On hangovers

Hangovers suck. I remembered this in theory, but had forgotten in practice, because I don't drink much anymore. I have not really missed having alcohol in my life, but I have REALLY not missed being hungover.

Yesterday was our company holiday party. In a sure sign of the economic times (though an improvement upon last year's party cancellation), the celebration took place in the office. The company encouraged us to decorate our common areas and bring food, and provided us with an abundance of beer and wine.

I started out pretty slow with the wine, seeing as how I don't drink much anymore, but by the end the party—after the party, really—a core group of my co-workers and I put a serious dent in the surplus wine, as though letting it go unconsumed would be problematic somehow.

So my company morale may be up this morning, but the definite down side is this hangover. Consider me back on the wagon....

FYI

"The Twelve Days of Christmas" is about seven thousand times less obnoxious when you hear it performed by flutes and strings, without words.

Re: Cookie consumption

Note to self:
When you spend three hours baking shortbread cookies for the company holiday party, do not keep the final product within reach of your desk. Not only will you make yourself sick from shortbread gorging, but if there are no cookies left, you don't get to use the excuse that you baked them "for the party."

Professional largesse

Damn my habit of checking definitions in Web11, because it turns out "largesse" doesn't mean quite what I thought it did, but it's still the word I feel like using, so now I have to cope with the knowledge that I'm inaccurately wielding words. (Um, copyeditor, much?)

Anyway. On to the subject at hand: I have done two workplace-related things today that were assertive challenges and thus wanted to pat myself on the back via blog.

(1) My supervisor took me and the two other women I work with out to lunch today. It was an appreciated gesture, but outside-the-workplace co-worker interactions are hardly my speciality, particularly when supervisors are involved. We went to an upscale Mexican restaurant and it became clear early on that my three companions were all interested in ordering tacos. I, however, had my sights set on the prix fixe lunch special, which cost $8-$16 more than a taco plate. In the past I would have changed my order to be more in keeping with my peers, particularly since it was unclear as to whether my supervisor was spending her own money or company cash. But after some internal debate and the assertion of my worth I decided I really wanted the prix fixe meal and that regardless of who was paying, my supervisor owed me. I enjoyed every bite.

(2) I have spent the last couple of weeks laboring over a top-secret project that is being revealed this afternoon at a meeting I do not normally attend. Having put so much energy into the project, and knowing that its reception will likely be unfriendly, I really wanted to witness the presentation. In the past I would have ruled out the possibility immediately, but after mentally asserting the value of my contributions and the status I (believe I should) hold, I approached my dept. head and asked—tactfully, if you can believe it—whether my presence at the staff meeting might be beneficial. He confirmed my inner suspicion that it would not...but at least I asked.

In conclusion, while these acts of assertion may seem small—and perhaps they are—they are progress nonetheless and, therefore, yay for me!

My big mouth strikes again.

So I had the opportunity to spend lunchtime today listening to a very prominent publisher at my company talk about her extensive and varied career in the business.

I'm not entirely sure publishing is the right industry for me, but given that I've spent four years pretending so, I was receptive to her enthusiasm for the business and comforted by her confidence that young people can climb the ladder (despite not entirely knowing what the ladder looks like in these changing times) if we refuse to give up.

After the speech, my coworker and I lingered in a common area and quietly gossiped for a few minutes before heading downstairs. At least, at first we were quiet. But when my friend brought up the example of some of our colleagues, my boss included, who rank higher than us but who have been in stagnant positions for more than a decade (ie, decidedly NOT changing with the changing times), I lost my cool.

"Her ways are outdated!" I said in a voice far too loud for a common area on any floor of my building, particularly the elevator bank of the floor where the executives work. "And I am not getting promoted even though I have ideas! I am so FRUSTRATED!"

My coworker gave me a warning look and in my peripheral vision I saw the head of Human Resources. I fell silent, and, silently, the three of us got into an elevator. Longest 30-second ride of my life.

I mean, it's not the worst thing for him to know I'm dissatisfied. (If he even knows who I am, which he probably doesn't, although he did personally interview me when I transferred to my current department. But that was two years ago.) And it's not like I was *directly* talking shit about my boss. Just dissing her work methods and saying I could do her job better.

No biggie, right?

