Beware of twins prone to panic

This is to prove that although some of us (read: ME) are real bitches, my friends and I really do care about each other A LOT. Even if the following is a comedy of errors.

I was out a couple nights ago with my temporary roomie and my former roomie having a couple of beers in midtown when my sister called to say that she got a cryptic email from our mutual friend, Ronnie. It said, "I just wanted to reach out to you about Christine". Jessica texted and called him back, then called Christine, and then called me when neither one of them answered here. I, in turn, called Christine, Ron, and every single other person we know in common, none of whom answered, except for one, whom I sent into a little panic with my "Do you know if Christine is alive?" questioning.

At some point, amidst all of this calling, my sister finally got Ron to answer the phone and he said he was talking to Christine before he texted Jess, and accidentally typed her name but he really meant to say "I just wanted to reach out to you about THE WEDDING", his pending nuptials, in which my sister will play Flower Girl (and please don't ask why a 31 year-old woman will be the Flower Girl because I don't have time to answer). In the meantime, Christine texted me all concerned because she had two missed calls from me and wanted to find out if I was okay, which I was now that I was no longer picturing her lying in the emergency room.

Which proves that my friends are a caring bunch. Or Jessica and I are just easily prone to panic. Because even if Ron had typed the word "Christine" in that text to Jessica, what made us think it was due to some kind of emergency? Maybe he was saying, "I'm reaching out to plan Christine's birthday party" or "I'm reaching out because Christine told me you like baklava". Could have been anything really.

What not to do... if you're a woman

I had an awesome afternoon. I had to go to go to a 2 1/2 hour client meeting, the first half-hour of which was spent raking me over the coals. Which was super fun, lemme tell you.

It's not worth going into what I did wrong. That would involve explaining exactly what it is I do for a living, and then going on to explain the intricacies of my working relationships with various travel professionals... You're asleep already, aren't you?

The point is I pissed someone off. Basically, I stood up for myself when a bully pushed me in the schoolyard. And now I'm paying for it. The bully in question is of no consequence in the grand scheme of things to me or anyone else whose job isn't based on kissing the wrong asses... and often. Even though he started the verbal shoving match, I'm in the wrong because my client says so. Because to men of a certain age and supposed pedigree, being "pushed too far" can be accomplished with any degree of pushing when it is done by a female. That's what it came down to. I was too young, too female and too smart, frankly, to be allowed to talk to him that way, no matter what he said to provoke me.

The moral of this tale, specifically to be taken seriously by any young, smart, upwardly mobile women who may be reading this? Men suck. Especially middle-aged white men. There have been some exceptions throughout history -- Elvis, Bill Clinton, my Uncle Frank. But by and large, middle-aged white men as a demographic SUCK ASS. And NOT in the good way.

Marty still rocks

Ok, I have a confession to make. I didn't like "The Departed". Not even a little bit. I wanted to -- I'm a New York Italian so my loyalty to Marty runs deep. There were parts that weren't horrible. I liked Leonardo DiCaprio. I liked Matt Damon - he played an asshole really well. I didn't even mind that it was about Boston. But it was poorly written, whatever dialogue coach trained Jack Nicholson should be shot dead and the editor was on crack. It was bad. Very very bad.

If he wasn't the same man who made two of my all-time favorite movies, I'd be disappointed in Scorsese for life. But everyone makes mistakes.

It's kind of a cliche but I actually AM thankful

Ah, Thanksgiving. It was actually a nice, mostly even-tempered holiday. Well, my Aunt Louise had like three conniption fits, seemingly for no reason, but, for her, that's pretty awesome. And for the first time in YEARS we didn't have to deal with my toxic cousins. Which if you knew them -- and the shit they pulled last Christmas -- you would know is a very good thing.

Anyway, I'm thankful today. Thankful for my fabulous friends; my crazy Aunt Louise; my adorable, doting mother (who didn't want anyone to not have their favorite kind of pie so she bought every kind in the store which resulted in six pies for eight people); my sister; my dad; and -- if you can believe it -- even my slightly distempered, most likely inbred kitties. And they are in turn are thankful for the event of their first Thanksgiving because they're enjoying white meat turkey for the first time in their little fuzzy lives. In this prevailing spirit of gratitude I'm choosing to wait until tomorrow to get mad at them for the fact that they got into my laundry hamper and scattered clothes all over the bedroom. Sometimes, I swear, it's like they have thumbs. How did they get the goddamn lid off in the first place?

