Recessionary Thoughts

So... I know the economy is in the shitter right now and that any day now my job could get cut, forcing me out onto the street with no hope of finding employment anywhere. I know that. Really, I do. Honestly, the thought alone stresses me out so much that my back is in knots.

...so many knots in fact, that I needed to get them taken care of. For an hour. By a professional. At a spa. And then I had to go shopping at Nordstroms.

Seriously, pray to God for me tonight that I don't get laid off before I can staunch my love of pampering and $155 skinny jeans*.

*Don't judge, those jeans make my non-ass look fabulous.

Poetry Friday

I am a crap blogger. this is because I never really have anything to say about anything.

So today I thought, what if I wrap my blog with parameters? Bring back Music Mondays and add on Poetry Friday? Maybe the guidelines will encourage me to post.... we'll see how it goes. Right now, onwards to the inaugural Poetry Friday entry.

The first poem is from "Against Love Poetry" a collection by my favorite poet, Eavan Boland - if you don't know who she is, you should. She sees love from a different angle than most poets I've been exposed to.... honestly, I am in awe of her talent. Added Bonus: She's Irish and wrote back to me right away when I emailed her a bunch of questions for a research paper a few years ago.

What famous poet do you know of that would be that awesome? None. That's how many.


Quarantine

In the worst hour of the worst season
of the worst year of a whole people
a man set out from the workhouse with his wife.
He was walking-they were both walking-north.

She was sick with famine fever and could not keep up.
He lifted her and put her on his back.
He walked like that west and north.
Until at nightfall under freezing stars they arrived.

In the morning they were both found dead.
Of cold. Of hunger. Of the toxins of a whole history.
But her feet were held against his breastbone.
The last heat of his flesh was his last gift to her.

Let no love poem ever come to this threshold.
There is no place here for the inexact
praise of the easy graces and sensuality of the body.
There is only time for this merciless inventory:

Their death together in the winter of 1847.
Also what they suffered. How they lived.
And what there is between a man and a woman.
And in which darkness it can best be proved.

Boland, Eavan, 2001. Against Love Poetry. New York, NY: Norton & Company Inc.

A business owner from Boston just contacted me on Yelp. Seems that, even though my review was done over two years ago he wants to make up for my negative experience by either refunding me (what's up free $250) or offering me a free service next time I'm in Boston.

Who knew my opinion actually mattered to business owners? Because seriously, not this girl.

American Apparel is trying to sell hyper-color t-shirts. Sad, but the people who shop there will most likely deem this "ironic" (it's not) and will purchase one in every color. Oh, the humanity.

Thinking

That the quality of classes, facilities, and professors at BU far exceeds that of NYU.

This post is to give Adina hope that I'm not just another pretty face.

Yes, Barack Obama won, was inagurated, and is now the 44th president of the United States. All the naysayers and crazy mofos in the world who wanted that other guy in office (remember him? White hair? Sorta short? Taking the same crazy pills from George Bush that Katie Holmes takes from Tom Cruise?) can eat a bag of dicks.

This isn't what that post is about. This post is about Michelle Obama, First Lady o'style who refuses to let her height beat her down. She gives me hope that someday I too can be a graceful swan, gliding through a room instead of a drunken giraffe falling off of my heels every 3 minutes.

I'm not alone here. Brett Ashley McKenzie posted a blog on the Huffington Post earlier today lamenting the tall girl curse and applauding Michelle Obama for defying it. An excerpt:

"Let me let you in on a little secret: we tall women, even the .00001% of us that turn out to be models (for no matter our weight or looks, tall women constantly hear "You should be a model!") go through gangly, lanky, clumsy, klutzy adolescences... and that's before we attempt to walk in heels. Usually, our feet are proportionately gigantic, which makes you feel even less feminine. Even in a Manolo, if you've got a size 12 foot, no stiletto offers the right balance. So you either live in kitten heels, envying the short women who saunter by in their size 4 outfits and 4" heels, or you shove your feet into gigantic, high-heeled shoes and grit your teeth in agony.