I understand why some people label their food in the office refrigerator. But this morning I noticed that the Post-it atop someone's yogurt listed not only their initials, but also their phone extension.

Why in the world would we need to know how to contact the yogurt owner?

"Hi, is this JF at x7642? I wanted to let you know I'm eating your breakfast right now. It's delicious."

The Joshua Radin concert was even better than I expected!

As you may or may not know, I enjoy the music of Joshua Radin.

I have been a quiet fan since I first heard "Paperweight," courtesy of one of Susan's fabulous mixes, in Fall of 2005. The following Spring another mix of hers included "The Fear You Won't Fall," and I was pretty much hooked on Radin's soothing voice, which worked out well considering his first album, We Were Here, released a month or so later in June 2006.

His music is calm and soothing, genuine and heartfelt without being overly sappy. It brought me comfort during times I dearly needed it, so when he came out with another album, Simple Times, last September (which I became aware of thanks to the inclusion of "I'd Rather Be With You" on yet another of Susan's mixes) I didn't think twice about buying it, and I wasn't disappointed. His healing vocals continued to be a balm to my ears, a few particularly uplifting tracks radiantly overshadowing the songs with less cheerful themes.

So of course I bought a ticket when I found out that Joshua Radin would be performing at Webster Hall. I don't usually attend concerts alone but I felt sure his show was worth seeing, and boy was I right.

First of all, Joshua Radin recorded and Joshua Radin live are two entirely different entities. I hadn't given much thought to the reality that he is a person, with a personality. I guess I expected a solemn presentation, since his music tends to err on the side of serious. Well, not even close, as it turns out. Sure, when he sang the sadder songs, every bit of his emotion seemed authentic—you'd never have guessed that minutes earlier he was laughing about a related subject. But his overall presence was, in a word, joyous.

There were a several factors working in favor of an exceptional show. (1) Joshua Radin is from New York, and was visibly ecstatic to be returning home. He's lived in LA for the last four years and moved back to NYC in April, but he's been on the road ever since. So we were the first home crowd he'd played to and he was loving it. (2) The performance was being filmed for a DVD, which meant that, in tandem with him liking us as an audience, he talked about EVERY SONG before he played it. It was awesome. I'm familiar with all of the 22 songs on his two albums, so it was really cool to get the "inside scoop" behind the creative process. I'd tell you more about that, but unless you care, you really wouldn't care. (3) He played new songs, and they rocked. Like, really rocked—he's clearly evolved as a musician and his new album (to be recorded in February) will include not just "whisper rock," as he called it, but also full-out drum-heavy guitar-solo rock. Given the content of his existing albums I'd expected to play a passive role as an audience member, but at his encouragement, the new songs had all of us clapping hands, stomping feet, and hollering at will—he even orchestrated a "primal scream" to get things moving, which was a wonderful release since I can't remember the last time I had the chance to just shriek and yell to my heart's content. (4) Zach Braff was present. I'm not really sure why this was such a big deal, but it definitely contributed to the excitement of the audience. Apparently he's a big Joshua Radin fan—and Radin made eye contact with him time and again, so maybe they're friends—and when it was time to applaud for an encore, Zach stood up from his VIP balcony seat, leaned over the railing, and beckoned for the crowd to cheer louder.

I suppose it was the combination of (1), (2), (3), and (4) that led to (5), one of the coolest things that I've experienced at a concert. When Radin came out for his encore, he told us we were such a great crowd that he wanted to be a part of us. So, to make that happen, he said he was going to perform his encore song right in the middle of the audience.

Guess who was standing right in the middle of the audience? Yup. Moments later I found myself on the inner circumference of a spotlighted circle on the ballroom floor, at the center of which was Joshua Radin. He played an acoustic Bob Dylan cover with no mic, but I heard every word because I was less than two feet away from him.

Even Zach Braff didn't get that close.

Fictionally published!

Check out this short story, which was recently picked up for publication on a nifty new blog that focuses on New York City–centric fiction. Enjoy!

Table for One

A Pre-Halloween Trick

Today when the bus came, as I climbed the stairs to board I noticed something peculiar.

The bus was entirely empty. Not a single other passenger.

As I reached forward to dip my MetroCard, the driver said, "Sorry, no room!"

