The scene: I went to New York City (where bad Salsa is made...and also bad jokes like this one) this weekend. I have to say, I have a love/hate relationship with New York, and NO ONE prints that on a t-shirt. Because of this, I can never buy the most popular New York souvenir. It's depressing.
So, here it is, my sliding scale of feelings toward NY.
10) "I Heart NY" I haven't felt this, and it would be simpler if I just could already! I imagine it's when you've watched every Woody Allen film, and you just feel like NY is totally living up to it. How I'd feel about Scotland. Just the end-all / be-all best place ever!
9) "I really like NY" When my high school friend texts me that he's starring in Jersey Boys tonight, and I just happen to be in town and can make it. It's a pretty freaking amazingly good moment.
8) "I think NY is pretty cool." When you get on the subway, have to make connections, and you still get off at the RIGHT stop, just in time to ice-skate in Rockefeller Center.
7) "NY has some good qualities" When you go to the Natural History Museum, and the line is out the door so you have to buy your tickets on your iPhone and bribe the security guard to let you in the Exit so you can print your tickets at the kiosk. But DINOSAURS.
6) "I had a good time in NY once." When you are on the trip in the middle of August and sweating through your shirt (and you only packed ONE shirt a day, horrible luck), but you remember that time you were there in January to see the Daily Show on your birthday, and you got to talk to Jon Stewart. Or that other time you were there in lovely March and you got to shake hands with Stephen Colbert. Why can't this time be like those? Right, August.
5) "I can tolerate NY" When you realize you've been running around so much that you haven't been eating, and you certainly haven't had any water because, gross. But it's all good, because you stumble upon a diner that's open 24/7. Seems like as good a time as ever to try this matzo ball soup everyone likes.
4) "I've been worse places than NY" When you're there, and you're so very lost and tired, and you have already spent your last $20 bill on your LAST cab ride, and you swear you're going to figure out this mysterious "Express" train if it kills you...but then you remember that time you were in Boston and the cold wind was so strong that you couldn't walk 2 blocks...you ran into that Starbucks to warm up before turning around and going home. This too shall pass.
3) "Huh, I didn't know NY was the Mecca of Jerks." When you get shoved one too many times, and you hailed a cab, but someone else stole it, and the next cab driver takes you, but he must have just been released from his anger management class because OH BOY, how can anyone relax when they're being tossed out the window and annoyed with constant honking...but then he expects a tip?
2) "Can someone please take me back to JFK? Please?" When you just can't take the cramped, crowded spaces anymore. Will someone open a window? WHAT IS TOUCHING MY LEG!!
1) "Get me the F out of this dirty, rat infested cesspool!" When you change your return ticket to an earlier one because you'd rather sit in a seat where you can't get up for 6 hours and breathe recycled air than spend one more second in the grossest place on earth.
So yeah. We have a love/hate relationship. I'd like to say that this past weekend, I experienced a 9-5. Not too shabby!
Wednesday, August 19, 2015
Wednesday, January 22, 2014
Mark Darcy Lives...for now
I have the new Bridget Jones book Mad About The Boy, and I'm excited to read it. Really I am. It's just...the minute I open the book, I'm entering a Mark Darcyless universe. This is very taxing.
So here is my last moment before I accepted his fate. It was a nice ride, Mark.
PS - On the other hand, I am engaged now. So there's that.
So here is my last moment before I accepted his fate. It was a nice ride, Mark.
PS - On the other hand, I am engaged now. So there's that.
Wednesday, May 2, 2012
Attn: Mark Darcy
This is a PSA to Mark Darcy. Should you be planning to come to my doorstep before I go on my mini-break to Paris, please be there this Friday morning at 8:30am sharp. I will happily ask you what you're doing there. You will happily respond that you forgot something, to kiss me goodbye. And no, I will not mind.
Cue snow, "Someone Like You," and really tiny knickers.
Cue snow, "Someone Like You," and really tiny knickers.
Friday, April 27, 2012
"What do you like to do on Friday nights?"
This seems to be a popular question these days when meeting new people. Strange. I would be in favor of switching this to "Saturday nights," but no one consulted me before popularizing the trend.
So, in answer, I have to say I'm always quite tired on Friday nights. So, naturally, that means I like to go home, walk my dog, and then run 10 miles. I mean, I can still go to bed by 10 and excuse it since I exercised. *This is how my brain works.
Occasionally, I buy tickets to random events and convince friends to join me. That's been a growing trend. I used to fall asleep while watching the Soup, as Sarah might remember. It was a ritual. And even while snoozing, I usually chuckled at the right times, I'm told.
But tonight, I was convinced I was going to run. What a good habit to bring back. Then, I got a wave of "ugh," and I just wanted to go home and watch a movie. But in realizing that 'current plan' would involve reliving this week, I had the sudden urge to start crying. And I'm not a crier. (I'm not even a Cryer, as in Jon's sister.) And my week wasn't really worth crying over. I actually found it pretty funny. Maybe even downright hysterical.
Still. I have this fear that I'm about to go to Blockbuster and start balling over some ridiculous movie case that portrays a woman seeking love. She probably has a "considering my options" smirk on her face and a guy looking at the camera with crossed arms with a "what are you gonna do, can't live with 'em, can't live without 'em" face. Ugh. I cannot be subjected to this drivel.
Maybe I should go the other way and go into a screening of Titanic (a movie I hate) where crying is mandatory. Hmm.
Or maybe I should go home and read a book instead. Preferably not the one above-described movie was based on.
I'm going to fall asleep in ten minutes.
So, in answer, I have to say I'm always quite tired on Friday nights. So, naturally, that means I like to go home, walk my dog, and then run 10 miles. I mean, I can still go to bed by 10 and excuse it since I exercised. *This is how my brain works.
Occasionally, I buy tickets to random events and convince friends to join me. That's been a growing trend. I used to fall asleep while watching the Soup, as Sarah might remember. It was a ritual. And even while snoozing, I usually chuckled at the right times, I'm told.
But tonight, I was convinced I was going to run. What a good habit to bring back. Then, I got a wave of "ugh," and I just wanted to go home and watch a movie. But in realizing that 'current plan' would involve reliving this week, I had the sudden urge to start crying. And I'm not a crier. (I'm not even a Cryer, as in Jon's sister.) And my week wasn't really worth crying over. I actually found it pretty funny. Maybe even downright hysterical.
Still. I have this fear that I'm about to go to Blockbuster and start balling over some ridiculous movie case that portrays a woman seeking love. She probably has a "considering my options" smirk on her face and a guy looking at the camera with crossed arms with a "what are you gonna do, can't live with 'em, can't live without 'em" face. Ugh. I cannot be subjected to this drivel.
Maybe I should go the other way and go into a screening of Titanic (a movie I hate) where crying is mandatory. Hmm.
Or maybe I should go home and read a book instead. Preferably not the one above-described movie was based on.
I'm going to fall asleep in ten minutes.
Me and The Scientologist
Weight: x+8, all pretzels dipped in nutella, all the time. Must. Stop. Buying. Both.
Don't worry, I will post the Cary Elwes interview in style of Colin Firth interview soon. But in the meantime, I feel I owe people an explanation on how on earth I went on a date with a scientologist. (Since that's the punch line, get ready for a really boring story.)
I signed up with this matchmaker Jen. In the future, I'll just be referring to her as Jen, so you'll have to have read this and remember it. Take note. I met with Jen, told her what I was looking for, and that was that. Every week, she sends me info on some new guy I'm not interested in dating. Fun, and totally worth the money. If you're a gazillionaire who has lots of time on your hands and is planning to be cryogenically frozen before menopause. Which I am not.
Curious what these guys could be like? You know you are. Here are the first subjects. (Scientologist is #5, if you need to skip ahead for time constraints.)
(1) 40-something year old (she actually wouldn't tell me what his precise age was), bald man who lives in Orange County. I told her (a) I'm not interested in dating people in Orange County and (b) not bald guys whose age you won't tell me. Note: she sent me a picture of him wearing a hat and sunglasses so I couldn't tell right away. I was thoroughly upset for days with her, but you know, silently and without expressing it other than to tell her that honesty was really important to me in this process. Dignified, no? A rare moment.
(2) 37-year-old, decent looking, entrepreneur, really cute personality. Oh, but he lives in Boston now, which she didn't know. Good work.
(3) 35-year-old, more than decent looking guy who lives in the neighboring community and works in finance. I believe her words were "I seriously think this could be your future husband." But, oops, she sent him a photo of me with my dog, and he's allergic to dogs and hates them. (Sandy is hypoallergenic, but still a dog. And a guy who hates a dog is bad news. That's a Dealbreaka', ladies, in Liz Lemon voice.) Again, totally avoidable misstep. And another week passes.
(4) 42-year-old, grey headed, heavy set guy who lives in Orange County. This is when I started getting upset and also feeling like perhaps she was not telling me something. Like I'm an ugly, fat slob who looks too old to have children anymore. But in reality, what I know to be true is that she's trying to pawn me off on their male clients instead of listening to me and trying to match me with guys I might like. She actually fought me on this with "but he likes dogs." I fought back with "yeah, so do all the guys at the crowded dog parks." Whatcha got to say to that, huh?
(5) 32-year-old, decent looking guy, who's a photographer in LA, who is not allergic to dogs. I'm sorry, what's that? An eligible bachelor? So I went to lunch with him yesterday. Charming guy, not going to lie. I could tell he was a little more surfer dude than I'd typically think would work with Type-A me, but you know, what the heck. We seemed to be getting along - a little playful banter trying to guess things about each other just based on reading each other. Like how many siblings, high school prototype, etc. Warm smile, seemed to listen, honest. Let's pause on honest for a sec. At the end, he said something like "hope you won't be too late getting back to work," and I asked him where he was headed next. He laughed and said he probably shouldn't tell me. Then, he said he was heading to the Scientology Center to meet someone. I know what you're thinking, I should have assumed this meant that he himself was a scientologist. But I didn't, and I laughed. Many of us long to walk inside those doors and find out what it's all about. If you've lived near one of the centers, which I have, you've seen the guys and girls (alike) walking around in polo shirts tucked into khaki pants, and thought "what could possibly be going on in there that this is the appropriate uniform?" And also "Tom Cruise would never wear that." So, now you might not be as shocked that I laughed, thinking he was one of those guys whose curiosity had gotten the better of him, and today was the day he and his friend had dared to step inside to relieve said curiosity. *I would do this. In fact, one day, when feeling especially healthy and having prepared a safe word, I WILL do this!* But it was not a joke. He then told me about Dianetics, and I picked up the pace back to my car while spouting out tidbits I fortunately knew like how "the first stages are really just common sense and healthy living, aren't they?" I did not ask him what he thought about post-partum depression. Phew.
