…that the things I think about when I think of events like the Royal Wedding or awards ceremonies or shows or what have you—events that count on everything going perfectly—that I’m like, omg what would happen if the cake looked really bad? What would happen if Christina Aguilera (just popped into my head) fell on her face? What would happen if someone forgot their lines?
Basically, every negative thing that could go wrong flies through my head instead of taking part in what goes right.
This was the first song Eytan and I wrote together. The album was supposed to be based around it. It was a complete departure from pretty much every song I’d written prior, which were mostly….well…let’s be honest here, of the weepy chick rock variety. Not that I’m knocking weepy chick rock…I mean, I love a lot of it. And it has its place.
I didn’t want to be weepy.
This song is about a dude who pursued me for six months, only to turn around and end it after he’d “won” me (won, ha!). I had known we were wrong for each other from the start. He figured it out eventually. Wednesday’s girl is a metaphor for being that in-between person…not really a one night stand, but not forever material.
Fun fact: at some point, I discovered that I was born on a Wednesday. So I actually am a Wednesday’s girl.
So in May, either 22 or 15, I believe, it’ll be seven years since I released a little album I did called The Game. I was and am still extremely proud of it. Mostly because so much hard work, love and magic went into making it, but also because I feel like it hasn’t lost any relevance in the seven years it’s been around. Even though I’m in a wildly different place in my life than I was when I wrote it, it still feels right to me. I can nod and smile and relate. To myself.
Told you I was selfish.
Anyway…because I still believe it has relevance, I’m going to try and get a little love for it, love dredged up from the past and a little new love. I’m gonna tell its story, song by song, experience by experience.
Starting with…the beginning:
I had reconnected with an old friend of mine, Eytan, a musician and amazing songwriter. We’d known each other when we were 15, at a summer program at Amherst College. I can’t remember, now, how we reconnected, but suffice it to say, we picked up where we left off in our friendship nine years prior and went forward…with music. Looking back I don’t remember what made us decide to write an album together. But we did. It was my first experience writing with someone and it was challenging and fun and amazing. We sat down in a session with little notes or ideas, and came out of it with a song (or two!). It was one of the best times of my life.
Eytan introduced me to his friend, Assaf, or Asi—a tall, incredibly thin, and insanely talented Israeli fellow, who remains one of the nicest people I’ve ever known. His accent charmed me. His charm charmed me. He seemed genuinely excited about recording my music. I didn’t quite know what to make of him at first (I have trust issues), but soon into the process, it was clear we had a bond. And we were doing something that both of us would regard as some of the best work we’d ever done.
It was the beginning of something special…
Telling the story of my music on my music blog. More to come!
I had a good cry last night. About how I feel useless and lazy and out of control and blah blah blah.
But that’s not the point.
I needed to blow my nose, cuz you know, I was crying and all. Well, I don’t know if it’s because we bought these Kleenex brand tissues at Costco and somehow bulk tissues are worse tissues, but fuck if these things can’t stay together when a tiny bit of snot hits them! Here I am, crying, and Jonny has to interrupt me—trying not to laugh—and tell me I have tissue remnants all over my face.
Great. So in my state of abject blackness, I need to worry about this too? Thanks Kleenex.
I’ll admit I tend to get riled up fairly easily…but something about a big pick-up truck or SUV with those stupid silver balls hanging off the license plate really bothers me. Do you guys know what I’m talking about? It really really bothers me. Like a lot. Like enough to make me snarl and speed up just so I won’t be behind them when Lake Shore Drive merges to one lane.
YOU WILL NOT GET IN FRONT OF ME, DUMB PICK-UP WITH THE DUMB SILVER BALLS! YOU WILL NOT!
Vince Vaughn amazes me purely from a confidence level. Do you ever get the feeling that nothing shakes that guy? That he’s just like, I’m here in my 6’5” (or whatever) glory and I’ll crack you up with one liners at the same time that I’m annoying the shit out of you for being such a complete fratty douche and I’ll make movies wherein I date women 15 years younger who are way hotter than I am (and better suited for the Swingers-era me), but it won’t matter because my wit is so sharp I’ll cut you with it. You’ll laugh. You know you will. You’re not gonna want to, but you will laugh. You will.
He’s probably been like that his whole life, that cocky mother-fucker. God bless him.
In which my friend Alexis writes the beginning of an awesome play/book/movie without even meaning to...
Alexis: i think i may have broken my hand…
Me: what?? how did you break your hand?
