Call me crazy, but...

Less than twenty-four hours after soundly decrying Four Loko, I was wasted off it.

I know, I said I had no desire ("None. Zero.") to try it, and that was almost completely true. But my boyfriend brought home three cans and we had a party to go to Friday night. I was sure it was a bad idea and he was confident it was no big deal. I could have refused to try it, but after learning that, according to the Huffington Post, a Four Loko has the caffeine equivalent of two cups of coffee, I figured I could handle it. Yeah, that's a lot for me--four wine coolers and two cups of coffee will most likely get me a serious buzz. But I'm twenty-seven, and though my heavy drinking days are behind me, I figured I could handle one can of this much-hyped liquid hysteria.

Turns out, my speculative descriptions of Four Loko as a "blackout in a can" and a "playfully camouflaged hangover" were dead on. One time during a college summer I took half a Xanax before a keg party; up until I lost my memory I recall having an amazing time. But I'd never blacked out before, and waking up on my friend's couch the next morning was an uncomfortable experience: I had no idea how I'd gotten there, or what had happened in the preceding hours.

It's a known fact that combining Xanax with alcohol causes memory loss; I haven't yet read anything that states the same about whatever the hell is in Four Loko, but it definitely had a similar effect on me--and on my 180-pound boyfriend, who, unlike me, has rarely blacked out in his life.

The party started at ten on Friday, so after an early dinner, we each popped a can of Four Loko around eight. I'd negotiated with myself, deciding to treat the endeavor with respect and cautious curiosity; I did, after all, have some experience with time-intensive alcohol consumption: Power Hour. (For the uninitiated, this is when you drink an ounce of beer every minute for an hour, which is like drinking six beers in an hour.) And I wasn't even pushing myself to finish the entire can of Loko. The way I figured, at just $3 I could simply sip until I felt satisfactorily buzzed; the equivalent of a couple drinks for a fraction of the price.

An hour later, I was guzzling the last of my toxic 23.5 oz. beverage.

I'd read that Four Loko tastes disgusting, so it was pretty much what I expected. But my boyfriend, who genuinely enjoys the taste of most energy drinks and is unfazed by descriptors like "cough syrup," was in for an unpleasant surprise when he took his first swigs of Blueberry Four Loko. (To be fair, I'd read that blueberry was the grossest flavor and thus refused to touch it, so his drink may have tasted worse than mine.) I'd never seen him grimace the way he did after swallowing the Four Loko--pinched lips and suppressing a gag reflex. However, just a few minutes later, he reported that the taste had grown on him. And a half hour after that, I understood what he meant.

At first I had to use my Power Hour prowess to force myself to imbibe my Four Loko, which was labeled as fruit punch but tasted more acrid and pungent than any fruit should ever be. I wasn't interested in drinking a full ounce every minute, and just reminded myself to take a slurp every few minutes. After a few deliberate, horrid swallows, I realized that the drink goes down much, much easier if you can avoid tasting it.

And therein lies the largest danger of Four Loko: Its taste forces you to chug, and therefore binge drink. Beforehand, I calmly observed that chugging Four Loko would be a very poor decision, as its alcohol and caffeine content is equal to at least a red bull vodka or two, and I'm not supposed to have more than one of those per hour. Nor do I chug them.

But by eight forty-five I was nearing the end of my massive can of Four Loko (which, by the way, is even less tolerable when it is warm--another incentive for rapid consumption). And I was feeling great.

My boyfriend and I decided to split the third and final can of Four Loco as we took public transportation downtown. Again, I had previously identified this action to be stupid and unsafe, in part because we'd be compelled to drink the whole thing in a short time period, and in part because it is illegal to drink alcohol in public.

But I was already drunk--and loving it!--at this point, and seriously, these cans look like they're for kids. And we certainly wouldn't be the only New Yorkers sneaking alcohol in public on a Friday night. So it was a no-brainer, in part because my brain was already on vacation by then.

I remember enjoying the bus rides, but I don't remember any details except for where we were sitting, a memory that is bolstered by a couple of pictures we snapped before disembarking, in which we look happy and sober.

I sort of remember finding the bar where the party was, just as I sort of remember what the place looked like inside--very dark--and I recall finding my friend and feeling happy. I don't remember a single word of specific conversation, however, though my boyfriend says he found me demonstrating a yoga pose on the floor in the back room.

I do remember leaving, parting ways with a friend and getting in a cab with my boyfriend. I do remember that after we got out of the cab we popped into a local bar, which was unusual. I remember a group of people making noise and beckoning to my boyfriend and me, and I remember feeling excited and welcomed. But it turned out they just wanted us to get out of the way of the dart board.

I don't remember getting pizza, though there's evidence we did. And I don't remember getting home, but I do remember waking up with a distant, familiar feeling of unaccountable unconsciousness.

If that were the end of it I would still probably never drink that swill again--as fun as it may have been, not remembering anything of consequence is frustrating and embarrassing. I don't get to see my friends all that often and I'd really been looking forward to our conversations. I had a good time, I'm sure, but without a memory of the experience, it feels like a bit of a waste.

But that wasn't the only detractor: I was also hungover the entirety of the following day. It wasn't a terrible hangover, but it was terribly persistent--a low-grade swirl of nausea and malaise. An overall sense of grossness and the inability to muster motivation. All. Day. Long.

And that was the outcome of drinking less than 1.5 cans of Four Loko and a few swigs of Bud Light. So I shudder to think what is happening to those who are drinking this stuff in even larger quantities. People who are trying to get wasted--because that wasn't even my goal, and I ended up tanked. Turns out even the most cautious approach is no match for the persuasive power of (addictive substances) alcohol and caffeine. I was naive to think otherwise, but thankfully I was able to learn my lesson without serious damage (that I know of).

So, remember that Four Loko party my friends are having in Williamsburg? I don't think I'm going to be able to make it.

Loco for loko

My first awareness of a certain beverage whose name is so cleverly punned in the title of this entry came about via facebook: a facebook invite, to be exact.

You see, my friends in Williamsburg are having a Four Loko party in a couple of weeks, in an ironic effort to get sincerely wasted. Like so many facebook experiences, the information sloshed into my brain and promptly seeped into my subconscious, so that when I saw an abandoned can of Four Loko atop a bookcase at a recent party, it looked familiar. Then I noticed it in 7-11, and then glimpsed it in a news story promo while attempting to skip some commercials.

Before long all the media was trumpeting the dangers of this drink, which on first blush I find shockingly ingenius. I mean, it's a terrible idea, and that should be obvious to everyone--except to all the drinkers who LOVE IT.