Flustered, I reflexively began to back down the stairs and exit the bus before he started laughing and pointed out that he was joking....There was no one else on the bus, so there was PLENTY of room...Get it, lady?

I gave him a foolish grin and said I needed to learn to listen better, because I'd just assumed he was telling me the bus was out of service (which, in fairness, would provide a logical explanation for the bus being TOTALLY EMPTY during rush hour).

I love it when bus drivers remind me they're humans with senses of humor...and I also love it when I get one of those window-view single-seats on the bus. TGIF!

Facebook TMI

I mean, really?

p.s. Grammar Police will be sending Mrs. Matthis a citation for failure to use a "z" where required.

Amusing Children's Book Titles

Henry and Mudge and the Sneaky Crackers

Dora's Magic Wand

[Just to name a couple; hopefully this will become an ongoing list. I enjoy imagining alternate storylines and illustrations.]

Last Day of Summer

School starts on Tuesday, making this the final Friday of freedom.

If you replace "school" with "standard hours" and "freedom" with "1 p.m. departure," then you'll know how I'm feeling.

It's bittersweet, because it's been a good summer, but I am feeling better about fall.

OH! And newsflash to my loyal followers: I'm going to sign up for a writing class, starting with a one-day seminar and then a six or ten week course, depending. It's about time, right?

And now, with three minutes before I officially clock in, it's time to grab me a big ol' Diet Coke, munch on my Odwalla protein bar (Not to namedrop but you never know, someday this blog could be monetized and that mention will make me some cash. JS) before taking care of some business.

TGIF!

FYI

If you decide you are physically fit enough to absorb a breakfast meal from Burger King, and when you order, if the person asks you "small" or "medium," DO NOT BE FOOLED!

"Small" actually means "giant" and whatever rationalization convinced you it was okay to have Burger King for breakfast will pale at the sight of the massive serving of tator tots you receive.

Don't get me wrong—I love tator tots. So much that I allow myself the indulgence of BK "hash browns" on a sort-of weekly basis. But as you may or may not be aware, the breakfast meal already comes with a value size coffee and tots, so by asking for a small, you are actually upgrading.

I had this same experience on Monday, but was naive enough to think my enlarged coffee and tots were some kind of hook-up from the employees, since breakfast time was nearly over and I've always been friendly to them.

But no. They have tricked me twice, so shame on me. I don't like to feel so easily fooled, and in my defense, when the total is $3.15, you can reasonably assume you're not getting much. And they never used to ask me about sizes. And saying "small" sounds pretty practical. (But only until you see the size of small. Because it is GIANT.)

I am somewhat mortified by the amount of potato grease I have just consumed, and alarmed by the volume of coffee I now have to drink—I just wanted a splash to ward off a caffeine headache...a value-size splash, you might say. And if ever there was a morning for two different colleagues to drop by my office and see me eating breakfast, I would rather it not be the morning there is an extensive fat buffet spread out on my desk. But such is life.

I don't think I'll be having another BK breakfast anytime soon, but when it eventually becomes irresistible, now I know better than to fall for their "small or medium" scam. (It's like the Starbucks "grande equals small" b.s., but greasier.) It's only a value if you get value size.

Just thought you should be aware.

Vegas

A week ago I would not have known that "Vegas" is the name of a Sara Bareilles song, but I'm glad I've been enlightened. I didn't realize I could take her seriously beyond my previously unadmitted appreciation for "Love Song" but thanks to my ability to access a coworker's iTunes I gave the whole album a listen and I was not disappointed. She evokes just enough Kelly Clarkson to convince me she's authentic, if that makes any sense.

Anyway, her Vegas track isn't even my favorite but it's where I'm headed tomorrow so it made for a good blog opener.

Some friends are getting married over the weekend and a good time seems to be in store; it's my first visit to the city of sin and I'm excited to see what all the fuss is about.

In my absence, I leave you with this YouTube video, which should keep your attention for at least a few days.

