Two Year Anniversary

I trudged up my four flights of stairs at around 11 PM, having left work very late due to Gala season and having trudged due to my absence from spin class. Spin class two times a week is the only way I can get to my fifth floor walk-up apartment without stopping for a break.

I ate left-overs and poured the last bit of Syrah into my wine glass. My sister, Caitlin (not to be confused with "avid-reader" Lindsay, another wonderful sister who recently complained that I have not been posting anything), is visiting this week (she is staying at our "C&C", or "Couch & Coffee", because that is all we offer), and I proposed we finished the movie we started yesterday. We didn't finish it because it was scratched and at one point it froze and we had to start it over again. Unfortunately, this DVD does not allow you to fast-forward through the previews, and so while the previews were running, we watched a TV show and never got back to the movie. Believe it or not, we are watching "Up All Night" while the previews were running, and we may not get back to the movie tonight either.

"Ken!" I shouted, remembering that today is Monday, September 26, my former roommate's birthday, and therefore, a day that I could call our anniversary because (avid readers) this is two years to the day that Ken met me in the city the day after our first "get together" at hometown's local wine bar and we walked in the rain to the steps of the Museum of Natural History where Ken serenaded me with his guitar and "awesome" (Ken's words) voice.

"It's our anniversary!"

"Really? I thought it was October 1."

"Well, that was the date we picked last year because it was more convenient." I told him. "Where you waiting for me to remember to surprise me with a gift?!?"

"Um..."

"I know! You can open a bottle of Merlot and pour me a glass! That would be the best anniversary present!"

"Sure," Ken agreed, and went into the closet to get a new bottle.

While he was pouring I stopped him, "Wait," I said. "Maybe I should save this gift and pour it myself."

In the end, I let him pour me the wine, and bring it over to me on the couch (where Caitlin sleeps). It was a special night.

And now, we three are not finishing our movie, but watching a second episode of "Up All Night", as I suspected we would.

Various Outsiders Views on Riding the Subway

We were visiting our friends live in Pennsylvania, about 45 minutes from Philadelphia and 30 from Villanova, their Alma Mater. "We describe you as our hipster friends," they told Ken and I. That seems inaccurate, I thought.

"Why do you think we are hipster?" I asked. Ken is currently trying to get back to his hipster roots, so I can almost agree with describing him as such. He is growing his hair and at that moment was wearing a t-shirt with skinny jeans and a Jason Mraz hat (which is a straw fedora from Urban Outfitters. I assume Jason Mraz wears this hat. However, this is coming from a girl who doesn't know for certain that Jason Mraz, Josh Grobin, Dave Matthews, and probably about two others are not the same person.) But me? True, I was wearing a bird shirt (also from Urban Outfitters), but this was recent purchase. I have since purchased two more t-shirts from Urban Outfitters, and am now the proud owner of exactly three t-shirts, but I mostly wear clothing from Anne Taylor, Loft, Banana Republic, or other like stores, and the recent influx of t-shirts marketed to girls 7 years younger than me happened within the last three weeks and could not have influenced my friends' impression or description of me.

"You guys dress cool, and you take the subway," they told us. I found this interesting, because the reasons they cited for us being hipster are the same reasons (minus "you guys cook!") that Caitlin, my 28-year-old sister who has a husband, a PhD from Stanford, a job at Google, and her name on her own mailbox, finds me and Ken to be very adult. (I think Caitlin is very adult for the reasons listed above, not to mention her car and the pool at her apartment complex.)

I am starting to get the sense that people who don't live or work in New York think that taking the subway is very impressive. I know that the subway system is intimidating; I grew up on Long Island and didn't really understand how it worked until I went to NYU, but what these outsiders don't understand is that I have to take the subway. I can't get around otherwise. But it's nice that it makes me look cool.

Sexy Gel

The word “sexy” caught my eye from where I stood in the bathroom.

Is it possible that the name of Ken’s shower gel includes “sexy”?

Ken’s last few bottles were Old Spice, a brand he thought was pretty cool because of the commercials (“He’s on a horse!”), but for the past few weeks, and maybe even months, he had been using something out of a sleek, teal blue container. I had never bothered to look at it carefully before, but today I picked it up and sure enough, there it was: “Very Sexy: For Him.”

I cannot imagine that he 1. chose this abomination off a shelf that included a wider selection, and 2. carried it in his own hand to the register and paid for it, thereby admitting that he found Very Sexy to be the *best option that that particular establishment had to offer. I hoped there was a better explanation.

Being the modern girl that I am, which includes both impatience and a plethora of high-tech means to find the answer to any question I might have, I responded to Ken’s text of how much he loved me (it’s a lot, by the way) with an inquiry about his soap.

“I finally noticed the name of your shower gel,” I typed on the touch screen of my iphone. “Sexy something? I hope you were embarrassed making that purchase.”

(That is an appropriate response to the “One reason I love you” text that he sent me, right?)

Fortunately, I didn’t have to wait long for an answer. I haven’t waited for anything since 1990, and I certainly don’t want to start that up again. I won’t make you wait, either. Ken let me know that his mom bought the shower gel for him, but he is not sure if that is better or worse than purchasing it himself.

