Lawyerish

Another Way We Justify Squeezing into 1,000 Square Feet

Here's a perfect example of why we're probably better off living in an apartment for the rest of our lives: 

We've been in this place for more than two and a half years.  Every time there's a storm or even a stiff wind, the doors to the bedrooms and bathrooms rattle and tremble such that it sounds like there's a shootout in progress in our hallway.  (Evidently, the breeze that seeps in through our window-unit air conditioners is enough to accomplish this; it's not like we have everything thrown open to the elements year-round). 

It's not that big of a deal, I guess, but sometimes you wake up in the middle of the night with a start and wonder why there are fifty pygmy gorillas trying to tear down the doors.  In a similar vein, we are often jolted into consciousness in the wee hours of the morning by the sound of a thousand tea kettles shrieking into the darkness and a mad percussionist banging on a massive steel drum with a half-ton monkey wrench in our bedroom, only to realize it is, in fact, the radiators...radiating, or whatever it is they do.  Thanks, pre-war charm!

We had a vague intention of eventually doing something about the rattling doors (there really isn't anything we can do about the radiators, except live with them turned off, but since I'd prefer to keep my extremities, I will pass on that option), but when my parents were here last weekend, my dad fixed the problem in approximately ten seconds.  He unearthed some of those little round felt things from our junk drawer and stuck them into the door jamb (or frame?  or jam?  wait, "jamb" is the French word for leg, so that can't be right...oh, forget it), and now we have non-ratting doors. 

I suppose if we lived in a house we'd figure this sort of stuff out -- we're bright, competent people, and it's not like we've never fixed ANYthing in our home; we're just used to having a super in the building who fixes it for us, so we can spend our time doing other things.  The point is, we don't WANT to fix things unless absolutely necessary.  At least, I don't.  And unless we could get my parents to move in with us or hire a staff of twelve (groundskeepers, maintenance men, cleaning people, etc., and, of course, a full-time masseuse), in a house I'd presumably have to devote some time to household stuff at least every week. 

Of course, having a house wouldn't be all bad; there might be something to be said for more closet space, an extra bedroom, and a yard.  Then again, if we had a yard, we'd have to mow it, and I don't want to do that, either. 

Finally, I am going to put my fist through the TV soon if Good Morning America doesn't stop giving me tips on how to save money in "these tough economic times."  There's something endlessly irritating about Diane Sawyer trying to be all clucky and sympathetic with the Average American, like she knows just how it is to struggle.  Shut up, Diane.  You spend more on sweaters and false eyelashes than most people do on their mortgages every year.  I got your advice right here.   

Be Our Guest

Whenever people come to visit and we end up doing tourist-type things in the city, I am reminded why our weekends usually consist of...nothing.  Or not much, anyhow, aside from some errands, perhaps a brief excursion to the park, maybe a jaunt downtown to church, and, if we're feeling exceptionally kicky, dinner with friends or a matinee of a play (not a movie, mind you -- we are coming up on the -- ahem -- FOUR YEAR anniversary of our last sojourn to the cinema). 

After a week's worth of the hustling, shoving, and general immersion in the tumultuous sea of humanity that is Manhattan, you end up rather drained, and you're hesitant to dive right back in on the weekend.  You need some time to recharge.  (At least, we do; but maybe we're just lame.)  At the same time, of course, as I mentioned yesterday, it's great to have the excuse to do the stuff that our general inertia prevents us from doing when left to our own devices. 

When we have guests, I find myself taking in the spectacular view at the Top of the Rock (which is as good as the one from the Empire State Building, without the weeks-long line) or wandering through the New York Botanical Garden for the first time or going to see the holiday windows at Saks.  When it's just the two of us, we eschew the popular sights, shuddering to think of the crowds, but every time I do one of these things, it's worth all the agita.  Of course, it's also fun because we're taking it in with friends or family, so there's that.  I get to look at things from a different angle, and it usually ends up making me appreciate the city all the more.