It's a marketing gem. I can't deny it, but I also have no desire to try it. None. Zero.

In college, however--and even a few years after, I'll admit--I would have very much appreciated this economical pre-game in a can. Even now, were I inclined to get smashed and hit the town, I'd find 23.5 FL OZ. (1 PT 7.5 OZ) of alcoholic red bull an efficient if not appealing option.

So I get why it's popular.

But it's also dangerous, and I'm not convinced underage drinkers or even a good deal of legal alcoholics are capable of monitoring the consumption of a beverage that by all appearances is nothing but fun.

It's not really fair, but the truth is that this stuff can easily (and surely does) end up at high school and college parties, where it is no doubt abused. And yes, alcohol poisoning is always a possibility in the presence of binge drinking. I've witnessed--hell, experienced--some scary stuff related to alcohol overdose, even when the beverages didn't taste like bubble gum cough syrup. But when you introduce a substance with up to four times the potency of associated liquids (beer, wine coolers, Zima with a jolly rancher) but with no significant change in taste, you are putting drinkers in danger. They'll misjudge their limits with potentially fatal results, and they'll do it more often than if they were taking shots because Four Loko contains caffeine, which inhibits the brains ability to discern intoxication.

It's a blackout in a can and you've got to be at least a little crazy to try it. But teenagers and college students and plenty of legal drinkers are exactly a little crazy if not moreso. So if this drink is going to stay on the market, the public needs to be thoroughly educated on the contents of these playfully camouflaged hangovers.

How used!

So I practice Bikram yoga and I live close enough to a studio that I can walk to and from class. This means I get to shower at home, which is awesome, and it also means I walk home in my sweat-drenched clothes. I wear capri leggings so when it's cold outside my ankles are bare unless I wear socks or tall boots. Last winter I almost relented and bought Uggs, because they so perfectly suit my specific need.

But I have issues with Uggs. And so my solution for last year involved long socks and fleece-lined moccasins.

Except after ninety minutes in the hot room, coating your sweaty feet and ankles in thick fabric feels less than appealing. Fortunately, even without socks, the fleece lining kept my toes from going numb, if not exactly keeping them toasty. But those moccasins are wearing through, and I made a discovery.

Uggs makes moccasins! Talk about a beautiful compromise. I'll get wool fleece lining and sure my ankles might still be a little chilly but my toes would be insulated and snug, sockless and wicked dry and warm.

So I did a search on eBay, and found plenty of people selling Uggs...used.

Would you buy a pair of boots used? Boots specifically intended for use without socks? Can you effectively sanitize/clean sheep wool?

Takes the idea of walking a mile in someone else's shoes to a new level....

Inked

A disaster happened last night.

No, I'm not talking about the election results (though I could be). I'm talking about the trauma caused by a few ounces of a seemingly innocuous liquid.

Ink.

If you didn't know, I'm taking a cartooning class, and my primary tools are pencil and ink. I had never used pen nibs and ink before, and I enjoy the inking process. It's fun, and lets me imagine I'm using a quill pen.

Every week I take my art supplies with me to work, and then down to Chinatown for my drawing class. Savvy traveler that I am, I carry my pencils and erasers and pens in a zippered bag, and keep the jar of ink encased in a plastic sandwich bag.

So. Imagine my surprise—no, let's make that shock—when after class last night, when I stood up after a 45-minute bus ride, I felt something sticky on my leg. I looked down, and a massive blotch of blossoming black consumed my entire right thigh.

Before I finished departing the bus I was already reaching into my bag for the culprit, and before long was grasping an ink-filled sandwich bag that immediately stained my entire hand. Ink had saturated the bottom of my (expensive, brand-name) bag, which was transferring black smudges to anything it touched. I was four blocks from home and still had to stop in the drug store for some frozen dinner, so it was good that the corner diner didn't mind handing me some napkins.

As I trudged home, dripping with ink, I tried not to think about how ruined my (designer) jeans and bag were. I thought about how privileged I am to even be taking this cartooning class, to have the ability to buy this ruinous ink, to have a home to return to and a way to get clean.

I also thought about how, in class, just a few drops of ink could require a whole paper towel to blot them up, how a quick dip of the nib lent astonishing longevity. This is wonderful, from an efficiency perspective. But it also means that the quantity of ink spilled in my bag and on my pants was monumental.

Once home, it was an inkbath. Splotches everywhere, try as I might to contain them. Splashes of black ink in the sink, on the floor, on the toilet, ringing the tub. Splatters on my face, on the wall, on the faucet. I'd stripped off my most of my clothing to avoid further damaging it, and I'm sure I made quite the sight, half naked, hovering over the bathtub at an odd angle, alternately scrubbing at my bag and jeans and using a rag to swipe at errant ink splashes, which seemed to replenish themselves as fast as I rinsed them. (Because the stains were so concentrated, adding water meant more and more ink.) All this while trying to avoid the massive ink patch on the skin of my thigh, which would have only contributed to the chaos had it gotten wet.

Thankfully adding enough water—like, gallons upon gallons—seemed to flush out the worst of the stains in both the bag and the pants, but I won't be able to truly assess the damage until the dark fabrics fully dry. And I cleaned up the bathroom surfaces well enough to avoid permanent destruction, though a vinegar and baking soda paste is definitely in order. And it turned out that the process of washing the ink from my leg was actually pretty cool; since it had dried so thickly on my skin, I found I could scratch it off in layers under the shower spray and had fun shaping the spread of ink into a cartoon face.

All in all, the catastrophe ranks lower than what happened to Congress last night, but a tidal wave of ink is definitely not what I bargained for at 10:30 p.m. following a day of work and study. It's safe to say I've learned my lesson about screwing lids on t-i-g-h-t-l-y.

Perez PR

It's nights like last night (and bagels like this morning) that remind me why I love New York City. I had the chance to attend a Perez Hilton party, and, while it's the kind of thing I might have avoided in the past, I am so glad I went and made the most of Manhattan.

I confess I don't know a lot about Perez Hilton, aside from his reputation as a (formerly?) snarky, popular celeb blogger. The first time I read his blog was last week, so I can't compare the content to his pre-attitude-adjustment work, but I will say that judging from his presentation last night he seems pretty sincere about being a nicer, better person. I have begun to really enjoy my own journey of self-improvement so it was encouraging to hear someone famous express the hope that more of humanity and society was perhaps heading in the direction of kindness and compassion. Fingers crossed!

[On that note, I'm excited to announce plans for a new blog/website of my own that will promote kindness and compassion along with hopefully-productive navel-gazing. The vision for ThisIsWheretheHealingBegins.com is strong but the website is weak, so don't bother checking out the link until I update otherwise, but consider this advance warning.]