Karaoke II

Even though I recently swore off ever performing Karaoke again, I was at a Karaoke bar in Boston and thought that it would be a good idea to have another go at it. I wasn’t much better this time around, but I didn’t drive away any suitors.

But more interestingly than my recent comeback is the story of the Taylor Swift singer coverist.

The reason that I was in Boston was to see my former roommate in his play, Shear Madness. Though he has been in various plays in New York, I have forgotten to go to every one and it was becoming embarrassing that I had never seen him perform. Around the same time that I was contemplating my friendship neglect, my mother told me she had hotel points that were going to expire soon and someone needed to use them. Finally, I have Friday’s off from work in the summer, and most people don’t so I didn’t have a lot of Friday plans. It was the perfect storm. I would go to Boston to see my roommate’s Friday night performance, while *erasing any of my mother’s guilt over what was almost a wasted hotel stay.

I spent the day sightseeing in Boston by myself, which was one of my top 5 summer experiences, and in the evening, attending Shear Madness. After this, I joined my roommate, his friends and other cast members in the theatre’s bar that was also a karaoke lounge. “Didn’t I just swear this off?” I thought, but after absolutely no need of convincing me to come out of retirement, I began looking through the book of songs, hoping to find one of the three that I know well enough to sing publicly. I ended up with “Walk Like an Egyptian.”

I told my karaoke tale of woe to the group, and a very pretty girlfriend told me her “trick” to karaoke. “I always sing a Taylor Swift song,” she said. It seems that people like Taylor Swift enough to enjoy her performance, and I guess it isn’t done all the time, like Queen is. Also, a fair amount of Taylor’s songs are fast, and fast is always more fun to listen to.

The Taylor Swift-singing girlfriend was a petite and completely adorable girl-next-door type who everyone should be jealous of. Not to mention, she is a successful karaoke artist! I was looking forward to her turn, while thinking, “I wish I had chosen Taylor Swift!” and also, “I wish I was half as pretty as her.”

When her name was called she proceeded to the stage area, looking dwarfed—and all the more precious—by the empty space around her and even by the microphone in her hand. She began to sing, “I was riding shot-gun with my hair undone…”

Oh god, she was terrible. She awkwardly spoke-sang, like a child would, and on top of that, missed half of the notes. She wasn’t a belter or anything, so it wasn’t painful to listen to, it was just sweetly awful.

“Oh honey,” I thought, “it isn’t your ‘trick’ that makes people like watching you sing.” And regardless of how terrible she was, I was not alone in encouraging her to go up and pick another song.

Karaoke is rarely sexually attractive.

A few weeks ago I was in San Francisco, the city of love. And let me tell you, the residents still like to love. I was hit on not once, but THREE TIMES in one evening, which is well above average. In New York, I am hit on about once every four months, and I don’t think that it is only because I am usually with Ken or because I avoid eye contact with the entire city. I think SF just has a different bar scene. One that is really into hitting on the ladies.

The reason I was in San Francisco was to meet up with my college girl friends who were going to see a guy friend and his band perform. Actually, the real reason I was in San Francisco was because I decided to go to California on my way to a family party in Oregon, but the reason I was in the city that night was to see this band. The band was super, but when they finished playing, the night was still young(!) and one of my girl friends had the idea going to a Karaoke bar. Now, I was with friends from my college a cappella group, so presumably we could all sing. I was all for going, but nonetheless, I was scared of singing Karaoke and took my sweet time selecting a song. I enjoy believing that I am capable of singing and spent a while debating whether or not I wanted to risk shattering this illusion by having to prove myself in front of a live audience.

By the time I talked myself into submitting a song to the DJ, my friends had already performed a Kelly Clarkson number. As I was waiting for my name to be called, a young suitor came over and asked if he could look at the book of song choices we had on our table. He then started talking to me because apparently everyone in SF thinks everyone else is far game and likely interested in them. Also, I was looking quite lovely (see below).

He was dorky enough for that I felt in no way guilty talking to him, and he was normal enough for me not to feel uncomfortable. He asked me for advice on what to sing, etc (etcetera being what I did for a living, why I was in the city, blah blah blah), and eventually said he wanted to sing something by Meatloaf. I know exactly one Meatloaf song, so I said, “You should sing ‘Paradise by the Dashboard Lights,’”

“Do you know the girl part?” he asked.

“Yes.” Fortunately, I had named the exactly one Meatloaf song that I knew, and he invited me to sing the duet with him. We continued to talk, which to him was probably flirting. However, nerdy flirting really just comes across as polite chit-chat.

Some time later, I was called up to sing the song I had selected. I asked my friends to dance behind me while I sang Sarah Evans’ “Born to Fly,” a country song that I often sing alone in my car in preparation for my Karaoke debut. “Really,” I asked myself, “how bad could I be?” I have sung all my life, and I wasn’t even drunk! I had only had two drinks the whole night (though one was a Long Island Iced Tea, and let’s face it, that is more like three drinks with a little bit of sand added as garnish). But to my astonishment and despite years of practice on the Interstate, I was not good at singing this piece in the loud bar in front of a live audience. I was appalling, and I made the wise choice to abandon ship before the song was over.