It's also EXHAUSTING.  After we got home from Ellis Island, I basically melted into the couch and didn't move except to refill my wine glass.  Sure, we walked around a lot, but I walk a lot in my daily life and don't end up feeling like I'm in dire need of a chiropractor and a 10-hour massage, plus a 3-day nap.  Even spending a couple of hours at the museum, which isn't terribly far from home and wasn't all that strenuous, had me crumpling with fatigue. 

What IS it about museums?  Do you get that, too?  Acute-Onset Museum Fatigue?  Maybe they pipe some kind of sleep-inducing agent into the air.  I'm not sure, but at some point, no matter which museum or what the exhibit is, I hit a wall and have to exit the building immediately or risk spending the night on a bench in some dusky corner, like an unintentional restaging of "From the Mixed-Up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler."

Incidentally, I saw in New York magazine that some squeegee guys have resurfaced at the entrance to the Holland Tunnel.  I find this far more terrifying than the tanking stock market.  If we've got squeegee guys again, then it may only be a matter of time before Times Square is overrun with peep shows and triple-X theaters, and the next thing you know, we're living in the New York of "Taxi Driver", which I can tell you is not a New York I care to visit, let alone inhabit.  We need some Giuliani-esque, broken-windows-theory leadership to keep that from happening (though without the thuggishness and the police brutality, thanks).  I'm liberal as all get-out, but that doesn't mean I want to live in a graffiti-laden cesspool. 

(This is why I always snort when people lament that Times Square has been Disney-fied -- because, what, you prefer the old Times Square?  The one with the hookers on every corner and a blanket of trash covering every inch of sidewalk that doesn't have a bum sleeping on it?  Scoff all you want at all the yuppies everywhere and the Bugaboo strollers overrunning Central Park and the Starbucks on the Lower East Side, but I will take livable and Disney-fied over "edgy" and putrid any day.)

While they're cracking down on quality of life stuff, they can work on making the subways run more often on the weekends.  It's hard to show our guests everything they want to see when we have to wait 20 minutes for a damn downtown local train. 

Sweet Rewards

I managed to survive last week -- which threatened my very existence with work insanity of a magnitude I had not experienced in many months, possibly years, and somehow my stamina for such things has waned such that my bones actually started to ache from the stress -- and was handsomely rewarded with a terrific weekend. 

My parents arrived on Thursday evening, and on Friday I was able to take the day off (that is to say, I was out of the office but checking my BlackBerry every two minutes and voicemail every ten -- but I was out of the office nonetheless) so we could do some sightseeing.  After a leisurely morning in a bookstore cafe, we decided to venture to Ellis Island for the afternoon.  The last time I was there was the summer of 2001, and that was to give a presentation for something, not to peruse the museum; so the real last time I was there was probably high school.  How does that even happen?  I've lived here for ELEVEN AND A HALF YEARS. 

As with all major New York attractions, there was a huge line and a long wait for the ferry and several parts of the excursion had that stockyard feeling that I usually try to avoid in my daily life; but in the end we had a great time.  I should maybe try not to go more than ten years between up-close viewings of the Statue of Liberty, for example.  It's kind of worth the hassle, you know? 

Yesterday, we went to the Hayden Planetarium, which I had somehow never done despite having been to the Museum of Natural History countless times, to see a film about Cosmic Collisions (did you know our moon was formed in the span of 27 days?  how in the WORLD did they figure that out?  that sort of thing baffles me, and I can't help but suspect that a bunch of astrophysicists get together and make it all up).  Afterward, we wandered through the sprawling museum with the throngs of tourists and families who pack into the place on the weekends.  

(Incidentally, there was an awful lot of German being spoken; it seems the German people have decided to flaunt the purchasing power of their Euros by taking over Manhattan.  Not that I'm complaining -- come on in, people!  Spend!  Keep our economy afloat!  I'm just saying, I have started to wonder if the streets of Munich and Cologne and Berlin are actually deserted, the occasional errant newspaper drifting by on the wind as the citizens take up residence in the hotels and hostels of New York City.) 

The dioramas of the animals in the Museum of Natural History are one of my top ten favorite things in the City.  There's just something about those dim rooms and the incongruously life-like depictions of the African savanna or the Alaskan glacier fields and the little narratives about each display.  I love thinking about how people have been looking at those dioramas since the 1930s, and how we'll take Amelia there to look at them, and maybe she'll take her own kids there one day.  Of course, this is hardly an original thought (see: Catcher in the Rye), but maybe that's part of the comfort in it, too.

Last night we celebrated my mom's birthday with dinner at Gramercy Tavern, which was phenomenal as always, and came home to finish off the evening with some wine and a rousing game of Balderdash.  And today it's another pristine fall day and we're heading out to the burbs to visit with some family. 

I'm Going to Have Some Limber Thumbs

Is there anything more infuriating than having some technological failure when you're in the middle of trying to get shit done? Our cable modem chose last night -- just as I was logging on to do some Very Important legal research -- to expire, without even a faint sigh of warning. I was on the Internet, and then I wasn't.

I tried all the crap they tell you to do when you call customer support (unplugging the modem, checking all the plugs and doohickies to make sure they're secure, dancing naked over the wireless router with a plunger on your head), and nothing worked. I called customer service, certain there would be an easy solution or perhaps we were having a momentary outage on our block. After going through the automated troubleshooting thing for about half an hour (MUST KILL AUTOMATED TROUBLESHOOTING ROBOT WOMAN), I was patched through to Udaipur or wherever and proceeded to spend another maddening half hour going through THOSE SAME STEPS. Finally, "Kate" was willing to admit defeat and patched me BACK to the local office, where I sat on hold for a good twelve minutes.

I am not proud to tell you this, but I actually started crying about midway through the hold. I did. The Moonlight Sonata failed to soothe me. I just wanted to GET MY WORK DONE. And then make dinner and then GET SOME MORE WORK DONE. I may have also pounded my fist on the desk, oh, a few hundred times and howled, "Just PICK UP THE GODDAMN PHONE OH MY GOD."

It was quite a scene. I really do not take these things well.

When a woman named Arden picked up, I tried to rein in my hostility and hysteria, but she informed me that she had to run some of the same diagnostics that I'd already been through 57 times, and I nearly crushed the phone with my superhuman strength, borne of my superhuman rage.

And then she told me that the earliest we can get a technician to come is -- oh ho HO -- next Saturday. I am fairly certain that no jury would convict me if I went and burned down the Time Warner offices. I mean, REALLY.

NEXT SATURDAY.

That is why (1) I have no cute pictures of baby clothes for you, (2) I had to spend almost 12 hours in the office today, and (3) I am typing this blog post on my BlackBerry.

In other news, I realized yesterday that I have never had Red Bull. I believe I read somewhere that the taste is "herbal", and that sounds disgusting to me, so I have avoided trying it thus far. Am I missing anything?

As I was thinking about that, by the way, I realized that, if someone asked me to describe the taste of Diet Coke, I would be powerless to do so. Seriously. How would you capture the flavor of Diet Coke in words? Ummm...acidic? Chemical-y, yet strangely delicious? Kind of sweet, but not really? Brown and fizzy? I just don't know.

Oh, and to cap off the joyous weekend of work and tech-fury, I am going in for another session of scaling and planing at the dentist tomorrow. Hooray!