I should have gotten a ninja dog

Henrietta is currently residing on my shoulders. She is being very affectionate actually. I think she knows I'm leaving tomorrow. I'm only going to L.A. for two days but, to a cat, that's like forever. Not that fucking Juniper cares. She won't even let me pick her up. But she is in a mad heat to get in my suitcase. Something about ruining my clothes makes her very very happy. What exactly made me get cats anyway?

If you live in the L.A. area, let me know. I'll be staying in Sherman Oaks and going out in Venice Beach tomorrow night. Come hang out with me. I'll show you pictures of my cats on my camera phone and buy you a shot.

My horoscope was written by a crazy person

I'm kind of at a crossroads lately. Which has compelled me to read every version of my goddamn horoscope that I can find. The one I read today told me to buy a new business card case. Ex-queeze me? Baking powder? Huh?!? How is that supposed to fucking help me.

I need a cup of tea

I need someone to make me a cup of tea. My late great-aunt Kay was famous for that -- if anything went wrong in any of her nieces' lives, she would make us a cup of tea, lots of milk, lots of sugar, and listen to us cry while she called us her "little angels". She didn't have any children but she felt a little bit like a grandmother to all of us. My real grandmothers weren't around -- my mother's mother died when I was little, my father's mom wasn't really into being anyone's grandma.

Aunt Kay was the perfect grandma -- she remembered every birthday, every event in our lives, with a card and a folded up $20 bill. She knew all of our likes and dislikes, remembered all the highlights of our collective childhoods, and her arrival on holidays was what everyone waited for. The cups of tea were the most memorable though -- she gave all of us milked-down tea starting when we were toddlers. It takes a lot of patience to sit with children, drinking tea, listening to them babble on about school and their friends, while simulatenously teaching them the intricacies of 500 rummy. But she did it. And, when we got older, and she had to hear us make the same mistakes over and over, listen to our surprised tears when the boy she knew would break our hearts, did, in fact, do just that, she never said, "I told you so". That's no small feat.

To this day, whenever my life takes a hard left, I feel the urge for a cup of tea and I miss Aunt Kay. I wish I could have a cup of tea and hand of cards with her right now. Surprisingly enough, the tea is the hardest part -- I can never can get the milk-to-sugar ratio right, the way she made it.

Orange juice is useless

Orange juice will not cure a cold. But I've now consumed an entire half-gallon of it anyway, in the vain hope that my sniffles will start to disappear. It's not working. I think you're supposed to drink jus d'orange to avoid getting the cold, not once you already have it. And it's definitely not a cure for a hangover either.

I've decided two things, with Michael's help. One -- I will no longer take my phone with me for Saturday night outings with Alison; and Two-- I should probably stop drinking with Alison. She and I together are not exactly models of self-control.

Embarrassment is...

... when you're standing at the coffee cart on 6th Avenue waiting for your morning joe, and you reach into your purse to grab your wallet so as to have the $1.25 ready when the coffee man reaches through the little window to hand you the cup, and the force with which you grab the wallet dislodges a row of 5 condoms you saw fit to take from that bar on 24th Street at that recent happy hour with your co-workers, because the more condoms you stuffed in your purse, the more they giggled, and now a whole row of said condoms are at your feet in the middle of the street and before you can reach down and pick them up some nice older gentleman does it first, straightens up and hands them to you saying, "I think you dropped your condoms, Miss", and now the coffee man can't stop blushing and you probably will have to find a new place to get your coffee in the morning because facing him again could be tough. And all of this started because you just had to be the funny girl at the office happy hour.

You forgive me?

I forgave you and you never even apologized. Wasn't that nice of me? But I couldn't not forgive you. I couldn't not take your hand when you offered it because, I thought, "What if this is the last time I see those eyes, feel that hand on my skin? What if this is it and I forever regret this moment, this chance I didn't take?"

You told me you were never mad at me, that whatever happened between us you had forgiven. But I was mad at you. Doesn't that count? I asked why you lied, why you disappeared and you asked why that was important two months later. Two months? Not that long ago -- still very memorable for me. Still keeping me up at night, right up until the moment I saw you again.

You said, "Don't get lost on me again, please," as if that is what I had done. And I melted. I said, "I won't, of course I won't." I held onto you like this was the beginning of something.

And you're gone again. It's three days of silence, already. And somehow I'm amazed. Somehow I didn't see it coming... again.

