Strongly Worded

What Dreams May Come

So I woke up in the middle of the night, shaken up by a dream in which I repeatedly pried my whole hand out of the mouth of a huge, salivating dog. An author was capturing this in prose, and, after each chomp, I told her firmly but politely that concept had become redundant, even though it was intriguing at first.

Posted by Dori at 10:12 AM 0 comments

Dating Doggy Style: an upDATE

On JDate there's a section that says "I like the following pets" which is followed by a very long checklist that includes cats, dogs, fish, and whole slew of rodents. I checked off the box labeled "I am not a pet person." It is not that I don't like animals. I love horses and other farm animals, and I admire wild creatures (like whales and owls and manatees). I enjoy snorkeling and aquariums and watching beautiful fish. But I find that being an animal lover and a pet lover are not the same. I don't like fur on my clothes or furniture, and I absolutely do not like being licked. Especially by dogs (who sniff all kinds of unhygienic things), and especially on my face.

For those of you who don't know already, I have revived efforts to meet my husband, and thus far had a very disappointing JDate run. I went out on three fine-but-no-sparks encounters. I emailed back-and-forth with a food snob who seems to want to be pen pals. His spelling is so abysmal that it might be a deal-breaker if we ever actually met.

Then I found the guy I'll call Mr. Canine, because his username refers to his dog. Mr. Canine and I engaged in some lovely email dialogue. I learned that his political orientation is a go, that he does interesting work, that he has a "stormy" relationship with the gym (I thought that was funny and indicated a wry sense of humor). And, according to his profile, he's looking for "a partnership between the best of friends." He used the words nurturing, romantic, and stable.

OK. Sold. I proposed that we get together and walk Spot (not his real name). Because I am oh-so-community-minded, I knew about this brand new neighborhood dog park, where I proposed we meet. He had never heard of it, and I believe I scored points for being pro-puppy. I envisioned a leafy enclosure where we could bond while the dog pranced in the distance, but in fact the dog park was really a small fenced-in lot filled with sani-sand, or whatever that absorbent dog-do abating material is called. It was 90 degrees out. Spot was not feeling the dog park. He lay panting under the picnic table while a huge hairy golden retriever made intimate advances on a beagle, and the owners looked on in consternation and commiserated about the cost of vaccinations. It was not a good date setting.

We took poor Spot up the street to a shady area under a tree. We sat in the grass although I was wearing a skirt (I agonized for about four hours on what to wear for this date. I really, really wanted to wear these cute brown sandals, but I was afraid I would appear high-maintenance and also that they would fill with sani-sand. (Or worse.) But I couldn't wear closed shoes with a skirt, and I definitely wasn't going to wear jeans in 90 degree weather. So I settled on other sandals that were much less cute and did not match the skirt, but which I hope made me look athletic and down-to-earth.)

Mr. Canine was super restful and has this soothing, melodic voice nicely offset my nerves. It was genuinely pleasant sitting under the tree and watching Spot wander around. Spot is a pitbull/lab mix who Mr. Canine rescued from an animal shelter as a puppy. He has an orange collar and Mr. Canine's favorite color is orange. My very dear friend A.'s favorite color is orange, so that bodes well.

Mr. Canine talked about his recent trek to Patagonia (I know, I know). We discussed all kinds of things. In typical first-date fashion, the conversation was pretty boy-driven, but not in an obnoxious way. I was trying not to fixate on whether he is kind, hilarious, and brilliant (my shortlist criteria for a husband). All went smoothly until he remarked, "so I'm curious about how you knew about all this dog stuff since you said you're not a pet person." At this moment, Spot ambled over and thrust his snout in my face and tried to lick me. I summoned up any lingering casual-sandals-pro-puppy feelings and tried to endure this, but I just couldn't and I twisted around and Mr. Canine admonished Spot and told me I should just push him away if he bothers me. I felt like a terrible fraud.

The moment passed and it was all good. I drove Mr. Canine and Spot to the loft that Mr. Canine owns in the desirable neighborhood near mine. He said we should definitely go out again, which is what everybody says, but then mere hours later he sent me an email from his real email address, proposing an outing next Saturday.

So I guess every dog has its day.

Posted by Dori at 9:45 AM 5 comments

Wanting, Wishing, Hating

The following has been circulating around the blogosphere lately, and was done especially well by marigoldie, maven, and madness.

Here goes.

I AM a cynical idealist.

I WANT a loving relationship. Also: a bed with a headboard, my own condo, a better work situation, comfortable black dressy sandals.

I WISH I had more of a spine and more faith in the future. Also: less anxiety. I would take medication if it didn't lower seizure threshold.

I HATE my landlords. I don't think I've ever hated anyone before, but I am experiencing a real visceral reaction to their nastiness and mean-spiritedness.

I MISS my close friends who don't live in my area code.

I HEAR birds chirping outside. And also the college-student household next door packing up for a Memorial Day outing. Soon I will also hear my eclectic mix of recent iTunes downloads, which includes Coolio's "Gangsta's Paradise" and "Vision of You" by her awesomeness Belinda Carlisle.