Back at our table, I saw that our friends from the band had turned up at the Karaoke bar, apparently just in time to see me sing.

“Oh God, I embarrassed myself more than I thought.”

Singing poorly in front of two of my close girl friends from college who were far drunker than I was is one thing (and not really a bad thing. They have both seen me embarrass myself far worse than a bad Karaoke night.), but I didn’t really want to embarrass myself in front of additional friends and acquaintances. The band members were polite and told me I did a good job, but oddly, my young nerdy suitor avoided eye contact with me and did not reconvene our conversation. Ashamed, I left without saying goodbye, and he let me leave without putting up a fight for our promised Meatloaf duet.

Josh Groban?

I was in Central Park yesterday, sitting on a bench practicing the French I would be singing in my upcoming voice lesson and watching a co-ed adult softball game. A dog altercation to my left caught my attention. A passerby and his dog had approached an older woman and her dog, who were standing near an adjacent bench, and though both owners probably hoped that the dogs would become friends (as did I!!), they did not.

Moments later, a young hipster type walking his Wheaten Terrier approached from my right, on the far side of the path. As he neared the woman and her medium sized white beast, the woman kindly said, “He might bark.”

Why she assumed the man would cross the path and thus provoke her dog, I am not sure, but maybe dog owners share a special bond that the rest of New York’s citizens do not. Maybe dog owners, through their dogs and their dogs’ desires to befriend other animals, are good natured and go out of their way to interact with others. I don’t know. I don’t have a dog.

“Okay, I’ll stay over here,” hipster man said, and continued walking on the far side of the path, as I expect he would have regardless of the woman's warning. But again, I am no dog owner, and maybe the man would have brought his dog over to socialize.

“Oh, Josh Groban,” the woman then said, “I love your voice!”

“Thank you,” Josh said, and continued walking his dog.

I did not recognize him, but I guess he looked like what I think Josh Groban looks like. So, I got up and followed him for about 5 minutes, because I knew that nothing that would happen for the rest of the day would be cooler than following someone who could be a celebrity and what might be a celebrity’s dog. Nothing.

Why don't YOU have an accent, a**hole?

Are you from Long Island? When you tell people that you are from Long Island, do they invariably ask you why you don't have an accent, and do you invariably want to tell then to shut the hell up?

Growing up in Northport, my Long Island town, no one had accents. I did not know that I was expected to have an accent. When I was young, my response to the question was, "No one in my town has an accent."

As I grew older, I learned about the accents of Long Islanders and which people have them. Though I rarely heard them, I was told (mostly by my parents) that the residents of the south shore are the ones with the accents. That became my response to the inquiries on my speaking patterns.

After I went to college, came back, watched the Jersey Shore, and observed young 20-somethings going to bars, I learned that anyone who stays on Long Island too long and who patrons trashy bars become susceptible to developing the accent, either by choice or through osmosis. My newest explanation for my absent accent was a too-long description of this phenomenon that no one cared to listened to, but provided a welcome opportunity to comment on the Jersey Shore.

But deep down, I have known the true answer for a long time, as would anyone who lives anywhere with a stereotypical accent. Or, for that matter, anyone who has watched a movie like "Good Will Hunting." Accents often reflect a class distinction. I mean, which characters in "Good Will Hunting" have the strongest accents? However, I don't usually cite this as my answer. It makes me feel uncomfortable.

I am tired of people asking me why I don't have an accent, and the questioning has become even more frequent and persistent in recent years. I fear this is mostly due to reality TV shows showcasing trashiness, and I would like a break! I don't walk around Boston asking every resident why he doesn't sound like Matt Damon.

Last week when socializing at a bar in Portland with my cousins, some of my cousin's friends asked Ken (my boyfriend) and I why we didn't have accents. Why must I explain myself?!? Especially for something as mundane and nonthreatening as sounding like everyone else? I snapped, and yelled, "Because we aren't poor!"

Probably not the best response, but at least is was more concise than my explanation of how people develop the accent over time due to bar-patronage and shopping at Target too often.

But still not the best response, because it was easy material for the drunk frat-type friends of my cousin to take way too far. After loudly repeating what I had said a few times, they started saying something about how we were all rich and finishing it up with how they were glad they were white because being Caucasian historically gives you the upper hand. I did not say anything like that.

Bossypants

A coworker lent me Tina Fey’s Bossypants and I was excited to read it on the plane ride to Oregon. I expected a amusing read, but found myself, in chapter five, wondering, “when is it going to get funny?” The book is one 2-inch-long paragraph after the next, every other of which ends in a “funny-one-liner!”, often in the form of a question. For example: “What’s happening to my moral compass?” (p77). “But remember the beginning of the story where I was the underdog? No? Me either.” (p80). “What has your cult done for you lately?” (p82). “What kind of a way is that to live?” (p84). “Whaaa? More on that later.” (p87). Now mind you, those were only the funny question punch-lines at the ends of paragraphs within ten pages of fairly large print type face (size 12, 1.5 spaced? I’m not an expert). There are plenty more question one-liners interspersed between, and many more non-question one-liners at the ends of paragraphs (and of course, interspersed between as well). As I said, the rule of thumb is that every other paragraph ends in a one-liner. If you like "30 Rock" and now have Bossypants on your shelf, please refer to it now. You’ll see that the pattern is nearly a science in Tina Fey’s writing.