Still here

No, I didn't forget I have a blog. I haven't even forgotten to post, not exactly. I've thought about posting numerous times in the last two weeks:

• About how President Obama's motorcade made me late to yoga but it was worth it to see our national leader('s car)

• About how I wish we still had travel agents instead of 1,000 websites for booking flights

• About hearing (or not, because everybody talked during) the symphony in Central Park

• About how awesome Susan's latest mixes are

• About The Onion's bizarre communist homepage this week

• About how even though it's not that hot outside, the air conditioning in my office is so intense my hands are numb

• About how I visited a public swimming pool near my apartment and it wasn't gross

Obviously, despite all that thinking, I didn't post a damn thing. But, hey, I never said I'd be good at blogging. I see it kind of how I see cell phones...there for me to use, not necessarily to answer. That is, primarily existing for my personal convenience.

Nonetheless, I'll try and be better...otherwise what will happen to my readership? They'll stop checking this site every hour, and no one wants that. It's just that posting is way more difficult when I'm actually busy at work and/or living my life. But I'll be sure and write something soon...just as soon as I feel like it.

Oh, dear.

I know President Obama is human. But I don't always want proof.

Now you and I know this is exactly what it looks like: two men checking out a young woman's ass. But Fox news must be loving this opportunity to flaunt the mortality of our leader. A conservative Facebook friend who recently expressed her opinion that she strongly disapproves of Obama linked to the above photo on her Facebook status, which is how I found it. Here is the Reuters caption:

U.S. President Barack Obama (C) and

France's President Nicolas Sarkozy

(R) take their places with junior G8

delegates for a family photo at the G8

summit in L'Aquila, Italy, July 9.

Leaders of the Group of Eight major

industrial nations and the main

developing economies are meeting in

the central Italian city of L'Aquila until

Friday to discuss issues ranging from

global economic stimulus to climate

change and oil prices. REUTERS/Jason

Reed (ITALY POLITICS IMAGES OF THE DAY)

I don't think there is anything wrong with a couple of guys checking out an attractive woman—it's natural, almost reassuring. Sexuality exists; it's okay to acknowledge it. Nonetheless, I'd still prefer this photo have not been taken, or that it had remained private. As a journalist I know it was too good not to publish, but I can't help but cringe just a little. I wonder if the administration will comment.

The feedback you've been waiting for...

I know I have left my readership in nearly unbearable suspense, and for that I hereby apologize.

Please pardon the delay, but my recent post about the impending arrival of a certain pillow garnered such a massive response that I have only just finished going through and responding to all the emails...I think it was the infographic that drew the crowd.

At any rate, here I am making excuses instead of giving you the information you've been longing for, and so I won't draw it out any further...

My pillow arrived, and it is overrated.
There! I admitted it. I was hoping that in the last six nights my opinion would change and I could write a post about how glorious my life is now that I have a Tempupedic pillow to rest my head on at night. But that's just not the case.

It's not a bad pillow, but I sure am glad I didn't pay $100 for it. The Symphony pillow is specially designed for people who sleep both on their backs and on their sides. This means the pillow is dual-sided, and the "back" side has an extra hump that is supposed to provide neck support. I was entranced by the description and envisioned somnatic harmony, but at the end of the day, the Symphony pillow is little more than a brick of expensive foam.

It's really good foam, of course. I won't deny that. And since I was so excited to finally have my own piece of Tempurpedic property, I was even willing to overlook the unpleasant smell that accompanies new Tempupedic products. (The smell reminds me of a chocolate scratch-and-sniff sticker: mildly medicinal and musky.) The odor is finally beginning to fade—but so is my enthusiasm for my new pillow.

The biggest issue is that the super-special foam retains heat exceptionally well, which I had heard before regarding the mattresses. However, I failed to realize that a PILLOW could cause my body heat to rise so much that I wake up in a full sweat. Perhaps this feature will serve me well come winter, but right now? Right now it's summer, and the last thing I need is to insulate my head so much that my body functions as an internal suana.

Of course, despite my disappointment, I will not stop using the pillow. I can now easily fall asleep on my back, and the support it provides is certainly superb. I have even noticed that the quality of my sleep has improved (until I wake up sweating, that is). The positive aspects do outweigh the negative. At least, I will convince myself of that fact, because I am really stubborn, and when I spend this much money on a pillow, you better believe I'm going to sleep on it.