I WONDER what my life would have been like if my parents had never moved to this country.

I REGRET devoting so much stress and worry to school/grades. I would have had so much more fun without the GPA obsession.

I AM NOT laid back. So many people (especially online dating prospects) describe themselves as such. I, in constrast, am tightly wound and high strung. I own it.

I DANCE pretty badly, and only in private, although I've taken classes in flamenco, modern dance, and ballet. I despise club dancing and can't imagine doing the type of vertical-sex-with-clothes moves that are featured on MTV.

I SING very badly, and only in the car.

I CRY constantly: when I'm upset, moved, or happy.

I'M NOT ALWAYS nice.

I MAKE WITH MY HANDS: crooked/uneven sewing projects, a "scarf" that I've knit and unknit for the past two years, all kinds of food.

I WRITE a lot here, and a lot in my head (life unfolds in blog-worthy installments). My "official" writers' workshop aims to create accountability, a forced forum for writing. I find that this blog has the same effect.

I CONFUSE flux with crisis.

I NEED a delicate balance of alone time and socializing.

I SHOULD get dressed right now and take the clothes out of the dryer before they wrinkle. I should also just "shake off" Friday's scary work confrontation.

I START every workday with at least 30 minutes of blogging/blog reading, email, and other Internet stuff.

I FINISH every day with joy because I love sleeping so much.

Posted by Dori at 10:46 AM 1 comments

Man's Greatest Hospital

If you live around Boston you'll know that MGH (Mass General) is also known as Man's Greatest Hospital, with the emphasis on Man. It's a big, huge, self-satisfied institution that is reputed to provide some of the best medical care in the world.

I get all my medical care at MGH because, well, it's the best. I also go there because my health issues are "multidisciplinary", and the behemoth institution has a centralized computer system, so that (theoretically) every specialist knows what the other specialists have diagnosed/opined/prescribed.

So. As I mentioned a while back, my migraine medication has just tripled in price. When I got the infuriating letter from the insurance company, I attempted to make an appointment with my headache specialist (the esteemed Dr. Biondi, lovely guy and recipient of the 2004 National Headache Foundation Lectureship Award). My goal: find a cheaper but equally effective medication. There's gotta be some generic version of Amerge (my drug of choice, which will now cost me a $225 for a 6-month supply; $4 a pill).

Turns out Dr. Biondi has shut down his clinic, and therefore I was referred to MGH neurology, where I've been many times to deal with seizure stuff. I got assigned to a new guy, who is young and cocky and has about a million diplomas on his office wall, in an attempt, I'm guessing, to ameliorate the fact that he looks like Doogie Howser. Dr. Young & Cocky kept me waiting for 20 minutes, which is always enraging, but was especially enraging because I had a meeting scheduled in suburbia right after the appointment.

Even more enragingly, after a half-hearted apology about his tardiness, Dr. Y&C insisted that I recount the sordid story of my neurological past. I have told this same story approximately 9 billion times, and it seemed completely irrelevant to my quest for cheap drugs. Especially since every goddamned detail was already in the computer which--maybe it's just me--was intended to streamline this process.

I got all testy. He got all testy. He looked up my insurance company in his little manual. Turns out that the only migraine therapies they completely covered are addictive and/or seizure-inducing. So. There's nothing to be done. He kept emphasizing this, as if I were holding him personally responsible for the disgusting mess that is the American Health System. It was a bad interaction. He asked me at the end of the neuro exam whether I want to see him again. Much as I'd like to come back for a candlelit meal, all I want are cheap drugs. And he just doesn't have the goods.

Posted by Dori at 9:40 AM 1 comments

Nomad

So. My landlords finally conceded to let me stay in this apartment until July 30. I will be paying an extra $100 for this privilege. After I wrangled up the courage to ask them, they dangled the possibility of it over my head for two days ("We'll think about it. Believe it or not, we like you, and we're not trying to take advantage of you. You've been a good tenant. It's just that you've done many, many bad things.")

Thanks to their loving kindness, I will stay in this home sweet home with all its good vibes until the end of July. Then I will move into my friend Deb's apartment. Deb is a very close friend from grad school. She is moving in with her boyfriend/partner. We discussed the possibility of my taking over her lease months and months ago. Her apartment has two bedrooms, a dining room, and more storage space than you can shake a space bag at (I am not kidding. You could seriously sublet some of her storage space). It is in a better location than mine, and cheaper. (It is also more run down, but her landlady is doing some improvements before I move in.).

As obsessed as I am with luck, I have complained to no end about how unlucky I am to have been essentially evicted by evil racist landlords. But I have come to understand how truly lucky this is--that Deb is moving out at the precise same time. I get away from a toxic living environment, I'll have the pleasure of living in a big-ass apartment with the opportunity to entertain more than 4 people at a time (I'll have a dining room! A real dining room!). And the lease is month-to-month, so that if the condo or the man of my dreams suddenly falls out of the sky, I can move nimbly.