Further, her paragraphs jump around from topic to topic too much, and don’t always return to what she was initially talking about nor does it always connect with the title of the chapter, and that bothers me. Especially because, as the writing is so basic, I am not giving the book my full attention (I don’t need to. No one needs to), and “BAM” I suddenly find myself 10 years and two stories away from what I was just reading.

I considered mapping a chapter to prove my point, but I am sure you believe me regardless. Especially if you have the book and are following along.

However, my main reason for writing this particular entry was not to review Tina Fey’s comedic memoir but to express to you my new found distress: I do exactly the same thing! I compose useless nonsense in a very patterned style to entertain, ignoring rules of good writing to make you laugh. The biggest difference is that Tina Fey is famous for other talents and people will read her book.

But overall, I was very disappointed in Bossypants. It reminded me of the time I went to see Baby Mama. I expected to laugh, and was sorely let down. I thought the writing would be as good as "30 Rock", but it wasn’t, and in both cases, I bailed on Tina Fey half-way through.

Williamsburg: A Ghost Tour

Back to Williamsburg, Virginia....
Two weekends ago, I went to Williamsburg with my mother and older sister, Caitlin. We did very little in the town due to heat (90 degrees!) and boredom, but we did (along with my cousin who came down for the day) partake in a spectacular ghost tour.

Because we signed up late in the day and ghost tours are in high in demand, we were only able to go on a family-friendly tour, rather than the advanced, "not recommended for children" tour that I can only imagine was completely terrifying.

We left our hotel, where we had spent the later part of the afternoon keeping cool (or in Caitlin's case, sleeping), and feasted on a dinner of appetizers and wine. I, trying to be helpful, broke our coffee pot while putting away the dishes. My mom called for a replacement (which didn't come) but we left in good spirits, full of good food and drink.

Arriving in Williamsburg, we found it once again unbearably hot despite the later hour, but we carried on with our plans. Our tour guide was a short, petite, middle aged woman with puffy hair, formed in the shape of a triangle around her face. She wore glasses, sneakers, a Williamsburg staff polo shirt with capris, and resembled an adventurous elf--one who your would find exploring caves, canyons and deserts during the North Pole's off-season. It was clear that this elf worked in the assembly line fitting bits and pieces together rather than a in a more creative, skilled, or artistic role. I'm sure she is a dedicated worker, but likely not an advanced craftsman and certainly not a children's storybook writer. She had no mind for stories.

"I am going to tell you about the ghosts of today," she told us, and proceeded to tell us, over the course of an hour, 5 modern-day ghost stories as relayed to her (and the entire ghost story walking tour staff) by others who worked in the colonial village. They ranged from lights being left on, to retail items falling from shelves, to the occasional apparition. It seemed as though any time anything was out of place, it was blamed on the supernatural.

"One waitress at The Kings Tavern needed to use the bathroom, but didn't have time to go downstairs to use the staff bathroom. After finishing a table, she slipped in the patron's ladies room, but on her way out, do you know what happened?" (Our elf-guide loved to have us guess the next predictable event in her stories) "The door was locked! But it was a swinging door, which can't lock! The waitress pulled and pulled, for 10 minutes, and couldn't get out! Finally, she did."

We learned a plethora of details about the layouts of the buildings, where stairs are, what types of locks are on what types of doors, etc. We also heard speculations as to which deceased people might be haunting which locations, but the guide would only provide a best guess and never fully commit to the assumptions.

Another gem of a tale: "It was late one night, and a waitress was closing up Chowning's Pub. All the lights were off, when she looked up and saw through a window in the attached building (they buildings are attached by an underground tunnel, but you will see that there is a space between them), guess what she saw?"

You'll never guess.

"The light was back on!" The tale continued with the woman walking back and forth to turn off the light three times to no avail, and finally imploring the ghost to leave the light off as she was tired and wanted to go home. "And guess what happened?"

The light stayed off.

My favorite story was the one about the insolent worker whose complaints about working in a shop resulted in an angry ghost throwing a mounted chess board from the wall, hitting the poor girl in the head. I told Caitlin that she was probably high, tried to climb up on and pull a mounted board from the wall, fell, hit her head, and blamed it on a ghost. A lot of the gave me the eerie feeling that employees weren't doing their jobs well and found the best excuse was to fault a ghost.

The tour complete, we went back to our car, cranked up the air conditioning, and returned to the hotel. When we got back, we were in for a shocking surprise. The coffee pot I had broken was repaired! And in the same spot where I had left it! It was surely the work of a spirit, haunting the coffee machine!

"No, Ashley," my mother said, "I asked them to bring it up when I stopped by the desk before we left."