Ramblin' Woman

Marcia Brady has written a book about being a druggie, and I feel that I must read it for my life to be complete.  I've already read "Growing Up Brady" by Barry Williams (that's Greg, for the uninitiated), and it was definitely entertaining; but all he did was smoke a little weed and go on a fake date with Florence Henderson, so it was a bit scandal-lite for what was promised.  Evidently Maureen McCormick was all hard-core, going on coke binges and trading drugs for sex and dating -- of all people -- Michael Jackson (!).  Forget all the smart-type books we have on our shelves -- great works of literature and biographies of everyone from RFK to RImbaud -- THIS is the sort of thing I want to buy in hardcover and devour in a single weekend.

Separately, I guess now is as good a time as any to tell you that I hate baseball.  I'm not that into watching sports as a general matter -- I'll take in a little tennis if someone hot is playing, and college football is enjoyable enough (except this season -- really, Michigan?  TOLEDO??) so long as I've got a bunch of snacks and some magazines to flip through -- but baseball, to me, has virtually no redeeming qualities.  The most interesting part is how they mow the grass into stripes, zig-zags, or sometimes a jaunty checkerboard pattern. 

I don't find baseball players attractive in the least, largely because I find spitting abhorrent and they ALL do it, even if it's just gum (dipping chaw is unspeakably gross, so I try to tell myself that they're all enjoying some grape-flavored Big League Chew, but even that doesn't help).  And they make obscene amounts of money, which somehow seems more objectionable than with, say, football players, who are at least subjecting themselves to car crash-level bodily impacts every day, as opposed to standing around hocking loogies and cultivating scraggly facial hair. 

And of course, the games seem to last for DAYS, with long stretches in which nothing happens and the announcers drone on about obscure statistics.  I just fundamentally don't GET it.  Does this make me un-American in some way?

On another random note, one thing I hate about being sick (STILL SICK!) is how your ears get all stopped up and it's like you hear everything that goes on in your mouth in Dolby Surround Sound.  Your voice is all amplified and weird, and when you eat you have to listen to every crash of your teeth into every bite of food, and it's SO GROSS.  I hate eating-related sounds as a general matter, and it's a special kind of hell to hear YOUR OWN eating-related sounds.  Grah! 

Oh!  And -- hi, I am Short-Attention Span Woman today! -- this morning I walked down the subway steps behind a woman who, I swear, was wearing Primo! perfume.  Not even Giorgio Beverly Hills, but its drugstore rip-off, Primo!, which I used to wear in seventh grade.  (Which begs the question:  Why did I wear perfume to an all-girls junior high school?)  I kind of wanted to run after her and ask her if she also maybe wore Electric Youth sometimes. 

(In case you're curious, after Primo! I graduated to Beautiful by Estee Lauder and Versus by Gianni Versace in high school, the latter of which I seem to recall was extremely cloying and possibly responsible for rendering nearby students unconscious; then Escape by Calvin Klein and cK One in college; then I moved on to Bath & Body Works after-bath splashes in law school; and now I usually go with Sugar Blossom or Lemon Sugar by Fresh.) 

So that was a weird little round-up.  I've been feeling a bit uninspired lately, so any suggestions/thoughts/inquiries/topics you'd like to hear about would be welcome. 

The Age of Anxiety

Sorry for the sudden cloak-and-dagger thing with the password protection and all.  I'm sure that I am overreacting on many levels to something totally benign, but by now you know all too well that I am prone to The Downward Spiral -- that is, the thought that even minor actions on my part could in some way lead to me being homeless, penniless, childless and alone -- and with everything going on in my life, it was one more thing I could control and one less thing to niggle at me in the middle of the night, when most of my panic-stricken moments occur. 

Now my worries have been narrowed to minor things like job security, the worldwide financial crisis, getting Amelia home before I am too old to pick her up, the upcoming election (seriously, it is SO SOON OMG WILL NOT SLEEP ELECTION NIGHT), and whether the New York real estate market will go into the toilet along with everything else.  So really, the password thing has solved a lot.

Anyway!  Our vacation!  Oh, how long ago it already seems.