The weird thing is, now that the initial panic is over, I realize (with some disappointment) that I have more than two months here. I walked through Deb's place last night and noted the peach color scheme of her bathroom. (The color scheme of my bathroom is blue and white). Today, I squelched an overwhelming desire to go to Target and browse around for peach accessories. I just spent a while on craigslist perusing coffee tables, because a coffee table would not only fit but really be necessary in Deb's apartment (which I guess someday I will be able to think of as my apartment. Not sure when.). Same goes for a standing lamp and sconces. Who knew I'd ever be in the market for sconces?

But getting all nest-y right now does not make sense. If I bought a coffee table I'd have to lug it here (where there is no space for it) and then lug it to Deb's. Deb gave me a nice, heavy, cast-iron Le Crueset grilling pan last week, and I'm not taking it out of the car because really, what's the point?

And getting too nesty even at Deb's doesn't make too much sense. After all, the condo/man of my dreams should be imminent, no? What if the next bathroom color concept is green? And how likely is it I'd need sconces in my next abode?

Posted by Dori at 3:08 PM 0 comments

My Life as a Movie, Part III of the Trilogy

So. A bunch of you were entertained by my last two cinematic fantasies. Here's another.

BACKSTORY
I am a huge fan of Peter Hessler, author of River Town, one of my all-time favorite books. I feel quite dorky about this, because the book--while brilliant, funny, and insightful--is about his time in Fuling, a city in an obscure Chinese province. I love travel memoir, and I especially appreciate that Peter avoids that whole Year in Provence shtick (you know--those stories with the small picturesque village, the renovation of a decrepit but charming house, and the Gradual Acculturation of the Foreigner). Since River Town, Peter has become a famous correspondent for all these famous newspapers, and he just came out with Oracle Bones, a new book hailed by famous critics. He did a reading of his new book at my local bookstore on Tuesday. So I learned that he is hot, in addition to being a brilliant writer and person. When I heard his calm, sonorous voice, my nerdy intellectual crush (d)evolved into a lustful crush.

LIGHTS, CAMERA, ACTION
Peter googles himself and finds this post. He reads the whole blog and is flattered and impressed by my wit and loveliness. He recalls that I asked a question at the reading and reflects on my dazzling beauty. He emails me from China and we engage in virtual banter. After a few months, he sends me a ticket to Beijing. He brings lotus blossoms to the airport and we travel around exchanging brilliant insights about culture and identity. We make out in the shadow of the Great Wall of China. We feed dumplings to each other.

Because Peter is Catholic, and because he lives in China, we mutually acknowledge that we have no future together. But he sets me up with his publisher, who gets me a book contract for a travel memoir on my two years in Spain [this is actually a real dream of mine--I have about 200 typed pages of notes].

I get all this critical acclaim, and a hot Jewish ophthalmologist attends one of my book readings, and his intellectual crush on me (d)evolves into lust, and we fall in love and honeymoon at the Parador in Carmona in Spain.

That's a wrap!

Posted by Dori at 7:22 PM 0 comments

Dori/Doormat

A while back, I told a higher-up at work about an upcoming negotiation. "Don't worry. I'm tough," I said merrily, "those people will tremble in my wake." The higher-up smiled and said, in a loving, non-patronizing way, "Please. You're like mush. Toughness is not among your many professional virtues." His statement really startled me. I acknowledge my inner mush, but had not realized it was apparent to others.

In some ways, I am tough. In high school, my scathing pedagogical criticism (supposedly) reduced our band director to tears. I've written many strongly worded letters. I refuse to pay unjustified late fees; I contest parking tickets. Before our recent flight to Chicago, K. nominated me to negotiate with the incompetent United representative because I'm "good at that stuff". My directness transcends to my social life. I ask point-blank (and sometimes inappropriate) questions, and I am not always tactful. Afterwards, I am embarrassed and sorry.

However, in many professional settings I am liquid, not mushy. I enlist higher-ups to accompany me to important meetings, and I constantly defer to them. I attribute some of this to good sense--they have more experience, connections, and knowledge than I do. But I'm also afraid of making bad decisions, of poorly representing myself or my work, or being railroaded into unwanted situations. As an ardent feminist, this kills me. Most of the higher-ups in my world are older white men, and I hate showing up at negotiations while they do most of the talking even though my title is DIRECTOR and I'm theoretically a big bad leader.

My female late-20something friends talk about this a lot. We have become mid-level professionals, newly charged with budgets and supervision responsibilities. We are scaling the cliffs of professional success, and getting mixed signals from our older predecessors.
One friend's higher-up (we call him micro-penis) complained--to her face--that she was overpaid. Another friend's supervisors call her "honey" and coo when she socializes with her younger counterparts. As much as I want to prove myself--and believe that what I lack in experience I (hopefully) make up for in initiative, resourcefulness, and the capacity for fast learning--I still dissolve into a puddle when push comes to shove.

I am deferential. I frame legitimate requests as favors ("I know you're swamped, but would you mind ...?"). I take on minutiae (like taking meeting minutes) because I'd rather do it myself than hound others. In other words, I bury my capacity and smarts under the smog of self-doubt. I hate it.

And I hate it even more now, as I'm battling with my landlords. For various reasons, it would be easier for me to move out on July 30 instead of June 30. I've determined that the repulsion of bowing and scraping to these bastards outweighs the inconvenience of moving a month earlier. As far as I can see, there is absolutely no reason why the landlords shouldn't agree to this. I'm pretty sure their daughter will be moving from their house upstairs into my current apartment downstairs, which would deem the timeline irrelevant. They'll get another (raised) month's rent from me. It really hurt me to call today and ask for the extra month, and to endure their ranting about the 45--no--50 days notice that they have so generously provided. They even had the gall to assert that they are "not inflexible people". They'll think about it today, after stressing that my request is unreasonable and that any concession on their part would be a huge magnanimous gesture.

Because I am mush, I am already dreading tonight's verdict and had to take some valium after the call. Because I am mush, a higher-up from work will accompany me to Thursday's $250K fee negotiation. Because I am mush, I perpetuate the stereotype that even smart, savvy women can't stand up for themselves, essentially polishing the glass ceiling, and inviting The Man to step on me--doormat Dori--and the other members of the New Girls Club.

Posted by Dori at 1:32 PM 4 comments

An Open Letter to Netflix

Listen up, Netflix.

Because of you, I sound educated and cultured, allowing me to cite references to "that documentary I saw on Indian prostitutes/Indian lesbians/Scrabble-obsessed people/Nazi-Germany Jewish swimmers".

Because of you, I can watch films such as Dirty Dancing: Havana Nights, without the judgmental stare of the too-cool-for-thou cashier at Hollywood Express.

Because of you, I can devour entire seasons of commercial-free reality TV, eliminating week-to-week suspense because I can watch four hours at a time.

But Netflix! Enough with the email! When I check my account and it announces "two new messages", my heart surges. Perhaps it's the man of my dreams finally following up on the nudge of fate! Maybe an amazing job offer that will catapault me into homeownership! OR, the first of thousands of comments on my newly dooce-caliber blog!

So I click on inbox. And I flinch. It's just you, reliable, informative you, with your automated confirmation of the receipt of the latest DVD and the shipment of the next one.

Posted by Dori at 9:51 AM 1 comments

From Windy to Rainy City

I had the best time in Chicago this weekend. K., and R., and I visited our dear friend Melinda, who wrote a poignant post on the topic (which you should read after you finish this). Melinda used to live in Boston, and broke our hearts by moving to the heartland this Fall. Before then, we used to meet up fairly regularly to snarf Thai food, knit, and discuss yeast infections, dating exploits, assorted outrage at work, and many other topics more in keeping with our collective intellect. Since Melinda left, our collective communication has become very blog-centric, which, in a way, makes it more constant than ever.

We left for Chicago on Friday, and got stuck in the airport for five hours because, as the impressively well-trained and PR-minded United Rep announced, "the plane is broken [she actually used the word "broken"] and we'll have a decision at noon about that." Had I been by myself, I would've raged and stressed. But R. and K. and I passed the five hours chatting and eating overpriced sandwiches and Starbucks. It was actually fun. Once the plane was "fixed" and we boarded it, the captain explained the source of the "disconcerting sounds you might hear from the engines" and attributed our 35-minute runway wait to the loading of 6,000 pounds of fish into the cargo bay. Then he thanked us for flying United.

While the ratio of annoying travel to bonding could have been better, we had a great time. We engaged with Melinda's pug, who is damned cute and did a whole lot of licking, even after my repeated assertions that I only allow myself to be licked under very specific circumstances. We spent the weekend eating, sitting on the couch, wandering around, sitting on the couch, and watching the pretty terrible flick Stick It. We also procured a particularly sublime combination of yellow cake and strawberry ice cream at Cold Stone Creamery. Then we sat on the couch some more.

The irony of the visit is that it came about because Boston-area R., K., and I couldn't find a time to get together. We emailed for weeks about possibilities of Sunday brunch, Saturday craft night, or Friday game night. Our schedules just didn't mesh, so we decided to go to Chicago. Last weekend was the only time that worked for all of us, and that made our couch time ever more precious. We cranked up the Rhapsody, (including in the playlist Nick Lachey's homage to heartbreak which we're totally owning--right, Melinda?), we talked and talked and talked. Our bonding was renewing in the way of a good cry or a fantastic meal.

So. The moral of the story: we women need one another. We're all so busy and oversubscribed with work, school, romantic relationships, and the general white noise of life. We need to pick up the phone, get on the plane, sit on the couch. Our friends are our touchstones, our team members, the ones, in the words of our friend Dar Williams and her slightly cloying new album, who know.

Posted by Dori at 5:34 PM 1 comments

Revenge Fantasies Vs. Cosmic Balance

OK, so you know about my crazy landlords and how they are not renewing my lease and being exceptionally horrible about it.

Many of you have sent encouraging and creative suggestions my way.

I talked to my lawyer ex-boyfriend. He was very lovely and affirmed my outrage, but conceded that they haven't done anything illegal. BUT, he said, if I want to make a fuss and create drama there are grounds upon which to do that. He who conjured up all these legal terms about "conditions of habitability" (apparently I could drum up some serious legal ruckus about the (lack of) heat, had I documented the transgressions, same with the carbon monoxide detector and some other stuff. He also pointed out that evicting a tenant requires a protracted court process, and that if I simply didn't move out on 6/30, there is nothing they could do without a court order. As for the washer/dryer, I did convey in writing last year that I'd leave them in the apt, so, while they're not going to chase me down and sue me for the loss of the appliances, technically I have agreed to give them up. AND, most validating: my updating the lease was completely, absolutely, and indisputably legal. Forgery, my ass.

Lawyer ex-boyfriend said a very smart thing, much along the lines of Anne's post. "If you were the type of person who would take joy in making their lives hellish, I can help you do that very effectively as your lawyer. As your friend, however, I know that every tiny bit of hell you inflict upon them will cause you misery, guilt, and fear--sevenfold."

He's right. I could be Scary Legal Tenant and freak them out and leverage their fear into ... some borrowed time in this apt with all its lovely vibes? Jeopardizing my security deposit and whatever reference I might need someday?

AND, the crap I could pull (not moving out on time, leaving stinky things in the apartment) would ultimately affect the hapless future tenant/realtor, not the unreasonable racist landlords. It would be really terrible for a new tenant to move in and find an angry squatter waiting for a court date. (Down the road, the new tenant will find it terrible to live under the freezing tyranny of the landlords, but that's beyond my control).

So. I'm pretty much going the path of doing the absolute minimum to make this transaction happen. By law, a realtor has to give "reasonable notice" (defined by the MA Bar Association as 24-48 hours) before (s)he can show the property. As I'm sure you understand, I'm feeling very busy these days, given all the rigamarole associated with this unexpected move and the related emotional stress. I have boxes to pack, therapy appointments to keep. I'm going away this weekend, things are getting crazy at work ... so, given all this upheaval, I'm definitely going to need 48 hours notice before harboring any realtor.

Of course, if I knew I had another two weeks to move, that would give me much more scheduling leeway, and perhaps more ability to accommodate apartment showings.

Food for thought, fuckers.

Posted by Dori at 8:48 PM 1 comments

Oh, How It Backfired!

A thin white sheet of paper taped to my door.

A killing statement typed in Times New Roman:

"I am not renewing your lease. You have 45 days (until June 3o) to vacate the premises. Please send me a written notice allowing realtors to show the apartment. I wish you luck in your future endeavors."

Nightmare? No. Reality. After another screaming confrontation in which the landlords revealed that they want me out in part because I don't shovel the snow on the porch or put away the garbage barrels (which they never asked me to do, which was their responsibility in the lease, and which I would have happily done had they mentioned they would appreciate it). I asked whether I could renew the lease if I agreed to pay the $100 rent increase.

"WE OFFERED YOU THE CHANCE TO PAY $25 MORE A MONTH LAST YEAR, AND YOU SAID NO BECAUSE [imitating a whiny entitled version of me] YOU'D PUT IN WIRING FOR THE WASHER DRYER AND PAID THE REALTOR FEE." [When I tried to convey the value I added to the apartment--it had no laundry at all when I moved in and I bought the appliances and paid at least $200 to have the wiring installed--they ranted about how A DRYER IS A LUXURY. I DON'T DO DRYERS. IF YOU PUT IT IN, THAT'S YOUR DECISION AND YOU CAN'T COMPLAIN ABOUT IT NOW.]

"The milk has been spilt", they said. "You just wouldn't feel comfortable living here anymore. There are lots of great apartments. You shouldn't have trouble finding one."

They absolutely refused to consider extending the lease until 9/1, which would buy me some time and slightly reduce the panic that is coursing through my veins. In fact, they were offended by the suggestion and reiterated the hurt and distressed I caused yesterday by leaving the draft updated lease on the steps (which I acknowledge now was a very, very bad idea).

The kicker: "WHY DIDN'T YOU WANT TO TALK TO US FACE TO FACE?!" [umm ... I wonder] "ARE WE BLACK OR SOMETHING?"

Mean, crass, unfeeling .... and now racist.

Some courses of action running through my mind: ripping out the wiring for the dryer. Removing every cute feature that I've added to this place. Spewing offensive porn, rotting food, and other off-putting items all over the apartment to deter prospective tenants. Becoming very unavailable to the realtors who may want to show the apartment (my life is very busy, after all). Getting my lawyer ex-boyfriend to write a scary letter about the dubious 45 day notice clause and the fact that my carbon monoxide detector still hasn't been installed despite the law mandating this. Other ideas?