Since then, I have politely told Jen that while he's an excellent guy, she might want to know he's a scientologist, and some ladies in LA might not mind that, but I do. The end.
Reading/viewing assignment: Edge of Reason, lawyer's ball. Bridget insulting conservatives in front of conservatives. Check another off my list of awkward Bridget moments.
Don't worry, I will post the Cary Elwes interview in style of Colin Firth interview soon. But in the meantime, I feel I owe people an explanation on how on earth I went on a date with a scientologist. (Since that's the punch line, get ready for a really boring story.)
I signed up with this matchmaker Jen. In the future, I'll just be referring to her as Jen, so you'll have to have read this and remember it. Take note. I met with Jen, told her what I was looking for, and that was that. Every week, she sends me info on some new guy I'm not interested in dating. Fun, and totally worth the money. If you're a gazillionaire who has lots of time on your hands and is planning to be cryogenically frozen before menopause. Which I am not.
Curious what these guys could be like? You know you are. Here are the first subjects. (Scientologist is #5, if you need to skip ahead for time constraints.)
(1) 40-something year old (she actually wouldn't tell me what his precise age was), bald man who lives in Orange County. I told her (a) I'm not interested in dating people in Orange County and (b) not bald guys whose age you won't tell me. Note: she sent me a picture of him wearing a hat and sunglasses so I couldn't tell right away. I was thoroughly upset for days with her, but you know, silently and without expressing it other than to tell her that honesty was really important to me in this process. Dignified, no? A rare moment.
(2) 37-year-old, decent looking, entrepreneur, really cute personality. Oh, but he lives in Boston now, which she didn't know. Good work.
(3) 35-year-old, more than decent looking guy who lives in the neighboring community and works in finance. I believe her words were "I seriously think this could be your future husband." But, oops, she sent him a photo of me with my dog, and he's allergic to dogs and hates them. (Sandy is hypoallergenic, but still a dog. And a guy who hates a dog is bad news. That's a Dealbreaka', ladies, in Liz Lemon voice.) Again, totally avoidable misstep. And another week passes.
(4) 42-year-old, grey headed, heavy set guy who lives in Orange County. This is when I started getting upset and also feeling like perhaps she was not telling me something. Like I'm an ugly, fat slob who looks too old to have children anymore. But in reality, what I know to be true is that she's trying to pawn me off on their male clients instead of listening to me and trying to match me with guys I might like. She actually fought me on this with "but he likes dogs." I fought back with "yeah, so do all the guys at the crowded dog parks." Whatcha got to say to that, huh?
(5) 32-year-old, decent looking guy, who's a photographer in LA, who is not allergic to dogs. I'm sorry, what's that? An eligible bachelor? So I went to lunch with him yesterday. Charming guy, not going to lie. I could tell he was a little more surfer dude than I'd typically think would work with Type-A me, but you know, what the heck. We seemed to be getting along - a little playful banter trying to guess things about each other just based on reading each other. Like how many siblings, high school prototype, etc. Warm smile, seemed to listen, honest. Let's pause on honest for a sec. At the end, he said something like "hope you won't be too late getting back to work," and I asked him where he was headed next. He laughed and said he probably shouldn't tell me. Then, he said he was heading to the Scientology Center to meet someone. I know what you're thinking, I should have assumed this meant that he himself was a scientologist. But I didn't, and I laughed. Many of us long to walk inside those doors and find out what it's all about. If you've lived near one of the centers, which I have, you've seen the guys and girls (alike) walking around in polo shirts tucked into khaki pants, and thought "what could possibly be going on in there that this is the appropriate uniform?" And also "Tom Cruise would never wear that." So, now you might not be as shocked that I laughed, thinking he was one of those guys whose curiosity had gotten the better of him, and today was the day he and his friend had dared to step inside to relieve said curiosity. *I would do this. In fact, one day, when feeling especially healthy and having prepared a safe word, I WILL do this!* But it was not a joke. He then told me about Dianetics, and I picked up the pace back to my car while spouting out tidbits I fortunately knew like how "the first stages are really just common sense and healthy living, aren't they?" I did not ask him what he thought about post-partum depression. Phew.
Since then, I have politely told Jen that while he's an excellent guy, she might want to know he's a scientologist, and some ladies in LA might not mind that, but I do. The end.
Reading/viewing assignment: Edge of Reason, lawyer's ball. Bridget insulting conservatives in front of conservatives. Check another off my list of awkward Bridget moments.
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