But I didn't believe her. I know supernatural when I see it.

Williamsburg: A Disguise

Last week, I was invited to join Ken and his friends for drinks in Brooklyn.

"Sweet!" I said, "We can wear our disguises!"

I have a hideous gray jacket with frills and flowers on it that I purchased at Salvation Army back in the days when I tried to "dress differently" and essentially dressed in garbage and had saved for its obvious usefulness in dressing up to go to Brooklyn.

Ken and I outfitted ourselves meticulously, put on our "I don't care faces," and were ready for a night in Williamsburg! I even bought glasses at American Apparel that afternoon.

No one remarked on my outfit, which means I fit in well. Ken's glasses (that look like this:

)

did receive a quite a few compliments.

Williamsburg: A trip to Trader Joe's

On the first day of our vacation last weekend, my mom and I went to Trader Joe's to buy groceries. Any of you who have visited a Trader Joe's know that the cashiers are very talkative and friendly (I imagine this to be a job requirement) regardless of the state you may be shopping in. They are polite and friendly in Portland stores (expected) as well as locations on Long Island. It was no different in Williamsburg, Virginia.

As of 5PM last Saturday, we were not impressed by the people we interacted with, particularly at our hotel. The "concierge" did little more than give my sister hand lotion and write down the website for Busch Gardens (it's Buschgardens.com. We never would have figured that out without her). She did not help us purchase tickets ("Um, I can't do that"), offer to make a restaurant reservation (just said we should), or give any advice on discounts to the attractions we wanted to visit. She was less helpful than us doing the work ourselves on a laptop, which is what we ended up doing. We didn't understand her purpose. Even if we didn't have a laptop, it was clear that she would not help anyone do anything.

The man at the front desk was a second disappointment. He very rude and practically lectured me on not putting my key card near my cell phone. I cut him off, mumbling "I understand the concept" and walked away while he continued to scold me for my horrible misdeed.

Our impression of the local workforce so far was, "ugg, you are useless!", and was further reinforced at the grocery store check-out line.

"I love these," our cashier, an average-looking 20-year-old girl, told us, referring to the corn chips my mother was purchasing.

"Oh good," my mom responded, "I haven't had them."

"Yeah, they are great because they are easy to eat." They were oval-shaped rather than trianglular. "I can't figure our how to get the other kind in my mouth."

Are you serious? I thought. "You can't figure out how to put a chip in your mouth?" It isn't difficult to put chips in your mouth. Most people have learned to do that by now.

Well, she continued checking us out and she wasn't appallingly stupid. Her biggest problem was that she felt that she needed to keep talking, which was often unnecessary. (For instance, I learned that she is just shy of 20, and is excited to go to the one cool local bar, but is disappointed that it isn't as popular in the summer when most of the William & Mary students are away. I also listened to her ratings of several rides at Busch Gardens.) Finally, when I had almost forgotten her initial dim remark, she held up a cantaloupe and asked, "What is this again?"

"A cantaloupe," my mom told her politely. My mom is terrific at keeping a straight face. Her tone in no way implied that a 20-year-old grocery-store cashier should know what a cantaloupe is, or that a 20-year-old anyone should know what a cantaloupe is.

"I'm so bad at melons!"

Christian Morals

I noticed something very interesting during the "children's moment" at church last Sunday. I attend a Presbyterian church, and during the service, the minister (or other member of the congregation) takes a moment to give a child-geared lesson. Last Sunday, our minister told the story of David and Goliath, and the thing I noticed was that it was difficult for him to use this story as an example of Christian Life. And not surprisingly, either. The story is about killing another person. Killing people is not something we want to praise in our church, and telling kids, no less, that God helped as young boy kill an enemy isn't considered a ------

Our pastor avoided using any language that admitted that anyone had died. David was to "take on" Goliath (he didn't even "fight" him), and in the end (after a pause on the part of the pastor), Goliath was "defeated." He was not slain, killed, destroyed or vanquished. Not last Sunday, anyway.

The Breakup

Ever since moving in together, I base much of my attitudes and actions regarding my relationship with Ken on my sister Caitlin's comment on The Breakup, staring Vince Vaughn and Jennifer Aniston.

My sisters and I saw The Breakup when we went to Ireland. Because of the time difference, my parents liked to go to bed early, so we had them drop us off at the movie theater and we would just take a cab home. One night, we saw The Breakup, and because we all have little respect toward the acting abilities of both lead roles, we were shocked when we enjoyed the movie.

For those of you who haven't seen it, Jennifer and Vince break up, and don't get back together. Early on in the movie, they fight over the dishes. Essentially, Jennifer wants help doing dishes and Vince doesn't want to help. (you may watch the scene here)

I was on the side of Jennifer. Vince should do the dishes! I thought. However, after we exited the theatre, my wise older sister gave me the following gem by which I live by:

Caitlin felt that the situation was both sad and realistic. "They both just had different ideas of how to live. When they get home from work, Vince wants to relax and Jen want the house clean. Neither is wrong."