Posted by Dori at 8:41 AM 6 comments

My Plan Backfired

So I come home and there's a note from my landlord: "I asked you to call me yesterday to discuss the lease. You failed to do this. Please call me immediately when you get home." (I was in and out last night.)

My heart pounded. I called.

The landlord stormed down and accused me of forgery and illegally changing "2006" to "2007", emphasizing repeatedly the illegal nature of my lease update. "I'M THE LANDLORD," he bellowed. "THAT'S MY JOB, NOT YOUR JOB."

Then he pointed to the part that obligates the TENANT to give 45 days notice before renewing or terminating the lease. Yes, OK. But in all other living situations the landlord has checked in about that.

Then he announced that he's raising the rent $100. I asked if it was negotiable. He said no. "But you have until the end of July to vacate the premises."

He told me there are lots of other apartments out there.

I hate him. I hate him so fucking much.

And I don't want to pay another $100 a month for this very small apartment. I'm SO sad to have to move and strangely hurt that they don't value my stellar tenancy enough to cut me a break.

Posted by Dori at 6:15 PM 1 comments

A (Somewhat) Preemptive Strike

My lease is up on May 31st. After a lot of soul-searching, I’ve decided to stay in my current apartment, which is as cute as it is impractical (one closet, no dishwasher, troubling kitchen configuration, undersized living/dining area).

By far, the worst aspect of my living situation is my relationship with my landlords. I dislike them intensively. They scrimp on the heat, leaving me shivering and goose-pimply. They are one-note emotional beings: all rage, all the time. I hear them yelling at one another and at the unfortunates who visit them or call them on the phone. They yelled at me when the plumbing made scary noises. They yelled at me during a blizzard, when I tracked a microscopic trail of snow into the hallway. They yelled at me when I inadvertently left the front door unlocked, and again when I left the basement light on.

But I’m staying. My reasoning:
1) There is no way I can buy a condo before my lease runs out in three weeks (or anytime soon, barring a financial miracle);
2) My career ambitions may take me in new and yet unknown geographic directions; and thus
3) I don’t want to move more than once in the next two years.

I’ve been avoiding having the Lease Conversation because I’m terrified that the landlords will raise the rent. I should have brought up the topic on 5/1, 30 days notice, all that. But I put it off and off because I hate talking to them and being yelled at.

Yesterday I bit the bullet.

Me (meek and faux-cheerful): Hi, it’s Dori, from downstairs. [exchange of pleasantries]

Landlord: WHY DO YOU WANT TO RENEW THE LEASE? ARE YOU AFRAID WE’RE GOING TO KICK YOU OUT?

Me (even meeker): No, I just want to make sure we’re all set for the next year—we put things in writing last year, so I want to make sure we’re OK now.

Landlord: WHY DIDN’T YOU BRING THIS UP ON MAY 1st? YOU’RE SUPPOSED TO GIVE 30 DAYS NOTICE! TECHNICALLY 45 DAYS NOTICE!

Me (suddenly terrified that they assumed I was leaving and have plans to take over my cute apartment): I want to RENEW my lease. I thought you understood that, this is just a formality.

Landlord: WELL, I CAN’T TALK ABOUT THIS NOW. I’M HAVE TO GO.

Me: (Grasping at straws): But does this sound OK to you? Can I assume we’re all set, and just need to sign some paperwork?

Landlord: I CAN’T TALK NOW. WE’LL TALK LATER. GOODBYE.

After a small panic attack, and a quick browse through the craigslist apartments section, I developed a plan, which, if effective, will avert both a face-to-face interaction and a rent increase.

I revised last year’s lease (a little white-out and photocopying and presto! Updated!). I left the rent the same. I made two copies and signed mine. I wrote a friendly statement explaining the difficulties of coordinating all our schedules and suggesting they sign their copy and eliminate further complications.

Here’s hoping.

Posted by Dori at 12:02 PM 0 comments

Why I Love Where I Live

This weekend exemplified why I love where I live.

On Friday evening, after nixing plans to see Thank You for Smoking (which I still want to see), my friend J. decided that we'd have more fun lounging around on her brand-new lawn furniture. J. and her fiance and their close friend from college recently bought a massive two-family home just minutes from my house. Their property includes a really nice yard, and they've incorporated a very grown-up looking table with a sunshade and water-repellant chairs. One thing I love and admire about this couple is their talent for relaxed, impromptu enteraining. While I fuss and stress about dumb hostessing details, they just mix good food and cool people and it's always delicious and fun and chill. In this fashion, they decided around 6ish to have a BBQ, and they got on their cell phones, and within an hour we were surrounded by 15 cool people and a spread of food which they unearthed from their freezer/pantry. It was stunning weather--warm but no bugs yet--and one of the guests brought a puppy, who twisted and writhed in the bushes, interacting occasionally with the resident dog (Bonnie) and cat (Quit'e (pronounded "kitty").

