Lawyerish

Come Aboard, We're Expecting You

We've been watching a lot of "The Love Boat" on DVD.  Possibly an unhealthy amount of Love Boat, actually.  It's just so...amusing.  There's the initial rush of excitement as they reveal the week's guest stars, during which time we play a quick game of Alive or Dead.  Ruth Gordon -- dead; Milton Berle -- dead; Robert Urich -- dead; Robert Reed -- dead...well, at least the crew members are all still living; Gavin McLeod even has some kind of televangelist show on the Trinity Broadcast Network, where Kirk Cameron also hosts a program called "The Way of the Master," which brings to mind some kind of kung fu/Zen Buddhist instructional content but is in fact about Jesus. 

The cruising world of the late 1970s must have been impossibly small, as people on the show are constantly running into their ex-spouses, long-lost summer flings, abandoned children, and former boyfriends from their stint at a school for the blind.  And it hardly bears mentioning that they're always falling in love -- and frequently getting engaged -- at warp speed, over the course of a three-day jaunt to Puerto Vallarta. 

Some of the storylines are almost unwatchable for their preposterousness (a jewel heist including the use of a tearaway mask in the likeness of Captain Steubing comes to mind), but most are diverting enough to be enjoyed both with and without irony.  Plus, the mere fact that Dr. Bricker is supposed to be some kind of swingin' bachelor -- indeed, Bernie Kopell was considered a sex symbol in his day -- provides sufficient amusement for a quiet evening at home with a glass of wine (at least it does if you're us; I make no assumption about how satisfying you might find this as a use of your valuable leisure time).  

If nothing else, there's always a better than average chance that either Charo or a chimpanzee will make a guest appearance, and wacky hijinks will ensue.  You really can't say that about any of today's TV shows.  

Separately, I have been remiss in acknowledging that several fellow bloggers have been kind enough to bestow upon me some extremely generous and flattering awards!  The firstwas from Georgia Girl, who happens to have been a member of the drill team right alongside me in high school -- we were the tallest girls so we were always smack in the middle of the kick line in such barn-burning halftime numbers as "Johnny's Mambo" and "Walk the Dinosaur" -- and now has a beautiful family with four kids, including the breathtaking Lilly Lu from China.  Then came accolades from Melissa, Jess and Dianna, all three of whom are Dillon Vietnam moms and part of my invaluable adoption posse.  

I'm always bad about following the rules on these sorts of things, but I figured at the very least I would mention to y'all some of the blogs I've been loving lately but have somehow been too lazy to add to my sidebar.  (I'm terrible at updating my sidebar, as you may have noticed.  Look, people, it's all I can do to get out of bed and breathe some days.)  So here you go!  Check 'em out:

Swistle -- Easily one of the most charming people on the Internet.  She shares recipes, has frequent pay-it-forward giveaways, tells lots of colorful stories about life with her husband and five adorable kids, and generally exudes light and goodness.  This entry was one of my recent favorites.  So true and funny.  

Kirida-- A sassy (that's right, I called her sassy) and hilarious young wife and mom living in the Pacific Northwest.  Lots of great photos and pop culture references, and no lack of irreverence make this a fun read.  This entry had me in stitches. 

Melissa C. Morris-- This self-described preppy has been written up in the Sunday Styles section of the Times, yet her writing is down to earth and always fun.  She and her husband Chappy seem like the kind of people you'd meet at a party and want to become their BFFs; you can tell they don't take themselves too seriously.  Also, their dog Monty looks so much like our Miles that sometimes I could swear they have stolen our pup are whisking him around to fabulous parties and on exotic vacations while we're at the office. 

Moose -- A super-cute and stylish chick who's taking San Francisco by storm.  Her writing positively crackles with personality, and she often has great cooking tips.  She also has a cupboard that was specifically built for cooling pies, which strikes me as very nifty.  I'd love to split a bottle of wine with her and stay up late making cookies and laughing.   

Now go on!  Go forth and read!

Briefly (and Somewhat Pointlessly)

Well!  I'm very glad I got that out of my system.  There's nothing like a good meltdown to cleanse the soul.  I do think maybe I need to install a punching bag somewhere in our apartment for the occasional moment of rage, but in the absence of something to pummel it's good to know I can vent with furious typing and you'll all be there to listen. 