Alexis: yeah, i don’t know if i should go to a doc yet if it just bruised it or something. ummmm well, we went out thursday night after our presentation and it was a rowdy night. i hurt my hand on a punching bag measuring your strength with 3 mexican gang members in a dive bar. they were named aztec, carlos santana and loco john.
I have spent virtually all day in the kitchen. In a continued effort to eat better and save money by cooking more, I prepared a bunch of little things that will make it easier to throw together lunches and dinners. Chopped tomatoes, zucchini and squash…made dressings and sauces…marinated and cooked some chicken…made pesto…and all of this with all dishes done and a clean kitchen.
1. I was looking at the Elle mag Tumblr, which features lots of pictures of chicks at Coachella. I realize this makes me totally old and grouchy, but the photos seriously annoyed me. Maybe because of the hipster quality? Maybe because I seem to have a reaction like that to Coachella in general? Maybe because I’m just old and grouchy? I don’t know. But they bugged me.
2. Also on Elle and elsewhere, what is with the long wide-legged pants that cover one’s feet? Don’t get me wrong, I mean, I love wide-legged pants…I just don’t understand why it looks good to have no feet and have the edges of your pants crumpled on the floor. I can see it with a long skirt or dress or gown….but with pants it just looks like you refuse to take your pants to a tailor. I don’t know…just not my thing I guess. And I’m old and grouchy.
3. I quite like that the long skirt is back in…it kind of reminds me of two beloved fashion times in my memory. First being Jacinda Barrett in the Real World London—I always loved how she’d pair a t-shirt with a long flowy princessy skirt and a raggedy cardigan. It was something I think only really tall people can pull off…or maybe just even her…because it was messy, but she just looked so cool. At least in my opinion. The other being a few years later, when I interned for the summer at Calvin Klein (and felt hopelessly un-chic in my 20 year old, I can’t afford nice stuff yet wardrobe) and the big trend was long billowy skirts paired with a plain white tank top and—whoa I’m gonna date myself here—pashminas. OMG pashminas. So impractical and stupid, really, those things were worn as a regular get up, not as a wrap for a special occasion or something (which then serves a better purpose)…but I just loved seeing all the cool-lookin’ Calvin Kleiners walking around the office in these ensembles. Again, kind of reserved for tall girls. Or maybe short girls who weren’t me were able pull it off. But I love love loved it. In any event, this resurgence of the long skirt is reminding me of those things a bit…even though it kind of has nothing to do with it. Whatever.
A little over a month ago, Jonny found out that a girl from his high school had been diagnosed with stage four colon cancer. 34 years old, married, with three little kids. Today he found out that she’s already gone.
It’s so so scary.
Most of my ish stems from a fear of dying. A fear of there being something wrong with me without me knowing it. And I won’t know it until it’s too late to do anything about it. And then I’ll die. I’m sure this is a fear most people have. You’ll see your mortality staring you in the face and you have to come to terms with the fact that you’ll never do certain things you had wanted to. You won’t raise your kids. You will have spent your life doing things that perhaps you weren’t happy with. You will have spent your life being happy, but not realizing it.
This weighs on my mind more than it ought to. It’s a reason I’ve been a bit more active in certain ways lately. Going out and doing things just because. Pushing it to the limits of tiredness and having plans every night during the week. Doing yoga at least twice a week. Or even just staying home all day and night on a Saturday because that’s just what feels best.
We can’t protect ourselves from our fate. Obviously, we can’t know. We don’t know. We won’t know. And we can’t do anything about it. All we can do is take care of ourselves and the people we love. All we can do is be happy and recognize that once in a while.
I was early to the chiropractor appointment last Wednesday (more on that later, maybe), and there was a Barnes and Noble right there, so I found it to be the best opportunity to score my copy of Bossypants. I haven’t been this excited about something since Black Swan, which I know wasn’t that long ago, but still…two pop culture things that I was desperately looking forward to taking part of. This book is not letting me down. Seriously, it’s like reading through countless Tina Fey sketches. I love the writing, the information, her candidness, everything. She’s amazing.
I just got up to the chapter with that Amy Poehler story that’s been going around the internets. I’m very excited to read that chapter, as I believe Tina and Amy have one of the great love stories of all time.
Oo! Another good one from the stupid Saddle archives...
One time, at brunch, the waiter said the special was french toast with lingonberries. I’d never heard of a lingonberry, so I assumed he was saying Lincolnberries. So I made some kind of joke about them serving Log Cabin brand syrup to go with it.
Ha. Cuz Lincoln? Log cabins? Syrup? French toast? Get it? Ha. Ha.
No one laughed and they all kind of looked at me funny. I didn’t get why.