On Saturday I went on a walking tour of Medford (neighboring city--also minutes from my house), entitled "The Promise of the Mystic River". I signed up because I love walking tours and I love learning about changes in the urban landscape, but also because I harbored a tiny hope of meeting my soulmate. Unsurprisingly, most of the people on the tour were couples in their 50s, but it was still cool to learn about how the scary I-93 highway destroyed an entire vibrant community once known for its shipbuilding. (Who knew? The Mystic River is now barely visible from the city (they moved the river to make room for the highway). The rush of traffic is deafening. It's hard to imagine the forest that once existed there, or the shore with canoeing and picnics.

When I told my friend E. about this, she lamented about the displacement of 350 households and the cemetery and the wildlife, but said, "aren't you glad we have I-93?" And I said no, I hate I-93; it's terrifying. Well, she asked, how do you go North? Or South? Or East, for that matter? And I realized: I don't. I only go West. My fear of I-93 has deemed me mono-directional.

That evening we had dinner with two of E's close friends, and then I walked over to see K's boyfriend perform at Toad, a very cool bar which is also walking distance from my house. He perfomed one of my favorite songs, which touches on a post-break-up custody battle over a parking pass. If you've every lived here, this will pull on your heartstrings.

On Sunday--more WALKING with friends (two of my most beloved friends who I met in grad school). We hit Somerville Open Studios--and wandered around the area perusing art of all kinds--a visual homage to the Cheez-Puff (seriously), photography, painting, pottery. I bought a beautiful blue and purple serving platter and feel like a patron of the arts.

Now it is Monday morning, and, having waxed delightedly about my neighborhood, I must face my most dreaded task (other than work): Confronting my Landlords about Renewing my Lease. I need to suck it up and pre-emptively approach them and (hopefully) prevent them from raising the rent. Swallow. Gulp. Wish me luck.

Posted by Dori at 9:36 AM 2 comments

Alphabet Soup

I got this from my new blog-interest over at Superfluous Juxtaposition. And I have never tagged anyone before, but I'll try it, starting with friends such as Jassy, who normally writes about her fascinating work, but who I hope will make an exception in this case, and Melinda, my brilliant friend who I will visit in Illinois in approximately 1 week. You can find her awesomeness at anythingsaid.

Accent: None. Although I’m told that it’s snobby to say that a New England accent is no accent. More interestingly, even though I’m fluent in Spanish and have studied the language since I was in 3rd grade, I have an atrocious accent and can’t roll my rrrs.

Booze: Not a big fan. Don’t really like the taste, and given all my neurological issues, it’s not worth working on that.

Chore I Hate: Vacuuming. I hate the sound. Harkens back to my childhood, I think; my mom vacuumed as an act of martyrdom.

Dogs/Cats: Not a pet fan. I don’t like all the shedding. But if I ever had a dog, it would be of the beagle ilk.

Essential Electronics: I’m such a luddite. I rarely use a cell phone, don’t have TiVo or an iPod, and I lug around a well-loved but slow and heavy Compaq laptop.

Favorite Perfume/Cologne: Pleasures from Estee Lauder. I also love the cotton blossom line from Bath & Bodyworks.

Gold/Silver: Gold.

Hometown: Crunchy town in Western MA.

Insomnia: No. I tend to lean the other way and sleep too much, if anything. But I usually wake up early, as a result of my rather intense circadian rhythms.

Job Title: Director.

Kids: Someday (God willing).

Living Arrangements: 1-BR apartment outside of Boston, featuring annoying landlords and annoying kitchen.

Most Admired Trait: I’ve been referred to as “Resource Woman” because I often know of a website/store/person who has the information you might want.

Number of Sexual Partners: Depends how you define “sex”. Just kidding.

Overnight Hospital Stays: When I lived in Spain in college, I had emergency surgery for a ruptured ovarian cyst, and spent almost a week in the hospital. The whole thing—surgery, hospital stay, ultrasounds— cost under $2,000. My insurance was probably delighted that I had the surgery abroad. My aforementioned neurological issues have also landed me in the hospital. But those days are over (God willing).

Phobia: Mice. And changing lanes. And driving in cities.

Quote: “The smallest good deed is better than the grandest good intention.” (anonymous). I included the quote in my high school senior yearbook blurb, but the editors botched it so it read, humiliatingly, “the smallest GOD deed is better …”

Religion: Jewish.

Siblings: A younger brother.

Time I usually wake up: 7:45 a.m. Even on weekends. I have one hell of circadian system.

Unusual Talent: Extreme flexibility. I broke the “sit and reach” flexibility record in both middle school and high school.

Vegetable I refuse to eat: I like most vegetables, although I don’t like the mushy texture of eggplant.

Worst Habit: It’s hard to pick just one, but probably the most dangerous is my obsessive car-radio-station-switching.

X-Rays: MRIs, ultrasounds, CT-scans, you name it.

Yummy Foods I Make: I like to cook a lot.

Zodiac Sign: Aries.

Posted by Dori at 12:48 PM 2 comments

If My Life Were Two Movies ...