MJ madness and memories

All the hype about Michael Jackson's death makes me feel like an outsider of society: I just don't get it. I mean, of course I get that he was super-talented and super-famous and thereby his death is a super-big-deal. But the media coverage is perplexingly abundant, and last night on the news I heard a woman say she couldn't bear to be alone at home, that she instead needed to gather near the Apollo Theater with fellow MJ mourners in order to feel comforted and understood in the depths of her grief.

More than a million people wanted to be in Los Angeles today to observe a memorial service that is being held in a concert arena. Me? I'd love to be in L.A., but I'd have better things to do than stalk the Staples Center.

However, even if I can't relate to the hype and have warranted doubts about his moral character, Michael Jackson has nonetheless occupied two points of significance in my life:

1. When I was in second grade I was visiting a friend's house and her older sister was watching MTV. I had never seen MTV before, thus, the first music video I ever glimpsed was Michael Jackson's "Black or White."

2. When I was living alone in Washington Heights—a rather rough NYC neighborhood for the uninitiated—I often listened to The Jackson 5 in the morning before work. So "ABC" will forever remind me of crooning into my hairbrush and bopping around my fifth-floor walk-up, gearing up for another day of city living.

This concludes my acknowledgment of Michael Jackson's influence on the world. Here's hoping he's now at peace.

NYC independence

It was four years ago today that my dear friend Ally and I formally declared our NYC independence. We had each spent months living in the city before, but never without the cushion of college to return to. This was different—permanent, or at least temporarily so.

Our immigration to Manhattan was uncomfortable and full of uncertainty but we were determined to follow through with our plan to conquer New York, a plan that began as an idealistic "what-if" some months previous but had blossomed into an unwavering commitment.

We flew into LaGuardia a day or two before July 1 and reunited with our third roommate, a Teach for America corp member who had already been living in the city for a year. Mel had stoically borne the brunt of the tortuous burden that is apartment hunting in Manhattan and against all odds secured us a three-bedroom apartment within our meager budgets. Ally and I signed the lease before we saw the place, and soon after giving us a tour, Mel departed for a much-needed summer vacation in her home state of Rhode Island. Since the movers were far from arriving we had no furniture, and Mel said Ally and I could stay at her current apartment as long as we wanted.

But the evening of July 3, Mel's current roommate returned from a trip, and we no longer felt at ease crashing on borrowed futons. We decided that, furniture or no, it was time to lay claim to the apartment we were paying for. The next day, we piled our luggage into a cab we couldn't really afford and unloaded everything onto the curb in front of our new building. Neighbors gave us second glances outside in the oppressive heat—probably due to the oversized teddy bear perched on my hip like a stuffed toddler—but no one offered to help us get our cargo indoors.

Around sunset we took a long subway ride to Battery Park and watched fireworks explode above the Statue of Liberty. After we got home it was past midnight and we resigned ourselves to the lack of mattresses and air conditioning and did our best to breathe in the sticky air and fall asleep on the wooden floor of what would be Ally's bedroom. Her room faced the street, which meant we heard every one of the fireworks the neighborhood teens saw fit to set off.

The first time we heard a bang we thought it might be a gunshot—I had once mistaken a gunshot for a car backfiring in a different Manhattan neighborhood and didn't put anything past anyone anymore. But when the cracks continued we remembered the holiday, and our fear was replaced with frustration.

We didn't sleep much that night. The floor was hard, the room was hot, and the firecrackers continued until well past 3 a.m. But it was our own floor, in our own apartment, and the noise of our own neighborhood. We were independent, God bless America. We were home.

Revolutionary Road is worth watching

There. I said it. I don't want this blog to be full of personal endorsements, but I do want every interested American to watch Revolutionary Road. If you liked American Beauty or Titanic you should do yourself a favor and give this movie a chance. My respect for the acting talent of Kate Winslet and Leonardo DiCaprio has skyrocketed, and if you liked the cinematography and/or score of American Beauty then you are in for a treat.

I am going to read the book for sure, and am surprised I had never heard of it before this film. Apparently it has been a literary favorite for half a century. As a former English major, you would think a book like that would have been mentioned in at least one of my courses or conversations—but it is never too late to discover a new love. I'm going to get the book from the library if there is not a long wait, but if there is I am lucky to have a B&N gift card. A new store just opened up on 86 and Lex and it is massive and elegant. One and then two stories below ground, it is a palace for books. And since this store is so luxurious and big, there is also a DVD and CD section. (Sidenote: I wonder when stores will stop selling CDs. Ten years? Less? I haven't purchased a CD since 2004.)