Being a tall women in college certainly has its perks. For instance, you can give your shorter girlfriend an early warning if the guy attempting to pick her up in a bar or biology class has a bald spot. And everyone mistakes you for a member of the volleyball or women's basketball team. When you graduate, however, you are presented with your two greatest challenges: surviving a mostly-male workplace, where your shorter male colleagues will tease you relentlessly in order to feel better about themselves, and finding a man with whom you can see eye to eye to eventually marry and have gigantic children with." (keep reading)

Damn girl, but its so true. Especially the part about it being really hard for tall women to dance. It's true. It really is hard.

So I'm not usually conscious in time to watch the morning news. This morning I was and I have to say, I don't like what I saw --

The hosts of the show sitting around the desk surrounded by buckets of KFC newest type of fried chicken? They were even taking bites - very small bites - and touting its deliciousness and summer flavors.

Are you kidding me? New anchors promoting KFC? What happened to journalistic integrity?

WTF

In the News

My Beautiful Mommy" is aimed at kids ages four to seven and features a plastic surgeon named Dr. Michael (a musclebound superhero type) and a girl whose mother gets a tummy tuck, a nose job and breast implants. Before her surgery the mom explains that she is getting a smaller tummy: "You see, as I got older, my body stretched and I couldn't fit into my clothes anymore. Dr. Michael is going to help fix that and make me feel better." Mom comes home looking like a slightly bruised Barbie doll with demure bandages on her nose and around her waist.

The text doesn't mention the breast augmentation, but the illustrations intentionally show Mom's breasts to be fuller and higher. "I tried to skirt that issue in the text itself," says Salzhauer. "The tummy lends itself to an easy explanation to the children: extra skin and can't fit into your clothes. The breasts might be a stretch for a six-year-old."

The book doesn't explain exactly why the mother is redoing her nose post-pregnancy. Nonetheless, Mom reassures her little girl that the new nose won't just look "different, my dear—prettier!"

Seriously?

Dear T.S. Eliot,

You were right. April is the cruelest month.

-Lindsay

Missin' You Like Candy

Emma: she's the type of celebrity i would totally want to party in a dive bar with

Lindsay: um YEA

Lindsay: I would totally hang out with Mandy Moore

Lindsay: …and I like to think that Mandy Moore would like to hang out with us as well.

Emma: yes

Emma: she would give us clothing advice

Emma: and lip gloss

Lindsay: and then we'd get drunk and sing Journey.

Emma: we would buy her one more jaeger bomb

Emma: it would be a party

Lindsay: yes.

Lindsay: that's it.

Lindsay: my new mission in life: become friends with Mandy Moore

Emma: yessssssss.

Emma: goal for summer 2008: stalk out Mandy Moore in a subtle way. Befriend. Party.

An Observation

There are some foods in this world that will turn an intelligent adult male into a 12-year old boy in a matter of seconds. As I witnessed last night, tacos are one such food. Foregoing utensils, Boyfriend scarfed his way through about 5 tacos, only coming up for air once he realized we were out of meat filling.

At which point he promptly picked up and ate whatever filling had fallen out of my tacos... with his hands.

I don't care what anyone says, boys are super gross.

Wedding Bells

Last summer I had the honor of planning a bridal shower and bachelorette party for my dear friend Kristina... and, while I love Kristina and I think she had a great time at those events I do not love the stress that comes along with the planning.

That's why I was so happy when the last toast was given at her wedding. It was over - the planning and the bargaining and budgeting. She was a starry eyed newlywed and I was her very in need of a vacation Maid of Honor.

This summer, I again have the honor of planning a bridal shower and bachelor/bachelorette party --this time, for my first roommate Tess. I can't help but worry that I won't bring as much joy and personality to her shower as I did to Kristina's because I know what happened when I approached the event that way. Chaos ensued.