Actually, maybe the next time I'm feeling M'Lynn-esque, I should follow the lead of my subway-riding friend Mr. Bacon and....dance.  Angrily.  Preferably in a warehouse that has a high bar in it for no apparent reason.  (YouTube isn't letting me embed the video.  Grr.  Seriously, though, you must go watch.)  I think my favorite part is when he's sort of silhouetted against the windows (?) and he does some VERY awesome jazzy moves, like throwing his head around in circles and doing some rib isolations and the like.  Then he's running!  And leaping!  And spinning!  And swinging wildly on anything he can grab! 

He's angry.  And he's dancing. 

By the way, I absolutely loved reading all the comments about y'all's least favorite words.  Hilarity, total hilarity.  The English language is evidently chock full of disgusting terms, and I'm glad we could all come together and share those that disturb us the most.

That's all I've got for today, people!  I just figured I should let you know that I haven't done any bodily harm to myself or anyone else.  Thanks, as always, for listening. 

Maturity Level Reaching an All-Time Low

I rode the subway with Kevin Bacon this morning.  In the same car, even.  I stood about ten feet from him on the platform and then we boarded at the same time, and I tried to act all nonchalant, like I didn't even notice him there in his dark glasses and baseball cap and skinny jeans. 

He was using a Palm Pilot, which was about as incongruous as him being on the subway in the first place -- shouldn't he have some kind of state-of-the-art iPhone that's made just for celebrities, or perhaps a prototype, next-gen BlackBerry that only the astronauts (and movie stars, obvs) use?  I mean, I like that he rides public transportation with the rest of us proletarians -- there's a certain chic to going low-pro on the downtown local -- but somehow, for me, it's disconcerting to see a bajillionaire actor using sub-par technology. 

In other news, our dishwasher has been overtaken by an EPIC stench.  It might be the worst thing I've ever smelled.  For a while we've noticed that it gets stinky-ish before you run it, but it has been mostly tolerable -- til now.  Tonight while cleaning up after dinner, we were nearly overcome by the beastly odor, and I came very close to spraying an entire can of Febreze Air Effects directly into the dishwasher to try to tame it. 

I'm more than a little afraid to go in there and try to see if the drain has something oogy in it; it seems entirely possible that a Vermicious Knid or similar will crawl out of there and eat me.  I have read that running it empty with either vinegar or baking soda can help, so I think I'll try that and hope for the best before I go digging about in the dark recesses of drains and filters to see what lurks within.  Yeeesh.

Do you ever notice that you use the same words OVER AND OVER in your writing?  Dianna mentioned the other day that she uses "just" all the time, and I know I do as well.  Also grossly overworked in the Lawyerish Lexicon are: so, actually, such, incidentally, separately, in other news (see, there it is above, in this very entry!), dude, well, y'all, whatnot, meanwhile, and that said.  I try to vary my vocabulary, but these words, they are my crutches.  I need them. 

I think I may have decided that my least favorite word in the world is (ACK ACK ACK) "lover."  That is a GROSS word.  IT IS.  For me it is up there with certain words that have certain bodily associations that I will not even type here because this is a polite, welcoming place, not a place of UTTER GROSSNESS. 

"Lover" (UGH UGH UGH) is not as knee-jerk disgusting as those other unnameable words; it's more subtlely icky.  Maybe I am a great big prude, but I think what bothers me about it is that the CLEAR IMPLICATION of the term -- really, the only reason for its use, as opposed to boyfriend/girlfriend, partner, spouse, husband/wife, WHATEVER -- is that the people in question are, you know, physically acquainted.  And we're all adults here, so of course one can assume that of a couple, but I DON'T NEED TO THINK ABOUT IT. 

It's acceptable to me when we're talking about something enticing in a non-human context, like a red velvet cupcake -- then it's fine to say,  for example, "Hello, lover!"  But if I'm talking to someone about their significant other and they refer to him or her as their "lover", no one should be surprised when they see me climbing up the Brooklyn Bridge, ready to jump into the icy waters below.  (See also:  "making love" -- GRAH!  NoOOOOOOO!  GROSSEST TERM EVER.  I would rather someone talk about POOP than "making love."  Just THINKING it makes my chest start to curl in on itself.) 