Maybe I'll use my B&N gift card to buy the DVD instead of the book, and then I can just watch the movie every day until the book is available from the library.

Because, yeah, it's that good. I watched it four times (once with director commentary) before returning it to Netflix. It is beautiful and delightful and haunting and tragic. Which is to say, it brims with humanity and authenticity.

If you can't tell, the movie had a big impact on me. It is definitely worth watching because even if you dislike it you will get something from it. This concludes my endorsement of the film Revolutionary Road.

Pillow talk

So, I have been excitedly anticipating the arrival of my new Tempurpedic pillow for more than a week now, and it is scheduled to arrive today. I have been looking forward to this pillow delivery with an eagerness that is perhaps mockable, but hey, it's the small things in life that can make a big difference.

Last Tuesday after I won the eBay auction I had this grand notion of taking my devoted blog followers on a visual journey of my pillow's travel from California to New York. I decided I would make use of my UPS tracking number and create a map pinpointing the stops on the cross-country trip.

However, UPS let me down. After telling me the package originated in Oakland and letting me know it traveled fewer than twenty miles to San Pablo the next day, there were no updates for five days, until it suddenly appeared in Parsippany, New Jersey. Such limited info makes for a pretty lame visual:


But despite the lack of details, UPS did its job, and assuming they can actually deliver to my no-doorman building, my head is going to be pleasantly supported come tonight.

I became suddenly obsessed with having a luxury pillow after testing out a few during a recent trip to Bed Bath & Beyond . I've lusted after Tempurpedic mattresses ever since I first stretched out on one in a store several years ago, so I wasn't surprised to discover their pillows were equally seductive. However, the one I wanted was $100. Not quite as prohibitively expensive as the mattress, but still, a lot for a pillow. Nonetheless, it was love at first touch and I am good at justifying my desires. And after a show of patience and persistence via eBay auction-stalking, my high-end deluxe comfort object only cost me $60.

I'm really enjoying being awake today, but I can't wait to go to sleep.

An industry riddle

Q: When is a raise not a raise?
A: When you work in publishing.

Doctor dilemma

I had an appointment with the lady doctor yesterday. My usual doctor retired sometime last year without telling me, and since she supposedly hand-picked the woman who replaced her, I decided there was no reason to search for someone else.

Well, the new lady was disappointing. She seemed competent enough and I do give her credit for being on time and not wasting any of mine, but there was no personal interaction, no bedside manners. It was all business—she probably said less than fifty words to me the entire time I was there.

The visit was adequate; I got the prescription I needed. But for a routine checkup, it was too routine. I miss my old doctor, a witty grandmother figure who I could talk to about anything, who I could ask any question. Yesterday I was so grateful there was not a pressing issue I wanted to discuss, because I would not have felt comfortable opening up to this stranger who made no effort to be otherwise.

The problem is, I don't know how to find a better replacement. I guess next year I can pick someone random from the list of doctors who take my insurance, but I'm loathe to subject my private parts to chance. And it's not like these people are reviewed on Yelp!

All of this is just to say I wish there were health counselors who could help match patients up with doctors, and I'm not talking about 1-800-DOCTORS. The services would have to be unbiased and the necessary analyses pretty complex, but surely it is possible to create a trustworthy network of healthcare providers. This is the kind of problem I feel my generation should be solving. Does complaining count as a start?

A belated warning

I didn't have a blog when the following occurred, but if I had you would have learned about this incident immediately. Instead, a belated account:

My mom is interested in Snuggie ownership. I don't understand why, but that's all right, because one does not have to understand the desire for something in order to give that something as a gift, especially if one is shopping for Mother's Day.

I'm not a huge Internet shopper but I've bought enough online goods to know the drill: You put items in your cart, review your order + shipping costs, confirm a total, and you're set. Somewhere along the way you provide payment information, but I've learned you can input credit card numbers with no consequence as long as you don't confirm your purchase.

Unless you're on the Snuggie website. If you're on the Snuggie website, "having a look around" is synonymous with "purchasing Snuggies whether you like it or not."


I probably wouldn't have found this out if their website had any modicum of usability or customization options. As it was, I had no choice but to click, click my way to a checkout window, never getting to specify what exactly it was I was agreeing to buy. I was not given the option to decline the buy-one-get-one-free "special offer," and so even though I was only (potentially) interested in purchasing a single Snuggie, I had no way of selecting just one. Nor could I opt out of receiving two free book lights. That might not have been so bad, if I had any use for book lights or if the second sleeved blanket was actually going to be free. But it wouldn't be—I would be charged extra shipping and handling.

That glitch alone was enough to make me start brainstorming for alternative gift options, but since I was curious to see the final cost, I continued letting the automated website force me through it's inflexible sequence of pages. For an extra $5 I agreed to upgrade my (theoretical) Snuggie to something with pockets and fabric thicker than cheesecloth. I did not have the option of applying these impressive features to just one Snuggie. The second, unwelcome item would also be of deluxe quality and added expense. Nor was I able to select more than one color option...my "free" Snuggie would apparently have to be identical to the one I (supposedly) wanted to buy.

At that point I had $30 worth of sleeved blankets in my cart, despite my single-Snuggie intentions. The next screen asked for payment info, but no total cost was listed, and no confirmation button was shown. Since I was still curious to find out the final cost—and since I was still hoping to ditch the second product—I played along. I gave them a credit card number. And this is what I saw next:

Thank you for your order! It is being processed and will be shipped promptly!

The amount my credit card had been charged without my consent was $49.63. Thoroughly convinced by then that I did NOT want a Snuggie, I immediately contacted Customer Service. A kind young man answered the phone and did not sound surprised when I explained my situation. He told me that my credit card would not actually be charged until the order shipped, but I would have to call back to cancel the order. Nice Guy explained that the computer system only updated order info twice a day, at 8:30 a.m. and at 5 p.m. Since it was about 11 a.m., my best bet was to call again just after 5. He emphatically suggested I not wait until the morning—in his experience, most orders shipped by then and it would be too late to cancel.

I don't think either one of us believed an Internet-based operation in the twenty-first century was incapable of immediately processing orders, but it was obvious a system was firmly in place and there was nothing he could do to change it, other than pass along the details he knew.

When I called at 5:10 p.m., a gruff voice informed me that my order information had not yet entered the system. When I cited Nice Guy's tip about the 5 p.m. update, Gruff Guy didn't seem to know what I was talking about. He told me to call in the morning. I asked if it would be better for me to call back later that evening—the call center was open until 10—but he said there was no point in doing so.

At 9:15 a.m. the next morning I explained my situation for the third time to the third person, and the first sentence out of his mouth after I gave him my order number was, "Oh, no, honey, that's on the truck."

I think it is pretty shady to thank someone for an order they never confirmed, but it is even shadier to pretend you don't know about that order until it is too late for the customer to cancel it. Fortunately for me, Mr. Third Time's the Charm agreed. He told me Gruff Guy should have never told me to wait till morning. He told me what he could do and what he could not do.

He could not keep the unwanted Snuggies from heading toward my home. He could not keep the charge for them off my credit card. But he could, and did, immediately remove the $15.90 shipping charges. And he assured me that if I refused to accept the package when it arrived, the blanket fees would eventually be removed from my credit card.

Because I never opened the box that showed up some two weeks later (too late for Mother's Day, by the way, even if I'd had a change of heart and decided to keep the things), I'll never know exactly what I escaped involuntarily owning. But I know what I didn't escape: a long, painful process that left me—and my unblanketed arms—cold.

In my dreams

The best and worst part about my dreams is not being able to control them. I am frequently surprised by the cast of characters who populate my subconscious world on any given night, and sometimes I awaken confused or even upset by the contents of a dream.

This morning though? This morning I opened my eyes to streams of sunlight and smiled at a vivid recollection of what had moments earlier seemed like reality.

It sounds cliche but has never happened to me before: I was flying.

IT WAS AWESOME.