She said something like that. Anyway, I have never forgotten her wise words, and when I get annoyed at Ken for not washing out a pot that he used, I remind myself of Jen, Vince and Caitlin. If a clean apartment makes me happy, then I should clean it. (To an extent. Don't worry, readers, Ken cleans just as much as I do.) Clean isn't right. Just like going to bed early or not watching TV isn't right. It's just how I prefer things.

Sometimes it is better not to talk

The city has hardened me. I notice most when I go to my parents' house on Long Island. I move too quickly in stores, make little eye contact, and don't partake in conversations that are not necessary. I have often found myself unable to respond to a cashier or friendly customer because I have no idea what they say to me. Usually in New York, I don't have to listen to anything. You can respond adeptly to any interaction without hearing any words uttered (if any words are in fact uttered). In the suburbs, though, people actually talk to you, and to respond correctly, one has to listen to the specific words that comes from their mouths. Worse, yet, these people often mean what they say.

Anyway, most of the time I don't have to worry about this, and can go about with blinders on and with a general distaste for others.

One morning on the elevator, for instance, I overheard the following conversation, and just kept thinking, "Why are you talking at all? This conversation is completely pointless. There is no need to be speaking right now." However, when I recounted the story later in the day, I must have been in a better mood, and couldn't recall why it had bothered me so much. I will try to tell the story now as I first experienced it, with mild annoyance and my NYC attitude.

I work in a office building that houses different companies on various floors. The elevator I use services five floors, all of which are home to law firms save the one that belongs to my company. Standing in silence, I heard the man ask the woman who he clearly knew, "Is that tea with milk in it?"

"It's Chai Tea," she told him in the normal morning-trivial-conversation-way, "It's my addiction."

Really, Woman? Is that your addiction ? That is totally the weakest addiction I have ever heard, unless you are trying to imply that it is a waste of money to purchase tea every day when you can more easily make it, which I doubt you are, judging by the floor on which you work, and which you in no way implied.

"I should really switch from coffee to tea," Man said. Which he never will! Why say things that you have no intent in following through with. I often think I should live forever. Maybe I'll try that?

"Well, I just pretend this is better, but I have no evidence that it really has less caffeine than coffee," Woman responded.

No evidence?? While Chai tea does have more caffeine than many other types of teas, it (generally) has less caffeine than per ml than coffee. More importantly, it is very easy to find evidence of this.

Kate Royal

For the past year, I had seen this photo of of a young classical/Opera/art song singer in Carnegie Hall's subscription brochure:

Amazed at how young and pretty this Kate Royal is for a Classical singer, I was intrigued by her concert and considered purchasing tickets.

Later on, I learned that she would be making her debut at the Met in Gluck's Orpheo et Euridice. The Met!?! She is far too pretty to be a the Met! Her concert was May 20, which is conveniently close to my mother's birthday. I delayed long enough that I could only purchase balcony tickets, but I finally bought them this winter.

About two weeks ago, I ended up seeing Orpheo at the Met, but had completely forgotten that Kate Royal was in it. I had read a short reminder that it was the last week to see it, and sad that I hadn't seen any operas this year, purchased a sole $25 ticket in the family circle (which is the uppermost balcony). Despite forgetting that Ms. Royal was in the production and not reading the bio portion of the program, I couldn't really see her from that distance anyway.

On Friday, the day of the concert, I was all ready to see a Hilary Duff look-alike in concert. In my usual manner, I read up on the artist and the concert to learn all I could. Most articles used the publicity photo above, and some used the image from her newest CD, "Lessons in Love".

However, i finally saw some additional pictures that looked NOTHING like the 18 year-old Hilary Duff-looking singing I had pictured all year. See below:

Do those women look ANYTHING alike? (Also, I would like to let you know that I had to learn a small amount of HTML to get those two photos to line up.)
Believe it or not, they are the same woman, though I am more convinced that the older, darker haired version is the true opera singer.

Mother's Day

Sunday was Mother's Day, and I saw many children (adult) on the train with flowers, presumably for their mothers. The young man sitting next to me, college-aged in appearance, was writing a note to his mother on "Mom" stationary. I was surrounded by loving children.

While many went through the appropriate gesture of buying flowers, they did not always follow-through 100%. One flower-carrying youngster was wearing a cut-off t-shirt, exposing her midriff and navel piercing. Another young flower-carrying dude was wearing a Hooters shirt. Their mothers might have appreciated the visit and bouquet more if their children were not dressed like trash.

Aveda Salon: The Compliments are Skin-Deep

I am often afraid of new things. Rather than find a nail salon, doctor, eye doctor, dentist, spray tanning salon, hair dresser, etc in New York City, I continue to take care of all things health and grooming when I am at home on Long Island. (I still call my parents house “home” even though I live in my own, very adult apartment.) Last week, however, my over-straightened hair hit a horrendous stage of disrepair, and being Monday, I had no hope of going to Long Island to get my hair cut before my entire self-image would implode.

I searched the web, and found one salon that was open late enough (or at all) on a Monday for me to get a hair cut after work. It was the Scott J Aveda salon.

