Strongly Worded

Tempting Fate: An UpDATE

So as I mentioned last week, after concluding that Canadian is a no-go, I have two other irons in the fire, so to speak. Over the weekend, someone said that this phrase sounded weird and sexual, which I find surprising because I'm pretty sure it stems from Colonial times, when women in bonnets would put multiple irons in the fire when they were ironing because the individual irons would cool before the task was finished. That may be naive, and maybe the phrase comes from mining or welding or something, but in any case, I don't mean it to sound sexual.

But I digress. I had two secret dates over the weekend, and I'm debating how to name them. I guess I'll start with Economist. I began corresponding with Economist last spring, right around the time I was dating Dan the Political Consultant (a very ill-fated match). I subsequently fell in love with my now-ex boyfriend, all in the span of about two weeks, so Economist and I never actually met. (Before that I was bitter and single for twelve whole months. This is TOTALLY uncharacteristic of me.) But even over email, Economist seemed incredibly kind and nice, and even though he lives out-of-state, his family lives here, so he's here almost every weekend. When I cranked up my jdate subscription a few weeks ago, he was still on there, and emailed to see if we might finally get together. Of course I agreed.

So Economist gets an A + for dating. He was prompt, and wore a very cool top, and asked me questions, and told me about his transit-related work (As you know I really am fascinated by all things transit-related). He also presented himself as kind and nice and smart without trying to. But very, very sadly, he is not hot, not even a tiny bit. And I feel so horribly shallow, but I just don't think I could pursue this without physical attraction. I left feeling like a major bitch when I vaguely agreed to see him next week, knowing that doing so would just lead him on.

The other guy was fabulous. We had instant rapport, and he was funny and smart, and clearly a good person, and we bonded over our shared love for apricots, and our interest in urban education, and our commitment to getting to the airport early. We chatted remarkably easily, and when we left he said, "I had a lovely time, would you want to get together again?" And I said, yes, absolutely, in a genuinely enthusiastic way. Then I went to get my hair cut, and the hairstylist complimented my curls, and the cut looked adorable, and I felt fabulous.

Even MORE fabulous is the fact that within 24 hours I got a glowing email from this guy, after which I gave him my phone number, and after which he called me and we had an adorable conversation in which he used enraged to describe his feelings about the presidential debates. This is such a tremendous turn-on.

Anyway, he had a fabulous suggestion to go out this week, and so that is the plan.

But here's the thing: I don't want to say anything more about it, not sure I should have even said this much, because I have this thwarted sense that if something good is happening, talking about it is somehow endangering, tempting fate. I guess it's sort of akin to being in the early stages of pregnancy, and not wanting to say anything until you know it's all good. Also, there were probably some way-too-ingrained incidents in my childhood that contributed to this psychosis. I think my parents were so careful about disappointing me that they didn't want to play up any possibility too much:

Five-year-old-me: "I'm so excited about the picnic!"
Parents: "Just be prepared, it might rain."

So therefore I won't say much more about this guy, won't even give him a name, or share any other compelling details about him. I keep trying to brace myself, thinking: he's probably just recently broken off an engagement, or else he's pining after an ex. Or maybe he's actually gay. Or maybe when we go out again he won't seem as lovely. Or, even worse, he won't think I'm as lovely. Or maybe we'll be blissfully happy together and then he'll ditch me for some model. Or ... can you think of anything else ...

It would be so nice if I could just be purely hopeful and happy, and accept that fate can also be on my side.

Posted by Dori at 7:51 AM 0 comments

Canada Part Deux

So I went out again with Canadian last night. And I just don't see it. He continues to be super smart and nice and gentlemanly, and I like his politics (and particularly his awareness of race/class issues), however,

- I cannot imagine having sex with him, and
- He didn't ask me anything about myself at all--which, if there are any men reading this--SUCKS! You need to take interest in women's lives. You really, really need to ask questions on a date.

So. Alas. Looks like there won't be universal health care in my future.

I wish I had better news for you guys.

Posted by Dori at 8:44 AM 1 comments

Extracurriculars

Like my friend M., who very eloquently describes her extracurricular headaches over at anything said, I find that I, too, have committed myself to a weekly activity that I dislike.

A bit of context: I used to be supergirl, and last year I was a full-time student, working two jobs, serving on one board, and leading another struggling nascent organization. Oh, and I also kept up with my bi-weekly writing group. And tried to go to the gym three times a week.

Part of my ongoing struggle for emotional health has always involved trying to feel good about who I am and not just what I do. I acknowledge that I've filled up my life (ever since I was quite young) with activities in order to feel needed and important and occupied, with the underlying fear that if I didn't have back-to-back meetings, and if people didn't admiringly ask me how I do it all, I'd be sitting at home, alone and bored and useless to the world.

So my challenge, as grad school was winding down, was to quit the board, abandon the struggling nascent organization, and do only things that brought me joy (like my writing group). It was one of the hardest things I have ever done, and the most liberating. I found that it was a delightful change. I cooked. I read books. I talked on the phone. I spent lazy weekends with no guilt and no nagging sense of obligation.

And yet ... my job does not afford me much company, and I live alone, so I thought it would be fun to get out in the world a little, and take an Adult Education class, particularly one combining two of my loves: Spanish and film. I signed up for "Conversational Spanish and Cinema" which meets Wednesday nights between 8 and 10:00 p.m.

The class sucks because:
- There are only a handful of people who speak really well, such that most of the conversation is really stilted, and rather than being exposed to good Spanish that will revive mine, I'm getting exposed to subjunctive slaughter. My Spanish is definitely not perfect (and it's especially rusty now, which is why I'm taking the class) but hearing so many mistakes is only making things worse.
- It is hugely inconvenient to track down obscure Spanish films when there are 12 other classmates doing the same thing. I also don't have VHS, and few of the films are on DVD, so I have to go to the library and watch the flick in the little viewing booth, which I hate.
- I also hate having to hang out at work until late and then trek over there at 8:00. Last night I suggested we start at 7:30, and everyone agreed. So at least that's an improvement.
- The class is boring. We just recap the film. Anytime anyone tries to say anything remotely analytical, the instructor kind of nods vaguely, making us feel stupid.

Question: why do I go? Because I paid for the class? I paid to have an enjoyable evening, and I would enjoy the evening much more if I were somewhere else. I have no idea why I feel compelled to maintain this drain on my Wednesdays.

Posted by Dori at 9:50 AM 0 comments

O Canada

So the Canadian emailed me on Tuesday, within 24 hours of our brunch. He proposed dinner this week, so yay about that.

I also have two other "irons in the fire" which I will tell you about as the week unfolds.

I am very, very tired this morning and do not feel like doing any work.

Posted by Dori at 9:06 AM 0 comments

Ooh! Another upDATE

If we've had the chance to talk lately, you already know that my friend E. recently met a Canadian Jewish Lawyer at a dinner party. E. described him as "short but then--so are you"; Cute "in a clean cut way"; and "liberal, but not a garbage eater." She then proceded to set us up.

Said Canadian e-mailed me early last week, mentioning the E. connection, and asking if I'd like to meet. I replied very promptly in the affirmative. This was last Sunday night. I heard nothing all week.

Given the rather precarious state of my self-esteem, I was pondering how it was possible to be rejected by someone whom I have never met, and alternately feeling enraged about his nerve in contacting me and then flaking out. As the days went by, I became more and more contemptuous, feeling that Canadian's lack of email-agility bode very poorly for our future together (even if our future did have potential to take place in his homeland, with its universal health insurance and Anne of Green Gables). He finally wrote me on Saturday, apologized for the delay, and proposed Monday brunch. He had some lame excuse for not writing--something about his law firm dissolving (yes, this is actually happening, but whatever), and I conceded that I would allow him to buy me brunch, since I have no other Monday morning plans, and no other emerging prospects at this point.

I was not direct enough about the preferred locale of this encounter, such that we met far, far away from where I live, at a cool cafe I had heard about but never been to. (I also have to say that the location, while inconvenient, was very near the place where I met my last boyfriend. I wore the same purple scarf, which had slipped into the street as we were leaving, and which my now-ex retrieved from four lanes of oncoming traffic).