Granted, since it was me dreaming, the flying was of a practical nature. I didn't suddenly turn into Superman or have the ability to cross oceans. It was more like windsurfing in a bridesmaid dress. That's right. I was outdoors before the wedding began and there was a mighty strong breeze blowing, and I figured out that if I leaned forward and lifted the back of my dress just so, the generous folds of fabric would catch the wind and lift me off the ground. Before long I sure was zooming around that garden party, whooping with glee and loving it. Thanks, dream!

The fabric of equality

I can't afford to care too much about fashion, but when I take the bus to work I usually pass by the Kenneth Cole store on Fifth Avenue and, though I've never paid much attention to the clothes, his campaigns catch my eye. The tag lines are usually slyly political, and today's window display was no exception:

THOSE AGAINST
SAME-SEX
MARRIAGE
AREN'T THINKING
STRAIGHT.
(OR ARE THEY?)
—KENNETH COLE

It is pretty bold to tell a chunk of your consumer base that their thinking is flawed, but throw in the right parenthetical, and you've challenged people to consider a new perspective. Thought provoking, clever...and available on a T shirt.

Internally, eternally free

...That's the goal, anyway. And wisdom like this helps me get there.

DAILY INSPIRATION Do you feel free to be who you are? If not, why not? Who or what are you allowing to limit your freedom to be yourself? No one but you can give you your inner freedom. By Dr. Margaret Paul

Music FYI

My awesome friend Susan makes theses amazing mix CDs that she periodically distributes to her pals, and in the last four years she has enhanced my music collection with approximately 600 songs. I can't match her aptitude for compiling fantastic tunes, but I can at least pass along my own latest discoveries:

P.T. Walkley has two albums out: Mr. Macy Wakes Alone, and PTWalkley...and the Adventures of Track Rabbit. Both are great—Mr. Macy is his new one and a little more low key, but it's very easy to listen to the two albums in one stretch. His style reminds me of The Shins with a little bit of Arctic Monkeys thrown in, and I'm a sucker for fun music with coherent/clever lyrics.

Diane Birch has been compared to Norah Jones and Carole King, and while I can see why, I wouldn't try to label her (although her soulful, self-written music does remind me of a few of my favorite songs by Brandi Carlile). Her debut album, Bible Belt, is currently available for cheap on iTunes, and definitely worth the $7.

Nylon Magazine's 22 Free Tracks are an excellent substitute for a Summer Mix from Susan, and I credit her fully for letting me know about this rockin' assortment of freebies. Check out Nylon's site to download a playlist of your very own.

Starbucks made me do it.

I decided to start a blog after realizing yesterday that my internal filter works too well. I used to speak any thought, but years of New York City living have (ironically?) taught me to keep quiet—no one cares what's on my mind. And while it is often for the best that I remain silent, there was a time when I had an ever-present listening audience who welcomed my random thoughts and inappropriate comments.

That time was college, and it is past. But the people who so enriched my life are alive and well, dispersed across the globe and Internet accessible. And so, this blog is for them. Well, mostly for me. But also for them. And, okay, by nature of its format, also for anyone online. But definitely for them. Because I will not join Twitter and I update my Facebook status sparingly. I do not believe in force-feeding information. But I do believe it is possible that people just maybe might be interested in my occasional observations, particularly people who know me and my (in)sensibilities.

And I just have to say something about the Starbucks ad I saw yesterday. The copy reads:

STARBUCKS OR NOTHING
Because compromise leaves a really bad aftertaste.

I was equal parts impressed and disgusted when I saw this poster encased in glass on the side of a bus stop. I know Starbucks has lost some money, but is disparaging compromise going to earn them business? It's like the company is encouraging consumers to behave like spoiled brats: If I can't have the expensive brew, I won't have any!
But the ad is brilliant in its logic, because the two options create a win-win situation: Customers either buy Starbucks, or they don't buy coffee anywhere else (presumably staving off defects to Dunkin' Donuts). And given that coffee is addictive, it's a safe bet the "nothing" option is essentially null. So, well done Starbucks. Way to promote snobbery and stubbornness. Just what we need more of in NYC.

[Note: This post was written while sipping on a Starbucks grande iced coffee with free hazelnut syrup and soy milk. At $2.11 (tax included), it cost about the same as an iced coffee from Dunkin' Donuts, and free syrup and soy milk are harder to ignore than appalling ads.]