From my impression, which is based on one Aveda experience (I watched my sister get a makeover at an Aveda salon in Palo Alto—she had received a gift certificate there for her bridal shower), a few friends’ reviews, and the salon’s website, I gathered that Aveda salons were more upscale than I was used to, which made me feel insecure and undeserving of such an establishment. However, I was too tired to be nervous and too desperate to care much, so I walked into my appointment without anxiety.

Shortly after nodding hello to the security guard and giving my name to the young woman at the counter, a fabulous gay boy took my coat, complimented my outfit, and offered me a beverage. I accepted water and thanked him for the compliment, knowing that if he was as fabulous as he thinks he is, he would know that my clothes were not haute couture and would notice that my boots were worn in the toes, and most obviously, that my hair was in a state of disaster. And if he was as fabulous as he acts, he surely would have judged me as a (financially) poor, (physically) ugly girl who doesn’t have respect for fashion or hair, much like Anne Hathaway in the first hour of The Devil Wears Prada, making his compliment horribly insincere. I didn’t trust him.

Soon I was introduced to Trish, a senior stylist (she was the only stylist available, and being senior, is more expensive). She asked what I wanted to do with my hair that evening without insulting it or commenting on how dead it was from flat-ironing, and told me that my ($26 H&M) bag was cute. She then told me that I had very nice hair. Could Trish, the senior stylist, see beneath the burned wreckage of split ends to my beautiful, thick hair that lay beneath? Possibly. She must know her hair, being the pricey senior-ranked stylist she is, but being a woman in NYC, she likely also knows her bags, and the bag she complimented was cheap. I was skeptical.

Following my brief hair-sessment with Trish, I was led to Jay, a slightly less fabulous man who washed my hair. Though very polite, he did not effusively compliment me and gave me a scalp and shoulder massage while and after he washed my hair with Aveda’s Smooth Infusions Shampoo, which helps keep wavy hair straight and frizz-free in humid weather, and which I will probably buy product if I go there again, thus proving to the super-posh Aveda staff that I have money and respect for my hair. I appreciated Jay for his refrain from unnecessary flattery.

Hair clean and muscles relaxed, I returned to Trish for my hair cut. Trish was surprisingly quiet during the process. I believe that she was focusing on her work, which was nice as I had little to say. While she was focusing on my hair, I imagined trivialities that I could use in conversation and examined myself in the mirror. Through sunburned, I didn’t look completely awful. My pants and outfit were adorable (despite the scuffed boots) and from far away, my bag could be misinterpreted as of higher quality than it really is. I then studied Trish and her ensemble. Most of her jewelry involved diamonds (which I learned were real through a short exchange between her and another employee), but her clothes were not that expensive. Maybe Aveda didn’t see me as a pariah after all.

My mind drifted to the conversations around me. Across the room, a new customer came in and was greeted by her stylist. “OMG, a-dorable bag!”

Oh, okay, so they were trained with a list of compliments to dish out to customers. They aren’t just instructed to be warm, friendly, and polite, they are told, “Say this: ‘_(cute bag!)__’”

After my haircut and complimentary hand massage from Jay, I debated the offer for a free make-up touch-up. It was 9 PM (close to bedtime and too dark to notice make-up), but I was meeting Ken for a drink, so why not please my man? I accepted.

With my makeup fixed and my check paid, I left the brightly lit salon to find Ken. I bid farewell to the security guard, and he said, “Love the hair, love the makeup.”

Lack of Content

I find it very difficult to write a blog these days due to lack of content. There are a few other factors, such as lack of time, my reluctance to spend time by myself when Ken and I are both at the apartment, and my own disinterest, but the largest issue is the lack of day-to-day material that can be used in a blog. Quite unfairly, a vast amount of my week is spent at work, and unlike school and my classmates, I can’t write about work and my colleagues without the possibility of negative consequences. Of my remaining time, a majority is spent with Ken, and unlike past boyfriends, Ken is a pretty good boyfriend and I can’t make fun of him all of the time in my blog, again, without the possibility of negative consequences. (“Do you have to make fun of him?” Yes. If I didn’t make fun of who I was writing about, my entries would be bland and my five readers would abandon ship. Also, because Ken is so amazing, there is virtually nothing I could make fun of him about anyway!)
This leaves me with minimal material to work with. I may have to begin looking outside of my own life for inspiration and issues to comment on, but the downside of that route is that it would take even more of my time, as I would have to conduct research.
However, the busy spring season at work has passed, and with new-found time to spend outside of work, which should provide me with blogable material, and to write-up said material in said blog, I should have more regular entries for you to enjoy.

A Good Review Doesn't Mean You'll Like It.

C-Hall is presenting a four-concert series of James Taylor concerts this spring, and wanting to see what all the hype was about (and wanting to see Alison Krauss, who was to be a special guest), I bought tickets for myself, my mom, and two family friends.

After hearing and reading amazing reviews of the first concert in the series, I was pretty excited to see ours last Wednesday. James Taylor and guests were billed to perform American hymnody, blues, and bluegrass—the music that influenced Taylor’s music—in his “Roots” concert. I have never been drawn to James Taylor, but to be fair, I don’t know much of his music. Despite my disinterest in James, I do really like Alison Krauss and an opportunity to see her, along with the musical genres programmed for “James Taylor Roots” and the amazing press the first James Taylor concert received, I felt drawn to attend.