The human Zagat strikes again

As most of you know, I spent last weekend in two of my adopted home cities -- Los Angeles and Vegas. I had fun -- it was mostly catching up with people I haven't seen in a while. Oh, and acting as the back-up French translator at a Franco-American wedding -- a nice girl named Steffie, who actually makes her living as a translator, was the first -- and better -- one. She knows how to say more complex phrases than "Can you repeat that?" and "I'm sorry, I'm not retarded, just a little hungover."

Anyway, while there I went to a few places that I haven't been before. And since, according to many of my friends, I am the human Zagat, I thought I would share these recommendations to all of you, should you find yourself on the Left Coast anytime soon. Here we go:

Cedar Cafe is a wonderful little strip mall restaurant in North Hollywood. Very yummy Lebanese food, including pickled turnips (which are bright pink and weird-looking, but as Tamar and her whole family have taught me, are oddly delicious). And, on Friday nights, there is a cheesy two piece band, and a scantily-clad bellydancer who, when she got close enough to my Dad, nearly made him choke on his lamb kabob. Priceless.

Little Temple, which I can say with some certainty, is my new favorite LA bar. It's on a seemingly shady corner in Silverlake and on Friday nights there is an old-skool DJ that made me and Jenny very very happy. Over Red Stripes, we were even both the target of the affections of a large guy named Ramon, the cousin of whom Jenny was kind enough to salsa dance with in the front room. He thought telling me he had a great view would get me to traipse back to his apartment with him but he was entertaining.

And, last but not least, Downtown Cocktail Room, not because it is so very exciting but because it is the only establishment of its kind -- deep, cushy chairs; cool, non-abrasive DJ; great martini menu -- that is not in a casino on the Strip. It's actually on the corner of LV Blvd and Fremont, which makes it my new favorite "get the night started before heading to Beauty Bar" spot.

Someone else's everyday

Sometimes you just need a change of scenery. You need a plane ride, a drink in an airport bar, a suitcase, your favorite jeans and enough clean t-shirts to last a few days. You need a friend with a guest room or a couch in a city you don't live in. You need to infiltrate someone else's routine, someone else's everyday to make your everyday seem far away.

There goes my Pulitzer

My computer died. Sad. So sad. I used to yell at it and call it "a piece of crap" fairly regularly. But I still miss it terribly. Now I have to blog to you people before I leave work instead of nestled in my comfy living room chair while giggling at I Love New York 2. And the quality of my blogs is suffering for it. And they were like Pulitzer-fucking-prize material before, I swear it.

Things I can't fix

I'm worried about so many things I can't control these days. Number one on that list is a good friend who's lying in a hospital bed right now. It's the worst feeling in the world when you can't help someone you love. But this situation is definitely out of my control. All I can do is pray, bring him magazines and try not to think about all of the what-ifs.

I don't even like blogging about it but it's pretty high on my list of priorities right now, thus I have nothing else to write about. Maybe if I put it all down in writing I will feel a little less overcome by the whole situation. I don't want anyone's sympathy, though -- I can't accept it, well-intentioned as it may be. Sad as I am right now, this is not happening to me. It's happening to him. I'm just trying to be a good friend, a friendly face, someone to crack jokes at the stupid hospital staff (and they are a little stupid) and the terrible hospital food (and, my God, is it terrible), and make promises to bring pizza and games on my next visit.

It sucks. As some of you may know, I share one trait with most heterosexual men -- when someone I know has a problem I try to fix it instead of just listening to them bitch. But I can't fix this. And it makes me mad.

Metal objects shoved in my mouth

I had to go to the dentist tonight. Which always makes me cry. Literally. I sit in the dentist's chair with tears rolling down my cheeks while he says things like, "Louise, please stop being so dramatic. I haven't even turned the drill on yet."

Somehow I have managed to get a tattoo and several piercings over the course of my life without this many tears being shed. Yes, I realize it is childish but something about a giant face hovering above mine backlit by that bright white light shining at me while various metal objects being shoved in and out of my mouth makes me want to just... pass... out.

Anyway, the whole point of me telling you all this is to garner some sympathy. I normally don't like when people feel sorry for me. The one exception is when the whole leftside of my face is numb and feels like it's been stuffed with cotton. Then I want tons of affection, empathy and other kinds of positive affection. So get on it, people. The novocaine is about to wear off.

People disappearing

There are people who will disappear from your life. And that sucks. But it's part of life, unfortunately. They will be part of your daily existence for days, weeks, months, sometimes years, and then they suddenly, almost without warning, become one of those people you pretend to be glad to see when you run into them at a party or on the street but with whom you no longer have anything in common. And, anyway, the relationship is gone.

I don't know why this happens, but inevitably when it happens to me, even when it's because I've kicked someone out of my life, it hurts me. That little hole in my life becomes hard to fill or I start to beat myself up, because it must be something about me that makes people leave me.

All I can imagine -- because I refuse to believe that there is not a reason for everything -- is that they disappear because either their purpose in your life has been fulfilled or because they no longer have a positive purpose to be in your life and fate takes a hand and just removes them. I hope that it's one of those reasons. But having faith that there is a reason for this kind of thing to happen doesn't mean it doesn't hurt.

I'm sad about someone in particular who no longer feels the need to reach out to me. We used to talk every day but it's been a month since I've heard his voice or gotten an email from him. I think that my purpose in his life came to an end. At least that's what he's given me every reason to believe. I wasn't aware of that but I guess it must be true.

I guess we no longer need to be around each other and eventually my heart will stop hurting when I think about him. I'm trying to keep my chin up about that. I'm trying not to dwell on what fun we had together, or how much I looked forward to talking to him. It's hard but I know the reasons for his disappearance will become clear to me over time.

Yesterday I watched one of my amazing friends dance at our mutual friend's wedding while someone who she had to remove from her life sat at a nearby table with his girlfriend. I watched her hold her head up (even if she ran into the bathroom occasionally to cry). I watched her dance and have fun and not look even look in his direction. And I was so proud of her. I know I can do that, too. I just wish I didn't have to deal with the sadness of these holes in my life when I'm alone. That's what really sucks.

Curveballs are fun

One of my favorite things about life is not knowing what will happen next. I'm not a planner. I book vacations, take new jobs and go on dates without planning... I like just doing the things that pop into my crazy little head. The idea of planning for the future bores the bejesus out of me, frankly. I didn't know what I wanted to do for a living in college, I haven't ever planned for my "someday" wedding (even when I was engaged) and I don't know what I'm going to wear to work until I wake up and yank whatever clothes I see first out of my closet.

But I like that. I like the adventure of not knowing what's going to happen next. That doesn't mean I never worry or I'm easy breezy all the time. It just means I learned at a young age how to do what the alcoholics at meetings teach each other to do -- "Let go and let God." Besides the minute you start to think that plans mean everything is the same minute God throws you a curve ball and reminds you that he's in control.

That being said, everything lately that's been "surprising" me has... well, it's sucked. BUT I still believe in the power of not knowing and not wanting to know everything the future has in store for me. It hasn't fucked me up so bad so far.

My throat is so hoarse

In case you watched the game tonight and you heard one scream that was shriller and more horror-movie like than the rest when Johnny on the Spot hit that three-run home run and you were wondering who could possibly get their voice so high as to attract dogs in neighboring states... well, that was me. I also started screaming like a lunatic (and dropped my beer) when Robbie Cano did his thing in the 6th.

Nelly says, "No, dahling."

I have a very weird loyalty to the lady who cuts my hair. Even though she never, never does what I ask her to. I'll say something like, "Nelly, do you know what would be great? If I had ba..." and before I can get the word "bangs" out she'll say (insert profoundly thick Russian accent here), "No, dahling, no. It won't be good for you, baby. I do very good for you. You will like. Be very cute." And then the exact opposite of the haircut I was thinking of will appear on my head in a matter of minutes.

Anyway, I've been angling for bangs and today I got them. And Nelly pretended it was her idea. But I didn't mind as long as I got them. However, I have never before -- nor will I ever again -- have a hairstyle so akin to a helmet as I do. A good washing should get rid of most of the hairspray and then I'll be golden. I think.

A new chapter

My good friend in Vegas sent me an email I desperatly needed to read right now. It was one of those forwards that, I guess, you're supposed to delete or ignore. But I didn't. I read it. And it meant a lot. It was all about remembering to be grateful and living each day to the fullest so that you can get the best out of life. I don't mean to be corny, but I truly believe that and I've not been showing it too well lately, with all my bitching and moaning. I'm ready to start a new chapter in my life... again. But that's ok. We all need lots of chapters. Or life would be boring. And short.