Back to the amazingness that is a Manhattan PR party: Perez Hilton uses BlogAds for his advertising needs and so does my company, for which my sister is an ad rep who also uses BlogAds, sometimes to advertise on Perez Hilton's blog. Hence her ability to get wristbands for the BlogAds/Perez Hilton party, the purpose of which, as far as I could tell, was to celebrate general awesomeness.

So my sister and I and two of our friends show up at the appointed time and after a short wait are released into Stone Rose, which is on the fourth floor of the Time Warner Building at Columbus Circle. Because the room had yet to be filled, the four of us easily snagged comfortable leather chairs by the floor-to-ceiling window that overlooked Central Park as well as the iconic Columbus Circle statues and traffic.

Within minutes polite waitstaff came by with sake-inspired beverages: I would never have thought to pair sake with berry iced tea, but it was delicious. And then came the hors d'oeuvres. OH the hors d'oeuvres. I recently attended an event that promised "heavy hors d'oeuvres" but meant "lots of mini pizza slices," so the food at last night's party was the real deal and a welcome contrast. Pastry puffs filled with goat cheese and feta, chicken and pesto finger sandwiches, smoky spiced hummus on crackers, and more were continually offered to us over the course of the night. It's been a long time since I turned away free food, but the pickings were so good that we were eventually sated and started focusing more on the sake.

Around that time, my sister and her friend decided to make the rounds of the room while I stayed put in my comfy leather chair and chatted with my coworker. My sister and her friend returned with two photos: one a digital camera shot of them with Perez, with whom they chatted briefly, and another of them that was a professional photo booth shot.

I am familiar with the concept of photo booths at weddings or promotional events, but have never partaken until last night. But after Perez gave a welcoming speech and his pal Sandra Bernhard gave a comedic performance (I think that's what it was; I was laughing anyway), I was ready to take on the photo booth.

I'll let the following picture tell the rest of the story, but let's just say I am decidedly in favor of dress-up props. We had such a fun time and, given the incredible view that accompanied us, I must declare it an Only In New York experience. So, for the time being anyway, I ♥ NYC!

OFA Fail

I figured a follow-up to my OFA praise was due, though my tune has changed.

Basically, I'm done volunteering. I might chip in another $10 or $15 if the emails get particularly persuasive, but I'm no longer convinced my actions really matter.

It's ironic that the campaign has actually inspired political apathy, but here's how it happened:

First of all, hearing Michella Obama speak live was pretty cool, but it wasn't cool waiting on hold for fifteen minutes first. Nonetheless, it was exciting to hear her voice when at last she came on the line. She was "thrilled" to be on the call and assured us that volunteers like us are President Obama's "compass, his guiding light, what keeps him going!" She reminded us we need to work harder than ever, because we've done a lot in a short time but desperately need to keep the momentum.

I agreed, though I didn't make it to the phone banking event two days later. I did, however, pay attention to the email I received the following weekend alerting me to the reestablishment of the OFA phone-on-your-own database.

I loved that database in 2008 because it let me take action without leaving my couch. So when an OFA official asked me to make just ten measly phone calls, I was all over it.

And then I started calling. No answer, no answer, no answer. Message, message, message. Even with a digital script provided I was out of practice and no doubt garbled a name or two in my voice mails, but I trudged on, understanding the importance of getting first-time 2008 voters back to the polls.

Around call seven I made human contact, and that's also when I called it quits. Because the woman sounded old, possibly frail, and she was not happy to hear from me. Yes, she was planning to vote—and how many more people were going to call and remind her? I was mortified and backed off as quickly as possible.

Why, OFA, are you asking me to disturb elderly women who are already voting? I'm sure you have reasons, but at this stage in the game, I don't think my phone soliciting is going to make a (positive) difference. Seems to me like there are plenty of other people already making those calls, so, I'm out. Fingers crossed for Nov. 2....

Nice work, OFA

So you may or may not know that I am casually political, and fickle with my loyalty. In theory I'm a raging Democrat, but only because I really like Barack Obama. I totally wanted him to be president and I even did some volunteer work to help make that happen. But before I tried to help him, he came to me. He found my friends, too, and he got our attention. Yes, I waited with a huge crowd for hours to hear (not see, unfortunately, as he was too far away) the man speak. But I was only on the email list because I was tempted by potential Daily Show tickets and clicked my way into a database.

All of which is to say, Obama has mad PR and marketing skills, and they've hooked me yet again: Michelle Obama is speaking on a conference call this Wednesday and I get to listen. What's more, not everyone shares the privilege—only "top organizers." (Although I'm not sure what qualifies me aside from the ability to go to this website.)

I'd already been thinking about volunteering this week, since get out the vote campaigns are easy for me to agree with. I don't mind telling you who I'm voting for and why, but I'm honestly not trying to convince you to do anything but go to the polls. Even if that means my picks don't "win."

Because if I'm going to pride myself on my citizenry, it's counterproductive for me to discourage individual choice. I do, however, want my fellow citizens to do their jobs and to support the governing body their ancestors created. Our country functions by a voting system, and if you don't vote you are not participating. And if you're not going to intelligently participate in our government, stop benefiting from my tax dollars!

I flew in to Newark last night and on the shuttle bus to the city the surly driver was listening to talk radio. The speaker—who may have been Al Sharpton but I'm not sure; I know he was in some way involved—was imploring his listeners to get out and vote. I was impressed to note he was not telling people to vote for the sake of voting. He actually warned against voting along party lines unless citizens were sure those parties were serving their interests. What a novel concept! Encouraging people to consider what is best for them and then elect leaders based on their principles!

So maybe I was primed for action by the radio man, but when I got the political email from Mitch* today I was genuinely enthused to get more involved--and the prospect of hearing the First Lady live on the phone sealed the deal. I'll listen to what she has to say, and maybe I'll even take some action Thursday. God bless the power of communication.

*Mitch Stewart, Director of Organizing for America. We're on a first-name basis because I saw him speak at a kickoff rally back in June and he was pretty cool.

Thanks, Google!....I'm impressed.

So, I have had this song in my head for a couple of days and thought there would be no way to identify it since mainly what I keep hearing is the strong beat and a specific style of whoop that occurs at the end of the chorus. As for words, the only fragments I could recall were "hands up" and "party all night."

Not a lot to go on, but once I have a song in my head it doesn't usually go away until I listen to the whole thing, so this morning I gave Google search a go.

Searching "hands up party all night" brought a variety of results, most of them to song lyrics, but they didn't look familiar (or sound right when I checked them out on YouTube). So I went out on a limb and typed the distinctive shreiky sound as well, searching for "hands up party all night oheoheohe."