I'd be played by either Winona Ryder or Jennifer Love Hewitt, and the film would be an indie success heralded at Cannes.

Movie #1
Last Friday night, after seeing the musical Wicked with my friend E., the subway shut down because of a fire at Harvard station. We were told that a shuttle bus would be arriving immediately to get us on our way. We stood in a crowd outside the station and waited for ages. In the mean time, we hooked up with two random strangers (Emily and Matt) who were also headed to Central Square (our destination). We tried in vain to procure and share a cab (of course all the cabs were snapped up by other similarly stranded people). Eventually the shuttle bus arrived and they disappeared into the night.

If my life were a movie, Emily would be an heiress being chased down by thugs (or a high-brow prostitute trying to escape her ruthless employer), and the cab driver would swerve along the streets trying to get her to safety, and we’d all end up bonding under a bridge in Revere, our faces reflected in the puddles. After displays of valor by all of us, and a cinematic exposition about the kindness of strangers, Matt would fall madly in love with me, and we’d kiss under said bridge. Then the film would flash forward to our wedding, held at Emily’s newly thug-free/ pimp-free mansion.

Movie #2
On Monday night, I (wo)-manned the registration table at an event for female Jewish professionals, held at Hebrew College. After an hour or so of distributing name tags to Mitzi Goldberg, Sarah Rosenkrantz, et. al., the crowd thinned and I sat there by myself waiting for stragglers. An exceptionally hot (but secular-looking) professor rambled by, and asked about the event. We engaged in 3 minutes of banter, after which he returned to his class.

If my life were a movie, I would have lingered outside of his classroom until he finished teaching. He’d come out, smile at me, and I’d ask if he wanted some help with his homework. Or whether he was up for a study break. And then there would be all this footage of us in the kosher cafeteria eating bagels, and then the sun would rise outside the window, and then we’d flash forward to our wedding by the wailing wall in Jerusalem. I’d be wearing a mantilla-type veil. People would dance the hora and lift us up in chairs.

Posted by Dori at 10:21 AM 3 comments

Good Day and Good Luck

I was asked a few days ago whether I consider myself a lucky person. And then my newly beloved blogstress, the brilliant Canadian-career woman/party girl-turned-insightful-full-time- mom, waxed eloquent on the topic. Apparently (shockingly!) the perception of luck has a lot to do with one's emotional outlook. When one is full of gloom and doom, one feels cosmically screwed. If one is full of joy, I suppose, then one would feel lucky. Yes?

I keep mulling this over. Of course, I feel extraordinarily lucky in the broad sense--to be healthy, to be surrounded by wonderful loving friends and family, to be safe, to be financially secure, to live in a beautiful city (touch wood at least five times). There are a million other "big picture" ways in which I am extraordinarily fortunate. But lucky? In the day-to-day way? Run-of-the-mill charmed? I don't think so.

I obsess about luck, about not opening umbrellas indoors, about black cats crossing my path, about breaking glasses (I shattered a water glass on Saturday, so maybe a big infusion of luck is due). And I often brood about how I'm not lucky--I'm the one cut out of a cute group photo, the one who spends a week on various tech-y websites to choose a laser printer that jams and stalls the instant it's installed, the one who orders not one but two bridesmaid's dresses from Ann Taylor and finds that neither fits and the one that eventually fits in the store is damaged and needs to be special-ordered. I wonder whether these types of things are dumb annoyances that I attribute to bad luck and smarter people attribute to life in general. Perhaps Lucky People experience these same frustrations--in the same proportions--but don't get upset by them.

When I'm stewing about (slightly) larger problems, and feeling tired of scaling the emotional/financial/professional barrier du jour, I wish and wail about getting a break, the assumption being that I've tried to succeed via conventional avenues and need an alternative boost from the universe. I think wistfully about people like my friend A.P.. He'll show up in a city after years away. He'll have no job or accommodations in place, but he'll end up in some random bar and bump into one person looking for a roommate and another person looking to hire him. (Whereas I, when looking for an apartment, looked at 13 different places and stressed out for months about the moving process. And am still not entirely satisfied. And career-wise, I have almost always job-searched for month after discouraging month. And even then not been entirely satisfied.) I know many people who went to one thing--a soccer game or a party--and wound up meeting their soulmates (Whereas I, having agonized about dating and breakups, and spent so much time and energy trying to find love, am still very far from romantically satisfied).

In writing/reading this, I realize I sound whiny and entitled. If I were in a better mood, I would see it differently. Either way, I'm really just trying to untangle this. I'm wondering whether lucky is the same as effortless or easy? Or fast? Is the experience of finding an apartment or a good job, or falling in love, lucky when it happens quickly, and just happy if it comes about after strife and suffering? Is something lucky or unlucky depending on the criteria involved? And is there really such a thing as luck at all, or are we really talking about hiccups and mysteries in the order of the cosmos--a jumble of justly allocated good and bad, just on different time tables?

Posted by Dori at 2:17 PM 2 comments