But I digress. Canadian arrived at the cafe. He is really quite short--about my height, which is 5'3 or so. He has a kind of baby face with green eyes and short dark hair which I hope was glossy due to the snow/his morning shower and not to a styling product.

The menu featured French toast stuffed with ricotta and lemon, which was such a tease, because they were all out of it. (But I am not picky at all, so I just had the regular French toast with bananas, which were not incorporated into the French toast, but I made no comment at all).

Enough about the food. Canadian was super, super nice, and friendly, and funny, and told an enchanting story about his judicial clerkship. Get this: he persuaded a judge to overturn an appeal, enabling (mainly female) ambulance dispatchers to earn the same salary as (mainly male) firefighter dispatchers! This is so supremely hot.

He also made some very funny comments about living with his brother (manager of a rock band with a major (albeit Canadian) following), and waking up at four a.m. with "a band smoking up on our balcony." This was actually a very hilarious statement, but I guess you had to be there.

Also, he FENCES! I had a brief bout (ha) with fencing in college--I did it for credit for one semester, pass-fail, of course, because I really, really sucked. But Canadian fences for real, in fact, at a fencing club near where I work. This is sexy too. A guy in a white outfit, with a mesh mask, and a foil. Imagine the possibilities ...

So this was a good date, overall. I am fully prepared to learn that he will never, ever contact me, but at least I got brunch out of it.

Posted by Dori at 7:45 AM 1 comments

Anything I Can Do, Lisa Can Do Better

As you all know, my recent Brush With Fame has generated considerable buzz, which is to say, my mom has shared the experience with her friend and co-worker, Elaine. My mother has worked for about twenty years at my former elementary school, and over time, she and Elaine have bonded over many things--their shared work, Hadassah, a passion for chick flicks, and daughters of roughly the same age. Elaine's daughter, Lisa, is a year older than me, and she also lives in the Boston area, where she works as a therapist. We vaugely knew each other growing up, but were never in the same circle, largely because Lisa has always been popular and bubbly, and especially so in high school. While I may be a little bubbly now, I was dark and brooding back then.

But I digress. Elaine (and Lisa, by extension) is very interested in how much things cost, and in the general allocation of goods (including men). Elaine will routinely say that she "can't afford" the evening movie and therefore must go to the matinee, or discuss the relative merits of generic vs. brand name detergent. While I am normally understanding of various forms of financial hardship, this family is not at all hard up, and Elaine's obsession with coupons and matinees is a strange compulsive hobby rather than a necessity. I bring this up because before I got my foster car, Lisa would occasionally drive me to our hometown on holidays, and during this time I got grilled on my finances, in a way that was intelligence-gathering--it was clear that she would give a full report to her mother when she got home, and that she was expected to ask the nosy questions that Elaine could not tactfully ask of mine.

On every single trip, she would ask me how much I paid for rent, what my student-loan status was, whether my job was well-paying, and other questions about my lifestyle. Recently, Elaine and my mom came to the city to visit their respective daughters, and we all convened at my (new, roommate-free) apartment before Elaine and Lisa took off for the day. Elaine walked through the whole place, remarking on the size of the bathroom (it really is an unusually large bathroom), the size of the bedroom, the fireplace--and the bed.

In a patronizing, trying-to-be-funny, aren't-you-rich-and-spoiled tone, Elaine said, "How fancy! To have all those layers on your bed! And those colors. Your bed looks so high--it's like that story--the princess and the pea!"

She could not have annoyed me more. My bed is high, because my landlords are insanely protective of the newly finished hardwood floors, and therefore I have newspaper bunched up under each "post" of the metal bedframe I got at a discount store upon moving to Boston. The bed also looks high because the "posts" are mounted on wheels (very fancy, very princess-y). And the colors and the layers are an attempt to make the bed look lush, because it doesn't have a headboard, and the room has high ceilings that would dwarf it otherwise.

When Lisa arrived, Elaine pointed out the bed with its color and its layers and said again, "it's just like the princess and the pea! Lisa, do you know that story, about the princess who can't sleep because there's the tiniest pebble under her hundreds of mattresses?"

Lisa nodded (while I seethed), asked me how much I paid for rent, commented on that, and then sauntered over to the mantel of my non-functioning fireplace. She asked to see a photo of my boyfriend (with whom I had recently broken up). This was an important point, because my recent ex was a Jewish Lawyer, whereas her boyfriend (who arrived shortly thereafter and also got a guided tour of my apartment with particular emphasis on the bed and the bathroom) was not Jewish (a huge problem for her parents) and was unremarkably employed somewhere in Connecticut. I dug up the photo of my ex, and could sense palpable relief on Lisa's part, because Connecticut Gentile beat out Jewish Lawyer in the looks department.

The whole encounter was horrible, and even my mother was disgusted. But my mom and Elaine are good friends anyway.

Why is this coming up now? Because of my brush with fame! Of course my mom told Elaine about my date with the reality show Contestant, and of course Elaine told Lisa about it, and of course Lisa relayed back that she had seen Contestant on TV, and that he was a jerk. I shouldn't be surprised, of course. Only a jerk would want to go out with someone who sleeps among layers and has paid off her undergraduate student loans.

Posted by Dori at 6:15 PM 0 comments

My Cultural Life: An Update

So it is Sunday night and I have accomplished most of my weekend goals (the gym! the laundry! the housekeeping!), and I find myself here wrapped in my purple comforter trying to think of something witty and charming to write, and alas, I cannot. So, instead, I will brief you all on that I've been doing to enrich my mind lately.

I have read:
Middlesex, which is about a hemaphrodite, a really excellent engaging book that is as good as I was told it would be.

Taming it Down, by Kim McLarin, who wrote The Meeting of the Waters, which is one of my favorite books ever. It's a very insightful story about an interracial romance. Taming it Down sucks in comparison, but I got it for under $2.00 on Amazon, so there you go.

The Gastronomical Me, by MFK Fisher. This was a gift from Dr. Surgeon, which, along with German kitchen shears and the assembly of a very heavy cabinet from Target, I consider the spoils of that "relationship." The book is a slow, but very rich and sensual account of how MFK got interested in food. It's considered a gourmet classic of sorts.

Seventh Heaven, by Alice Hoffman. My mom got me this book for our trip to Italy. I read it on the plane trip home. It's weird but fun.

I need to read The Kite Runner which has been recommended by several friends recently.

Are you bored yet? Is this boring? Feel free to click elsewhere while I recount my latest forays into film. I am taking a Spanish Cinema and Conversation class through my local Center for Adult Education, and we have to watch Spanish-language films for homework.

Maria Full of Grace. I actively did not want to see this when it came out, because I thought it would be horrible, scary, and graphic. It's about Colombian drug mules, and actually much easier to watch than I expected. It's a very well-executed movie, and watching the DVD commentary helped me appreciate and understand the political context. I watched this for Wednesday's class.

The Take. I saw this with Mr. Ponytail. It's a Canadian documentary about labor politics in Argentina. As I mentioned at some point, it's really moving and worth seeing. I always get a little misty-eyed around the labor movement. It's such good stuff.

The Official Story. This is an Argentine movie about "the disappeared" (people who were randomly kidnapped as "subversives" during Argentina's "Dirty War"). Also worth seeing--the main story is about an adoptive mother who learns some scary details about the origins of her daughter. I saw this in high school and it's still good now.

I Don't Want to Talk About It. Another Argentine movie (takes place in the 1930s) about a guy who falls in love with a dwarf. I thought it was quite bizarre, but the instructor at Adult Ed loves it and says it's brilliant.

The Other Side of the Bed. Horrible, horrible Spanish movie I saw because the video store didn't have what I wanted. It's a semi-musical with Paz Vega (who is in Spanglish and who is so beautiful it's unreal, and a great actress under other circumstances). This flick is completely insufferable--please don't rent it.

Sideways. (What, you're still reading?) I thought this movie was entirely overrated. I liked it, but would have liked it much more sans hype. I have also enjoyed recent debate over whether the main character is an alcoholic (I didn't initially think so, but now I do).

I am absolutely sick of my music collection, but have been playing the soundtrack to In Good Company (which I also described earlier), which I love but am already getting tired of. I need some new tunes.

CONFESSIONS
My name is Dori, and I am addicted to Bravo's Project Runway (Hi, Dori) which is a reality show about aspiring fashion designers, hosted by Heidi Klum, who is a colossal bitch. Today was a "Project Runway Marathon." I love watching each week's "design challenge" and I'm fully rooting for the sweet and talented Kara Saun to win this Wednesday.

I have also been known to watch MTV's My Super Sweet Sixteen which documents some horrible, spoiled, much-too-wealthy-and-obnoxious kids as they plan their extravagant birthday parties (one chick flew to Paris to go dress shopping, couldn't find anything, and then had both dresses (to wear during parts I and II of her party) custom-made upon her return).

I will keep you all posted on upcoming entries in my cultural calendar.

Posted by Dori at 7:15 PM 0 comments

A Strongly Worded Glossary

Today I had a completely delightful lunch at A.'s, which, as usual, filled me with both nutritional and spiritual nourishment. It was the best lunch in ages. It became apparent during lunch that a lexicon has emerged lately. Below please find the highlights of vocabulary you may encounter herein:

Bonding. Definition: meaningful social interaction. Origin: me. Usage: We had lunch last week, but it was kind of rushed, so we didn't get to bond.

14 Billion Years. Definition: a long time. Origin: me. Usage: It took 14 Billion years to get the snow off my car after that storm.

Boy Apartment. Definition: an abode with technology as its focal point, and an absence of cutlery. Origin: unknown. Usage: I love that he has on-demand, but it's such a boy apartment and I had to eat my cereal with a fork.

Breastfeeding. Definition: immaturity and overdependence on one's mother. Origin: Spain. It was fun doing flamenco with him, but he's still breastfeeding, and I'm looking for someone much more mature.

Conversational Narcissist. Definition: one who won't shut up. Origin: Sociology 101. Usage: I feel like a conversational narcissist going on and on about my work issues.

Departure Mode. Definition: transitory, uninvested. Origin: my friend N. when she moved to Atlanta. Usage: I'm totally in departure mode, so I'm not going to bother being nice to the office manager during my last week at work.

"From the Community." Definition: disparaging reference to the politically correct euphemism for disadvantaged, at-risk, or of-color. Origin: K's anti-hunger work. Usage: They wanted her to speak even though she had no interest in the cause because she's "from the community" and they thought the teens would relate to her."

Garbage Eater. Definition: progressive to a fault. Origin: my friend E., who coined the term to describe one of my boyfriends who attended a protest in which all the participants ate garbage in solidarity with the poor. Or something. Usage: I think you'll like him. He's liberal, but not a garbage eater.

God's Waiting Room. Definition: A nursing home. Origin: A.'s mother-in-law.

Hein. Definition: heinous, awful. Origin: college. Usage: I can't believe he liked that sweater. I made it disappear. It was so, so hein.

Hobligations. Definition: unwanted holiday obligations. Origin: also my beloved friend A.P.., who hates Christmas. Usage: I hate Yankee Swaps, company holiday parties, and all those other hobligations.

Nipping Out. Definition: protrusion of nipples through a shirt, usually due to cold. Origin: my friend Rebecca, who worked in an over-air-conditioned building. Usage: I'm so embarrassed that my boss saw me without my sweater--I was totally nipping out.

Prospect. Definition: someone I might go out with. Origin: me. Usage: He's funny and cute, but he's not a prospect because he's fully gay.

Secret Date. Definition: a date which is not discussed until after it happens. Origin: my friend R., who used to only get after-the-fact upDATES. Usage: Dori, did you really have a boring weekend, or did you have a secret date?

Skills. Definition: sexual dexterity. Origin: unknown. Usage: he was the hottest guy I ever dated, but it didn't matter, because he had no skills.

Vortex of Gloom. Definition: depression. Origin: my former roommate's mental health. Usage: I can't stand living with J.. I feel sorry for her, but it's out of control. Her mother is staying with us for the second week in a row, taking care of her and helping her get out of bed every day. She's been sucked into the vortex of gloom.

Wa. Definition: Weird and Awkward. Origin: my beloved friend A.P.. Usage: That party was so Wa. All the guests were anti social.

Am I missing anything? Come on, now! Post away!

Posted by Dori at 6:24 PM 0 comments

Automotive Humilation

So, remember my foster car, the one I'm taking care of for a friend-of-a-friend who's spending the year in England?

Well, said car has been the source of recent humiliation.

1) My daily drive to work includes a very rough stretch of road full of cracked pavement and potholes. This leads to daily anxiety about the tires. For weeks, I've been meaning to check the tire pressure or the air pressure or whatever it's called. However, I don't know how to do that. Ultimately, I overcame my shame and asked the guy at the service station to show me, and I even did one of the tires myself as an effort to "fish for a lifetime." But, even though the guy was ultra nice, I still felt like a an incompetent Woman Driver.

2) I've been similarly worried about the status of the oil, because my dad has encouraged me on multiple occasions to get it checked. Which I did months ago, and apparently very luckily so, because they had to put in two containers of oil, and also apparently, had I not taken care of this, I would have caused serious damage to the car. Since then I think about the oil alot. Last week, I asked the guy who filled my gas tank(which I also don't know how to do) to check it. Gentle readers, I could not find the lever that opens the hood. Even the guy couldn't find it. There was a orange lever beneath the wheel, but I assumed that it was intended for some emergency purpose, and that if I pulled it I would set off alarms or airbags or something. I had to drive away without checking the oil. When I was safely parked at work, I got out the manual and learned that--yes--the orange lever opens the hood.

3) I can't park. I suck at parking. I don't even attempt parallel parking, but I can't even consistently get the car within equal distance from the yellow lines in a parking lot. Even worse, I really have difficulty getting the car close to the curb, even when there is an empty curb ahead of me. I am so embarassed by this that I try to park far from my house so that my landlady won't observe my 15-minute long process of approaching the curb, opening the door, finding that the car is still too far away, and starting over.

4) I may have left my lights on recently and had to ask Bob at work how I would know if the battery had died (it's fine).

Do other people come out of the womb knowing this stuff? Should I have paid more attention in Driver's Ed?

Posted by Dori at 9:48 AM 2 comments

Back, Unscathed

Just a quick note to thank everyone for the support and encouragement I received yesterday. In the end, my scary meeting was fine. I delivered the unwanted news. Everyone listened and nodded and agreed we need to take drastic measures. My two favorite meeting participants totally had my back. The meeting ended seven minutes early. YAY!

Too bad successes like this reinforce my anxious behavior--apparently if I worry enough about something, it will turn out fine.

Posted by Dori at 9:44 AM 0 comments

Got Anxiety?

I just took a clonapin. Clonapin is a lovely, lovely medication that comes in chewable yellow tablets. I first started taking it during my first summer of grad school, when I had to live through six hours a week of statistics class, during which the professor would randomly call on people (really bark at them) and then grade their responses to his questions. The grade for a response was roughly equivalent to a full homework assignment, so these were high stakes. The experience was so nerve-racking that my heart would flutter erratically during the whole day, while I endured wariness of forthcoming doom. I took clonapin before every class, and it helped.

Anxiety and I go way back. As a pretty little kid I worried that horrible things would happen to me or my loved ones, and I did lots of OCD things to keep everyone safe and sound. I have now abandoned most of these habits, and the accompanying beliefs, although I still like my shoes to be placed right-to-left when I take them off, and I don't sign important papers in black ink. OK, and maybe I have some other vestiges of the condition, but my main challenge is believing that most things eventually work out, and even if they don't, they're "survive-able".

For the last week, I have been stressing about my meeting tonight, in which I have to present some difficult news to some people who aren't going to like it. I contacted every single person to give them the head's up in advance, to get their feedback on how to present the information, and (hopefully) to prevent them attacking me or firing me or dropping dead from shock. I've put together tables and graphs and statistics in case they fire detailed questions at me and I feel all shaken and defensive. I am wearing a blazer and striving to Look Professional so that at least I don't look like a 27-year-old lacking authority or brains.

But still, I didn't sleep last night. I kept dreaming about the meeting, about all the issues I have to deal with, about what kind of information I can gather to make this discussion more acceptable and rational. Mixed in with my fears about this particular meeting are all the other stealthy worries that accompany it: You should never have taken this job. You're eventually going to have to leave it. You're going to run out of money. You'll never have a stable professional life. Failing will mark you for the rest of your career. In fact: you suck.

If someone else were in my position, I would tell her: it's not your responsibility to manage other people's responses or singlehandedly reverse the funding environment. All you can do right now is to "design the environment, trust the process." If you don't know the answer to a particular question, it's OK to say so. These people hired you instead of other older and wiser applicants. It's just an organization. It's just a job. It's just a job."

It's just a job. I want to write that in big letters over my desk. Inscribe it on a plaque. Use it as a catalyst when I'm paralyzed by all the things I should but don't want to do.

Posted by Dori at 3:42 PM 4 comments

Radical? Hypocrite? Me?

I'm wondering whether, as a result of my illustrious career of working with screwed over populations, my studies in extraordinarily left-leaning institutions, and being fed (by my left-leaning, well-informed friends) particularly outrageous bits of news (for the most part disproportionately so, because I am admittedly not so interested in the normal news), I may have become one of those women at whom I used to roll my eyes.

I may be just a tiny bit radical, or come off as more radical than I actually am. Here are some indicators:

1) The word fascist peppers my vocabulary.

2) I have contempt for: developers of luxury condos, Republicans (and especially those who voted for Bush), stockbrokers (this is unreasonable! what's wrong with making money, after all?), people who voted for the Greens, people who don't recycle, unenlightened people (by which I mean unenlightened to my beliefs), even people on Jdate who identify as "midway moderate" (what the fuck is that? Take a stand, people!)

3) I am disgusted by anything related (even indirectly) to George Bush. I sneered when Laura Bush went on the radio the other day talking about how important it is for us to nurture boys and fund boys' programs--because it is they who end up in jail and in gangs. Umm ... I feel for them ... but ... their female counterparts are pregnant (because they have so much access to birth control and sex education), or getting beaten up by the aforementioned male gang members, or discriminated against in science classes (because there is so much funding dedicated to science education these days), or out in the street because of cuts to their welfare benefits (I'm not even going there).

As my (generally liberal) mom pointed out, providing education and programs for boys might prevent some of these anti-girl problems (who's doing the abusing and impregnating, after all?). Good point. But I just abhor anything that comes out of that White House, even if it might be (gasp!) a good idea.

4) I hear myself condemning normal people who want to enjoy living in their nice neighborhoods. Recently, my organization was accused of trying to "bludegeon" people into accepting affordable housing. Am I a bludgeoner? How did that happen? I myself aspire to live in an adorable house with granite countertops and a really quiet dishwasher. I don't care if poor people live near my house, but I'd like it to be in a nice and integrated area.

5) I am revolted by America's obsession with wealth--all those shows on VH1 about how it's "Good to Be Paris Hilton". I think it's disgusting that people admire celebs who do nothing but have and spend money.

I genuinely believe that there's nothing wrong with being rich, or aspiring to be rich. Many rich people work hard for what they have, and many people who inherit wealth are also good people who happen to have money. I do think everyone has an obligation to give back, and it bothers me that our culture and our media rarely portray philanthropy or generosity as benefits of wealth.

Personally, I would love to have more money, and if I did, I would give some of it away to good causes, and I would definitely keep a lot of it for myself (to buy Pottery Barn furniture, for example, and that quiet dishwasher I mentioned). I am also willing to admit that, while I am definitely not a gold-digger, I hope that my life partner will be financially secure, because I want my kids to have the kind of advantages I had (trips to Europe and good college and a comfortable if not luxurious lifestyle).

Does this make me a hypocrite? It concerns me that my big mouth and my strong words might make me sound this way. Am I a bourgeoise Pottery-Barn-loving-sheep in scrappy-radical- wolf clothing? Do I come off as someone intolerant of a capitalist system, even while I have and plan to enjoy it?

Early morning questions for us all to ponder.

Posted by Dori at 9:12 AM 1 comments

Fantasy . Reality.

What might have happened yesterday:

1) The former object of my obsessive crush could have raced to my house and stood in the rain with a colossal bouquet of roses--begging me to forgive his year of appalling mixed messages--while I dispassionately watched him get wet, revelling in tables turned.

2) Striped-hat-guy from the bus could have knelt in front of my car and begged me to resume taking public transportation, then whisked me into the back seat and had his way with me.

3) Contestant could have swung by in his limo and insisted that, even though we have nothing in common, my stunning "quite cute" looks merit Valentine's day love and attention, such that he felt compelled to fly me out to Key West for key lime pie, sunshine, warmth, and maybe a book deal.

4) Some amazing, brilliant, sweet, and hot Jewish guy could have appeared almost anywhere and entreated me to go out--and eventually marry--him.

Alas, this is the romantic attention I got yesterday. From Mr. Ponytail. So sweet. And yet, so cruel:

Hi Dori...

All right. I debated a lot whether to send this one. I know, I know, the chemistry isn't there for you. But I just wanted to let you know that there's at least one guy out there...ME...that thinks you're a pretty nifty gal. *DON'T* let this note make you feel uncomfortable in any way. Just simply admired. No awkward flowers, no chocolate, no love notes, no other intentions (for better or worse). I'm just sending you a one-way :-) compliment to let you know that I know you to be someone pretty special.

Posted by Dori at 8:48 AM 1 comments

Brush With Fame

On Friday I was driving to work and radio-station-surfing, because NPR was having this insufferable fund drive, in which they interrupted every five minutes of programming several times to talk about what a great idea it is to buy red roses or chocolates from NPR, for $125, and surprise your Valentine while supporting news and in-depth coverage. Iwas astonished by how much air time could be dedicated to this topic. They went on and on and on, about the operators standing by, about how we should all pick up the phone immediately, and get the business of V-Day accomplished before the last-minute rush.

Since there was only so much of this I could take, I flipped to some pop-music station, and listened to an interview with a Reality Show Contestant (recently kicked off his show) who said some adorable things about needing a Valentine's Day date, and asking single women to check out his website and send him an email if they wanted to go out.

While I am a fan of this particular Reality Show, I have not watched it at all this season, so I did not know anything about the Contestant. But there was something about his cute voice and utter lack of pretension that I really liked. I mulled it over all day.

In the afternoon, I was procrastinating, and suddenly, I was seized with recklessness. What could I lose by emailing this guy? Of course I didn't remember his name, so I had to search through the Reality Show's website, and after considerable investigation I was able to find his info and send him a message. During this process, I had a few lucid moments during which I asked myself what the hell was I thinking. I reassured myself that he would never, ever respond to my email, because he's famous and also for sure every woman listening to that radio station has already long ago emailed him, and by now he probably had a date lined up for every night between V-Day and the 4th of July. At least.

The lucidity evaporated. I started writing. The email function on his website only allowed for a set number of characters, so I wrote a little bit about myself based on his questions, and then included the URL of this very blog that you are reading right now with your very own eyes.

OK, and then twenty minutes later I checked my faux-email account and found a message from him! I expected an auto-response. But NO. It was really from him. He liked the blog. He asked me for a photo, since I allegedly already knew what he looks like. From the show. Which I have never seen.

EEK! But by now there was no going back. I emailed back with my photo. And then I left the office and who should I run into but M.! My friend M. who will probably appreciate this more than anyone, because she is a connoisseur of pop culture. I told her about my technological Brush with Fame and she was as excited as I had anticipated, although, having actually watched the show, she warned me that she did not think that me and the Contestant would be a compatible. I didn't care (too much), since, I thought, I'm never going to meet him anyway. Seeing as he's defininitely booked until the 4th of July.

So before I go on, let me just review my Brushes With Fame up until this point:
- When I was in elementary school I met Bill Cosby's daughter several times (she was a friend of a friend) and his wife took me and some other kids trick-or-treating.
- I tried to serve coffee once to Gloria Steinem at a fundraiser (she declined).
- I think I saw Ian Zierning from 90210 in a parking lot in Florida, but his identity was never confirmed.

That's it. Not at all impressive.

So this whole thing--uncharted territory. When I woke up on Sunday I checked my faux email, and when I saw I had a message I assumed it was from Amazon or something, but alas, no, it was from the Contestant himself. He wrote "you are quite cute." (!) And he suggested "grabbing a drink" on Sun. night. (!!!)

Of course I would grab a drink! I emailed back to this effect, suggesting a bar very near to my house, because even if he is famous, I don't want to trek downtown in the cold on a Sunday night.

I heard nothing. All day. I checked my email repeatedly. Just as I was ready to write the whole thing off, he wrote back. "Just got into Beantown. Give me a call: here's my cell number."

Was he like jet-setting in from the Red Carpet? Was he doing a promo tour at the Playboy mansion or something? Was I supposed to call him in his limo? Would his personal assistant answer the phone? I hate calling people. Hate, hate, hate it. And I have never called a famous person before.

But like I said, this was too good to pass up. He seemed genuinely nice. I called. We exchanged banter. He said I sounded "peppy." He really did sound like he was in a limo, but he insisted he was not.

So we made plans to meet at this cool new bar near my house. I went to the Reality Show's website and brushed up on what had transpired thus far.

I arrived at the bar and he greeted me at the door. Let me just say right off:
1) He was at the bar with his friend, a real-estate mogul.
2) He was an ultra-gentleman (opened the door for me, took my coat, got me a seat, got me a drink).
3) He was cuter and taller and sexier than I expected (you all know I'm a sucker for edgy glasses).
4) He really had just flown in from L.A. (no joke: doing a talk show), and was exhausted and jet-lagged, which he proclaimed apologetically right away.

I felt so bad that he had come all the way to my neighborhood despite his exhaustion because clearly:

1) I know nothing about media, music, or celebrities.
2) He really is famous (he has a publicist) and I am just so supremely ordinary.
3) I probably gave the impression of being dull and dumb and naive.

I did not ask him too much about the Reality Show experience because I imagine people ask him about it all the time, and I didn't want to be all starry-eyed and groupie-esque, but we started off talking a little bit about that. And then he asked me about my work, and seemed interested, and said something about leftists, and I said Supremely Stupid Thing #1: "well, we can talk about that as long as we're not surrounded by fascist Republicans."

YES, ladies and gentlemen, the Real Estate Mogul friend is a Republican.

The friend made a gesture towards the check, and I said Supremely Stupid Thing #2:
"Are you leaving?" I thought he was leaving and I was trying to be friendly and entreat him to stay. And of course he wasn't planning to leave at all, but now it looked like I was trying to get rid of him.

AND, while we were discussing my work, the friend talked about his work developing luxury condos, which, how funny ... offends every last fiber of my philosophical and professional being. Among the enraging things he said (just to paraphrase):

1) [about rent control] "well, I think it's a capitalistic [sic] system, and people who work hard to invest in property shouldn't be barred from making a profit."
2) [about the ghettos in Detroit] "well, the gang members that burn down their own neighborhoods just don't have any rational sense. If they did, they'd think: 'maybe it's not a good idea to burn down my house.'"
3) [smiling] "I'm a big, bad developer."

So we stayed there for a while. I had a mojito. We watched bits of the Grammys on TV. I revealed my utter ignorance of the music industry (did you all know that STP stands for Stone Temple Pilots?). The whole interaction was kind of surreal. The Contestant was very nice and very polite and very tired. Eventually and we all headed out--and I walked home after declining a ride and wondering whether Contestant was falling asleep in the car wishing he'd never emailed me ever.

Posted by Dori at 11:15 PM 4 comments

Sex, Time, and Raquel

When I was a mere lass of 26, I nurtured an obsessive crush on S., who
was 32.

My unrequited love piqued my interest in the fundamental differences between the sexes and ages. As a 26-year-old-woman, I was deeply impressed by my age-mates who had procured commitments from older men. In particular, I harbored profound admiration for my friend Raquel, who was engaged to 30-year-old Matt.

According to Leonard Shlain, author of Sex, Time and Power: How Women's Sexuality Shaped Human Evolution, biology accounts for the disconnect between men and women’s sexual development, for the vexing misalignment of response. According to Shlain, the reason women peak sexually in their thirties and men climax in their late teens is not an unhappy coincidence; nor is the much-maligned incongruence between the duration of stimulation required by members of each sex (since, even in the cave days, willingness to meet woman’s complex sexual needs was likely to correspond to staying power in other arenas). Shlain asserts that women (or gynosapiens) are the only females in the animal kingdom who experience orgasm—and that Nature has bestowed this unique privilege upon us because we are also the only females who have caught on to the causal relationship between intercourse and childbearing. Because women understand that procreation can result in pregnancy followed by hazardous, painful childbirth, there has to be something to entice them to do it more than once.

Shlain’s insights are illuminating, but they fail to account for a key element of human development—which I have named the Age of Raquel in honor of my friend. The Age of Raquel, which spans roughly age 25-30, is a “sweet spot” in women’s development. It is characterized by physical attractiveness, confidence, mastery of one’s sexual response, and a powerful urge to find an outlet for these newfound abilities. In sharp contrast to her adolescence, a woman in the throes of the Age of Raquel is motivated. She has come to terms with her career goals, her physique, and her intellect. She is interested in sustaining relationships and emotional nourishment.

And while the concept of “dog years” (7 years to every human’s) is a widely accepted method of comparing proportional life spans of humans and canines, no similar mechanism exists to correlate men and women’s maturity levels, even though it is widely, heuristically known that a man at age 32 is in the throes of the male equivalent of the age of Raquel. In other words, a 32-year-old man is 26 in “boy years.” He is in the midst of a “sweet spot” as well—he has his career sorted out, he’s developed relationship skills, he’s finally gotten through Boy and Guy and become a Man.

And herein lies the problem Shlain doesn’t begin to address. My own completely unscientific observations suggest that while 26-year-old women devote considerable time and energy to talking and thinking about relationships; wistfully gazing at their friends’ engagement rings and made-over fiancées, their male counterparts are oblivious, avoiding commitment, Pottery Barn, and the very cafes, singles functions, and setups that Raquel doggedly pursues.

The 32-year-old males have been consumed by love and unceremonially spit back out; they are jaded, blasé, they have sworn off relationships. Biology is on their side, as is the fact that they can attract women within a 10-year age spectrum. This newfound variety is enticing. And it reinforces a romantic bottleneck: noncommittal 32-year-old men frustrating the 26-year-old women who want them.

Of course there are exceptions—there are married 26-year-olds. And there are 26-year-olds married to 30-year-olds (Raquel and Matt come to mind).
I propose that Shlain consider this topic for his next book; like many other areas of scientific inquiry, this one is certainly worthy of further study.

Posted by Dori at 10:59 AM 1 comments

Mr. Ponytail Discovers Gender

So Mr. Ponytail and I went out last night, and in the effort to overcome my picky image, I conceded to eat Indian food, which, coincidentally, is the only ethnic food I don't like (I don't like the texture. It's all hot and mushy. Most other cuisines have at least some crisp/crunchy elements). We saw The Take, which is about labor cooperatives in Argentina. This sounds dull and arcane, but it was a really lovely, moving film.

Our pre-movie conversation was even more interesting. Mr. Ponytail had just finished reading two books about the biology that influences male/female behavior. He was intrigued to learn that men's prowess with spatial relations/maps stems from their evolution as hunters (in the cave days, the men had to chase mammoths, and then figure out how to get back to the cave), while women's superior relationship skills stem from their role as gatherers/nurturers. Yes, yes, I know these are stereotypes, but research has proven differences between the male and female brains, and the conclusions are based on this science. So deal.

I was amused that all this was new to him. He was surprised I knew this already. He asked, How do you know all about biology and gender behavior?

I'm a woman. I think about this stuff all the time.

Which all brought me back to some research I did during the era of my obsessive crush, outlined herein.

Posted by Dori at 10:38 AM 1 comments

Picky, Picky, Picky

So, tonight is the movie with Mr. Ponytail. We had one of those week-long-email- movie-planning experiences, which I despise, particularly because the showtimes for Fri night only come out later in the week, such that a bunch of the movies I had been willing to see are no longer playing, and the ones playing today I've either seen, don't want to see, or don't want to see with Mr. Ponytail. There is a very interesting documentary coming out today on children of Indian prostitutes, as well as a Bollywood version of Pride and Prejudice, but I believe that neither of these are flicks appropriate for viewing with a male acquaintance.

There is only one other movie that I am willing to spend $9 on, which, admittedly, is kind of extreme given that there probably over 30 movies playing right now in the Greater Boston Area. Mr. Ponytail emailed me today to confirm our plan and he jokingly called me picky, because I don't want to see Million Dollar Baby, or most other movies, and also because I don't like lamb or seafood.

This pisses me off. He meant it in a nice and funny way. But based on three (3) interactions, I believe it is an unfair accusation. First off, I am allergic to shellfish, so he can't hold that against me. And I like almost all food except for lamb. More importantly, I recognize the fine line between being picky/finicky and discerning. I constantly argued with my last boyfriend about this. He deemed me picky because I don't think chocolate sauce should go on key lime pie. Because I don't watch violent or scary movies. Because I insist on brand-name dental floss (the other kind shreds. I know. I've tried it.).

Am I picky because I know what I want and strive to get it? Do people prefer those women who say "oh, whatever"--or worse--"I don't know" when asked where to eat or what to do? Is it wrong to want to enjoy a Friday night, especially when one's companion is not one's #1 choice?

Picky is not seeing a movie because of its locale. Picky is refusing to eat what's on the menu, and pulling a When Harry Met Sally by ordering salad with dressing on the side and five million substitutions. Picky is fussy, difficult to please, un-fun. So call me discerning, OK?

Posted by Dori at 9:16 AM 2 comments

Coincidence?

My brother just met a new dating prospect, at a concert, in New York City. It turns out that her mother teaches at my alma mater (in Massachusetts). And, in fact, her mother was not just one of my professors but also my major advisor—the woman who wrote me the most amazing recommendation letter, flinging open a number of professional doors.

I am no longer surprised when such coincidences emerge. It really is a small world, especially in New England, among people from or in concentric social and academic circles.

My friend Avi once hosted a party at which he encouraged the dozens of guests to chart their connections. He put his name in the center of a large sheet of newsprint and the guests wrote their names in circles along the edge of the page. The layout resembled a child's drawing of the solar system. The guests drew lines to their names, writing ragged magic marker explanations: "Avi's college roommate", "Avi's sister", "Avi's friend from lab."

After a while, the guests identified the links between each other. We all marveled at the number of new connections; by the end of the night, the chart consisted of a tangle of lines and names, some red wine, and a dash of spinach dip. Ariella had come to the party with Avi's sister, but she knew me from college and her brother had once been my camp counselor.

I met my last roommate (now my close friend, the one who has a baby) on bostonapartments.com.. Within days of cohabitation, I discovered that she was dating the ex-boyfriend a woman I'd met briefly in Spain. My other roommate, it turned out, had studied on the same junior year abroad program as I had. She had also lived with the ex-girlfriend of the guy I was was dating at the time.

Even though all our lives intersect all the time, we uncover these connections with undiminishing surprise and delight. New acquaintances actively work to uncover them. Sometimes I wonder why. My college had close to 2,000 students, and I am repeatedly asked: Did you know a girl named Sarah? She's short, with brown hair, I can't remember her last name, but I think she lived in a dorm with ivy on it?

Even when the woman in question is Sarah Horowitz, with whom I lived during my entire first year of college, the initial elated reaction quickly evaporates into anticlimactic silence:

"Wow, so you know Sarah!"

"Yeah! That's crazy!"

"We used to be roommates. We got along really well."

[Moment of tension: my friendly recollections could be met by a gasp of horror if the person I'm talking to is, unbeknownst to me, Sarah's mortal enemy or the girl she screwed out of a sublet junior year.]

"What's she doing now?"

"She does computer trainings and is applying to grad school."

"Cool."

[Silence]

"Excuse me. I'm going to go snag some chips."

In fact, I ran into the real live Sarah Horowitz two years ago, at a spectacular all-female brunch hosted by a mutual friend. Neither Sarah nor I knew that the other would attend, but I immediately recognized her. Sarah’s looks hadn't changed at all in the six years since we'd last seen each other. Still, she came right up to me and my broccoli quiche and brazenly introduced herself and her current roommate. She actually said, "Hi, I'm Sarah." And I chortled and responded, "Hi, I'm Dori, and I lived in the same room with you for an entire year!"

Sarah cringed, and attributed her slip to too much champagne. I could see that the exchange had unnerved her. When Sarah transferred to a different college, each of us had dismissed the other as lost in space. Suddenly we had to confront the fact that we were simply part of a bigger orbit that encompassed both of us.

It felt jarring that Sarah had moved on, moved forward without me, despite a year of sharing stresses and triumphs and a halogen lamp. Apparently, this closeness did not bond us together at all; six years later, I'd become some girl at a party who looked vaguely familiar. Sarah's life continues even without me in it, my life continues without her. And our unexpected meeting forced us to confront that fact.

There’s no getting around the six degrees of separation—even when one is intentionally separating. (Best) case in point: once, despite feeling estranged and jet lagged at the start of a short trip to Venezuela, I attended a crowded party and recognized the familiar accent of an evidently Israeli guest. I was able to establish that this woman was originally from the same city as my parents, and I tried to launch into the process of mapping our orbits. The woman stopped me abruptly; "I haven't been back in over twenty years and I'm really not in contact with anyone from there."

"But maybe you know Eitan Rosen?" I probed: friendly, social. And the other woman had to cough into her napkin when she admitted, "he's my brother."

Posted by Dori at 9:05 AM 0 comments

The Inconvience of Nice: Mr. Ponytail Returns

So you all remember Mr. Ponytail, right? He was the sweet, sweet guy with whom I went out twice, felt no chemistry, and then exchanged let's-be-friends emails. Since then we have met for a movie, and we continue to email as follows: he wants to correspond regularly. Me ... not so much.

Normally I love, love, love email. Before I started blogging, I'd send long messages to all my friends, not just when I had important news, but just to keep them updated on dumb everyday things (now the blog expedites this. My friends are informed, up-to-the-minute, about everything, especially the dumb things). When I lived in Spain I sent daily messages to my mom--now I have a veritable journal of that time. So you see that usually, in an email relationship, I'm the one writing the most, responding the soonest, etc.

However, this is not the case now. I notice that Mr. Ponytail writes a lot, and writes often. He asks endearing questions about my work (which is rare and wonderful), and writes about his news, and proposes outings.

For some reason, this has become a burden. I squirm when I see his name in my inbox, and I avoid writing back until not doing so becomes rude. I do not feel like writing a whole manifesto about a public hearing or the progress of the proposal I'm working on (interesting, since I do that for you all on a very regular basis.) While I genuinely do want to see the movies we've discussed, the whole things feels inconvenient to me. Seeing my current friends takes major priority over hanging out with him, and also, as sweet and nice as he is (I can't say that enough) he's a little dull. I've realized that the reason I'm not into him romantically, or even friend-ishly (besides the ponytail) is that he has no Edge.

For me, Edge is an absolute requirement in a guy (and a friend, now that I think of it). A lot of women don't need it--avoid it--or don't understand it. And Edge is hard to define. It's a cynical streak, a little subtle bitchiness, a somewhat wicked sense of humor. Edge is not mean. It's not demeaning. It's just, to be totally cliched, the salt that brings out the flavor (and, in human terms, complements the goodness and sweetness that makes me love someone). I need to be with someone who isn't nice all the time and doesn't expect constant niceness from me.

So. Mr. Ponytail has no Edge. Very nice guy, but no go. And yet I've put myself in the situation where I feel obligated to write to him (he writes me pretty long emails, and, obviously, I can't just refer him to my blog for updates about me), feel obligated to see him, and--please don't think I'm an egomaniac--I feel the tiniest worry that maybe he's holding out to see if I might fall in love with him despite my clear indications to the contrary. The reason for this worry is that I told him specifically to repost his sweet and lovely Internet personal ad, and he has not.

So. I find myself with regular witty, well-written messages from him, which are equally nice and detailed and prompt regardless of the brevity and lapse in my responses.

Suggestions?

Posted by Dori at 9:14 AM 1 comments

When Life Gives You Lemons, Don't Make Shaker Pie

As I've mentioned, I love lemons in many forms. On my last visit home, my mom sent me away with a gorgeous bag of ripe lemons and a mission. What do I do with them? It's too cold for lemonade. Five lemons is a lot!

I consulted my trusty Fannie Farmer Cookbook, and decided to make lemon curd (apparently excellent on cake or toast) and a Shaker pie. I once had the blissful privilege of eating a Shaker pie. It's a pie filled with slivers of whole lemon (skin and all), that have been softened and sweetened with sugar. The memory of that Shaker pie has lived with me since that day, and I've often contemplated making one myself.

However, baking is not one of my core competencies. I'm good at cooking savory things, and I enjoy it. Baking and desserts stress me out. I like fruit salad, garnished pound cake, chocolate-covered strawberries, things that don't require the precision baking requires. Usually, the whole whipping and timing and measuring just doesn't do it for me.

But on Sunday, I challenged myself. Why not try to make Shaker pie? I had five lemons, after all. The lemon curd I made was excellent (why wouldn't it be? It was comprised of lemon peel, a whole stick of butter, sugar, four eggs, and 7T of lemon juice, all gently and lovingly stirred together in a double boiler). So Shaker pie should come easily. I thought briefly about what I would do with the pie once it was bake. I couldn't (shouldn't) eat the whole pie by myself. Bringing it to my tiny office wouldn't do. Would anyone want to come over spontaneously for dessert? The prospect of a whole pie made me a little lonely.

But I forged ahead. I marinated the lemon slivers as directed. For three hours and one minute (the recipe said at least three hours, and recommended overnight, but life is short). I incorporated lemon curd into the marinated lemon slivers (a twist on the recipe that, I thought, would surely be an improvement). I puckered the edges of the pie crust such that it resembled the photo in the cookbook.

And then I put it in the oven, turned down the heat when it started to burn, and then removed it as directed. The hot, bubbling lemony goodness looked and smelled irresistible.

Too bad it tasted wretched. I don't know what was wrong with that pie, but it tasted bitter and awful, and instead of letting the lemons go to waste I ultimately wasted the lemons, plus all the other ingredients, including a nine-inch Pillsbury Piecrust.

I am going to stick to my core competency. If this happens again I am making Egg and Lemon Soup.

Posted by Dori at 9:14 AM 0 comments

Primary Friends

So on Friday night we had a two-fold adventure.

Fold #1: we drove to deep into suburbia, to see R.'s house (yes, my friend R. is now certifiable homeowner!)

Fold #2: we drove from suburbia to Rhode Island, where we K. lives, and where she was hosting game night: a Friend Integration event and a boyfriend debut.

Before I recount any of the details, I must note that the highlight of the evening was spending about four hours total with close friends, on a multi-leg road trip reminiscent of college (OK, I confess, I never had close friends in college, nor did we ever go on a road trip, but if I had, this experience would have been reminiscent of it). When, in our busy, over-scheduled lives, to we ever spend four hours together without a meal, without movies, without some kind of activity? How rare and nice is it to just speed through the darkness and talk!

And talk we did. It took almost an hour to get to R.'s, and the further we got, the more convinced we were that we were lost, that we had passed R. and her fiance's new house, that we had somehow been sucked irretrievably off the map. And just then, miraculously, we pulled into the driveway. The car got stuck in the snow, and we had to push it back into the street, but it was still extremely exciting.

The house is set pretty far back from the road, in a pretty, wooded area, and it is very big with a huge yard, a hot tub (!), fireplaces, and an enormous back room (it spans the whole house) which the realtor called "the Tuscan room" (perhaps because the exposed beams that suggest Northern Italy?). According to R., "we can't think of any other name for it. Now it's the Tuscan room for evermore." The house (which is still unoccupied) has echoes of its previous owners and their frou-frou taste: angel-shaped towel holders, grape leaf switchplates, and a single floral border that wraps around the top of almost every wall. But the exciting part was seeing the potential--already, great new colors in the living area, a stunning new table and chairs, light flooding through the French doors, R.'s creativity and talent just springing into action. I could imagine an autumn evening sipping cider in the hot tub--the 4th of July on the lawn, furniture nestling into place, a cozy home taking shape.

So, after the tour, we were over an hour late to K's, and we piled into the car bound for Providence, bemoaning the fact that we had almost an hour to drive and that it was already getting late. We called K. to give her our ETA, and she sounded kind of panicked, so we worried that some awkwardness was occuring with the guests she had invited from her graduate program. K. moved to Rhode Island in the Fall to attend grd school--before that, she lived for three years in the same neighborhood as me. Friday was our first encounter with her Providence Crowd and also her new Love Interest. A Friend Integration process is always a dicey affair. I have rarely risked it. Will people mingle? Or form separate camps? What will everyone talk about?

I (nor K.) needn't have worried. When we finally arrived, the party was in full swing. A big cluster of Grad Students (and their partners) sat in a circle playing Balderdash. We knew none of them. One of them had an exceptionally cool dog who broke the ice by prancing around and flicking his ears inside out. The tips of his dark ears were white, giving his face a fondue effect.

We imports joined the game and then settled into a nice, integrated conversation. The boyfriend debut went over well--he was appropriately friendly, but not ingratiating. He'd brought cool music and a CD player. He ensured that everyone had drinks.

Too soon it was time for us to leave. By now it was close to 11:00 p.m. and we had almost two hours of driving ahead of us. We left en masse, observing that the Grad Student Friends lingered.

Once we got back in the highway, we mused over this. We all liked the Grad Student Friends, particularly the one with the dog, and the one with the cool haircut.

But ...

"We did not behave like primary friends. Primary friends are the ones who get there first--they're like the party core--and then the secondary friends arrive and stay for a little while--but the Primary friends stay late and do the post-party analysis."

We worried: are we no longer K.'s Primary friends?

Of course not! Unforseen travel delays had caused our late arrival. Naturally the Grad Student crowd would arrive early and leave late because they lived nearby. Those people all went to school together. We've known K. much longer.

But doubt lingered. We discussed whether we'd ever lost friends in this way. I recounted a group of Primary college friends that dissolved when Corinne, one of the (coolest) women in the clique ditched the others (who were substantially less cool) for a new group of Primaries in another dorm. We tried to woo her back, but it was very hurtful, and never the same. R. shared a similar story about a college roommate who left her for new sarcastic, mean-spirited Primary group.

We weren't really worried about losing K.. But it was nice to talk about friendship, about the dynamics that occur but are rarely articulated. We talked about transitional friends: those we come to know and love through others. Our group evolved in this way: I knew K. from childhood, she knew R. from college, R. and M. met somehow once we all moved to greater Boston, and we've all become Primary friends. Now E., a childhood friend of R., is joining the crew. Over time, significant others weave into the fabric. We can count on each other to come to our parties, be that "core", diffusing that awkward, scary first hour.

We stopped on the way home for fries, and the car was foggy and steamy with our warmth and a slighty sickening greasy smell, but the hot salty taste and the hilarity more than made up for it. When I finally got home, close to 2 a.m., I was tired and crabby. But it was the most fun night I'd had for ages.

Posted by Dori at 6:25 PM 4 comments

Oh, the Shame!

So first and foremost, let me say that I am profoundly unmotivated today--I got to work late, surfed the net for over an hour, and then headed over to Dunkin Donuts for my daily fix (small coffee with milk, one sugar). When I used to teach financial literacy to homeless people, we'd discuss "wants" vs. "needs", and how our small habits can add up to significant financial expenditures. Because I never wanted to shame anyone into admitting how much they paid annually for cigarettes (they calculated this on their own, and were invariably horrified), I always used my own example: $1.35 for coffee, five days a week, for 50 weeks of the year, adds up to $337.50 in a year, which, if you're homeless (or even if you're not) is not chump change. (Also, in summer I get iced coffee, which costs more.)

But as usual, I digress. My shame results not from my spending habits, but from my utter stupidity when it comes to assembling anything. Yesterday, Staples delivered some office supplies I had ordered, including a transparent plastic "filing system" that came in pieces in a cardboard box. The assembly instructions looked simple enough. I put the pieces on the table, thinking I would enjoy having my new filing system in place, and that the process of putting the files into the "system" would provide much-needed joy and, more importantly, a legitimate departure from my work.

So here's the shame: I could not do it. I struggled for about half an hour, putting the little posts into the little holes and trying to attach the slanted file-holders. The pieces scattered over the table. The little assembly I accomplished did not resemble the drawing on the instruction sheet. Bob was out of the office, so he couldn't do it (he's great at things like that). And I couldn't ask my (male) intern to help, because I was absolutely ashamed that I couldn't assemble it myself, and didn't want to perpetuate gender stereotypes. I also didn't want my intern to see me in my struggle, for the same reason, so I kind of hunkered over the table trying to work discreetly. I finally gave up and hid the pieces in the supply closet.

I really do try to do stuff like this. I strive to be an independent modern woman, but my utter failure leads me to suspect that there may be some genetic component involved (be it gender-related or not) .

Bottom line: no filing system for now. I am going to have to find something else to do.

Posted by Dori at 10:26 AM 1 comments

Some Things that Irritate Me

In case you were wondering, I can't stand:

The sound of:
- compressing snow crunching
- nylon rubbing (aka people walking in snow pants)
- static
- vacuuming
- the dying copier in my office

When people say:
- "utilize" or "usage" instead of use
- "orientated" instead of oriented
- "and things of that nature" instead of etcetera
- "no offense but ..." "don't take this the wrong way but ..." instead of here is some information you won't like ...

The words:
- "can" (as in trash can. I prefer wastebasket)
- "smear" (as in pap smear. I prefer pap test. I also hate it when the word "smear" is associated with cream cheese or any other food because it harkens back to the pap concept.)
- "gyno" (while we're on the subject). Is it so hard to say gynecologist?
- "dump" (I prefer break up with.)
- armpit (I prefer underarm.)

And also ...
- any kind of footage of people eating revolting things
- when people stand in the middle of escalators impeding my passage (this is a big one)
- when drivers hover behind me while I'm trying to park
- extraneous quotation marks (at Filene's: "Sale" "Dresses" "Shoes")
- when keyboard/mouse is sticky (see earlier post)
- sponges in sinks that have not been wrung out. Don't we all know that there is more bacteria in a wet kitchen sponge than on a toilet seat?
- cell phones ... pretty irritating most of the time
- emails with no subject lines
- the evil, evil "amazing diet patch" popup that I can't purge from my computer even despite ad-aware, spybot, and a long foray into some online technical forum.
- the evil, hideous Capital One credit card offers that I get ALMOST EVERY DAY even despite strongly worded letters to Capital One AND to both credit bureaus which state very clearly that I already have a credit card and will NEVER, EVER apply for a Capital One card. Even if I am fucking pre-approved. I also called them and demanded in NO UNCERTAIN terms to be removed from their database. I also don't get why they keep sending me offers since my credit rating is perfect (I'm truly charming today, I know). Don't they usually make their money preying on the poor? With their fucking fine-print revolving debt conditions and their 24-day "billing cycle"?

Posted by Dori at 9:17 AM 1 comments

Just Call Me Kiddo

So, as you all are getting to know the cast of characters that is my work life (Bob who can't write, Mary from the City, David L. who is funny but married), I'm going to add one more: Tom the Director.

Tom the Director (who also works for the City), is an old-school bureaucrat who's been running the Department for over thirty years. I kind of love him--his passion for his work manifests itself through cynicism and rage. He chain-smokes, spurns email, and has been known to wear cowboy boots. He once came to blows with his shady bureaucrat boss (now gone) over an unethical assignment. Before becoming a bureaucrat, Tom installed cable for a living.

At Tuesday's public hearing, Tom represented the Department. Before he took the microphone (which was hilarious--there were literally five people there: the three members of the Department, me, and one other community member. Wait, is civic engagement on the decline?) he saw me, and winked, and said, with genuine affection, "Hey, kiddo."

My first reaction was warm and joyful. I have a friend at the Department! Tom likes me! Even despite his has rage and cynicism!

Then I had a thought. My own professional title is also DIRECTOR (not at the City, but who cares?). I have an MBA. I am articulate. Why am I being called "kiddo"? In public (OK, in front of the five people in attendance)? I did not feel offended, but then I wondered if maybe I should. In fact last week, one of the (female) higher-ups at work left me a voicemail: "So the meeting's confirmed. Thanks, honey." Again, I felt warm and joyful for a minute. I have a friend among the higher-ups! Virginia likes me! And then again: would Virginia call an older person "honey"? Would she call a guy "honey"? As an ardent-feminist-women's-college-graduate, aren't I obligated to feel some outrage?

To my mom, I whined, "People can't see past my youth and perkiness! I need to be taken seriously as a professional!" She was nonplussed. "Be glad you're young and perky. It doesn't last forever."

Posted by Dori at 8:27 AM 1 comments

Things I am Worried About

In case you were wondering ... I am worried about ...

- Various financial issues at work. My heart starts racing whenever I look at last year's revenues and/or indications of impending scrounging. I know we're set until Sept. 05, but after that ..? I need a significant raise by July (per my employment contract), and if it isn't possible, I will have to find a new job. Yech.

- This morning, when squishing into the car between the door and the snowbank, I cracked the sleeve on the inside, where the maps go.

- Also ... during my subsequent attempt to get the car out of the driveway, I hit the car parked across the street. I should say I "caressed" it. Both cars are fine. But still.

- A reader recently requested another UpDATE. What do you think is happening here? Am I bad date factory? Please be patient! I promise I will have another bad date story as soon as I meet the guy with whom KSB has set me up. KSB is a former romantic prospect who I will describe in a subsequent post.

- There is some sticky substance on my keyboards both at work and at home. At first I thought it was caused by my moisturizer, but I have now concluded that there is something sticky on the steering wheel of the car, which has made its way via my hands to my keyboards. I tried to remove the stickiness with alcohol, but no go. It grosses me out completely. I am typing this with gloves on, and I have tissues wrapped around my mouse and phone. Very attractive and very professional-looking.

- I had this terrifying dream recently in which I found myself the only single person among my friends. I woke up totally shaken and realized ... this is no nightmare! This is reality! My mom is totally not sympathetic about this and has ordered me several times: "get thee to JDate"!

- I lost my receipt for the Crate and Barrel cushions I bought and now want to return. They cost $152 all together and I really want my money back. NOT store credit.

- Similarly, my financial paperwork is a mess and I still haven't called my Financial Planner Person to resume contributions to by 401K or whatever it's called. Nor do I completely understand how my student loan repayments occur. I send money every month but--I'm truly ashamed to admit this--I know neither the interest rate nor the length of the repayment period.

I realize these are dumb worries, totally miniscule in the scheme of the universe, and in the scheme of my friends and loved ones facing much scarier worries. But even so, it feels comforting to share.

Posted by Dori at 9:01 PM 5 comments