Would you believe that only two results came up, and I realized immediately that one of them was the song in question?

Me = impressed/relieved.

You = get to have the song in your head now.

p.s. Having now listened to the song in entirety, I am even more amazed Google was able to correctly identify it from my search terms, none of which is prominently featured in the lyrics.

Zappos!

I'm going on a cruise in a few days and started ordering swimsuit pieces from Zappos about a week ago. I've just placed my third--and necessarily, final--order, bringing my current expense to roughly eight hundred dollars.

Eight hundred dollars is a shitload lot of money! When I got my credit card bill I was shocked until I remembered most of what I have ordered will be returned. I don't actually want to spend more than $120, $150 tops. I'd just like a couple of swimsuits. The options on Zappos are more upscale than I prefer, but there are still sales and there is a convenience factor to the free overnight shipping and 365-day return policy. Except, now I'm closing in on a grand of debt and I still don't have a suitable option for my vacation.

I can't fairly blame Zappos for the fact that out of fourteen tops and bottoms nothing is a good match. They sent me what I ordered and I suppose they can't control how various designers size their clothing. A large should be a large should be a large, but what can you do--at least it's no skin off your back if you order three pairs in different sizes; you can always return the other two.

In the meantime, however, your credit card bill may be unfriendly.

Lazy Day

So I just researched the history of Labor Day to make sure I wasn't missing something, but, nope, this holiday is indeed intended to commemorate labor. Well, really to commemorate the working man and woman; celebrating our collective labor by taking a break from it.

Given that Americans take shockingly little vacation and still manage to be less efficient workers than our European counterparts, I doubt a day off makes much difference.

But I'm still glad to have it.

Ooops!

It's been (more than) two months since my last post. Totally unintentional!

Well, at first it was intentional. I actually thought of a few things to say but every time I logged on and saw the someecards post it resonated so strongly that I chose not to write something new and cause the cartoon to descend on the page.

Then, like, a week passed, and I got really busy. A superdear close friend of mine got married, and I had the honor and challenge of being very closely involved with the joyous occasion.

When I returned from Chicago I was consumed by a frenzy of writing. Alas, of limited creativity--it was for my job--but I was nonetheless thoroughly occupied. At the end of the month I took an extremely special minivacation to California with some wonderful favorite friends and was once again strongly tempted to move to Los Angeles. I'm not ruling it out.

Now we're into August, which was spent growing and relaxing, I'm happy to say. I meant to post a couple of times, but it was one of those things where I was inspired by an extraordinarily blogworthy email and didn't want to write about anything else until I'd covered the topic.

Well, the email is still in my inbox but I lost track of it as it slid down the chute. (Now Gmail has a new trick for me to try; we'll see if it helps. You'll recognize success if you see a post about salads and romance.) So ever since I received that remarkable email I have not allowed myself to post about anything else on this blog. Hence an even longer delay. If you care, I am sorry.

However, I saw a story tonight that has forced me to override the priority of the salad/romance post. Yes, our President spoke about the alleged end of a regrettable conflict, but I have not seen the speech yet and that is not what I am writing about. Yes, a new month starts tomorrow and that has much meaning for many.

But I write because of the blog. Because its evolution and popularity has reached the level of unstoppable. Because children are now bloggers. And I am fascinated by the position adults are in. Seriously, did we not see it coming? Did we not think our children--whose minds are certainly as independent and intelligent as ours, possibly moreso--would also be intrigued by such a freeing mode of self expression? No judgment, no limits. Publishing at the push of a button; instant accessibility.

Toddlers have tantrums because they are misunderstood. They have trouble expressing themselves in ways adults understand and thus become frustrated, and, possessing little patience or maturity, lash out in unpleasant ways. Imagine if a three-year-old could type a short essay about your disagreement over his desire for another cookie. Imagine if he could use reason--but no, let's not get ahead of ourselves. Many adults cannot even do that. Let's stick with expressing feelings.

Blogging allows people to say what's really truly on their minds. It's odd, but it works. Personally I prefer the privacy of a journal, but obviously I'm intrigued enough to have a blog (or three) of my own. And if I were less self-conscious, or more confident in the interest of others, it's possible I would publish my journal.

And why not? People want to be understood, and people want to understand. This explains biographers and memoirs; history. So who can blame bloggers for putting their emotions--their spirits--out into the universe? Why not air your soul in an arena where the energy can be reflected and absorbed? And who better to intuit this than the youngest of our human beings. Less inhibited and more honest, children's opinions are among the most valuable. If only adults could understand their intent.

Enter the blog. Or really, the act of writing, my most favored form of communication. Writing transforms you. (If you are a writer. Even if you're not, probably, but I couldn't say for sure. I suspect we are all writers, really.) Writing bridges gaps and conveys meanings with a grace that my spoken words never seem to achieve. If I can have a moment to compose my thoughts--not even to edit them, in the case of blogging--then I can make myself known.

It feels like liberty, and I don't see how we could think children would be deprived of the experience. It's true there are risks involved with blogging, but no more so with children than for young adults today, who grew up alongside the internet and who didn't realize that the exclusive website founded their senior year in college would eventually be used as a permanent archive of their most personal expressions of thought. And even years later people who should know better still choose to broadcast their daily experiences across a wholly unreliable network. A network that does not necessarily give a damn about spirit.

Don't forget Facebook is for profit. They don't care about your privacy. I've always wanted to think otherwise, but I can't be a fool. Same goes for other companies I truly want to love, like Google and Verizon. Innocent until proven guilty and all that but I'm wary for reasons and you should be too.

Which is why we should teach our children about the realities of the world, of the internet. Online is forever, for better or worse. That's not good or bad so much as it is true. So, yes, let's not make the links to our kids' blogs a matter of publicity or fame. But we should encourage fellow humans to express themselves, and depicting blogging--which at its heart is simply freedom of speech--as a danger is only one side of the story.

In Korea, they educate.

Truth.

For the love of logic

So, I'm standing in Duane Reade debating between the oatmeal raisin cookies and the iced oatmeal cookies, and it's a dilemma because I know it would be good for me to have raisins in my diet, but then, icing is delicious.

Enter the nutrition label analysis. It turns out that the iced cookies have ten more calories per cookie than their raisin-infested neighbors, as well as an additional half gram of saturated fat.

It would seem that the oatmeal raisin cookies were the clear winners, but then I noticed that--don't ask me how--each iced oatmeal cookie contains a gram of fiber, while an oatmeal raisin cookie has none.

Fiber is so important! Almost important as sweet, sweet icing.