I think I attempted to make a couple of other jokes about it before Jonny realized what was going on and kindly corrected me.
I was talking to SMM this morning and she was like oh, I figured if anyone could relate to beating yourself up about hundred year old things it would be you. (YES!!) And I was like, dude, once I mispronounced ska. Like how do you even do that? It only has the three letters. (I mean, not if you…
I once was talking to someone and referring to a gazelle, the animal, but pronounced it Giselle, the model, and immediately felt like the dumbest person EVER.
As most of you know, I have heretofore been a staunch defender of dear Gwynnie, but I think it was because I just felt like her sharing her shit wasn’t really all that terrible. Now, it seems as though she’s branding herself and we all know how I feel about that. (You’re an actor. Stick with that. And that only. That’s enough. All of you actors! ALL OF YOU!) I’m sick of Gwynnie the singer, Gwynnie the chef, Gwynnie the mom, Gwynnie the commedienne…I’m just over it already. So I’ve switched to the Shutup Gwyneth Paltrow side. Enough with you! I don’t want to hear about it anymore! Go away!!!
But that’s actually not the point of this post.
Some comments are circulating the Tumblrverse about why should we take cooking advice from a skinny chick. And at first I was all, oh come on…that’s a little easy, don’t you think? And now, reading more and more comments about how people don’t like watching cooking shows with thin hosts/chefs because they can’t possibly know what good food is and how to eat…I’m kind of like, eff off! So, what, skinny girls can’t enjoy food? They don’t eat? They don’t cook? Sometimes decadent and fattening meals? I don’t understand the distinction other than the obvious (and kind of insulting on the other end of the scale) — larger person, oh you must enjoy your food then!
I’m not talking about the Bethennys of the world who are clearly using food as a way to make appropriate a lifelong eating disorder (I mean, I love Bethenny, but please with her “taste your food” philosophy). But why can’t the Giadas of the world be considered a reputable source of information for food and cooking just because she’s thin? I happen to love Giada’s recipes…and believe me, they are not always light and healthy. But they are delicious and filling and whole.
I don’t know, I guess this hit a nerve with me because it’s a smidge annoying. I’m a thin girl…I do have to work at it, but I am also just naturally small. I understand the privilege of this. But I also love food. I love eating. I love cooking, be it desserts or stews or whatever to sauteed veggies or something lighter and more healthy. And of course, every day in my life is I heart pasta day. But I temper it all, because that is a good way to stay healthier in general. I, personally, don’t appreciate the immediate write off of thin women knowing anything about food or enjoying and loving food simply because they’re thin. Even Gwyneth Annoyingface Paltrow.
Even though our titles and job descriptions are up on our website, no one quite knows who to contact about specific questions and don’t bother to look it up, often resulting in phone calls to the incorrect person. Thus, we have decided to rename our titles as follows:
Since I got the stomach bug/food poisoning whatever in Palm Springs a few weeks ago, my crazy mind has been waiting for it to come back and really get me this time. So now, whenever there are events even remotely like that of the evening before the sickness in question (i.e. dinner was at a late time, I had a headache that evening, I was yawning a lot, the sun had set and the moon risen…you know…real uncommon events), I constantly think that if the same factors are in place, that I’m gonna get sick again. My dinner out tonight is at the same time as it was that night and I have a headache. And the sun will most surely set.
Most of us on Tumblr know, there is a new “The Dude” and that is the little adorable offspring of SrMaryMartha and her man, Lawrence. So there was nothing I could think of that would be more appropriate than giving this little guy his very own Dude sweater (White Russian and bowling ball come separately).
In my almost six years of living in Chicago, I’ve had one friend come to visit. Like a specific, I’m here to see YOU visit. My wedding doesn’t count. My best friend’s visits with her husband because her husband is from here don’t really count. I understand that as we get older, it becomes less likely that people will come to visit just to visit. They usually need another reason - a wedding, a work event, other people, family, etc. to make it worth flying on an airplane and trekking to see you. It’s not like it was when you were in school where…Oh! I’ll come visit and stay with you for the weekend and we’ll party and all that. We’re in our 30s. Shit just doesn’t go down like that anymore. So I get it and it’s all fine and dandy.
But here’s the thing.
I BUST. MY. ASS. when I visit home in NY to see people. Most of my friends live there and I make the effort to see as many of them as I can but it’s never like, I’m visiting, everyone come meet me here. I will go from Long Island to Manhattan to Brooklyn to Scarsdale to Jersey back to Long Island and then around again. And it’s my thing because I do it. I make that effort. I plan entire trips around where I need to be to see specific friends. I feel guilty that I can’t do it every time. And I know that’s me. That’s on my shoulders and I choose to do it and whatever.