Now that we've established that I am barely mature enough for first grade, I have to ask you:  what words do you overuse, and what is your least favorite word in the world?

Making Up for the Gross with Plenty of Cute

Here's a friendly little piece of advice for you:  Floss.  A LOT.  Oh, and maybe see your dentist more than once every, erm, few years. 

As you've probably guessed, I went to the dentist this morning and the word carnage doesn't begin to describe it.  My teeth, for the most part, are fine.  I've actually had just one cavity in my whole life, and that one was so minimal that I didn't even need Novocaine when I got it filled.  It's my gums.  MY GUMS.  They are in bad, bad shape.  The dentist spent a good half-hour measuring how much they'd receded from where they should be (which involved, from what I could tell, shoving a hot poker up into my brain on every side of every tooth in my head), and the results were pitiful.  Also bloody. 

I have to go back for at least two sessions of "scaling and planing" -- which, sadly, I have had once before and STILL did not learn my flossing lesson -- plus I get to have a couple of other fun things done, like have an errant flap of tissue excised from the vicinity of my right bottom wisdom teeth.  Good fun.

Fortunately, this time -- unlike the last time I had it done -- I have dental insurance.  Last time I paid several grand out of pocket, which was about as demoralizing as it gets.  My dentist is as kind and thorough and attentive as a doctor can be, but...THOUSANDS of dollars!  Because of my own inability to maintain a proper flossing and professional cleaning schedule!  Urf.

Also, have you ever seen the BACKS of your teeth?  Or a close-up shot of your molars?  It is not pretty, my friends.  My dentist has this wand with a tiny camera on the end, and he uses it to snap full-color digital photos of the darkest recesses of your mouth, then displays them on a monitor for your viewing horror.  It's definitely an effective tool, because I...well, I never had any IDEA what was going on in there -- in fact, I've always prided myself on having fairly indestructible teeth what with the lack of cavities and all, and from the front they look nice and clean and white -- and now that I have seen the virtual cesspool of plaque and detritus I'd been harboring in there, I am fully committed to having the cleanest mouth in North America. 

On a much, much more pleasant note, we spent the day with my brother, sister-in-law and nephew yesterday.  It was BIG fun!  My nephew positively bursts with energy and laughter, and he has a tenacity and a singularity of purpose that will surely serve him well in life.  He says hilarious and cute things and continues to have a mild obsession with elevators and pushing buttons. 

He also has pretty much the greatest head of hair in the world (though I may be a smidge biased toward redheads):

We went to the park and he explored every bit of the nearby playground, which was lots of fun.  I like that he's not a daredevil, so we didn't have to worry about him hurling himself off of the nearest structure at any time; he is adorably attentive to safety and "being careful," yet he was still bold enough to go on the biggest slide and spin wildly on the tire swing. 

We celebrated our family togetherness by going to S'mac and gorging ourselves on four different kinds of mac and cheese.  It doesn't get much better than that.  Well.  It COULD get better, as a matter of fact -- we could have a little cousin for him from Vietnam with whom to scarf down the four different kinds of mac and cheese.  Sigh.  Soon, I hope.  Soon. 

Sundries

Tropical Storm Hanna was a total disappointment.  From the hype on the news, we thought people would be clearing out the market of bread and canned goods and hammering plywood over their windows, and perhaps when it hit you might see the occasional pedestrian clinging to a lamppost to avoid being blown down the block, their small dog twisting in the wind on its leash like a small, yappy kite.  At the very least, I figured there would be some dramatic rainfall and high winds battering our fair city, which perhaps could justify my day spent napping on the couch and finishing "New Moon."  Instead, it was just...kind of drizzly with a few intermittent gusts, and then it was over.  Lame.

In September and October we've got:  my brother, sister-in-law and nephew coming into the city for the day while they're on the right coast for a wedding; a playdate with Kathy and Adam; a trip to see Allison and Co.,coupled with a side jaunt to Asheville for some leaf-peeping and mansion-touring and perhaps some wine tasting (North Carolina wine?  really?); a one-day digital photography class that I am planning to take in the hope that someone can hammer into my brain some knowledge about aperture and f-stops and all the other junk I can't seem to absorb on my own; a night at the theahhtahh with Cathy("The Seagull", starring Peter Sarsgaard, hummina); and my parents coming up for a nice long weekend. 