Decision: made.

Okay, I choose you. Now propose!

So I have to start out by saying I do not watch The Bachelorette and have barely ever seen The Bachelor. But I'm pretty sure I understand the premise of the show, which is to have one person cull a herd of the opposite sex and ultimately select a spouse.

Of course this franchise began with the man choosing from a harem, a concept that is cleverly manipulated by lauding the runner-up as a winner and giving her a reality dating show of her own. Three cheers for feminism; it's the woman who'll be calling the shots now.

Except. Apparently the conclusion to both shows ends the same: A man proposes. WTF? Doesn't flipping the whole "boy picks girl" schema on its head require the woman to ask for the man's hand in marriage? Or is it that improbable that a woman would take the lead in making such a lifechanging decision?

I mean, could you imagine if on the season finale of The Bachelor, the guy expected the woman to propose?

"Okay, Cheryl, this is it. I sent away all the others, and you are the most special person in the whole world/on this show. You win."

"Ohmigod Gene, I am so happy! I'm so glad I won this contest....So..."

"So, now is the part where you ask me to marry you."

"But--"

"Yes, that's right, I'm allowing you to propose."

You know, I'm pretty traditional when it comes to dating--I don't think it helps anyone for the woman to take too much of a lead. But if you're going to make the premise of your plotline that the lady is in charge, make her say the tough stuff. To let her pass off popping the question to her intended is weak.

Muppets + NYC = Masterpiece

So, I wanted to put on a movie that I could easily ignore while I did some light sewing and my nails. Which is why, even though I've been meaning to see Brokeback Mountain again, it didn't make the cut. The Muppets Take Manhattan, however, seemed like just the thing.

And indeed it was....and so much more. Simple, charming, and utterly unbelievable, it was a delight to sort-of watch. Highlights include:

* A shockingly young Joan Rivers giving Miss Piggy a makeover that gets so out of control, both are fired from their department store jobs.

* A flashback to the Muppets' infancies, which I recently learned was the origination of the cartoon Muppet Babies, which I watched all. the. time. as a kid. It was a real hoot to see the animated characters I'm so familiar with portrayed as puppets, esp. since I hardly know the Muppets in any context aside from the cartoon.

* Realizing that the guy who decides to put Kermit's musical on Broadway is the same guy fromDirty Dancing who informs Baby that "sometimes, in this world, you see things you don't wanna see." And while he was great in that movie, he was born for the role of Muppet musical producer.

* And finally, the way Kermit just rolls with the punches when, after getting hit by a car, accepting the fact that he has amnesia, and establishing a successful career as an advertising exec, he is kidnapped by a bunch of animals, including a fat pig who punches him hard enough to make him remember who he is, and THEN, instantly accepts the fact that it's opening night of the Broadway show he hasn't rehearsed for, AND during the performance Miss Piggy tricks him into exchanging actual wedding vows....and he goes for it. The frog's a downright inspiration.

This concludes my only partly sarcastic rave review of The Muppets Take Manhattan.

Tis the season for sweet red goodness

So, if you didn't know, I adore bell peppers. Specifically red ones. But for as long as I can remember (aka at least the last six months, though it feels longer) they've been outrageously priced--as in $4.99 a pound or more. For me, that sets them squarely off the shopping list.

BUT. Tonight on my way home I saw a miracle. The produce stand outside the grocery store had an avalanche of beautiful red bells, at an astonishing $1.69 a pound. I didn't need groceries, my tote bag was heavy as hell, and I was in dire need of a post-Bikram shower. But you better believe I stopped right then and there and loaded up on my favorite veggies.

Since I'm hoping the good fortune lasts and I never know where I'm eating next, I didn't want to go overboard, but still, I got three sizable, beautiful, deep red bell peppers for less than two dollars. WOW.

And then as soon as I got home and cleaned them, I ripped out the core of one and ate it like an apple. Since I'm usually splurging to buy a single pepper and thus carefully slice it for multiple uses, scarfing it down with abandon was a delicious new luxury for me. And I loved it. Proof positive that it really is the little things in life that matter.

Organizer for America: that's me!

I made some phone calls before the 2008 election. It was the first time I'd volunteered to do anything remotely political, but I'd known about Barack Obama since 2003 and knew I wanted him as my president, so it was important to me to take action.

I still feel I could have done more--much more--but he got elected and I got a reprieve...enough other people worked hard enough to cover my relative inaction. But this time, for the 2010 elections, I feel it is I who needs to work hard to cover the inaction of others. Because I don't think enough people realize how important the midterm elections are this year. I know I didn't until very recently.

But on Thursday night I want to a political pep rally where I heard the director of Organizing For America (OFA) talk about how we won in 2008. It turns out that 70 percent of first-time and under-30 voters went for Obama, so that's the group we need to reactivate for 2010. If those same people get to the polls, similar results are likely. It's so important that Democrats keep their seats in the House and Senate. I don't consider myself partisan, but I'm Democrat by default because I know that Republicans are willfully and stubbornly blocking the progress of the President's agenda, and that disturbs me greatly.

All Americans should care about our country, and policies that help everyone shouldn't be blocked on partisan principle. So much is happening right now with legislation...it almost seems like magic, since much of it happens quietly and without press fanfare. But it's happening:Flavored cigarettes are now illegal. (And as an ex-smoker who started at fifteen, I truly appreciate the significance of this.) Women are now legally guaranteed equal pay for equal work. By cutting out banks as middlemen in the federal loan system, $61 billion has been reallocated for education. And now, if I incur outrageous credit card fees, it won't be because I wasn't warned.

And none of the above achievements are even part of health care or financial reform--the two issues the media covers most. WE PASSED HEALTH CARE!

But Republicans want to repeal it. Why, I truly don't understand. It's not like only Democrats no longer get denied health insurance if they have pre-existing conditions. It's not like Republicans won't also benefit from the millions--millions!--our country will save in the long run. It's not like Republicans don't have kids under age 26 who need their parents' coverage. But while I don't get why people want to erase this historic feat, I know I'm not going to sit by idly and let them.

So today I pounded the pavement as part of the Organizing for America Vote 2010 National Kickoff. I asked strangers, again and again, if they were registered to vote, and if they were planning to vote in November. I helped four people register and gave forms to another two, and got six people to sign up for emails that will keep them informed and give them future opportunities to make a difference. Not bad for two hours work, though I am completely exhausted from the effort.

But, tired as I am, and despite all the other things I could/should have done with my time, I'm proud of my actions. I like knowing the President would be proud too. It was the American people who got him elected, and it's going to be the American people who give him a helpful legislative body or an unproductive one. I'm committed to working for the former.

Flying on adrenaline

First of all, Delta can suck it. Next, United, though the jury is still out on them. Finally, Southwest is the best. (And American Express gets points as well.)

My airline preferences tend to fluctuate based on which carrier has screwed me over the most recently, hence the previous ranking.

A dear friend's bridal shower and bachelorette party were in Chicago last weekend, and even if I weren't a bridesmaid I'd want to be there. But since I am a bridesmaid, attendance shifted from desirable to compulsory.

Which is why it was so bad that I missed my flight. Now, Delta will be the first to tell you that it was my fault. I'll be the last, but I'll tell you anyway: It was my fault. Technically. I mean, it was me who assumed that when the bus driver said, "This is the Delta terminal," I had arrived at the correct terminal for my Delta flight. LaGuardia is not a large airport—in fact, most carriers share one central terminal. So the fact that Delta has its own terminal supports the assumption that any flight even remotely related to them would leave from that specialized terminal.

But no. No, after the 30 minutes it took to get through security at the Delta terminal, I learned that my Delta flight would be leaving in 20 minutes from a different place. A terminal there was no chance in hell I could travel to in time. I learned this after unsuccessfully trying to get the assistance of no fewer than three Delta employees, when out of desperation I picked up a help phone. It turns out that Jimmy, while very tolerant of my tear-choked protests, was not very helpful. He told me I'd be on the next flight. He lied.

Of course I didn't figure that out until two hours later, after another round of security, when I realized my boarding pass did not feature a seating assignment. Never a good sign. As it turned out, Delta had oversold all of their flights, and since (to paraphrase the rudest gate agent ever) it was my own damn fault I missed my original flight, I was lower than shit on the standby totem, and I shouldn't harbor any hope of getting out of New York before 5 p.m.....the next day.

Whaaaa? By 5 p.m. the next day the shower would be over and done, not to mention half my holiday weekend. I wish I could say I handled the predicament well, but that would be a total lie. Fortunately my dear friend took the dilemma in stride, and within minutes she had me calling United, whose available flights she'd located online.

Well. United wasn't downright rude like Delta, but it was a little challenging to overcome the accent of the man I spoke with, which causes me to suspect that they outsource their customer service. (I have no idea if this is true, but I don't like the idea.) At any rate, I had just about agreed to take a huge financial hit and pay $403.70 for a one-way ticket to Chicago when my dear friend beeped in. She'd found a comparable flight from Southwest that totaled just under $300. I all but hung up on the United agent, who told me that although he had already ran my credit card, he'd reverse the charges.

My Southwest flight was delayed, but through no fault of theirs, so—after a third round of security—I just focused on being grateful to get the hell off the island without paying quite as much through the nose. And it really did help that Southwest agents are some of the most pleasant and cheerful people in an airport. Especially the gate agent who magically transformed my standby status into a bona fide seat so that I flew out at 7:30 p.m. instead of 9 p.m....just a mere seven hours after my original flight left without me! But whatever. Once I finally got on a Chicago-bound plane, I vowed to put the whole airport nightmare behind me.

So I tried not to worry when I noticed an email confirmation from United later that weekend. I tried not to worry when I saw charges on my credit card that continued to say "pending" instead of disappearing. But when I got my statement today and the charges had gone through? I worried. I worried myself into a fury.

Fortunately I was able to stay calm enough not to verbally abuse the United customer service agent, and in return she told me my "refund" was being processed and that it could take up to a month. And that if I wanted a full refund, I'd have to send an email explaining my situation.

More fortunately, when I called American Express to discuss contesting the charges, the woman I spoke to was incredibly awesome. (Not that she'll ever see this, but, Andrea Moffett of Atlanta, GA, you're the best!) She suggested I wait to contest the charges since she felt confident United would pay up. But I balked. I didn't want to pay an extra $400 because of United's mistake, nor did I want to be charged interest for refusing to pay. So Andrea, bless her, agreed to waive the interest that will accrue after I deliberately ignore the portion of my balance that United is responsible for.

Gotta love how adrenaline can take you from anger to relieved exhilaration in seconds.

@christinabeane

It's not that I never thought this night would come, but I didn't know it would it be tonight.

That is to say, I have long harbored a fear of social networking. But tonight some delightful human beings convinced me it won't hurt to join Twitter, that, in fact, doing so could benefit me greatly. I was inspired to take the plunge, and when the handle that matches my web domain turned out to be available, I knew it was meant to be.

I don't yet know how vocal @christinabeane will be; you'll surely notice her following others but she may stay in stalker mode for awhile as she learns the ropes of this strange new universe that magnetically beckons.

I'm not ready to Facebook announce my presence, but I figure, if you're reading this blog, you know me well enough to be privy to my publicly posted thoughts.

Listen Up: Broken Bells

Q: What could be better than a new Shins album?

A: A new collaboration between a Shins frontman and a Gorillaz/Beck producer!

Yesterday afternoon while riding in a friend's vehicle I heard the strains of a song that I didn't recognize, but that sounded an awful lot like the Shins. Excited at the prospect of a new album I hadn't heard about (but why hadn't I heard?!), I was dismayed to be told that no, it wasn't the Shins. But seconds later my disappointment surged to enthusiasm as I learned that James Mercer of the Shins—of course it was him, really now, his voice is so delightfully distinctive—had teamed up with Danger Mouse, who is half of Gnarls Barkley in addition to producing albums by Gorillaz, Beck, the Black Keys, and more.

As soon as I got home I jumped onto Amazon (sorry iTunes, but you need to figure out a way to match $7.99 downloads) and barely got through the track samples before purchasing this all-around winner. Broken Bells is basically a Shins album with added modern funk, ie, it's frickin' awesome. This is the kind of music I'm always hoping to hear, and it's rare that an album delivers top-to-bottom the way this one does. Kudos to creativity and the combining of two great talents!

What a difference a letter makes

If you type in the web address to my blog, but you leave out ONE LETTER, you will be directed to this website.

I mean, really? How does "http://blogofbeane.logspot.com/" equal turbo fundamental Christianity online Bible preaching?

I would never have guessed my personal online ramblings were a mere letter away from the 1st Internet Church. Who knows, maybe I've stumbled upon my legacy...

Train's a comin'

An excerpt of a Sunday afternoon in Manhattan.

The pen is mightier than the bored

When I first moved to Manhattan—penniless, jobless, even furniture-less—I had to find a way from sinking into debilitaing depression while unemployed, hot, and panicked about my fate. My solution? Do something every day. Just one thing.

One day I went in search of peanut butter and jelly sandwich ingredients. The alternate purpose was to explore the various bodegas in my neighborhood, and the results were frustratingly fascinating: not a SINGLE bodega sold all three items required for a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. One place had peanut butter but not jelly, another had both but no bread, another had just jelly, etc. It was maddening, since I had yet to discover the fully stocked grocery store around the corner.

A different time I looked for yarn. I can't remember why I was looking for yarn in July, but I think it had something to do with my roommate. I didn't find it. (Though a yarn store opened down the street a year later.)

Another day, it was all I could do to drag myself off the deflated air mattress in my humid apartment. But I had a purpose in life, a mission...and that mission was to find a highlighter. Again I plundered the small stores surrounding me, in search of something more satisfying than the standard yellow marker. I had scored a couple of freelance assignments, and this highlighter was going to make them important, real.

Today, in a different life, I sit at my desk job on my lunch break and contemplate the pretty weather outside. I don't have a window, but I want to see the sun, and so I've concocted a reason. I'm off to browse the office supply stores on Fifth Avenue, in search of a pack of pens. Because today I remembered that I was writer before I owned a computer, and perhaps it's time to get back to basics.

Pleasantries are underrated

So I'm in Au Bon Pain picking out a bagel when I hear a voice say "good morning." After a moment I register that the voice is speaking to me.

"Good morning," I reply without so much as a glance.

"How are you?" the voice continues. I look over. She is a petite woman who is sweeping the floor near the bagels.

I hesitate. Maybe the employees have been told to be friendly. But then the "good morning" would have sufficed. I'm confused. "Oh, I'm fine, thanks."

"I love your skirt," she says.

"Oh, thanks!" I say. Her flattery has brought down my guard. "I bought it at a street fair in the fall, so this is actually the first time I'm wearing it," I confess.

"Well, it's beautiful! You have great legs. I wish I had legs like that. My legs are too skinny for a skirt."

I laugh. We're friends now. "Of course you'd think that," I tell her. "Everyone wants something different. I'd love to have skinny legs." (This is not true—I love my legs—but I wanted to make her feel better.)

We parted ways when I moved to get coffee, but after I paid and was on my way out, I passed her again, and we wished for each other to have great days.

Simple as it sounds, that exchange made my morning.

In my daily life, it feels like New Yorkers get accustomed to wearing stone cold masks around the city. It's something you get used to, and almost grow to like: There is inner strength in isolation, or so it seems. But this sprightly Au Bon Pain employee casually broke the barrier I so often construct, and I am grateful for her spirit.

I wonder what Manhattan would feel like if more people were like her....

Faisal Shahzad

Are you guilty?
We don't know yet.
From what I saw
On the news this morning,
Probably.
(I won't be
on your jury.)

Who blows up humans?
Not you.
Your bomb did not explode.

A failure
In so many ways.

Got the cardio covered, thanks.

I can't help hearing almost everything that is said in the hallway at work, and was surprised by the following dialogue:

"I mean, I live in a five-floor walk-up and I'm not that skinny!"
"Well, do you run up and down the flights?"
"No, but I run for exercise."
"Yes, so does she. And she also does Bikram yoga a few times a week."
"Ohhh. That'll do it."
"Yeah, she says she doesn't get enough cardio from the yoga, so she also runs."

As a regular practitioner of Bikram, my first thought was, What kind of Bikram is she doing? Because the Bikram I do? It definitely gets your heart pounding. Like, nonstop. Overachievers get on my nerves. Sigh.

Liberte Mediterranee, Coconut

When I saw those three words: Liberte Mediterranee, Coconut, I was immediately attracted. Gourmet yogurt, in my very own grocery store. Not that runny stuff with 60 calories that I ate in college. This, the packaging proclaimed, was "our thickest, richest, fruit bottom natural yogurt."

At $1.50 for six ounces, it's not the cheapest treat in the store, but a glance at the ingredient list was encouraging...nothing unnatural. The thought of a healthy, all-natural coconut cream pie filling, combined with the simple, sophisticated package that evokes a Mediterranean heritage (which of course equals yogurt experience and expertise) resulted in me purchasing the yogurt.

It was worth every penny. At first taste, I was pleased by the texture, smooth and creamy, with a slight tang. It reminded me of sour cream, but with the consistency of chocolate pudding.

The only thing was, it didn't taste all that much like coconut.

And that's when I realized that in the grocery store, I'd only read the first part of the marketing copy: I didn't make it past "our thickest, richest" before that exotic healthy food luxury landed in my cart. On second glance, I took in "fruit bottom natural" and realized I hadn't thought to stir the stuff.

Oh, man. If I was enjoying the plain yogurt, can you imagine what I felt when the meaty shreds of unsweetened coconut joined the party?

Like I said, it was worth every penny.

YOU're a little flat!

I don't like to be criticized. Who does? But I totally get that criticism can make you better, so I take it pretty well. Usually.

But I just got "feedback" from my "boss" on a perfectly adequate headline I wrote. If you doubt the adequacy of my headline, here, judge for yourself:

"A compelling story of guilt and acceptance is now available in paperback."

Are you desperate to learn more about the book this headline describes? Probably not. But does this headline get the job done? Yes it does. I know because I have written hundreds just like it, and they have all been approved and printed.

Now, Beane, you may be thinking, perfectly adequate leaves plenty of room for critique. And I agree. In fact, since I'm writing hundreds of these in a compressed period of time, I totally welcome inspired suggestions. But...

"A little flat, no?"

Is that an inspired suggestion? Does that even qualify as criticism? I think it might just be commentary. Useless, unhelpful, irritating commentary. Without a single edit to accompany it.

Because, why, yes, it IS a little flat. Good observation! And just exactly what do you want me to do about it? Well I'll tell you what I'm gonna do. I'm gonna write a new headline, because you've evoked the perfectionist in me, the part of me who knows I can do better. But I'm not gonna like it. And I'm really not gonna like you.



p.s. In case you were curious, the revision: "He survived the fire—but can he get past the guilt?"

Feeling the burn

So, I made chocolate chip cookies over the weekend (side note: substituting honey for brown sugar was a yummy, chewy success!) and burned the shit out of my right hand. Back of the hand, really, and yes, I need to invest in some oven mitts.

In the meantime, I've gotten good at dashing to the sink and letting the cold water run over my injuries. Following Internet medical advice, after the cooling rinse I applied some lotion, and was pleased to notice that the rather large patch of mottled red and purple on the backside of my wrist did not seem inclined to blister.

Fast forward a few days. The burn seems to be healing, and is so painless that I forget about it until 5:45 a.m. when I'm getting dressed for Bikram practice. I glance at the wrist and remember how much sunburn aches in the hot room, but decide my need for the yoga outweighs my fear of the burn.

I won't say it was a bad decision, because I was really overdue for a class, but I will say that baking my burn in 100+ degree heat for ninety minutes did not exactly do it good. Midway through class, the burn started to hurt rather than tingle, and I saw that blisters were beginning to form. I considered leaving the room, but...well, you're not supposed to do that, and in sixteen months of consistent practice I've never bailed early, no matter how tempted I've been. That's part of the yoga—dismissing your anxieties and accepting your present condition—and I knew my hand wasn't going to, like, blow up.

Not exactly. No, instead, there's just a huge bulbous blister where before there was none. I don't know enough about burn science to assess whether this is a setback or an improvement—because the formerly purple skin is now a lighter red, which does seem to indicate a sort of healing. But I know enough about common sense to apply a bandage and let the blister do its thing...hopefully before Thursday, when it's time for more yoga.

When Stalling Pays Off...(?)

I am trying to avoid doing something I have to do SO MUCH that instead of doing it, I opened an IRA account.

And I don't know a damn thing about investments.

Wow.

F you, McDonald's coffee

I'm not entirely a morning person. On occasion I pull it off, but mostly, I'm neutral at best after I wake up and city-cynical throughout my commute. I'm okay with this, although I wish I were chirpier at times.

Anyway for whatever reason I got it into my head that what I needed to improve my spirits this morning was McDonald's coffee. It must be the (delayed) effects of subliminal advertising because I thought I could get coffee of any size for $1.

So I walked three blocks out of my way, passing at least two coffee places as I went. Once inside McDonald's, I saw that a small McDonald's coffee was $1.29. I almost sprang for the medium ($1.49) before remembering how sensitive I am to caffeine, but settled on the small and asked for hazelnut syrup, which was listed on the menu with no price next to it.

I'm not saying I can't afford $1.95 for 12 oz. of coffee, I'm saying I don't want to pay it. For another $.20 I might as well have gotten Starbucks. When I saw the total I asked why it was so much higher than $1.29 and I learned that they charge for syrup. I pointed out that there is no price on the menu, and the guy shrugged.

I felt like chunking my $2 coffee in the street...but since that's basically what I did with my money, I might as well drink the beverage.

And at least I won't be tempted to go back to McDonald's anytime soon—that's a definite perk.

My Annual Review

Whenever my department head emails me and asks if he can stop over, I get a little worried. Mainly because there is no reason for him to come to me unless privacy is required. And especially because I interviewed for a new job last week. So I went on high alert when he emailed me this afternoon.

Shit! He knows! How could he know? Maybe he doesn't know. Pretend YOU don't know, and everything will be fine. Just play it cool.

He doesn't know. He came by to remind me of the company's new annual review policy, and consequently to administer my review. Technically my supervisor is supposed to review me, but whatever. I get along with him better anyway.

So, he starts out very matter-of-factly and tells me he's unable to promote me. I'm not surprised, but I'm disappointed. I've been asking for a promotion for more than a year now and totally deserve it. He agrees, but our company is in a shitty place financially and I'm not getting promoted. Instead I got a small raise. Small as in, right above insulting and far below substantial.

After I thank him for trying to look out for me, he begins to talk about how he can assist in non-monetary ways. He reminds me that he can't really help me up the ladder—I've been in the industry long enough to know the ropes and it's up to me to tack together a career trajectory. But, he says, he can offer guidance and advice about corporate life, office politics, personalities and—

"Is your desk comfortable with that tilt?" he suddenly interrupts himself.

"Huh? What tilt?"

"Oh, I've talked to you about this before," he says. "Look." Now he's down on hands and knees, crawling over to a corner of my desk. "You see," he says, "each leg of the desk has a screw, and this one over here is raising the corner higher than the others. So there's a tilt."

"Huh!" I've sat at my desk for two years. It's true that the drawers fall open and that you have to adjust them in a very particular way to wedge them closed, but because the desk probably predates my existence, I always attributed its quirks to age. I never noticed a tilt.

"C'mon over here," my department head says. "Let's see if we can't get this screw to go up into the leg. C'mon. See if you can squeeze in"—he makes room for me to join him on the floor—"and I'll lift while you turn the screw."

A few minutes later, my desk was sitting level, for perhaps the first time in history. We verified that my drawers don't slide open anymore.

"Great!" he said, brushing desk dust off his hands. "Well! I think I feel better about that than anything else we discussed!" he pronounced, and then walked out the door.

And that was it. Suddenly I don't feel so bad about my stealth job interview...

Friday's equation

1 Dark Cherry Mocha + 2 Sudafed + 1 Brooklyn Lager = Really, it's not time to go home yet?

A yogi without a mat is a sad yogi.

For about a year now, I've carried my yoga mat around Manhattan. I bought a pink strap for it and was initially self-conscious. I felt like an effeminate Robin Hood of New York, but instead of a quill of arrows I carried a sweaty-smelling roll of foam padding.

Over time, carrying the mat has become commonplace. It makes for a convenient seat buffer on the bus and subway, and it's very lightweight.

So lightweight, apparently, that I managed to lose it this morning on the way to work. I had it on the bus, I'm sure of that. And then I transferred to the subway, and when I got off the train, I didn't have it. No idea what happened. I noticed its absence as soon as I stepped off the train, with enough time to poke my head back into the car but not long enough to actually board. I probably left it on the bus, though I can't think of a good explanation for how I could have left my huge back cushion on the seat without notice.

One of the karmic mysteries of the universe, I guess, but it's a bit of a bummer since I have class today.

p.s. On the plus side, bacon was mistakenly added to my breakfast sandwich. Doesn't quite balance out the bizarre, sudden loss of my trusty yoga mat, but I'll take what I can get.

How the census form made me feel.

*Thanks to Bowtie for the graphical representation

Who is this "Lady Gaga" you speak of?

I don't live under a rock and thus have heard of Lady Gaga—even heard a song or two without identifying her as the artist.

But I've never really listened to her music or learned much about her, so when I came across an interview while channel flipping I gave it a chance, and...I might change my mind later, but I think I'm impressed with her.

At the very least, quite a fascinating subject.

A writer writes

If I had known it would feel this good to do something creatively indulgent I would have plunked down the cash long ago....But at least I've finally taken the plunge, and I'm already glad I did.

Last night I had my first fiction writing class and it was awesome, AND I came straight home and started the book I've been mentally planning for almost five years.

I mean maybe it won't be the start of the book, but it's definitely the start of the start of the book, if that makes any sense. It feels AMAZING to be paying some legit attention to these words and ideas that consume my mind!