We started with a great three-day/three-night weekend with Allison, David and Maggie.  Allison helped me spend a bunch of money on some super-cute clothes and accessories, the Old Dudes watched lots of sports, we all tried our hand at the Wii (my Wii age?  SEVENTY-SEVEN), Maggie played with my hair a lot (is there any better feeling in the world than someone playing with your hair?), we visited the great hall of commerce that is Target (they need to hurry up and put one in Manhattan, y'all), and we had a rollicking game of Balderdash (Joe is nothing if not a pro at hilariously sarcastic/somewhat lewd answers in games like that (see also: Loaded Questions) and every time someone had to read his answer, they would end up wiping tears off their face and generally roaring (hee) with laughter).   

Why don't they live down the street from us?  WHY? 

(Fakey smiles but true love -- these two ADORE each other.)

On Monday, we drove from Charlotte to Asheville, where we stayed at the Inn at the Biltmore Estate.  The fall foliage wasn't quite at peak, but it was still very pretty and the weather was ideal.  The Inn is beautiful and sort of grand (though the room was nothing special), and the views were off the hook -- rolling hills and verdant farmland with the Blue Ridge Mountains in the distance.  We toured the House -- which I hadn't seen since I was in tenth grade, some EIGHTEEN YEARS AGO (AAAACK!) -- and hiked through the grounds and gardens, went to the winery and did some tasting (it turns out they have really delicious wines in North Carolina, who knew?), and hung out with barnyard animals at the little historic farm they have on the Estate. 

The food was also amazing -- I'm usually not a breakfast buffet person, but the buffet at the Inn was sooooooo good, with Anson Mills grits, cheese blintzes, loads of fresh pastries, and maple-smoked bacon.  And the dinners.  Oohhhhh, the dinners.  We ate at the Bistro at the Winery the first night and the Dining Room at the Inn the second, and both were highly memorable meals.  And the service was excellent everywhere we went; I always forget how startlingly friendly the South is, but it wasn't to the point of being intrusive or bothersome. 

We also went into Asheville one morning to poke around.  I had expected to swoon over the town, but it didn't do much for me.  There were some cute stores and funky restaurants, but on the whole it seemed a little downtrodden and deserted -- maybe it was early in the day or just an off part of the season.  There were a lot of vagabond-y backpacker types loitering about who appeared to have last showered circa 1992, and more than a few bums were lurking in the public spaces and along the curbs.  I thought it had become a total yuppie haven, but maybe it's one of those yuppie havens that welcomes wanderers and panhandlers?  I don't know. 

All in all, it was a nice getaway, and I'm really glad we combined the friend visit with the sight-seeing/hotel stay.  I suspect that Maggie passed along to us some kind of day care SuperGerms that have knocked us on our asses since Wednesday, but we forgive her.  I mean, how could you not?  That face!  That little voice!  That unbearably sweet disposition! 

(Note that David is wearing glasses that he got so he could look more like Joe.  Our Old Dudes are so cute.)

The Virus Brigade

You know when you get on a flight and someone sitting near you immediately starts hacking up a lung and sneezing so hard they just about blow the doors off the plane, and all you can think of is how there are nasty, plague-type germs hurtling around the cabin and attaching themselves to you and invading your every system, and it's only a matter of time before you, too, develop some dread illness? 

I'm one of those people now, one of those sneezing, hacking, nose-blowing people.  In fact, both my husband and I are those people, and I am sure that everyone who was on our flight back from Charlotte tonight is now vigilantly monitoring themselves for symptoms and cursing our very existence.

We woke up this morning in the throes of Sickness -- some kind of cold/flu/sore throat business -- which means that none of our vacation was ruined, but getting home was a long and exhausting ordeal, even though everything went off basically on time.  Which also means that the regaling of y'all with stories will have to wait, because Project Runway is on and I have a date with a steaming mug of TheraFlu.  But we did have a great time, and to tide you over, here are some snapshots of our extended weekend in Charlotte and Asheville.  And there are more on Flickr!