I've been considering throwing in a half-marathon or some kind of long-ish race in there, but the one I usually run around this time of year is happening the weekend we're in Charlotte, and the other local ones are in -- gasp! -- the outer boroughs, which gives me far too much of an easy out the morning of the race.  The addition of a subway/bus/ferry ride to the pre-race preparations, in lieu of my usual easy stroll to Central Park, is all it takes for me to crap out and sleep in.  Again, I say: lame. 

Separately, I will note that reading the Twilight books while commuting has its hazards.  For me, anyway.  Because sometimes there is talk of blood and...gashes, and even stitches, and if you're me, this can lead to a Near-Fainting Episode.  Yes, the mere mention of a cut -- or even a finger-prick, for crying out loud -- can leave me in a crouch on the platform, my head against my knees as I wish for smelling salts.  More than once, even when safely seated on an air-conditioned train, I've had to carefully dogear the page, slip the book back in my bag, and lower my head into my hands to avoid collapsing sideways into the neighboring passenger's lap.

What can I say, I am a sensitive soul.  In eleventh grade, I actually DID faint in trig class when I was reading "The Bell Jar" after an exam.  I got to the scene where...ah...well, for reasons I needn't get into here, she is bleeding copiously, and as I read it I started feeling woozy so I put the book away and put my head down, and the next thing I knew, I was wedged sideways in my desk with my legs up in the air and my head on the floor and there was MUCH chaos as people rushed around trying to figure out what in the world to do with the passed-out skinny girl (answer: let me lie there for a while and then give me a Coke).  That was somewhat humiliating, and I'd like to avoid that sort of a scene on the MTA if at all possible. 

Other things that make me faint-y, in case you're wondering, include (but are not limited to):

-- reading about foot-binding in the novel "Snow Flower and the Secret Fan."  I actually had to GET OFF THE TRAIN and scramble up to the street to get some fresh air when I was reading that book (seriously: SO GROSS), and I haven't been able to pick it up since;

-- thinking about peeling skin.  This is weird, because I don't mind a little post-sunburn flakiness, but thinking about skin peeling REALLY skeeves me out.  I read something years ago -- I think it was "She's Come Undone" -- where the main character peels her feet as sort of a compulsive self-soothing habit, and I had to skip over those parts because UUUUUUGH.  I'm feeling peaked just thinking about it; and

-- reading about excessive heat, thirst or hunger.  A few years ago, my brother and I were into reading books about survival in the outdoors under extreme conditions, and lots of them involved accounts of people getting stranded on mountain faces and the like with one ounce of water in one million degree heat, that sort of thing.  I always had to make sure I had a huge bottle of water or Gatorade nearby (with the safety seal removed, because there is nothing worse than going to take a drink and having nothing come out; in that moment, it's as though all of the hydration has disappeared from my body and I am about to collapse into a pile of desiccated bones and J Crew clothing -- I HATE THAT) when I was reading them; otherwise, I would start having these sympathy thirsts and I would sit there almost hallucinating with desire for liquids.

I'm...well, I'm weird.  There's no getting around it. 

Wakefield-Walsh Throwdown and More

When I got home today, a package had arrived from Allison.  Here's what was inside:

That's three seasons of 90210, all of the Anastasia Krupnik books (anyone? anyone? we LOVED those books when we were precocious/nerdy pre-teens), and a load of Sweet Valley Highs.  And that = awesome.

I think regression is a perfectly health way to cope with grief, don't you? 

See also: my Little House books, which arrived from my mom over the weekend.  I can't wait to read them for the forty gazillionth time in my life.

Between these packages and the many incredible notes and emails and phone calls, I feel...well, as I said before, I feel terribly lucky to have such fantastic people around me. 

I've also begun to think that I need to be better at responding when other people have crises.  I think I'm generally pretty empathetic and a good listener, and I've always prided myself on being a good thank you note writer, but when Bad Stuff happens to people I care about, my awkward side comes out in full force.  I think it's because I tend to be exceedingly cautious about respecting people's privacy and emotional boundaries; I worry that, by calling or sending a card or note, I'll somehow make their pain worse or I'll overstep some line of propriety by asking or saying the totally wrong thing.  Does that even make sense?  Regardless, I need to get over it and act on my instinct to reach out to people when they are going through something crappy, not quietly stand by until they reach out to me.