It’s just…….for once, I would love it if one of my friends would say, I will come to YOU. Even when they’re here already for other purposes, I would love to not still be the one who’s running around to make the visit happen like I always am. Come into the city. Come stay at my place. Come and make seeing me a special, dedicated thing. But I guess I’ve trained them well…why make the effort if they know I always will?
And I’m not putting myself up on a pedestal and saying I’m the bestest friend and whatever, because I’m not (ask these same friends how long it takes me to return a phone call). And I’m not saying my friends are bad friends, because they’re not. But I do know that when it comes to this stuff…I show them just how important it is to me. And I wish I got that in return sometimes. But oh well.
A friend of mine is doing some consulting for a chiropractor/kinesiologist (is that a word?) and suggested that I go see him for some advice on nutrition and vitamin deficiencies and all that for my anxiety. I think it’s time to see what that side of the world is all about. Not so into chiropractic stuff, but the kinesiology is interesting to me. How our muscles are functioning and if they’re missing vital nutrition and all that. I’m hoping it can help a little bit with the stuff I’ve been dealing with of late. I know yoga is. And therapy is. So no-meds is something attainable. It can happen.
It’s something right? I’m working hard at it. Something has to come through…
It’s that time and thus I am appropriately bitchy, irrationally irritated, and insanely salt-and-carb-cravey right now. I’d like to go home and sit in solace on my ass while eating a giant bowl of pasta followed by a good helping of Kung Pao chicken but, alas, there is other stuff to do. My entire mood can be summed up with one photo:
Found by searching “annoyed dog” in Google images, because, you know, that’s what Google is good for. I’ve got photographic representation of my mood. I’ve got something.
That’s good to keep me going for the next hour and a half while I sit here trying not to punch every single person in the ear.
A few days ago I wanted to make a post about how conflicted I am about my admiration for really sleek, classic clothing styles vs. the very eclectic, sort of tattered-on-purpose style that I grew up envying and was really proud to figure out as an adult. (Not only does it work for me but I usually…
Yes!! I’ve been thinking about this a lot lately!
I think I always had an urge to be the eclectic dresser…never wanted to look the same as anyone else, wanted that effortless boho thing going on. It worked for me for a while (to an extent…I don’t think I was ever totally there). But I always, always admired not only the really sleek classic looks, but also the simplistic, 70s era Ralph Lauren, cool-girl chic that I am nowhere near tall or cool-looking enough to really pull off. You know, cowboy boots with awesome jeans and a white button down tucked in with a cool belt. Long sun-kissed, appropriately tousled hair. No makeup. Very little jewelry. I. Love. That. Look.
So lately, I’ve totally been edging towards the simplistic, classic things in my wardrobe. A ton of black, good-fitting jeans, flats. Pearl earrings and my mother’s gold watch from her youth. And, of course, scarves to accent (but even with those, I’ve been favoring more neutral tones of late). I’m loving mixing blacks, browns and navies and maaaaybe giving one little pop of color somewhere.
I think it’s just the way we change and how we see ourselves and what we feel great in. There are days where I just feel like putting on a crazy outfit and I feel great about it, but more often than not, I just feel the best in neutral, neutral, neutral.
So as part of our vet recommended regime, I just gave Jess a bath with the new shampoo (I know, rockin’ Saturday night, right? Shutup…I went out last night! Late! ‘Til 11:30!! oooooooooooooo!!!!!) (Whatever I’m an old lightweight). Now, when I bathe her, I usually use dry shampoo, because I thought it was a lot easier to do than using water.
Turns out….I was right!
She didn’t mind the water so much, cuz it was warm and nice, but from that, to the shampooing, to the letting it sit for 10 mins (okay, I think we only did 5 because…I mean…), to the rinsing, to the towel-drying, to the hairdryer drying (that was the worst…she hates that fuckin’ thing) (and it didn’t even work…probably because she was squirming and running to all different corners of the bathroom), to the Furminating (omg, the greatest product for shedding dogs), to even more attempted towel drying? Yeah. She hates me right now. Like, HATES.
I made up for my horrible mommie dearest behavior by giving her Cheerios as we went along and a nice dental chew once we were done. And now, she’s writhing around on the rug because I clearly did not do a good enough torturing her and she’s still damp.
Well, at least there is Lifetime TV, so I can see people be really horrible in ripped-from-the-headlines tv movies.