On Wednesday night, the house was packed and surging with electricity. The excitement was on the brink of overflowing. Audience members around us spoke of their love for the man and recounted the many James Taylor concerts they had seen. “This is my 200-something-th James Taylor concert,” the middle-aged woman to my left said. I didn’t know if she was exaggerating or not because I was not sure if attending that many concerts by one single artists is, in practice, possible. I understood that the artist has many die-hard fans who would do many things I would deem impractical, but whether one could literally attend 200 concerts by one artist, I don’t know. I suppose if he has been performing for about 40 years, it could be. Maybe I should look this up. I might. But not at that moment, because mid-contemplation of the seemingly impossible, the lights dimmed, the audience erupted into an applause hardly customary for a classical music venue, and from my row-H side balcony seat thousands of feet away, I saw James Taylor walk on the stage.

Two minutes into his first number, I remembered, “Wait, I’m not 60 years old! I would never want to go to a James Taylor concert!” Why was I there?

Just because a famous non-classical musician was performing at Carnegie Hall and had received incredible publicity and has many, many fans (who do in fact like his music), it doesn’t mean that I would enjoy his concert. And about five songs in, I realized I had heard a lot of his music but never bothered to remember it because it was all the same.

I was so bored and I wanted to leave. Alison Krauss was amazing, but I had hard time deciding whether her 10 minutes of excellence was worth the remaining hour of destined mediocrity. Probably not.

I felt badly, though, sitting with my mom and being so unenthused. I was afraid I was ruining the concert for her. At intermission, the couple next to us commented on how nice it was for mother and daughter to attend a concert together, and I felt even worse! Here I was, resentful at having to sit through the repetitive and relentless acoustic folk stylings of James Taylor (and despite what he and his fans—nostalgic for their drug-addled days of yore—think, adding chimes and synthesizer only makes the music worse), while these strangers admired me and the relationship I share with my mother. “I must be a good daughter!” I resolved. “I must live up to the standard thrown on me by that couple!” During the second act, I livened up and tried to act engaged.

Fortunately, the second half was a bit more to my liking because the music played was predominantly “root” and not at all “leaves” or “fruit”. JT and his band played blues with hardly any sixties acoustic folk flavor, and then a real blues musician, serving as a special guest, came on stage and played blues significantly better than JT and his folk-band ever could. The plucked, broken guitar chords that characterized almost every song in the first half were far less frequent in the second half, and dare I say scarce among the blues numbers.

After a super-surprise performance by Tony Bennet, James Taylor played, to my sweet relief, his final number: “Oh, what a Beautiful Morning,” from Oklahoma. The man grew up on listening to musicals, among other things (like hymns, bluegrass, and blues, apparently, as I learned from the program notes and his on-stage musings), and while I would never before have heard a connection between Taylor’s music and that of Rogers’ and Hammerstein’s, I did that night. However, I have a suspicion that this was due more to Taylor’s interpretation of the song than of any real connection between the music of Oklahoma and say, “Fire and Rain.” Regardless of who influenced who, the strong link hit me during the intro. “Wow,” I thought, “This is exactly like all my favorite James Taylor music!” And that’s because it was. James played his go-to plucked intro of broken chords that he had been playing all night long (the reason I have heard and forgotten—and consequently deemed indistinguishable—all of his music), and then began to sing Curly’s opening strains.

After the concert, my mom commented, “I liked it better before the guests came on. They were so much better than him, I didn’t really want to listen to his music anymore.” Well, that was good news. My lack of interest didn’t ruin the concert for her after all. James Taylor did that all by himself.

Ken's Creation

A week or so ago, when I was too busy at work to compose any blog entries, I called Ken to see what he was up to at home.

“I’m making an egg candle,” he told me, rather excitedly. The idea he thinks he came up with (but that I think he stole) is to, through a small hole, fill an egg with wax and wick and then sell, allowing the customer himself to crack the egg open and expose the candle. The reason I feel his idea is not original is because we have both seen a lamp at The Museum of Modern Art that is white ceramic, egg shaped, and comes with a hammer, allowing the owner to crack the ceramic egg himself. The reason Ken feels his idea is original is still unclear to me.

Regardless of any ethical quandry of stealing ideas that are already on display in prominent museums, Ken was very excited to finally be making his egg candle.

“I bought ostrich eggs and black and gold spray paint. I am going to spray the outside black and the inside gold. I also have a surprise for you!”

A few hours later, I called to tell Ken I was on my way home.

“How is the egg?” I asked.

“There is wax all over the kitchen, and I burnt off part of my eyebrows. Apparently, a small explosion occurs when you fill a container with spray paint and later light the wick inside it.”

“Is that the surprise?”

The following week, Ken created his second egg-candle trial with greater success. Rather than use spray paint with flammable fumes, he coated the egg’s interior with a mix of glitter and glue. His eyebrows remained unharmed.