I've already started approaching this shower differently. I just had a kick-off conference call with the other two women involved and have, since then, created a spreadsheet of things that need to be done and due dates.

You know what I've done? Turned being a Maid-of-Honor into a career.

*Loves It*

Reading

Day 25

Anne: Hi, Period. I’m expecting you sometime in the next couple of days. Shall I look for you around lunchtime like always? …Hello?

Day 28

Anne: Hello? I know you are there - the cramp phone keeps calling me.

Day 32

Anne: Ok, now you owe me eight dollars for the pregnancy test you know damn well I didn’t have to take this morning.

Day 35

Period: Here I am! Here I am!

Anne: You realize I’m in the middle of dinner.

Period: Yeah. And when you get up, you’re gonna realize I actually got here right before you served the salad.

A Conversation

Gina: hey dude, want to do me a quick favor?

Lindsay: sure?

Gina: measure from your elbow to your wrist

Lindsay: ....its a size 9 shoe... but thats the only measurement i can give you. i dont have a ruler

Gina: i finally picked up knitting again and i'm working on your glove things

Lindsay: like I said, its a size 9 shoe... or a closed umbrella

Lindsay: or its a fork and 1/4 or a checkbook and 1/3, that's a standard size right?

Gina: i think so... is the checkbook in a case? Or just the actual checks?

Lindsay: case

Waking Nightmare.

It was like going from a horrible nightmare into the best dream ever. And then I woke up this morning and was back in the nightmare.

Something has got to give... I'm just not sure what.

To better prepare myself for the impending vacation (6 days to go!) to Jamaica, I have done several things that I once swore off completely. These things include, but are not exclusive to, the following:

• Tanning. That's right, kids, I, Casper the friendly Marketing Manager, have started tanning. This is solely for the purpose of creating a base tan --aka a protective layer of melanin-- before I get to the resort and the sun has a field day with my fish-belly white skin.


• Buying/wearing shorts outside of the bedroom. On Saturday I went to Pacific Sunwear with a mission. Find shorts that are none of the following: short-shorts, bermuda shorts, capris, or denim. I found these little plaid ones by Roxy. This leads me to my next bullet:


• Wearing plaid. I know. I know. I've made fun of Tom and his plaid for about 4 years now and what am I going and doing but sticking that same pattern right on my bum. That said, I think we can all agree that my plaid is different from Tom's plaid. His is usually flannel and that's just not right (sorry, Tom! I still like that photo hoodie you're so fond of?).
  


• "Dieting". Before everyone goes all Jewish Grandmother on me and starts clucking about how I need to eat more, I'm already skin and bones, I'm not drinking only water and eating a cube of cheese every now and then to prevent myself from passing out. I'm just not eating an entire pizza (anymore - I swear last night was it!).


• Doing homework well before the due date. Yep, that's right. I have a few papers due right after spring break and, instead of waiting until I get back on Sunday to research and write two 20-pagers I have actually started the research and *gasp* even the writing.


• Packing before the last minute. Traditionally, I will wait until 10:00pm the night before a flight to even remember to pack. At that point I will usually throw a pair of panties (that one is for you, Fel) in the empty suitcase and then decide to go out, grab a drink, write the next great American novel, and learn the tuba. When 3:00am rolls around and I'm exhausted from the wine and accomplishment I will complete packing, inevitably forgetting something crucial - like pants. This won't happen for this trip. I'm so stoked on life for this vacation I'm already packed. 6 days in advance.
  

Be Jealous

After a 5 year hiatus from all things relaxing, I am getting on one of these for three hours:

To take me here for a week:

Actual image of the actual hotel that we are actually staying at.

In that week I will be doing nothing but drinking these:

Mimi Vice (aka half pina colada and half strawberry daquiri) the best frozen drink ever

While lying down for hours on this:

Thinking

Screw women's lib, I could totally get used to this whole 'being taken care of' thing.