In other news, I believe I have found some jeans at Banana Republic that both fit me and manage to be flattering (the Classic Boot Cut and the Curvy Something Or Other styles, the latter of which surprised me since I'm not really curvy, at least not in the right places, but they are super cute), which is extremely rare in my experience with the denim offerings over the last five to seven years, AND I have discovered the secret to not blow-drying my hair but keeping it from looking like I styled it with a blender:  Aveda's Be Curly.  Oh, yes.  It tames the frizz and encourages my natural wave while giving it some nice body. 

It's the little things, after all.  They can't make this all go away or fix anything, but they can smooth out the rough edges and get me through the days.  And sometimes that's enough.  For now.

At Least the Weather Has Been Nice

So!  What have I been doing since my life shattered into a million tiny pieces and my heart was ripped right out of my chest and stomped all over? 

Well, there has been a lot of crying, of course, and also gnashing of teeth, eating of cookies as big as my head (if you have the means, go find yourself a Jacques Torres chocolate chip cookie RIGHT NOW -- they are the best cookies ever, large enough that you start to get Cookie Fatigue halfway through and end up in a Cookie Coma when you finish shoving the thing into your mouth even though you're not even halfway home and you have melted chocolate smeared all over your face), and indulging in heaping doses of denial.  Anger has also come for a few visits, and I have begun to wish that I had something available for easy smashing, preferably something that would also be simple to clean up and not harmful to the animals.  Suggestions welcome.

What else?  There have been better days, too.  A notable highlight was when Cathy offered us the use of their Hamptons house (and their car!) last week, so we headed out to the beach for the day.  We walked pretty much the length of Long Island, then spent a few hours swimming in their heated pool and basking in the sun.  It was exactly the change of scenery we needed.

On my time away from work (I took all of last week off because the whole sudden-crying-binge thing doesn't go over well, and in any event after a trauma and the ensuing tears, I tend to look like I've been punched in the face repeatedly for a few days), I also got a much-needed haircut, bought some new clothes and underwear and PJs (never underestimate the therapeutic powers of Gap Body), and watched some bad television. 

Speaking of which, one of the most surreal moments maybe of my whole life happened last weekend, just a day or so after everything came crashing down.  We were laying on the couch, our eyes burning with tears and our hearts positively broken, and as we flipped through the channels we came across "Breakin' 2: Electric Boogaloo."  It was so hysterically bad that we couldn't help but watch and laugh in spite of everything else. 

This cinematic gem of the 80s combines the worst dialogue, acting, fashion and hair of all time.  There's a scene that is supposed to be a rumble between two rival break-dancing, er, crews (?), and it's -- hilariously -- the lamest thing EVER; they basically stand in front of each other and make vague gestures of "aggression" that look more like they're swatting at flies.  Then one of the "gangs" knocks over some trash cans in a manner that perhaps the most sensitive among us might find a tad menacing.  And that's it.  They get in their beater cars and drive away.  I've seen mah-jongg games that were more confrontational.  And the dancing -- the dancing that is supposed to be the whole POINT of the movie -- is awful.  None of the people in that movie would have made it past the audition rounds on So You Think You Can Dance.

I guess what I'm saying is, you might want to purchase the DVD of "Breakin' 2: Electric Boogaloo", because if you're ever having a life-altering crisis, it's just the thing to lighten the mood.

Also, as discussed last time, I did, in fact, go and purchase the first two books in the "Twilight" series.  I'm about two-thirds of the way through the first one, and....well.  I think Metalia's drinking game sums it up best.  The writing is just. so. bad. and SO REPETITIVE (I would add to Metalia's list that you have to drink whenever Edward "smolders" -- he does A LOT of smoldering, UGH).  The overuse of adverbs is almost criminal, and the dialogue is not always terribly realistic.  It is NO Harry Potter, that's for sure. 

That said, I'm still reading.  For some reason, the story is keeping me interested.  Dammit.  I am a sheep.

Total non sequitur, but thank goodness we have this little guy to help calm us at a time like this -- I swear, it really is true that having a pet reduces your stress and soothes the soul in some way: