Sang to my niece over the phone.

The truth is I am still a little blue, but I am far from bursting into tears. Thanks so much for all your support. I promise, back to drunken exploits next week.

Still crying

Normally, I try not to wallow in my self pity too long, but it seems this time I have dug myself in quite deep and am having a hard time climbing out. The worst part is that I have been pretty proactive about ending it. Last night, I went to book club and chatted about "The Master Butchers' Singing Club." I thought my emotional funk was done.

This morning I woke up, did my morning calisthenics, ate a breakfast of bread, yogurt, cherries, and organic yerbe mate tea. The sun was shining and I even watched Regis and Kelly do a little of their host chat. Normally, on a beautiful day like this I would bike to school, but having gone out a lot the past few days all my bikes were already in the school cages. Well, a walk in cool autumn morning would be pleasant too. I put on my headphones and turned on my Zillion. I was smiling. Smiling thinking about how pretty New England can be in the fall.

Then it happened. Keane's song "Everybody's changing" came on. For some reason, I decided to pay attention to the lyrics. Waterworks ensued. I tried to stop crying, but I could not. Change the song! So I did and the next song was "Everybody gets what they deserve." Yikes. Jem's "Its just a ride." Fast forward. The Shins "Young Pilgrams." This song makes no sense, but I was such a mess that I started reading things into it. Next. Chris Isaak's "Somebody's crying." Are your kidding? Is random shuffle choosing only depressing music? What happened to all the Enrique Inglesias bubble gum crap I uploaded last week?

As I am walking wiping away tears in a busy intersection full of pedestrians, frantically skipping to the next song I came to an epiphany. The much maligned pop station KISS 108 should not be. Hookin' up in da club, shake yo thang mama, and stickwitu, would have been welcomed words this morning.

Okay from now on, no more tears. There is a full moon tonight. Maybe I need to go howl at it.

Crying over me

I've had a busy week, full of schmoozing with professors. These events are normally a huge ego boost because for the most part my incredible knack for bull honky gives me the illusion of an articulate, intelligent, put together woman. Not so.

Originally, I was planning on telling a nice story about going to a hot dog joint called Lawtons. (or with a French accent Law-tons sur le riviere). But after freaking V out with my sobbing, I thought I should share my thoughts in attempt to emotionally purge myself.

The trigger for this afternoon's outburst of tears was an essay excerpt by Maureen Dowd in the Sunday NY times magazine. Nothing remarkable about the essay, except to say that somehow in the modern era intelligent non sexy women still struggle to find a man. And that idea is what even now 3 hours after reading it is causing my eyes to well up.

My closest friends have always been females, but the majority of my buds have been males. Never understood this phenomena, but even in the second grade I was the only girl invited to Andy C.'s birthday party. I used to be that girl that was allowed to play dodgeball. I guess you could call me a tomboy, but I never felt like it because I was always confident that I was a girl. Perhaps I was a very precocious feminist.

In high school and in college, I somehow adapted the role of matchmaker instead of someone who was matched. Guys would come to me and tell me how they had a crush on my friends and would I please put in a good word.

Now many years later, things have not progressed very far. How often have I heard the phrase "Wow, Evil Twin #1 you are so much fun and cute," only for it to be followed by "I kind of feel like your big brother." To add insult to injury, women seem to feel the same way about me. When my friends' have significant others and somehow I get stuck with a bunch of boys talking about Daunte Culpepper vs. Eli Manning, no girlfriend, whether it be a guy friend's squeeze or one of my female friends, have ever been worried. Its not that I would ever steal someone's boyfriend, but couldn't I at least be thought of as a threat?

I guess my problem is that I am questioning my ability to be an alluring heterosexual female. To the heart of the matter: Will ET#1 ever have a boyfriend? According to Maureen Dowd, Oprah, and all dating guides things are looking pretty bleak. I am sarcastic, I don't play hard to get, I go to Harvard, and I don't wear panty hose (the sound of hose rubbing together gives me the willies). By 29, these traits are hard to change. As much as I joke about dying alone in my house of a million cats, its not really what I want. What I want is someone special, who thinks I am fun, cute, and wants to tear off my clothes.

The temporary solution to my low self esteem and negative outlook is to go out on Friday night. I plan on being half naked with really high heels and will allow anyone to buy me a drink. Shallow I know, but at least if they have only met me for 1 hour, I won't seem like their little sister.

My Horoscope

"Don't spend so much time getting ready this morning that you make yourself late for work. A slightly disheveled appearance is better than no appearance at all. Swallow your pride. Besides, you already look better than most everyone else."

Considering that I am one of the few women on my floor under the age of 45, I would hope so...

Organic foods, vegetarians, and other hippie stuff

For the past two months, I have been getting organic vegetables delivered in to my apartment. Deliveries come every other Thursday in large green reusable plastic bins. When I come home on those Thursday nights, I get all giddy thinking about the endless permutations of produce waiting at my front door. One benefit about this service is it delivers food that are in season so you have no choice in what produce you will be getting. Since I am so indecicive in the grocery store, it is a welcome change to be told what to eat. Ineveitably, there will be one odd item, such as dandelion greens. Included in your delivery is a pleasant note on recycled paper that thanks you for shopping organic and includes a few recipes (normally including your odd item). The whole experience has been like a bimonthly mini-Christmas, green box and all.

On Saturday, K, S, C and I went to the Boston Vegetarian Society Food Festival. It was at the Roxbury Community College Gymnasium. Inside there was a sea of people of all ages fitting into the vegetarian stereotypes. The young couples in North Face fleece vests stalking the Cliff bar station. Older ladies with frizzy graying hair, glasses with chains, and hemp tote bags. Vendors handed out free samples of Vegan soups, breads, chips and much more. Some were tasty, many were not. C could not understand why vegetarians seem to regect the notion of salting their food. Is using salt a carnivore thing?

Samples are about the best advertising in my book. I seem to have a very weak will because I often buy what I taste. (Trader Joe's understands this well.) Anyway at the vegetarian fair of many unsalted foods, I was swayed into buying seaweed noodles. Black and briny, they were delicious cold and according to the salesman a great source of calcium. I had dreams of coming into school with my exotic salad of seaweed noodles and chicken (I'm not completely turned yet), and having every ask me what I was eating.

So there you have it. I keep most of my hair on my body (except for some facial hair which I pluck), I carry totes to the grocery store, I get organic produce, I went to a vegetarian faire. Now all I need is a flowy skirt, some hemp shoes and an electric bus and hippies here I come!

A Break from the Norm

I think I am spoiled. The past two weeks have been only 4 day work weeks courtesy of the High Jewish holidays (Rosh Hashanah & Yom Kippur). I don't know how I'm going to work five days straight without having a day off. It's Day 3 and I can hardly wait for the weekend. Here's a brief roundup of what I did 2 Tuesdays ago and last Thursday.

Happy New Year!

I celebrated the (Jewish) new year by waking up early with BF -- he had a 9:30 am meeting -- and taking the train down to lower Manhattan with him. He walked towards the World Financial Center (as an aside, why does every city seem to have a "world" financial center?) and I headed for what I think of as a poor substitute for the Basement -- Century 21. But, alas, I did not get a chance to root through racks and racks of discounted clothing. Century 21 was also closed for the high holidays.

To compensate, I took the train to Union Square to the 4-story Filene's Basement that is located on every floor BUT the basement. I was thrilled to find a plain white sugar bowl that I am now using to hold Kosher salt. I also stopped at Forever 21 (the American version of H&M or Zara, one step up from Rampage). This was my first time in the store and I'm glad that I went at about 11:00 am -- I can only imagine the chaos that ensues when it is thronged with 16-19 year olds, which is about how old you have to be in order to pull off a lot of what they sell in this store. I did buy a navy stretch velveteen (I was looking for velvet, but this does the job) military style jacket for only $32. I had to buy a large (it was the only size left) and was thankful that it was made out of a stretch fabric. I have pretty narrow shoulders and can't imagine how anyone could fit into the medium, let alone the small, if you were wearing anything other than a tube top.

I was enjoying the happy shopper's feeling when I realized that I was running late for my lunch date with BF. We had reservations for Perry Street - Jean George Vongerichten's latest restaurant in NYC. I had been trying to get a table for dinner for about a month and couldn't get anything other than for 6:00 PM or 10:30 PM midweek. Perry Street is a very cold, clean, modern restaurant in the FAR West Village, pretty much on the West Side Highway. If you are walking from the Christoper Street Subway station, allow yourself at least 15 minutes--it's a really nice walk, so really not so bad. We were seated promptly and our drinks were excellent (they'd better be for $14 each!). While waiting for our appetizers to arrive, I was so excited about my Filene's Basement purchase that I whipped it out right there, unwrapping it from the 2 plastic bags that the sales clerk had wrapped it in since they were out of tissue paper, in the middle of the restaurant, excitedly recounting to BF how "I just got a bargain!" Retail price for the sugar bowl was $30 and I got it for $4.

As we were half way into our entrees, I overheard the conversation from the table that was next to us. It was 2 "ladies who lunch", one of which was carrying an orange Hermes Birkin handbag (which incidentally was on last night's Gilmore Girls -- Rory's was pink ostrich). This handbag has a 2 year waitlist and costs a minimum of $9,000. That's right, that handbag (plus the tax of over $700) costs about as much as my rent for the year. One woman was telling the other about the great Philippe Starck couch she just bought -- on sale -- for a paltry $10,000. I still think that I got the better bargain. Our lunch was the most expensive lunch that either BF or I had ever eaten. The final tally: a little over $60 per person. The food was great, but I don't think it was worth the price. I am glad that we went for lunch because I don't think I would have been able to stomach the dinner prices.

The Day of Atonement

Last Thursday was Yom Kippur, a day of seeking forgiveness. I started off by going to yoga (hadn't gone in about a year and I was sore for the next 3 days) and then doing all the things I never seem to have time for -- washing dishes, doing laundry, picking up dry cleaning. After all that, I was feeling quite domesticated and wanted to cook dinner for BF. BF is a fine cook and as a result, I never get to cook anything when he is around. Instead, I am relegated to dishwasher. Because he was at work and I could get a head start, I decided to take my chance while I had it and planned a fine meal starting with a salad of arugula, pear and toasted hazelnuts with a citrus dressing, followed by mustard dill baked chicken. I was very excited to cook for BF. He seems to think that I don't know how to cook -- but I think that I can hold my own in the kitchen.

I spoke to him at 6:00 to let him in on my plan to have dinner and to break open the bottle of Bordeaux that I bought about a month ago. He tried to change the entree -- suggesting that he cook something instead. But I stood firm, I was going to cook and he would have to eat whatever I made. While at Whole Foods shopping for ingredients, I wasn't sure if I had garlic left for the vinaigrette, so I called BF to see if he remembered. He had said that he would leave the office at around 6:30 -- it was already 7:00 and he was still at his desk. No problem, I'd just take my time preparing dinner. I was at my apartment by 7:30 and was merrily preparing all the food.

8:00 rolled around, then 9:00, then 10:00. Where was BF? And why was he not answering his phone? I was starting to go through disasterous scenarios in my head -- maybe there was an incident on the subway, or he got hit by a cab on his way to the train station, or maybe he decided to grab a drink with friends not caring that I was slaving over a hot stove. He rang my buzzer at 10:10 and strolled into the apartment saying "What's up?" I was not amused. It would take 35 minutes to bake the chicken -- I had prepped it but didn't bake it because I wasn't sure what time he would show. I didn't realize how upset I was until he walked into my apartment. When I saw how un-phased he was by his tardiness, not offering an apology for being so late, I lost my appetite. I didn't want anything to do with him and was so angry that I locked myself in the bathroom. Why this reaction? I am not really sure. Maybe it's because that was the sort of thing that my ex would do and having BF do the same thing really pissed me off. Was I in another destructive relationship? I don't think so, but things have been a little "off" lately.

Anyway, after I freaked out and BF saw how upset I was, he was super apologetic. That didn't really help things, though. Too little too late in my book. He really should have called to let me know that he was going to be late. He admitted that he thought about calling me, but then didn't. This upset me even more. Why? I don't know.

And then it happened -- I hate blaming it on this, but it's the only explanation for my extreme reaction to BF's tardiness (a chronic problem) -- as ET#1 likes to put it, my uterine lining started sloughing off. Ahh. Hormones. I guess things aren't as bad as I thought. So, if BF is reading this (I doubt it), sorry for over-reacting, and I accept your apology.

Continuing down the path to obesity

Once in high school, all the girls in our class had to fill out a survey on our attitudes towards food. Being not so evil then, I filled it out truthfully.

-Do you eat when you are stressed? Yes

-Does eating alter your mood? Yes

-Do you eat to celebrate an accomplishment? Yes

The questionnaire went on with many different permutations of the questions above. Apparently, the correct answer to those questions was "no," because the school counselor pulled me aside and told me that I had an unhealthy attitude towards to food. I was on the road to obesity or bulemia if I did not change my ways.

12 years later, little has changed. Take Sunday for example. I have been working (amazing I know), at my computer at home. For some odd reason, I still have never gotten out of that undergraduate mode, in which I just seem to think more clearly in the wee hours of the morning. So it is 2 am Sunday morning, and I am feeling a little blue and stressed. I go to our pantry and see the box of Cheezit's my roommate let me open earlier that night. MMMMMM stolen salty original cheddar goodness. Since nothing accompanies salty snacks better than procrastination, I started to read my "Destiny" horoscope.

"You are single, because you choose to be single. Although you surround yourself with friends, your independent ram spirit does not want to be tied down so you think of clever ways to keep people at arms length."

By the time I finished this tragic horoscope reading, I had burrowed my way through more than half of the box. I read the box and to my horror it is a 160 calories a serving, one serving is a paltry 27 crackers and there are nine servings to a box. Perhaps having cheddar halitosis and a cheddar gut was my way of keeping people at arms length. Something to think about. Oh well, at least the combination of carbs and fat in the Cheezits gave me a little energy boost so I could continue working.

Later when the sun came out, my friends B and S called to see if I wanted to go on an outing. It was a little cold and blustery, but an outing seemed appropriate for the first day sans rain in 9 days. The highlight was a dozen and a half sugared cider doughnuts. Fried crispy on the outside, soft on the inside, they were the perfect answer to the cold. After eating 4 doughnuts, I fell into a deep food induced coma. When I woke up, I brushed off a little of the excess sugar caught in the corner of my mouth. Gosh, doughnuts make me happy.

-Do you eat when you are stressed? Yes, doesn't everyone?

-Does eating alter your mood? Yes, it makes me feel contented, happier. If it didn't, then I would be wasting a God given pleasure.

Spit

As I was walking down the street, a older red head woman in a plastic rain scarf spit at me. What does it mean?

A Parental whirlwind (late entry)

Last week my mother officially retired. She had been postponing her retirement for the past year and a half, claiming that she wanted to save up to buy some fine china. (This excuse was not accepted by anyone, since it was clear that work provided my mom an environment to socialize and have a little time apart from my dad. But we let her get away with it.) So as their first outing as a retired couple, the two of them hopped on a plane to visit their delinquent daughter. Before leaving, I asked my mom what she wanted to do when she was here. Her reply was, "Evil Twin #1, I want to do whatever you do. Remember when I came to visit you in college, and I ate the 2 dollar pizza that was soooo large? Like that."

Well, parents if that's what you want, I'm going to bring it.

When they arrived on Friday night, it just started to rain. Prior to that the weather had been beautiful: sunny warm with a cool autumn breeze. They also arrived to the disappointment of millions of members of the Red Sox Nation, who suffered a humiliating defeat on their own turf. I was a little stressed out too, because in their attempt to be unimposing, they had made no plans and I started wondering what I was going to have them do.

On Saturday, we toured Harvard Square and MIT. They enjoyed the campuses although my father could not understand why all the tourists were at Harvard and not MIT. MIT, he thought gave him a far more authentic college experience because he at least could see kids studying.

Another point of interest was taking public transportation. 1) They could not believe how convenient it was. 2) It was much cleaner than New York's. 3) And this was their favorite part. It was 35 cents for them to take the train and 25 cents to take the bus.

Many of my friends are fascinated, by my parents. Mainly, I assume, because both of them have an incredible knack for saying highly inappropriate comments and because they are miniature and have cute Korean accents they get away with it. Evil Twin #2 even took a 5 hour train ride from New York to say "hi." ET#2, D, T, my parents and I met at a Malaysian restaurant in Brighton for dinner. Surprisingly, my parents were well behaved. Yes, my father seemed to misunderstand every question asked him. Yes, my mother giggled at everything. We had a lovely meal chitchatting with my peeps. ET#2 came back to the apartment with us. She was cornered into doling out some legal advice to my father. She did this with the patience of Mother Teresa.

On Sunday, we took a tour of the Boston Public Garden and Beacon Hill. My mom and I attempted a run through of Filene's Basement, but it was way too crowded.

For the authentic grad school experience, I dragged my parents to Anam Cara the Publick House, one of many Boston/Irish Pubs. We waited in line for a wooden table, with my pint of beer. Soon enough friends started to enter through the door. We stood around making small talk, and finally found a table to accommodate our group. After ordering more beer and some bar food, we settled in our table. Sunday nights, unbeknownst to me, is trivia night so our table decided to participate. Admittedly, we had a slow start. I could not figure out the rules of the game. The Bunker Hill Community College team was beating us quite handily. But something happened. My dad got halfway through his PBR (he really just wanted a Budweiser) and all of a sudden he became an asset to the team. With B, S, V, C and myself we had an impressive number of years of higher education, many of those in the Ivy league, but my dad had the years of experience. He remembered watching Dick Cavett on TV, answering one of the picture rounds. Most importantly, he convinced us all he knew the answer to the final question.

"Out of the 30 companies used to calculate the Dow Jones Industrial average, what is the only one that was a part of it when the Dow Jones was established in 1896?"

"Edison's company, " he said "General Electric."

So we went with it, betting the maximum number of points allowed. And....We came in third place. (Bunker Hill Community College left in our geriatric dust.)Winning a 15 dollar gift certificate and the pride of knowing that we were a little smarter than the other drunk patrons would last us a while.

My parents did a little more sightseeing and returned to California on Tuesday. Their main objective of making sure I was okay was fulfilled. They were comforted in knowing that I do not live in a crack den, I am not starving to death, I can take public transportation around the city, and being over educated can win you the occasional drink at the local bar.

Through the looking glass

Through out the years I have surrounded myself with fascinating individuals. Most of my friends share core values of loyalty, kindness and humor, and often little else. And while sometimes this makes my life a little difficult when bringing my friends together, the trade off of knowing such a diverse group of people is always worth any small aggravations. This weekend a close friend from high school got married. Attending this wedding was like walking through the looking glass. Its hard to say which world is the real one, since it boggles the mind think that both my version of reality and hers could coexist on one tiny planet.

Too many tales were amassed for one blog entry. Many of them entail me drinking way too much alcohol. And perhaps I should consider drinking less, as things did get a little out of hand when I grabbed the right buttock of one of the wedding attendees because his friend dared me. (Fortunately, he did not mind. Actually I think he thought I was hitting on him and he was hitting on me, but I have a bad sense of these things.)

But you can get a ET#1-getting-out-of-control story any time. The event(the wedding) and the other events (the tennis tourney, drinks etc..) were fun, but far more interesting was the environment in which they were set. My friend is from East Hampton, and for those of you who may not know, it is a an affluent resort town in New York. Well technically, it is a village but let's not get caught up with semantics. Luckily the wedding was off season so that most of the wealthy New York City vacationers were absent. However, enough were around to make people watching a main event.

Now it is true that I do not have the greatest self esteem when it comes to my appearance, but there is no greater blow to that esteem than being surrounded by flawless blond amazons. Amazons that are for the most part really fun and kind, and probably with procreate with their extremely wealthy husbands and spawn off another generation of beautiful people.

Which brings up self esteem buster #2. Every once in a while you get a tidbit of a conversation about how someone just bought a flat or a condo in London or Manhattan, and I would reel back thinking about how much money they had laying around. I told my sister this and she said now she understood who could afford some of the houses in California. (She and her husband were speculating that even if the two of them caught Osama bin Laden, whose reward for capture was 25 million, they still would be never be able to afford the property taxes on the house they bought with the money.)

Taking a step back, the people in the Hamptons were entertaining like they jumped out from the pages of a Judith Krantz novel. It was as if I glimpsed into the future in which entertainment will be fully interactive. I talked and they talked back. I told them about my research, they told me about places visit in the south of France. One woman had bandages on her 3 of her toes, and told me Jimmy Choo's always were painful, but weren't they worth it. I just nodded even though I did not think it was worth it.

I wish I had the energy to write about the sea of Mercedes, Jaguars, and Lexuses from people who live in a city with public transportation. I wish I had the energy to say that the joy of drinking top shelf liquor is that you are NEVER hungover the next morning. I am a little tired from my trip to the other side.

Parallel Lives

Despite living in separate cities, ET#1 and I quite frequently end up doing/buying the same things. Sometimes it's scary. Case in point, ET#1 and I didn't even discuss it until about a month before school starter, but we had both decided on grad programs in old beantown. I had thought that ET#1 was going to be in Atlanta and she thought that I would stay in NYC. Even though we had spoken to each other quite a bit that summer, the topic of where we would be that fall never really came up. And when it did it went something along these lines:

ET#1: So, I'm going to look for an apartment in Boston.

ET#2: No way! I'm going to be in Boston.

ET#1: I thought you were going to Fordham.

ET#2: Nah, waitlisted and withdrew my application.

ET#2: I am going for BU's JD/MA program in law and [finding new uses for architecturally significant old buildings].

Besides choosing the same city for our graduate degrees, ET#1 and I have ended up buying the same earrings, skirts, music--all without each other's prior knowledge. Labor Day weekend was no exception. I too ended up sampling many beers--in Portland, Oregon. More about that below.

BF and I decided to take an extended weekend trip to the City of Roses over Labor Day weekend. What prompted this? I guess all my talk about Portland having the best breakfast anywhere finally got to him--the affordable non-stop flight courtesy of JetBlue, special weekend rate from Westin, and the ridiculously cheap "compact" car thanks to Hotwire. BTW, am I the only person who would rather have a Dodge Neon instead of the Subaru Outback that was waiting for us? With gas prices at $3.00 a gallon and the prospect of parallel parking, I was disappointed with the all wheel drive Outback. Had we been driving off-road, or if the weather had been less than perfect, then the Subaru would have been great. Hertz also failed to mention that when putting the Outback into Drive, you should NOT move the gear shift all the way back and to the left (which is as far back as it goes). If you do this, then you enable the pseudo manual mode which requires you to shift gears manually. Problem is, there's no clutch and it doesn't explain how to shift. I realized this as I attempted to accelerate in order to merge onto the highway and the RPMs were in the *red* zone at only 35 mph. After a brief scare and frantic phone call to the roadside emergency number we were able to shift out of first and were on our way.

It was a great weekend trip--non-stop eating, drinking, walking, driving/sightseeing, generally not enough time in our Westin "Heavenly Bed." Despite our initial plan of having a "relaxing weekend" we squeezed in trips to Cannon Beach on the Oregon Coast (this is where they filmed the Goonies--Haystack Rock is where the pirate ship is supposed to be hidden), the Columbia River Gorge to see Multnomah and other various falls, 5 vineyards in the Willamette Valley (oddly enough, we ended up buying 4 bottles of various white wines, but no Pinot Noirs), and to the Japanese and International Rose Test Gardens.

We managed to have five fantastic breakfasts in only 4 days. Our first meal in Portland was at the Doug Fir Lounge--we washed down our omelets and fried potatoes with fresh blackberry cosmopolitans at 2:00 am. The next morning we went to Zell's (if you're ever in the PDX area, go to Zell's for breakfast!). BF even declared that the lemon ginger pancakes at Zell's were "the best pancakes he's ever had." This is HIGH praise coming from BF. I didn't take a picture of the pancakes, but this dish was also super yummy. With our stomachs stuffed, we headed for the Oregon Coast, did the whole Cannon Beach thing and drove south towards Tillamook where we stopped at the Tillamook Cheese Factory and sampled many types of cheddar, learned all about the history of Tillamook and had several scoops of ice cream that rival Maine's best. Pretty much dairy overload. We ended our day with a trip to a spa for a wrap, vichy shower, and a massage. It's three of my favorite things all at the same time--being massaged while taking a shower and falling asleep during the process. So relaxing. Just what I needed. The downside of all this pampering, we lost track of time and forgot that, unlike NYC, not all places serve dinner at 10 pm. We tried to go to Typhoon but they had already closed their doors. Same thing at Mio Sushi. Our first real dinner in PDX was less than stellar, I can't remember the name of the restaurant, just that it was next door to Papa Haydn's and had really strong drinks.

Day 2 in Portland took us to the Byways Cafe where we once again had excellent eggs and bottomless cups of coffee. The Route 66 theme was a bit kitchy, but you can't knock the food. Plus, Byways had some great people watching. We never did figure out what our fellow diner's tattoo said. Can you? After another hearty breakfast, we set out for the Columbia River Gorge, saw 5 out of the 7 waterfalls along the way and then made our way to the Willamette Valley to taste some wine. Five seemed to be the magic number that day--we went to 5 wineries and ended up buying quite a few bottles. That night, we had tons of sushi at Mio Sushi for dinner.

Days 3-4 involved even more breakfast (Bijou Cafe--best oyster hash around, and Cup and Saucer Cafe--great scones) and actually seeing the city. BF had never been and I took him to see some of my favorite places: Powell's (better organized than the Strand and has clean bathrooms), half + half (my favorite coffee shop in the entire world), the Rose Garden (with great views of the city), the Japanese Garden (which made us feel as though we were back in Japan), wandering around the Pearl District (I can't believe how much the neighborhood has changed since I was last there in 2003, hello gentrification, good bye funky warehouses), dinner at Typhoon (love the miang), Lucy's Table (oh so romantic), and to Rogue Brewery for an afternoon snack of buffalo wings and many many beers.

It seemed fitting that we should sample some beers in the middle of the afternoon--Matt Groening used many of Portland's street names to name many of The Simpsons characters (Montgomery, Burnside, Flanders, Lovejoy and Quimby to name a few). Homer Simpson would have been proud. We tried: (1) Honey Cream Ale, (2) Hazelnut Brown Nectar, (3) Juniper Pale Ale, (4) Chipotle Ale, (5) Shakespeare Stout, (6) American Amber, (7) Morimoto Imperial Pilsner, and (8) India Pale Ale. We also wanted to try the Coffee Stout and the Chocolate Stout, but they were out of stock. I listed these in my order of preference, although it was a toss up between the Honey Cream and the Hazelnut.

I think one of my favorite things about Portland is that it doesn't try too hard to "be cool" and therein lies its coolness. It's laid back, has a great vibe, a great planning ethic, great coffee and even better breakfast, plus, it's CHEAP -- and, here's something you'll never hear in NYC, their version of the MTA decided to expand their subway/light rail system; they finished early and under budget. Even for my sixth trip to the City of Roses, Portland hasn't lost it's cool. As my younger brothers have said, "Portland is like Pittsburgh [a small town with a good heart]; only cooler." What do I have to say? "Yay, Portland!"

Easy listening

Someone has been tuning into the easy listening station (Magic 106.7) in our conference room. Steve Winwood's "Higher Love" came on as I was eating my baked potato. Tasty potato, even better song selection.

Should I get ESPN now?

Boston is a masculine town. It is filled with Irish bars, and too many sports teams. There are the Celtics, the Bruins, the Patriots (Foxborough is close enough), and of course the beloved Red Sox. As much as you want to avoid caring, conversations of sports seem to be everywhere. The boys at work swap stats, strangers in parks high five each other as they listen to their AM radios, and women in the Copley Mall restroom chat about the Boston College football game. What is a girl to do? Give in.

That's right. I'll admit to the fact that the first thing I did when I turned out my computer last night was to check the following 1) Cowboys vs. 49ers (this I would have checked this no matter where I lived) 2) Highlights of the President's Cup (this is more for my father who is obsessed with golf) 3) Red sox vs. Orioles, Yankees vs. Jays 4) Pats vs. the Steelers (was sure they were going to choke as I heard the game at the security guard station as I was signing out of work yesterday.)

On Friday, I went to the Bruins game. The announcer was explaining the new rules and then it hit me. I did not even know the old rules, so the changes were kind of lost on me. The guy next to me told me the game was going to be so much faster and didn't I think that was great. I just nodded my head. His daughter was taking her cues well and clapped every time her dad made a move. I asked her if she was enjoying her pretzel, she said it was good and then moved her head directly to the game. Two beers later, even I was getting into it. Fight! Fight! Fight! I yelled. Just kidding. That would not happen no matter how many beers I had.

As I was watching the news last night, I felt myself kind of wishing I had ESPN so I could see better highlights of all the games played. Thank God "Sex and the City" is in syndication now. Although I normally find the show vapid and irritating, it was exactly what I needed to inject a little estrogen back into my life. I fell asleep to images of Manolo Blahniks and cosmopolitans, not a ball or puck in sight.

Making choices

I don't know how I feel about this.

Confessions of a hypochondriac

I'll admit to having a touch of hypochondria. I like to pick a disease or even better a syndrome with really vague symptoms and go with it. For example, feeling some pain in my leg, I must have fibromyalgia; a headache, a brain tumor. My favorite disease is alopecia, which means hair loss. As ET#2, A and W, my college suite mates can attest to, I am obsessed with the fact that I am balding. When I was 10, I had so much hair it would not even fit in a rubberband. Now a mini scrunchy can go around it several times. Every night I get really sad when I see the huge clump of hair I have caught in the shower trap. One time I read a person loses an average of fifty hairs a day. So I counted the hairs and found 102!

In the few minutes in which I am not completely self involved, I try to be a good citizen. Two weeks ago the good deed was to donate a pint of blood. To prepare for the event, I loaded up on steak and leafy greens to boost my hemoglobin. Normally, I am a tad anemic, and this fact is based on blood work and medical doctor's assessment not just my own insanity. When the nurse said my hemoglobin was 12.5, right at the cutoff, I was very proud of myself. I donated my pint, drank plenty of fluids, and felt fine. They warned me that I might feel a little shortness of breath, fatigue, and dizzy. But I felt none of these things. However, I have been losing an inordinate amount of hair. Could the two be linked?

Of course not. Well maybe. People who are anemic, are slightly more prone to alopecia, which will go away after a change in diet. After much research, I decided to add B12 and iron supplements to my daily regiment of holistic crap. Will this make a difference? Probably not. But for now, I am satisfied with the solution. Wait, I do have this weird mole on my arm....

Conflicted

Good Lord. I have to admit that I have had a crush on AJ since I saw her in Hackers back in college. As ET#1 will attest, my hatred of St. John knows no bounds. I don't know which will win out.

Making friends part deux

Jack London wrote about hating a man with a moon face. Everything about the man drove the narrator crazy. As it so happens my mother used to place her thumb on my nose and make an arc with her pinky sticking out. She said if she had a compass she could trace a perfect circle around my face. "Your face is perfectly round." My father thought that was funny. Once after taking a heavy course of steroids because of a reaction to poison sumac my father said "Oh, look [your face is] just like the moon."

Which is why I cannot understand for the life of me why strangers come and talk with me. Evil Twin #2 and I once had an experiment in college to record the number of time we get asked for directions. I cannot remember the exact figures, but I did get asked a lot more times that she. ET#2 used to think it was hilarious that if we were in a park kids, dogs and old people tend to gravitate towards me. I used to think it was like how cats only rub up against people they know fear them.

One would think that this would diminish with age. I wear headphones often, but that has not seemed to cut down on my approachability quotient. For instance this morning I got three "Excuse me, Miss" from a mother and her daughter pair who needed directions to Children's Hospital.

Yesterday, the weather was a perfect 75 degrees, sunny with not a cloud in the sky. I was a little hungover from the night before as I had forgotten the cardinal rule of not mixing kinds of alcohol. Needing some greasy lunch, I walked over to my favorite Thai restaurant, ordered a noodle dish. I picked up a seltzer and on my way home decided to eat it in a mini seating area on Beacon Street. Although I did not have a mirror, I can only imagine the glazed over look in my eyes as I chomped on my noodles.

"Oh that smells good, where did you get it," said a lady with permed white hair and two Trader Joe bags. She sat down next tom even though there were three other benches empty.

"At the take-out joint over by Summit." I replied.

"I'm taking a break. These benches a perfect half way place to sit with my bags. I live over there on Park Ave." (Okay, crazy lady. Why are you telling me where you live?) "It is a really beautiful day out don't you think?"

"Uh huh," I answer. Normally, I am a little more talkative, but all I really wanted to do was get something into my stomach.

She pressed on, "Where are you from?"

"California"

"I'm from New York, we just moved here six years ago."

"I went to school in New York, " I said. That was there trigger she needed. She lived on 90th and Riverside for 35 years. Now the neighborhood is too gentrified. She went on about how Boston is expensive too and her grand kid are so inappreciative of what they have. She reads a lot. The current book she is reading is "Small Village." But she really loves spy novels. Did I like spy novels? She saw the "Constant Gardner" the other day. It was not a good movie because it was too commercial. Her cousin just called her earlier and said she walked out on "Urinetown" but left her husband there. Don't I think that is funny?

I sat there and nodded my head. My stomach was feeling better though I could not let out the huge belch I had planned. I got up as she was telling me about neighbors that were Chinese.

"Oh look at the time. I guess I have to go. It was nice meeting you," I said.

She replied, "My name is J. I hope I see you around. It's so nice to talk to young people. I'll remember Ludlum and Archer (spy novelists, I recommended)"

I waved and walked home. I kind of hope I do meet with J again under better circumstances, like my head not pounding out its skull. Despite my moon face, guess friends can be made at any time.